#over the moon for moonbeam

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 51

He didn't care, didn't marvel that he was soon to be airborne on one of those incredible beasts. Didn't care that tomorrow, they would all take on the dark army gathered beyond.

He'd fought in more battles, more wars, than he cared to remember. Tomorrow would be little different, save for the demons they'd slay, rather than men or Fae.

Demons like his former queen, apparently.

He had offered himself to her, had wanted her, or believed he did. And she had laughed at him. He didn't know what it meant. About her, about himself.

He'd thought his darkness, Hellas's gifts, had been drawn to her, that they'd been matched.

Perhaps the dark god had wanted him not to swear fealty to Maeve, but to kill her. To get close enough to do so.

Lorcan didn't adjust his cape against the gust of frigid air off the distant lake. Rather, he leaned into the cold, into the ice on the wind. As if it might rip away the truth.

There was no fear or pity on her face, her black hair gilded by the torches and campfires. Of all of them, she'd mastered the news with little difficulty, stepping up to the desk as if she'd been born on a battlefield.

"I didn't know," he said, voice strained.

Elide knew what he meant. "We have bigger things to worry about anyway."

He took a step toward her. "I didn't know," he said again.

She tipped her head back to study his face and pursed her mouth, a muscle ticking in her jaw. "Do you want me to give you some sort of absolution for it?"

"I served her for nearly five hundred years. Five hundred years, and I just thought her to be immortal and cold."

"That sounds like the definition of a Valg to me."

He bared his teeth. "You live for eons and see what it does to you, Lady."

"I don't see why you're so shocked. Even with her being immortal and cold, you loved her. You must have accepted those traits. What difference does it make what we call her, then?"

"I didn't love her."

"You certainly acted like you did."

Lorcan snarled, "Why is that the point you keep returning to, Elide? Why is it the one thing you cannot let go of?"

"Because I'm trying to understand. How you could come to love a monster."

"Why?" He pushed into her space. She didn't balk one step.

Indeed, her eyes were blazing as she hissed, "Because it will help me understand how I did the same."

Her voice snagged on the last words, and Lorcan stilled as they settled into them. He'd never ... he'd never had anyone who-

"Is it a sickness?" she demanded. "Is it something broken within you?"

"Elide." Her name was a rasp on his lips. Lorcan dared reach a hand for her. But she pulled out of reach. "If you think that because you swore the blood oath to Aelin, it means anything for you and me, you're sorely mistaken. You're immortal-I'm human. Let us not forget that little fact, either."

Lorcan nearly recoiled at the words, their horrible truth. He was five hundred years old He should walk away—he shouldn't be so damned bothered by any of this. And yet Lorcan snarled, "You're jealous. That's what truly eats away at you."

Elide barked a laugh that he'd never heard before, cruel and sharp. "Jealous? Jealous of what? That demon you served?" She squared her shoulders, a wave cresting before it smashed into the shore. "The only thing that I am jealous of, Lorcan, is that she is rid of you."

Lorcan hated that the words landed like a blow. That he had no defenses left where she was concerned. "I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it, Elide." There, he'd said it, and laid it out before her. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

But Elide's face did not warm. "I don't care," she said, turning on her heel. "And I don't care if you walk off that battlefield tomorrow.

"I have never heard Lorcan apologize for anything. Even when Maeve whipped him for a mistake, he did not apologize to her."

"And that means he earns my forgiveness?"

"No. But you have to realize that he swore the blood oath to Aelin for you. For no one else. So he could remain near you. Even knowing well enough that you will have a mortal lifespan."

The birds shifted on their feet, rustling their wings in anticipation of flight. She knew. Had known it the moment he'd knelt before Aelin. Weeks later, Elide hadn't known what to do with it, the knowledge that Lorcan had done this for her. The longing to talk to him, to work with him as they had. She'd hated herself for it. For not trying to hold on to her anger longer.

It was why she'd gone after him tonight.

Not to punish him, but herself. To remind herself of who he'd sold their queen to, how profoundly mistaken she had been.

And her parting line to him ... it was a lie.

A disgusting, hateful lie.

Elide turned to Gavriel again. "I don't—" The Lion was gone. And for the cold flight over the army, then over the sea of darkness spread between it and the ancient city, even that wise voice who had whispered for the entirety of her life had gone quiet.

[wallflowerglitter]

Benefit needs to bring back moonbeam.

[monsterloverxxx]

Minotaur x fem!reader

Plus sized Minotaur

MDNI

POV you have been sent into the minotaur’s labyrinth as a sacrifice, but your offering isn’t one of blood.

Monster-fucking/teratophilia, breeding kink/pregnancy kink, size kink/macrophilia.

Groping, fingering, repeated PiV sex, pushing cum back in, some dom/sub dynamic.

Horror, gore

Dub-con (some non-con groping and grinding, wanted sex and consent but you’ve been put in that situation)

2080 words

----------------------------------

Offering to the Minotaur:

Nobody knows how long the beast has cursed them, some say he has been there since the beginning of civilisation, others the dawn of time; either way he has always hunted these lands.

Mostly he hibernates; but every time the fire-star lights up the inky sky he awakens for 12 moons. An insatiable hunger to consume controls him, a bloodlust only slaughter can satisfy.

To contain his devastation the leaders of these lands long ago decided to gift him sacrifices, offerings to an old brutal god. Innocent souls sent to death to appeal to the mercy of the monster; a barter for their people to be spared.

_

You look up at the crimson glow in the night, an omen for the blood that would soon spill from your veins. Praying to your deities will do no good, you will soon join them in the heavens and drink moonbeams from golden chalices.

It is dark and cold inside the labyrinth; you can feel the chill in your bones; or perhaps what you feel is fear, terror that curdles your insides.

Tall walls once white marble are now green with slime, moss and mushrooms growing on water that has degraded stone for thousands of years.

It is a maze, and you are already lost. You feel trapped, claustrophobic yet overwhelmed by the infinite expanse. Each step cannot be distinguished from the last, you are roaming in endless circles.

Your legs ache from running, the breath inside your chest burns, your heart pounding. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. You turn every corner aimlessly, hoping it will not be your last.

You could hear the others, their echoed footsteps like ghosts, screams of terror and cracks of bones as they were butchered one by one. But now you hear only deafening silence, you know you're the last one standing, it’s your turn to die.

You slip and land on jagged rocks, broken off ruins. Smearing mud on the bottom of your white dress and scraping your tired knees. As you pull yourself up you see him looming over you. Eight foot tall, the head of a strawberry bull, torso of a burly fat man and solid cloven hooves.

You’re frozen in fear, your brain screaming for you to retreat but your body unable to follow. He grabs you and picks you up like a ragdoll, throwing you over his shoulder. The ground is so far below you if he dropped you, you would crack.

“Please don’t kill me” you beg over and over, tears flowing down your cheeks onto his hairy naked back.

“Your offering is flesh” he responded in a deep leather voice as he carries you to his lair

You try so much to wriggle your way out of his arms, even though you know the fall will maim you.

He grabs you around your ass to keep hold of you, his big hands up your dress gripping your underwear. You still try to escape his grasp; but how his hand rubs up against you when you move, you don’t want to admit how that feels.

You believe he’s going to feast upon you. Cook you in a stew with the others, suck sweet meat off your bones, drink your brains out of your severed skull. You pray he would kill you first.

He throws you down onto a pile of straw and furs: his nest. Your head rings from the impact, your bones jolting.

Before you can crawl away, he hops in beside you. He snuggles up next to you pulling you into him, enveloping your body completely with his, his fur and fat keeping you heated. Your face is nestled into his sweaty chest, he smells like rot, the scent of the slain is suffocating.

You wonder if he did this to the others? Gifted them comfort before pulling them limb from limb and devouring their bodies?

He falls asleep cuddling you, snoring loudly. You try to worm out multiple times to no avail. Eventually you give into his soft warmth and fall asleep. How can a creature so brutal feel so plush and tender?

Even though you have no sense of time your body wakes up naturally to the dawn. So had he, you glance around the room, he is nowhere to be seen. Part of you misses his embrace but this was your chance to delay your inevitable end.

You get up and flee his throne room, bolting as fast as your bruised legs can take you. But you do not get far before you need to stop and catch your breath.

As you lean against bloodstained bricks, you can hear him charging you, a great thunderous sound of hooves. He snatches you up, swooping you into the air and over his shoulder once more.

You know it is over now, this was the conclusion of your life, you give up. There’s no point fighting anymore, ‘just kill me quick’ you think, at least grant you that.

He places you back onto the nest gently this time “Stay” he orders

You will.

“Eat” he demands hurling you a bone; you didn’t want to know what it came from or who.

“I’m not hungry” you lie, you are famished but not desperate enough

“Eat” he repeats again “You’ll need the energy”

“For what? So you can hunt me like a hound?” you ask

“No” he responds.

He locks a metal collar around your neck attached to a short chain “Stay, I will return, then you eat, you need energy”

As soon as he leaves you pull at the metal, it is taut and chaffing, rust from many hundreds of years crumbles off in red chunks. You don’t try to get it off, you don’t have the strength.

You wait for him patiently. It is probably close to dusk when the beast returns dragging a deer carcass behind him. The stag's mighty antlers scraped along dirt.

He tears its body apart like it is a simple piece of bread, guts spilling everywhere. He cooks it over flame and feeds it to you. You are ravenous gorging yourself on its flesh like he had done to your fellow sacrifices.

When you are done, he climbs back into his furs again and wraps you up once more. But this time is different, he isn’t there to rest, he craves another thing.

You can feel something pressed up against you, you recognise it. You realise what your purpose is, what he wants from you: something warm and tight for him.

He grinds into the outline of your ass, his face is nowhere near you, but you could hear huffed breaths from his bull ringed nostrils. The way it drags into you sends shivers through your body.

“What is my offering?” you ask

“You are a priestess” he responded petting your messy hair “Your body a vessel for the gods. I am your god.”

“Vessel for what?”

“My pleasure and my offspring” he answered

Your flesh wasn’t to consume, it was to use and abuse, to play with like a toy.

He pushes his hand up your dress, it brushes slowly against your skin, up your body until he roughly grabs one of your breasts, fondling it callously, you can’t help but sigh at his touch.

The white dress that hugs your curves so well, you now see is a wedding gown. You had been gifted as his wife, a slave to him, for his arcane desires.

Your fate is not to dance in the clouds to songs of starlight harps, it is to be split open night after night by a monster's cock, to birth his demonic calves.

He shoves you onto your back and hangs over you, he is massive compared to you, a giant. He grabs the top of your dress and rips it in half, stripping you down, naked and exposed for him.

You are scared yes, but part of you tingles, the wet between your thighs could not lie. He is a beast, he was going to tear your body apart from the inside out, but you have not felt the touch of a man since you had committed to the temple, and oh gods was he a man.

He removes his loincloth; you can’t help but stare at his magnificence. You feel a feral hunger for that huge thick rod hung between muscular legs, hard as the stone around you, dripping with tears of yearning.

“I want to mate with you my little priestess” he strokes your face; his hand is the size of your head.

You don’t know if that is a question or a statement, either way you aren’t going to try and stop him. Maybe it would kill you, but maybe it is worth the risk just to feel him inside you.

“Yes” you responded

“Beg” he ordered “Beg for your god to take you, beg for him to fill you with his seed”

“Please” you plead, pathetic “Please breed me, I am your toy, I am your slave, please use me, please ruin me, I want it so bad, I need you so bad, please”

“Good girl” he grabs you by the hips and flips you over pushing your face into his animal skins. He spreads your legs open as wide as they could go revealing the sweetness between them. He runs a large finger through your folds, gathering slick as lubrication, forcing it inside. You gasp at the penetration followed by soft mewls as he pushes it in and out, going down to his knuckles, checking how much you can take. If this is how good his hand felt, you salivate at the idea of what would come next.

You are so hungry for it by the time he pushes the head to your entrance. He struggles to fit, but he is not gentle, ramming it inside of you with great force skewering your tight cunt. He did not take time to get you used to his size slamming straight into your cervix. White hot pain clouds your head but is soon replaced with carnal ecstasy as he pulls most of the way out and rhythmically thrusts into you.

You take him so well, your walls stretching around him. It’s like your cunt is designed for his cock, the god’s constructing your body specifically for your beast husband, perhaps he had created you for this use. You do not care; you are happy with this fate.

He continues to rail into you, holding your body firm so he doesn’t break your small frame. You are full of him but only half of his shaft is inside. He wishes he could fully stuff you, that he could bottom out inside and his balls could feel your heat as well. But he has stretched you fully out, you cannot physically take any more of him, but he can still try.

He fucks you for what feels like eternity, your body and mind in the heavens. Both of your loud moans are a symphony, a song of lust for only the spirits to hear. Your eyes roll back as your walls squeeze so hard around him, he can’t stop himself from filling you up. His seed drools down your thighs as he pulls out of your spent hole. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back inside to save it.

His digits in your bruised entrance stings, but when you whine, he starts fingering you again. You rock into his hand, 2, 3, 5 fingers work you open. His own cum escapes down his arm onto the straw.

He trades his hand with his meat again swollen from your arousal, pounding it into you until he has replaced his wasted sperm.

He takes you over and over, again and again, so many times you lose count. Your body is jelly, your mind mush, your pussy is throbbing. He stops only when you pass out from exhaustion, and you fall asleep nuzzled in him.

And then when you wake, he starts again, he’ll keep going until he knows you are with child, carrying his young. And he will use you for his pleasure until he hibernates once more. Maybe he will gift you immortality so you can be his wife for eternity, or maybe he’ll dispose of you when he grows sick of your pussy and your womb, you do not know...

[naffeclipse]

Sea Tears

Reader x Selkie!Moon

Commission Info

Thank you to the darling @cipher-the-sidhe for commissioning me to write about Selkie!Moon! The setting and the scenario are absolutely delightful. It's a shame I haven't written a selkie until now but I'm so glad I finally did!

Content Warning for mild injury and blood.

———

You tread carefully through the salt-tinged darkness and listen. A low hum plays along the moonbeams brightening the Salish Sea coast in an ancient voice you cannot translate. The fish and the seals might understand it as it thrums like insects on the wind or the constant, murmuring dance of the waves. You wonder if it is simply the sea. Perhaps it is something hidden along the dark inky waters now softly lapping up in the high tide.

Bends and sharp juts of coves shelter the rocky beaches. Further inland, a dense forest of coniferous evergreens conceal the beautiful shore and thrive in high levels of salt spray. You descend to the water, minding every step knowing that a slick, ocean-stained rock could easily lead you into a stumble and your head could crack open like an egg on the wave-smooth stones. 

These beaches are not for sunbathing and sand castles. They are to stand and admire the great breath of the Salish Sea and the bumps of crags lining the dark teal ocean—if the mist and cold don’t form an avid deterrent.

You rub your arms over the sleeves of your jacket and breathe a crisp scent. Driftwood dots the edge of land and water, and heaps of bull kelp sway farther out in the sea, lurking like guardians just along the surface to whatever might wander from the depths. 

Tonight, the fog is wonderfully parted by the silver-fingered light of the full moon. You scan the crevices in between dark, angled but blunt rocks, seeking the smooth fragments of seashells. In your years, you have rarely discovered a whole heart cockle or horse clam shell. There are only remnants of what was whole. 

The sand is firm and brown. The water gushes between stones before receding gently back with a frothy lace edge, bubbling and tumbling over itself just to do it all over again. You spy a fragment of a castoff shell, bleached and pale. You bend carefully down to scoop up its shard like a piece missing from a puzzle you wish to finish.

You hold it between your fingers. A curve or perhaps half of a spiral of a shell, sculpted by the waves now, softened by the time of being broken. Still, it is beautiful.

Carefully, you straighten while you slip it into your pocket. A soft understanding fills you to the bottom of your rib cage. A kinship, perhaps. You cast your eyes around you for a moment, admiring the moonlight until it shines upon a texture that is not often found here. 

Fur. Silver and speckled in blue-gray, it sits, slumped and hunched between two rocks, lying lifeless.

A seal. The dawning comes upon you in a moment of the rushing tide, and then, your feet are moving towards it. Your heart twists while you watch it sharply. How it could be so still and thin? Is it injured? You don’t have your phone with you—you left it in the car parked beside the oceanside road. Who would you call? Wildlife service? Perhaps it’s already too late.

No. You pray it isn’t.

You weave between sand and stones. Where the unmoving figure lies is thick with rocks, with almost no beach to speak of other than what is buried beneath. Your sandals slip on the slick edges of the rugged terrain. Wobbling, you catch yourself before you sling your body along a craggy boulder. You pass over the harsh edges and corners of the rocky shore, almost within reach. The fur hasn’t moved an inch at your rash approach. Your throat bobs for a moment in the horror of coming upon a long rotted seal—then your sandal-clad foot slips. 

A whip of sea and wind, and you fall. You throw your elbow down to catch you and it scraps sharply down the side of rough rock. You gasp when you bounce and slide, splashing into a thin strip of the tide slipping between cracks and crevices, but hold your chin high, away from any fatal head injuries.

You inhale slowly, eyes wide in the relief that you are not currently dripping your brains out of your skull like spilled yoke. A thin, stinging pain erupts along your forearm. Prying yourself off of the ground, watching where you place your feet, you get back up. A glance at the fur confirms it is still there. Slowly, you twist your arm to examine a fine, ragged cut slicing towards your wrist. A mix of sand, salt water, and blood spread across your skin. 

You breathe as it flares with pain. You close your eyes and convince yourself that you’ll clean and bandage it once you get back to your car.

First, the seal.

You lower your arm. Blood drops into the water as you at last reach the two stones the fur is wedged between, and tentatively, you reach out with the vain hope it might be warm and move with life. Your fingers stroke over the beautifully silver shade of the coat, dappled with blue-gray markings and a few, lovely rings at the end. But strangely, it’s cool with mist and bunched like fabric. Your mind turns the conundrum over slowly as if examining a broken seashell before you tug on it, higher, higher, until you hold in your hand the thin skin of a seal.

A pelt.

There is no blood, sinew, or otherwise, much to your relief. It carries a smooth sleekness on its underside. The strangeness of it tugs at a part of your mind, a memory of folklore and tales spoken around a table late at night. The beautiful pelt fills your vision with its starry silver shade and the Pacific ocean-deep hue of its markings. Carefully, as if handling platinum and sapphires, you caress the fur with the back of your fingers. A drop of blood from your arm threatens to stain it and you quickly shift the hide to your clean arm. You can’t ruin this beautiful coat with your crimson.

You lift your head. You gaze out over the ocean, rippling with the incandescence of the moon upon its onyx surface. Your heart bobs within you. Your eyes seek, and your ears strain.

The hum of the ocean which has filled you since you first arrived in the darkness grows. It is no longer a muffled, soft sound carried from behind closed lips but a soft melody lifted upon a voice. It rises to the sky. Over the driftwood and waves, you turn to face it, clutching the seal skin to your chest.

A man sings.

A part of you, undeniable and filled with longing, strides towards it. Following the curve of the rocky beach, you watch your every step. A plea in your core echoes with the desire to find the one singing. The crystal vibrations of the siren call rings through your bones. 

A rocky cove crops up on the side of a bluff, cutting off the beach but resuming with a swell of the tide into its darkened alcove. Once you near the mouth, you stop to bask in the lovely timbre. 

Then, with your fingers tangled in the soft, sleek fur of the seal pelt, you stand upon a rock just out of reach of the oceanic tide and peer into the cove.

In the glow of the night, a man stands in the icy shallows. You can only gaze at his striking figure wrapped in moonbeams. He steps lightly, his movement rhythm. The water ripples softly underneath him. He waves his arms, his limbs flowing over his head and down, like a wind sweeping the rocks and ushering the mist higher onto land. He turns, and one leg sweeps over the inky surface before stepping back. 

His body is long-limbed and slender, blue-gray like the speckles on the fur you hold. Upon his face is a marking of a silver crescent. His rich copper eyes flash in the dimness and are half-lidded in his homage to the great sea. Your breath stalls in your throat caught upon his visage. His face is wide and flat. Draping behind his head is an appendage much like a seal tail, an even darker blue with spots of glimmering silver-like stars.

His voice carries a song you have no name for but that which you hold only the most reverence in its echo. Your lips part unwittingly in adoration. He sings to himself and dances to an audience of the black sky filled with the moon.

But you twitch a hand forward as if you might catch a note of his lullaby and cradle it close to your chest. The man’s head snaps towards you. You freeze.

In a second of time and starlight, he holds your gaze, and you slip into the coppery irises that fill his wide eyes. His attention slips to what you clutch. You glance down, admiring the fur anew before you find your voice, hollowed and soft.

“Is this yours?” you ask.

The man stares, motionless like the bluffs the waves beat against. A few heartbeats pass within you. The man gently dips his head. The tail on the back of his head sways slightly like a nightcap.

“It is,” he speaks. “Please return it to me. I cannot return to the sea and my brothers without my coat.”

His voice rasps through the salty air and brushes the shell of your ear as if he whispered it to you. 

The word emerges in your mind like the fall of dusk. Selkie. One who has shed his fur to take a faintly human form under the full moon. The tales you’ve caught murmurs of were always of women, beautiful and naked, who begged for their seal skin back but spent the rest of their days held captive by the man who kept it hidden, forced to become a bride and carry his children.

An ache takes over your heart at such a cruel fate.

You answer with a gentle, “Of course.”

You slowly step into the icy waters. A shiver rolls up your body and you catch your tongue between your teeth to keep from gasping out at the shock of the brine. The selkie watches you, his eyes unreadable, his hands poised with his fingers half furled—as if you intend to dangle his seal skin in front of him before yanking it out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. You wade far less gracefully in the echoes of his dance and song to reach him under the cove’s mouth, “I didn’t intend to keep it. I only meant to return it to you.”

You find the truth along your tongue. Even if you didn’t catch a glimpse of his beautiful melody, you would have left the coat where it lay, too afraid of stranding a selkie without her or his skin.

He says nothing until you present it to him. Carefully, you hold it out to him and his long fingers grasp it. A soft breath leaves him. His shoulders lower while he turns his coat over and examines it, stroking the fine fur before leveling an unreadable gaze over you. You’re small before his tall figure. You feel clumsy and cumbersome in comparison to his lissom body. 

A true selkie, right before your eyes.

“So you did,” he at last murmurs as if he were dreaming. His copper eyes glide over you. His blue-gray body shimmers with a galaxy-like illumination. He carefully folds his coat over his arm before holding out his other hand and bidding you closer. “Come here. Sit with me.”

You stare at his offered palm. A few thoughts cross your mind of danger and temptation, a selkie ready to snatch away an unwary human, but would he have asked you so kindly? You slide your fingers into his grasp. He holds your hand before gently tugging you down until you cross your legs and sit in the icy cove water beside him.

“Is it true?” you ask, then flush slightly with the bluntness of your voice echoing in the alcove.

He tilts his head at you, the appendage at the back of his head slipping over your shoulder. His silence coaxes you softly into asking, “Do humans really steal the coats of selkies and force them into marriage?”

The selkie’s eyes lower, somber, before he dips his chin. “It is true. But not always.” His eyes find yours and hold them softly.

He has yet to release your hand, but slowly, he lifts your wrist and turns it slowly. You almost forget the sting until the sight of the bloody cut down your arm strikes you once more. Your lips twist at the sight, glancing at the selkie and fearing his judgment. How human you are, bleeding in his ocean.

“What did this?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes outlining the edges of your wound.

“A fall,” you say sheepishly, “I thought your coat was an injured seal.”

A laugh, rolling and deep, loosens from his lips. A not unwelcome shudder fills you in the sound. Mischievous and sincere, all at once.

“You must be more careful,” he says, his laughter dying as he leans closer.

You curl your fingers. Pressing back in the slightest as he hovers over your torn flesh, you hushly ask his name.

But he doesn’t answer. You watch in the quiet of the tide as the selkie blinks, and a tear falls onto your sliced forearm. A soft tingle spreads through your flesh. You glance down, and another tear falls, mingling with the sand and ocean salt, but the tingling becomes a gentle sensation knitting and stitching the skin together. In stunned silence, you observe seven tears in total bind your wound as if you never fell.

“This is my thanks for returning my coat.” The selkie releases your arm to gently wash it with a touch of brackish water. Blood and sand wash away, leaving your skin as it once was. He lifts his head and smiles. “I am Moon, and I must go.”

“Oh.” The sound is so small coming from you. “Moon…”

You echo your name. It feels so weak in comparison to his, but he takes it within his mouth and he sings it once. Your heart bobs within your chest as if floating upon a storm-tossed sea. 

“Goodbye,” he rasps. He holds your gaze, soft as seafoam, and tugs his coat over his body. He slips down into the water. A flick of velvet flippers emerges, and a large seal lifts his head above water. 

You gaze at the beautiful copper eyes of the seal. Whiskers twitch and a wet nose presses closer to you. Slowly, carefully, you stretch your fingers and stroke the soft fur of his head. Your palm runs down the slippery slope of his neck to his strong, blubbered back. The selkie holds beautifully still.

“Goodbye, Moon,” you whisper.

The selkie eyes upturn, somehow grinning in an animal form. In a sharp splash, he turns and dives into the water. The sleek dappled fur of his pelt mingles with the moonlight reflecting upon the black ocean before the waves reclaim one of its own. 

You stay in the cove for a time you cannot account for, watching the waters, wishing to catch the echo of his song just one last time.

Gradually, like the moon beginning to shift across the darkness, you get to your feet. Water splashes back into the cove. Your heart grows heavy and forlorn, and you rub your fingertips together as if still stroking his fur.

Perhaps you might return in search of broken seashells but find the selkie again.

[heeheelamon]

‘Moony’ has become:

Moonbeam

Moonshine

Moonster

Moons

Moonpie

Mooncake

Moony mine

Moonykins

Moony Woony

Moomoo

Moony Loony

Remoony

Moonage Daydream

My Moons

I’ve literally spent over 6 months slowly compiling this list of nicknames. I’ve reached my limit. If you have any suggestions please let me know.

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[zhouxiangs]

MEET YOU AT THE BLOSSOM (2024) | Episode 1

The narrow imperial road offered a full view of the horrific scene outside. Xiaobao trembled as he saw over a dozen bodies strewn about, nearly screaming out loud. Fuck, he had never witnessed such a bloody scene in his life; it was terrifying. Scared, he closed his eyes, but curiosity got the better of him, and he opened them again. Once open, he couldn't close them again. He stared unblinkingly at the white figure under the moonlight, utterly dumbfounded. The moonlight scattered a field of starlight, under the dim moonbeams, a slender, pale figure was entangled in a fight with a group of people. That fluttering figure was agile and nimble, moving through the air as if on flat ground, wielding a long sword. A head of black hair reflected a ghostly enchanting color under the moon, weaving through a group of men in black, accompanied by screams. Yet, the person remained as calm as ever, as if the frightening bloodstains on them were not their own. Despite being stained with blood, their hair remained immaculate, not diminishing their radiance in the slightest. With brows like distant mountains, sparkling star-like eyes, a straight nose above crimson lips, their entire being exuded a fierce and enchanting aura. That arrogantly unparalleled beauty seemed as if it belonged in paintings, truly something that should exist only in the heavens, rarely heard of in the mortal realm. Jin Xiaobao prided himself on having seen countless beauties, but in front of this person, all famed courtesans, talented women, and rich daughters seemed like mere mortals. Not just in temperament, which was as different as cloud and mud, but even in looks, they were leagues apart. Such a celestial appearance, he had only seen once in his lifetime. Jin Xiaobao became as excited as if he had been injected with chicken blood, his lips trembling so much he could hardly speak. Zhaocai was startled and whispered, "Young master, what's wrong? If you're scared, don't look." Jinbao quickly pulled their young master back, also startled by the bizarre smile on his face, and nudged him, "Young master?" "A goddess…" Xiaobao was stunned for a moment, then broke into a smile, sighing, "A goddess." — Chapter 3 of Blooming Flowers, Silent Sorrow by Shui Qian Cheng

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Other ways for your character to say I love you?

“And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What are all these kissings worth if thou kiss not me?” —Percy Bysshe Shelley, Love’s Philosophy

Be soft on someone - to love someone or like someone very much

“Be with me, darling, early and late.” —John Frederick Nims, Love Poem

Besotted - to be completely in love with someone and always thinking of them

Carry a torch for [someone] - to be in love with someone

“Clasp me close in your warm young arms, while the pale stars shine above, and we’ll live our whole young lives away in the joys of a living love.” —Ella Wheeler Wilcox, I Love You

“Come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove.” —John Donne, The Bait

Dote on someone - to love someone completely and believe they are perfect

“Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine.” —Ben Jonson, Song: To Celia

"For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love [you]." —John Donne 1572–1631 English poet and divine: Songs and Sonnets ‘The Canonization’

Head over heels (in love) - completely in love

“I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. And it was only when I began to feel actual, physical pain every time you left the room that it finally dawned on me: I was in love, for the first time in my life. I knew it was hopeless, but that didn’t matter to me. And it’s not that I want to have you. All I want is to deserve you. Tell me what to do. Show me how to behave. I’ll do anything you say.” —Choderlos de Laclos, Dangerous Liaisons

“I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.” —A.S. Byatt, Possession

“I dreamed you bewitched me into bed and sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.” —Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song

“I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” —W.B. Yeats, Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

“I have to tell you, there are times when the sun strikes me like a gong, and I remember everything, even your ears.” —Dorothea Grossman, I Have to Tell You

“I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love.” —Gabriel García Márquez, Love In The Time Of Cholera

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.” —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways…

“I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.” ―Margaret Atwood, Variation on the Word Sleep

“I'll help you hide the body, always.” ―Me (L. V.)

“I’ve never had a moment’s doubt. I love you. I believe in you completely. You are my dearest one. My reason for life.” ―Ian McEwan, Atonement

“If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.” ―Emily Dickinson, If You Were Coming in the Fall

"If I love you, what does that matter to you!" —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 1749–1832 German poet, novelist, and dramatist: Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (1795–6) bk. 4, ch. 9

"Immature love says: ‘I love you because I need you.’ Mature love says: ‘I need you because I love you.’" —Erich Fromm 1900–80 American philosopher and psychologist: The Art of Loving (1956)

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” —Jane Austen, Pride And Prejudice

Infatuated with someone - having a very strong but not usually lasting feeling of love or attraction for someone

“It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.” —Edna St. Vincent Millay, Love Is Not All

Live for someone - to have someone as the most important thing in your life

Lose your heart to someone - to fall in love with someone

Love me, love my dog - said to warn someone that if they want to be in a relationship with you, they must be willing to accept everything about you

Love someone to the moon and back - to love someone very much, usually used to tell someone how much you love them

“Oh plunge me deep in love – put out my senses, leave me deaf and blind, swept by the tempest of your love, a taper in a rushing wind.” —Sara Teasdale, I Am Not Yours

Steal someone's heart - if someone steals your heart, you start to love or like them very much

Sweep someone off their feet - to make someone become suddenly and completely in love with you

The apple of someone's eye - the person who someone loves most and is very proud of

The light of your life - the person you love most

“This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless, our chances of being alive together statistically nonexistent; still we have made it.” —Lisel Mueller, Alive Together

“Trees and seas have flown away, I call it loving you.” —Reginald Shepherd, You, Therefore

Worship the ground someone walks on - to love and admire someone very much

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.” —Arthur Conan Doyle, The White Company

“You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.” —E.E. Cummings, I Carry Your Heart With Me

Sources: 1 2 3

[yourplayersaidwhat]

“I can be the cow that jumped over the moon!”

-The Druid, who realized that they can jump over a Moonbeam with enough height.

[adore-laur]

MOTHER’S DAY

— a self-explanatory blurb from the dadrry universe 🌷

——

Toss. Turn. Sigh. Repeat.

Postpartum anxiety kept hitting you in explosive bursts like crash cymbals. Intrusive worries about whether your newborn was breathing or not ruthlessly stormed your brain. Surging heart palpitations that ebbed and flowed like the ocean tide weren't helping your internally erratic state. 

She hadn't wailed those gut-wrenching cries in over an hour. It was a brief slot of time to catch up on your precious slumber, yet your melatonin was overrun by an influx of cortisol. Due to your ruptured sleep schedule, there was also a stinging sensation behind your eyelids. It felt like chlorine or lemon juice had seeped into your sockets ever since day and night swapped places. 

The speckled sky of stars trickled through the linen drapes, painting moonbeams on the bedroom carpet and walls. By the looks of it, you'd undoubtedly be awake to behold the moment they metamorphosed into golden rays of dawn. 

Heart thumping, stomach churning, and chest constricting, you surrendered your chance of a reposeful night of rest and silently slid out of bed. Harry was gently snoring on his side, facing away from you and dead to the world. Lucky him.

You padded over to the bassinet across the room. The moon made it visible enough to see the tiny bundle that was half you and half your husband sleeping there. Your trembling hand reached down and lightly rested on your daughter's belly. It has been a habit lately. Your eyes couldn't help but snap open in the middle of the night, the insomnia-induced anxiety getting you on your feet to check if the human you were responsible for was still alive. 

When you felt her fast breaths, relief immediately flooded your bloodstream. You stayed by her until you were at ease with the steady rise and fall of her chest, then eventually tucked yourself back under the covers and leaned against the headboard. You were wide awake now, and it seemed like it would be another all-nighter. Jealousy festered inside you because of Harry and how he could effortlessly sleep through the night without panic. He'd been so gracious with heaving himself out of bed and calming the baby whenever it was his turn—a true natural when you needed it most. And during those instances, you pretended to be asleep so you didn't worry him. It was hard enough to soothe one agitated person, let alone two. 

The digital clock on the nightstand flicked from 2:36 to 2:37. You bit your fingernails to pass the time. The weight and warmth of Harry beside you pulled you back down to earth, reminding you that you weren't doing this on your own. He was cheering you on, on the same page, and loving you unconditionally. 

Almost as if he could hear your reeling thoughts about him, you heard his snores get cut short by a deep inhale before his hand subconsciously flopped against your thigh. Fatigued fingers felt around until his warm, heavy palm spread on your skin, giving it a tender squeeze. He then rolled onto his stomach with a raspy grunt and turned his head to face you. 

In the faint moonlight, puffy eyes and a drowsy smile said hello. They greeted you with a gentleness that washed away the burdensome stones on your chest. He made you feel calm. Just one glance at him was the only solace you needed. 

He was a tired, tired boy. Technically, he was a grown man, but moments like these revealed that he was just a boy adjusting to the harsh reality of parenthood.

"Sorry for waking you," you whispered, raking your fingers through his disheveled hair. It was still a little damp from his nightly shower. 

"Did I sleep through her cries?" Harry murmured hoarsely, his eyelids drooping until they shut again. 

"No. I just got up to check on her."

He hugged your leg like it was a pillow. "Why? What happened?" 

You could've lied. Or you could've given him what he always asked of you: the whole and honest truth. The latter was the wisest choice, considering he could read you like a family recipe. 

"I had to make sure she was breathing," you admitted. 

Harry was eerily quiet. You thought he might have fallen back asleep, but suddenly, the room was illuminated in a yellow glow from the bedside lamp being switched on. It strained your vision for a few seconds, and after blearily blinking through it, you looked at Harry to find him sitting up with the silk sheets bunched around his waist. He yawned loudly, then scooted over to draw you into his body. A trace of citrus aftershave still lingered on his skin. 

"Can't sleep?" he asked, his lips moving against your temple. 

Your cheek melted on his warm, bare shoulder. "Ever since we brought her home, my anxiety has been eating me alive at night. I'm constantly worried about her, even when she's not crying." 

Harry planted chaste kisses on your face. Through slow, sleepy affection, he said, "She's okay. Nothing bad is going to happen." 

"You don't know that." 

"I know she's safe and sound, all snug in the bassinet six feet away from us." When you didn't respond, he added, "If you want, we can move it next to your side of the bed." 

You clutched his hand, loving the smoothness of his palm and how large it was compared to yours. "Can we? Please? I want her close just in case." 

Nodding, Harry brought your joined hands up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. "Let's do it tomorrow so we don't wake her, yeah? We all need sleep right now." 

"Okay. Can you scratch my back? And talk to me." 

"Of course, sweetheart. Turn around." 

You did, and it didn't take long for him to lift your shirt so his delicate fingers could stroke along the expanse of your back. Goosebumps spread everywhere as you sank deeper into the mattress. The way his touch could envelop you in a blanket of comfort was miraculous. 

"Your postpartum checkup is in a couple of weeks," Harry mentioned, his mellow voice quickly putting a sleep spell on you. "We'll talk to the doctor about everything that's been going on, okay?" He shifted on the bed. "Listen, I get scared too. All I want is to protect her. When she cries, I feel helpless. But we're learning, aren't we? We'll be professionals by the time we're four kids in." 

You couldn't squash the craziness of his last statement because distant dream waves finally carried you away and let you drift in calm waters for the first time in a long time. 

—— 

A serenade of songbirds awoke you the following morning. Then, there was a slight breeze coming from somewhere. You soon realized there was no familiar dip in the mattress next to you, no blazing hot skin glued to you, and no soft puffs of air against your neck. You firmly decided that you loathed the feeling of a cold and empty bed in the morning. 

Stretching until your joints cracked, you squinted from the blinding sunlight gloriously casting over the side of the bed you lay on. The clock displayed 9:04, which was the latest time you had slept in since your third trimester of pregnancy. On top of the clock was a piece of paper you didn't recall seeing yesterday—the type of paper you and Harry wrote grocery items on. The familiar handwriting of your husband, which was a tad illegible but endearing nonetheless, had you reaching out and plucking the note from its place. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

Meet me on the beach when you wake up. Baby has already been changed, fed, and everything in between. Sunday breakfast on the shore, made by yours truly, awaits you. 

I love you so much. Thank you for completing me. 

~ Harry 

It entirely slipped your mind that it was Mother's Day—your first one. You'd been too caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, trying to capture a peaceful moment. Needless to say, you didn't even know what day of the week it was sometimes. Apparently, today was worth celebrating. 

After freshening up and tying a robe around yourself, you trod down the staircase. The late spring weather engulfed your senses as the kitchen came into view. The shutters were swung open, letting in gleaming sunshine and a gentle wind that felt like a welcoming embrace. It lifted your spirits instantly and caused you to temporarily forget about last night's troubles. 

You ventured to the beach area, the sand under your uncovered feet enlivening your drained state. Once the ocean became visible, you quickly stumbled upon an unexpected surprise. Harry, the human epitome of sunshine, stood there holding a tray with a vase of blooming flowers, a cup of steaming tea, and breakfast foods such as peeled clementine, poached eggs, and a golden-brown waffle drizzled with maple syrup. He was in his pinstriped pajamas, with sunglasses covering his eyes. Behind him, your daughter lay in a portable baby dome that shielded her from the sunny sky. She was sleeping on her back, her limbs bent adorably. You didn't recall hearing her cry after you finally managed to doze off last night. 

Barefoot, with a radiant smile dimpling his sun-kissed face, Harry met you halfway, setting the tray down on a nearby blanket spread out. His arms opened in invitation. You would have jumped in them if you had the energy, merely because his spontaneous thoughtfulness made you want to tackle him and never let him go—lovingly, of course. 

"Make way for the goddess," he said, taking his sunglasses off and eyeing you up and down. 

Makeup-less, half asleep, and moving at the sluggish speed of a sloth, you felt—and probably looked—far from a goddess. But when your husband looked at you like he wanted to eat you for breakfast instead, the tiniest flicker of confidence sparked inside of you. 

"Good morning," you greeted, smiling softly. 

Harry's hands instinctively splayed on your waist, his fingers digging into the cotton fabric of your robe. He was sporting a dopey expression, and you wondered if he got as little sleep as you did. 

Enduring delirious mornings with him had slowly become your favorite domestic kryptonite. When he'd crack ridiculous jokes amidst a quick, lazy round of sex before the baby interrupted, or when he would shuffle around the kitchen making an insufficient meal while accidentally putting the milk jug in the pantry out of pure exhaustion. 

"Let me guess," he said with an exhale, "you forgot it was Mother's Day?" 

You squeezed him tight and breathed in the faint smell of lavender fabric softener on his pajamas. "Can you blame me? I'm practically a zombie most days." You kissed him slowly, tasting the sweet and sticky syrup residue on his lips. "Mm, but thank you for everything. You take such good care of me." 

"Someone's got to do it," he told you, earnestness lacing his words. 

"I'm trying; I really am. Motherhood is... very grueling." 

"I know, darling. Whatever you need, let me know, and I'll help as best I can." 

You touched his cheeks, absorbing the sun's heat that graced them. "I want to take care of you too. I notice how tired you are." 

He fell into deep thought, and after staring at you for a moment with his eyes dancing over your entire face, he said, "Let's bring back date nights. When was the last time we went out, just the two of us? We can get someone to babysit, then go out on the town like we used to." 

"Can part of our date night involve taking a nap?" you asked, propping your chin on his chest. 

Harry glanced down at you, his green irises clear and happy. "Absolutely." 

"Sounds like a plan." You laughed at its absurdity. How did we go from 'I can't wait to marry you' to 'I can't wait to nap with you'? What has parenting done to us?" 

He tilted his head with a lopsided grin. "It's made me fall in love with you all over again." 

"Even when there's spit-up on my clothes?" 

"Uh-huh," he said, locking you in his hold. "And when you're burping a cranky baby while eating your first meal of the day well past noon. And when you're breastfeeding while sending work emails, your hair unbrushed, and my shirt hanging off your body. There's nothing sexier." 

Truthfully, he wasn't joking around. And you knew that one day, you'd find simplistic beauty in those things as well. 

"I'm a real sight for sore eyes." 

Harry kissed your forehead, swaying you to the sound of the waves meeting the shore and then receding. "You have no idea." 

——

[acourtofquestions]

What is it with Empire of Storms and the moon names??😂 — We have Fenrys Moonbeam😅— We have “moonfire”… it made sense in Queen of Shadows to have “shadowfire”… and though there’s plenty of storms this one is cracking me up🌝🤣🌚

[aloysiavirgata]

She walks in beauty, like the night

Scully in the simplest, blackest silk. Scully pale, moon-kissed, vulnerable. Scully’s hair and eyes like where the stars are born.

***

Scully comes to him when even the moon is all but asleep, like a single calla lily from a secret admirer. Unbidden. Unexpected.

Unparalleled.

“Mulder,” she says, outside his open door, in a negligee that last shade of sky blue before it goes pitch black.

Spaghetti straps and a low décolletage, though not shockingly low. Lace trim, mid thigh. It looks like something Katharine Hepburn would wear to slap you.

Not you. Him.

Specifically him.

She looks up at him through her heavy-lashed, heavy-lidded eyes.

He stares at her for his own sake because deep in his 12 year old heart, no one would ever, ever, believe that nerdy Fox Muld-

Scully takes another step closer onto the sad oatmeal carpet of his hotel room. She has such pretty ankles, she has such pretty calves. She smells like honeysuckle and hot bike tires and buttery lobster rolls and the sweetest, purest moments of his life.

She tips her face up to him, Agent Scully does, all eyes and lips and cheekbones like a geometric proof.

“God,” he says. And he means it.

***

LA belongs to the sun and Scully is a San Diego baby but he knows, he knows, she is an East Coast girl at heart. He knows she loves the first retinal purple-orange sunrises of America and the first sapphire kisses of night. He knows she loves the stars by which her father learned to navigate. He knows she loves the distant moon.

He knows she loves blue crabs and wool duffel coats and khaki shorts and aspires to East Hampton in her most secret, silent heart.

One day he will make love to her in London because she will, he knows, hark to the call of the City. She is a creature of old stone and lichen and liminal space.

She is the answer to Samson’s riddle.

***

He’d rented a jet black ‘57 Chevy Bel Air because Christ, this girl. Abductions and cancer and the most awful brutality and stolen ova and Christ; this brilliant, moonbeam girl.

She sees the car and she says nothing. But her eyes, her eyes. Her Star of India eyes.

Scully sees the car and she smiles, shy. Scully squeezes his hand.

***

He fucks her - hard, desperate - in the Chevy out over Mullholland and she cries out for him because even Saint Teresa writhed in ecstasy.

He kisses her the way a mariner kisses his homeland soil because she is his human credential. He kisses her like a Torah scroll. He shudders, murmurs I love you, I love you into the hot, sweet dark of her mouth.

***

She is bleeding, just a little. She is bleeding in the warm caress of a Southern California night. She is bleeding as though she were a virgin and maybe she is; maybe there is sex and there is fucking and there is making love and there is This.

Are you there, god? It’s me, Dana.

She touches his sleeping rosebud lips. She touches his funny nose and his beautiful jaw and she doesn’t say I love you aloud like he had because she’d learned it was shameful. She’d learned to salute.

But it’s 3 AM, neither properly morning nor properly night. It’s 3 AM and she isn’t LA pretty, not by a long shot, but she’s here with him, with Mulder, who is very LA pretty and has money besides.

She’s too short and too pale and her nose is patrician rather than cute and she gets burnt instead of tan. She doesn’t laugh in the right places at movies. She likes copper because it burns green, she likes moths more than butterflies, she can quote Jane Austen’s most acerbic lines.

She thinks of Mulder swimming hard across the Vineyard tides, Mulder with his cinnamon skin in the whipped cream breakers. Riding a red fixed-gear along Lake Tashmoo, tugging his tiny sister along. Mulder basking on the beach like a young god of summer. Mulder with his heart afire like Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque.

Her father is dead and look, look Mulder has such a tender soul even if he’s Jewish and atheist, Daddy. Mulder has eyes like fern moss.

“I love you,” she says, her eyes brimming with tears, her eyes bright as the newest stars.

[the-desilittle-bird]

Hii, I would like to request something for Daemon.

At Rhaenyra wedding he sees reader(targaryen or valeryion), who was away for some time, and he falls in love with her again seeing as in the past they had a fling. He chooses her over Rhaenyra and they get married days later with Viserys approval. They reunite with the family on Driftmark for Leana's funeral, there Rhaenyra gets jealous when she sees Daemon being soft with his childrens and reader. Later she tries to sway Daemon and make him leave his family with the excuses of the Greens being against her but he gets mad and threatens her or something like that.

Thankss

Author's Note- Thanks for the request. It was very interesting writing this one. I made a few changes in the scenes to fit in. Do not fret requesting for more. Requests are always opened and we'll appreciated.

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

Dancing with Dragons

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary- Things and situations are bound to change as well as hearts...

Tag List- @minaxcarter, @eliseline, @blackhoodlea, @little-moonbeam-666, @neenieweenie, @omgsuperstarg, @avalyaaa, @shopping, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @krokietinio, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @thekayarlene, @narcy, @helloitsshitzulover, @muushwrites, @daringboba, @bi2simps, @issybee0611, @yariany02, @agathe, @5moremin, @candypurplebutterfly, @saraelizabeth26, @moon-light1415, @targaryenmoony, @stargaryenx, @instabul, @shine101

Warnings- Threats, Suggestive Content? Westrosi Things

GIF Credits to @userparamore

Daemon looked around the feast in boredom, trying to find something to keep himself intrigued throughout the night. He could feel two pair of eyes on his figure. One belonging to his beloved niece while the other belonged to Laena Velaryon.

He wished to see a certain familiar face walking through those huge doors. It had been quite too long since he had seen his cousin sister, much to his dismay.

Even though it had been more than a few summers, Daemon still remembered the secret nights spent in each other's embrace. Moans and gasps mixing into groans of pleasure. Her smooth skin layered by beads of sweat. Eyes closed in euphoria, hair messed from tugging

Daemon smirked to himself as he took a sip of the Dornish wine served in the feast. His eyes traveled to the dusky skinned lady sitting on the opposite side of the table.

He stood up, stepping down the stairs and joining the dance. He could feel the movement of the Velaryon girl, turning to find her behind himself.

A conversation ignited and Daemon could feel a few sparks; though he knew it was not of love, but of simple lust towards a woman with a pretty face and pure innocence.

"Lady (Y/N) of Houses Targaryen and Arryn"

The room stilled as the dancing pairs moved out of the way of the late Queen Consort's younger sister strided in gracefully with an authoritative aura following her like the sunflower following the sun.

Her blue gown of expensive silks wrapped around her beautiful body smoothly, accentuating her features and pushing her breasts together to create ample cleavage. The silver thread forming falcons on the skirt of her gown.

Daemon let his eyes follow their way down her attractive figure. His legs moving on their accords as they lead him to her. Their eyes met, bodies only a few inches apart.

"Glad to see you here, Lady (Y/N)," Daemon bend down to place a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her palm. "The pleasure is all mine, Prince Daemon," her voice was music to his ears, making him hum in pleasure.

"Lady (Y/N), it is our pleasure to have you with us here," Viserys stood up with a smile. It was no surprise to anyone that the king was fond of his former good sister. Right from her birth, the Arryn Lady had been close to the king and his rebellious brother.

"It is much too my delight to join you in celebrating the Realm's Delight's marriage, Your Grace," (Y/N) said softly, her eyes kind yet a thin mask of caution remained. It had been quite some times since (Y/N) visited the place.

"Hope you enjoy the feast," the king said kindly, sitting down once again. The dancing resumed but this time, it wasn't Laena dancing in Daemon's arms but his old love. Sly smirks and non-verbal conversations exchanged amid the buzzing laughter of all the noble people.

"It's been long, sister," Daemon whispered in her ear, his hand discreetly grazing the curve of her back. "Indeed, brother," she whispered against the smooth skin of his neck.

A low groan bubbled in Daemon's throat. His hands grabbed her neck, bringing her closer to him as everyone danced around them. He could see the hunger in her eyes, the parting of her lips as a small whine of his name escaped; disappearing into the loud atmosphere as a small breeze on a winter day.

"Say it," he hissed, his eyes resembling a predator's, ready to pounce. "Mazverdagon nyke aōhon," (Make me yours) (Y/N) whispered, making Daemon smirk. One of his hands moved down to tangle around her waist, bringing her closer to him.

"Skorkydoso?" (How?) Daemon asked teasingly, his tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting his lips. "Mazverdagon nyke aōha ābrazȳrys. Tepagon nyke aōha riña, Daemon," (Make me your wife. Give me your child, Daemon) she replied back, her lips way too close to his to deem appropriate.

Daemon smirked, his hands grabbed hers, making his way to his chambers. His eyes darkening with passion. His mind clouded with all the pleasures to come.

The winds were a bit too wild in Driftmark but it was no issue to the huge dragons of the Targaryens of Dragonstone. The red and bronze dragons descended down the skies followed by two more dark dragons. While one was a full grown, coal black, the other was yet not a fully-grown one.

Vermithor growled loudly, making the guards straighten up as the Targaryens of the Red Keep stayed firmly on the ground, watching as the dragon-riders stepped down from their mounts.

Daemon was the first one to step down, walking to Vermithor to help his sister-wife down. A crimson red blanket wrapped around their youngest, a daughter. (Y/N) smiled as Daemon carefully took Daenys from her, cooing at her softly.

Daemon looked up to find his eldest daughter and son walking towards them, head held high as they both smiled at their parents. Visenys looked like her father, carrying his character traits as well while Aelar had took after her mother, while adopting a few things of his father.

"Brother, sister," came the fragile and weak voice of the king. Daemon and his wife turned, a smile on their faces as they moved to greet the rest of the family, their children on their toes. "Your Grace," Daemon and his son bowed while the ladies dipped into a curtsey.

"Look at you both," Viserys chuckled, the side of his eyes crinkling. Daemon moved closer to his brother, letting him look at the little Targaryen, who was no more than three summers old. "She is beautiful," Viserys said with a smile, placing a caressing hand on the baby's head whose was sleeping peacefully in her father's arms.

"Aemma," (Y/N) said, offering her good brother a smile. Viserys felt his eyes fill with tears at the name, as he smiled at the baby. "Alicent," (Y/N) greeted the Queen, who was until now, standing quietly with her kids. The Hightower Queen smiled, "Lady (Y/N)."

The Targaryen Lady found her eyes drifting away to the heir of the throne, Princess Rhaenyra, who stood by Laenor and her kids. While (Y/N) had heard the whispered rumors about the offspring of the princess, she didn't expected it to be true; but to find them gazing at her in reality, (Y/N) now made sense of the rumors.

"Princess Rhaenyra," she said with a smile. "Lady (Y/N)," the Princess replied with gritted teeth, her eyes burning holes at her as she looked at how she had turned Daemon into a soft and dotting father; a stark opposite of the man she knew him to be.

Rhaenyra could feel herself becoming jealous of her aunt. A nagging in the back of her mind as she watched Daemon place a loving kiss on (Y/N)'s forehead as she laughed at something her father had said. Their son and daughter standing beside them with a smile.

A plan formulated in Rhaenyra's mind as she silently watched the small family interacting with the king and her half-siblings. A sly smirk finding its place on her lips as she thought of what she needed to do.

Daemon stood against a dusted table, trying to find something interesting, while Rhaenyra spoke about something he didn't care about. He discreetly looked at her and thought of possible reasons as to why he was attracted to her at the first place.

Perhaps it was his want for the throne which made him crave her, or perhaps it was his somewhat rebellious nature which matched Daemon's. Or just frustration towards his brother.

"Are you listening to what I speak of, uncle?" Rhaenyra asked, sighing as she watched Daemon look up with raised eyebrows and bored look. "The Greens are against me and my children. Alicent and Otto will do anything under the sun to harm us. We need you. I need you."

Daemon scowled, glaring at his niece as she moved to caress Daemon's cheek with her hand. "Please, Daemon. I want you," Rhaenyra whispered, her lips near his neck. "Step aside," Daemon pushed Rhaenyra back softly. "I must warn you beforehand, Rhaenyra, if you dare come near me again, or attempt to get closer to me; I will have Caraxes eat you right in front of that lover of yours."

Letting the threat hang in the air, Daemon turned and went straight towards his wife who stood conversing with Rhaenys. "My love," he kissed her cheek from behind, letting his hand wrap around her waist. "Daemon," (Y/N) smiled, leaning into him.

"I will leave you two alone," Rhaenys said, excusing herself from the couple who gazed lovingly at their kids. "Visenys looks happy here," Daemon commented. Visenys was busy doing something in sand with Aemond, giggling like a child she is.

"They look happy," (Y/N) commented, looking at Daemon who frowned at her words. "He can have her after... 60 summers? Yes," Daemon grumbled, making (Y/N).

(Y/N) leaned into Daemon's chest, smiling dreamily as she looked at her happy family.

[zorosdimples]

YOU’RE MINE

pairing ༄ alpha!kakashi x princess!reader

warnings ༄ minors: please do not interact! i will block you. suggestive content, predator/prey dynamics, light a/b/o dynamics, mild descriptions of injuries. reader is a princess, wears a gown, and has an intricate hairstyle, but there are no gendered terms aside from “princess.” kakashi calls reader “pup” once.

word count ༄ 922

notes ༄ everyone can thank cher @honeylavendr for unknowingly?baiting me into writing this. it was really only a matter of time… kakashi is my first love and i’ve lost the omegaverse battle, so this is the result. this has no plot, so just enjoy the whirlwind of emotions!

the cold air bites at your exposed flesh like a hungry wolf. you ignore your discomfort as you hike up the heavy skirt of your gown and delve deeper into the pitch-dark forest. stray moonbeams cut through the dense canopy and illuminate patches of earth and gaps between the trees, your winding path mostly guesswork as you feel your way through the vegetation.

branches sharp as claws rip your gown and flay your flesh, and while you can faintly feel the warm dribble of blood down your frozen temple, it’s difficult to focus on anything other than moving forward. shreds of shimmering velvet catch in brambles as you run, but the sickening sound of fabric tearing doesn’t reach your ears.

after what feels like hours of running, your senses are overwhelmed to the point of numbness. the only absolute truth is your ragged breathing; everything else is hearsay as you float through the night, a whisper among the leaves. the primal urge to just survive is your sole guide.

your lungs burn and legs ache—at least you think they do—but your mind and body are currently separate entities. you know your pace is unsustainable, and you cry out to the gods in relief when you finally crash through the tree line and into a clearing. the moon hangs brightly in the inky sky, light rippling on the surface of a lake so large it stretches beyond the horizon.

you collapse to the ground in a pool of tattered velvet, frantically gasping for air as the tight bodice of your gown painfully squeezes your chest. a wave of nausea rolls over you and you bite back the urge to retch.

stretching your legs out, you clumsily gather your skirt and pull it back, gasping when you see the mottled bruises and bloody gashes that litter your skin. feet in agony, you opt to crawl to the edge of the lake to peer at your reflection in the frigid water.

“you can’t hide from me, princess.”

the smooth taunt stops you mid-crawl, horror blossoming in your gut and unfurling to caress every nerve in your now-trembling body. as if you can no longer control your movements—can you ever when he’s around?—you slowly turn to face the shadowy forest.

you see his eyes before anything else. his right iris shines silver like a honed dagger and his left glows crimson like spilled blood. when kakashi emerges from the cover of darkness, you forget your fear for a moment and bristle with irritation. he looks impeccable—not a strand of hair or thread of clothing is out of place. he doesn’t look like he has been tracking you through the wilderness for hours. for a split second, your right palm itches to slap his perfect face.

kakashi is unhurried as he approaches you, soaking in the sight of the kingdom’s beloved princess at his feet, cowering in defeat. when he reaches you, kneeling down so you are eye level, he decides that you have never looked more beautiful.

your soft face is covered in claret scrapes and angry welts, shiny eyes swollen and dripping hot tears. your hair has fallen out of the intricate updo your handmaiden worked on all afternoon; most of the pearls and pins that once adorned your silken strands would now rot away on the forest floor. the expensive gown that took hundreds of hours of labor and dozens of seamstresses to craft is now unrecognizable.

fear courses through your veins under his scrutiny, but kakashi doesn’t have to look at you to know how you feel. he can smell how terrified you are. it only makes him desire you more.

he reaches out a gloved hand to brush your icy cheek, but you jerk away from his touch. he simply tuts in mock annoyance. “there is nowhere left for you to run, princess.” his coo is cloying as he leans over you. his signature mask covers the bottom half of his face, but when he sees you eyeing the fabric, he slips it down with a cruel smirk. “if you want to look, all you have to do is ask, my little omega.”

you swallow dryly at those words. you are no longer just an omega; you are his omega, his mate. the fetters of royalty have chained you to this man—this monster. kakashi moves to grip both of your arms at the elbows, large hands gently pulling you closer and closer until you tumble into his lap.

“no matter how many times you try to run, i will always find you,” kakashi murmurs into your ear, warm breath lighting a fire beneath your skin. he nuzzles your cheek then grazes his fangs down the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps his wake; you shiver beautifully for him. “do you know why, pup?”

you whimper as kakashi’s lips ghost his mark on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. he kisses the healing wound sweetly before laving his tongue over it until you breathe a pleased sigh. kakashi raises his head to meet your heavy lidded gaze, one hand cradling your face, the other—now gloveless, claws exposed—slicing down the length of your dress until you sit completely bare. his lips meet yours chastely, but for some inexplicable reason, you hunger for more. he pulls back with a chuckle after you try to pry his mouth open with your tongue. both of his hands come up to wrap around your neck, thumbs pressing sharply beneath your chin.

“it’s because you’re mine.”

[sillysaurus]

☀️🧃🌻🎨🎉 🌑🍼🎭🥮💤

Sundrop & Moondrop caregiver headcanons

Sun takes care of kindergarten/elementary age kids, staying in the main daycare/play area

Moon takes care of the babies and toddlers, usually staying in the nursery/nap area.

This is mainly because Sun is higher energy, while Moon is lower energy. Sun loves to play with the kids, running around, getting messy, doing arts and crafts, etc. While Moon prefers to do more relaxing activities, like singing/reading to the babies, he likes to be clean and organized. But They both love kids of all ages!

They will still do activities together sometimes though. They love to put on performances for all ages!

Moon helps Sun put the kids down for naptime, he also stays and watches them. During this time Sun might entertain the babies/toddlers, if they aren't sleeping as well.

Sun has a hard time even lightly scolding the kids and often has to call on Moon to talk to/lecture them, he oversees the timeout corner. But Moon is not harsh! just serious and firm.

If a baby is being fussy during a diaper change, Moon will call Sun over to playfully distract them while he changes them.

Moon doesn't mind fussy little babies, he's actually very patient and understands they cant help it <3

Moon petnames: moonpie, moonbeam, twinkle(s), firefly, gum drop, baby cakes, puddin(g), sweetie pie, sugarplum, bitsy/bitty, baby, sweet pea, pumpkin, sleepyhead, starlight

Sun petnames: sunshine, sunbeam, sunspot, sunflower, (little) flower, petal, sprout, buttercup, goober, brite eyes, giggles, munchkin, silly, rainbow, kiddo, pal, bud/buddy, star brite

Usually they are called Mr Sun and Mr Moon, like teachers, but don't mind being called other names! (personally i think Sun is dada coded and Moon is papa coded)

After hours, Sun spends time coming up with and planning games and activities for the next day. While Moon usually cleans up the place.

Some kids find Moon scary, which hurts his feelings a bit, but the babies know how sweet he is <3

Sun doesn't teach the kids in the traditional way, he prefers exploring creativity/arts, but loves circle time and listening to the kids answer questions he asks/share things

Moons style is to "let you feel your feelings", he will comfort you with affection and quiet time. Suns style is more trying to cheer you up and/or distract you, can be with affection. They are both very reassuring.

Moon is good with the babies because he can keep his cool, he's calm and consistent. Sun is good with the kids though because he is very expressive and can match their energy.

i will continue to update this btw! if i think of anything else <3

[ymaohoh]

(don't tell me that Eddie wasn't thinking about this very scene when he met Chrissy alone in the woods)

The leaves were long, the grass was green, The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, And in the glade a light was seen Of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinúviel was dancing there To music of a pipe unseen, And light of stars was in her hair, And in her raiment glimmering. There Beren came from mountains cold, And lost he wandered under leaves, And where the Elven-river rolled He walked alone and sorrowing. He peered between the hemlock-leaves And saw in wonder flowers of gold Upon her mantle and her sleeves, And her hair like shadow following. Enchantment healed his weary feet That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet, And grasped at moonbeams glistening. Through woven woods in Elvenhome She lightly fled on dancing feet, And left him lonely still to roam In the silent forest listening. He heard there oft the flying sound Of feet as light as linden-leaves, Or music welling underground, In hidden hollows quavering. Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves, And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beechen leaves In the wintry woodland wavering. He sought her ever, wandering far Where leaves of years were thickly strewn, By light of moon and ray of star In frosty heavens shivering. Her mantle glinted in the moon, As on a hilltop high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn A mist of silver quivering. When winter passed, she came again, And her song released the sudden spring, Like rising lark, and falling rain, And melting water bubbling. He saw the elven-flowers spring About her feet, and healed again He longed by her to dance and sing Upon the grass untroubling. Again she fled, but swift he came. Tinúviel! Tinúviel! He called her by her elvish name, And there she halted listening. One moment stood she, and a spell His voice laid on her: Beren came, And doom fell on Tinúviel That in his arms lay glistening. As Beren looked into her eyes Within the shadows of her hair, The trembling starlight of the skies He saw there mirrored shimmering. Tinúviel the elven-fair, Immortal maiden elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering. Long was the way that fate them bore, O'er stony mountains cold and grey, Through halls of iron and darkling door, And woods of nightshade morrowless. The Sundering Seas between them lay, And yet at last they met once more, And long ago they passed away In the forest singing sorrowless. - 'Song of Beren and Lúthien' from The Fellowship of the Ring. J.R.R. Tolkien