#the heart’s invisible furies

[inthegoodbooks]

reading books I should have read by now - end of the year tbr

I am a collector books. I think we all are. I am a firm believer in the fact that collecting books and reading books are two separate hobbies; they support one another, but they can exist in isolation.

Over the years, I have collected so many books. Wonderful books, books that are raved about and praised beyond words. At the start of 2024, I made a real commitment to reading the books I already own and refrain from buying too many across the year that never end up being read. I have done quite well with this: so far this year, 22 out of the 38 books I have read are books I already own. Bear in mind that within the other 16 are audiobooks included in my audible subscription and library catalogue and physical books borrowed from the library too.

So all in all? Not bad.

For the end of the year though, I have decided to pick five books that are renowned for being excellent. Maybe they’ve won literary prizes (such as the Booker for Girl, Woman, Other and Shuggie Bain; the Pulitzer for The Goldfinch; the Glass Bell Award for Heart’s Invisible Furies; and On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous was also shortlisted for a number of prizes too.) Of course, I’m not just reading these because they’ve been recognised by prizes though; all of these books have been recommended to me by friends or bookish content creators whose opinions I really value.

My plan is to read one a month (ish), starting with Shuggie Bain for August. I am nearly finished and boy oh boy, am I glad I finally got around to picking this one up. Such a wonderful novel. Anyway, more about that in the review.

I can’t wait to dive into the rest of them very soon.

[bookcoversonly]

Title: The Heart's Invisible Furies | Author: John Boyne | Publisher: Hogarth (2018)

[haveyoureadthispoll]

Cyril Avery is not a real Avery--or at least that's what his adoptive parents tell him. And he never will be. But if he isn't a real Avery, then who is he? Born out of wedlock to a teenage girl cast out from her rural Irish community, and adopted by a well-to-do if eccentric Dublin couple via the intervention of a hunchbacked Redemptorist nun, Cyril is adrift in the world, anchored only tenuously by his heartfelt friendship with the infinitely more glamorous and dangerous Julian Woodbead. At the mercy of fortune and coincidence, he will spend a lifetime coming to know himself and where he came from and--over his many years--will struggle to discover an identity, a home, a country and much more. In this, Boyne's most transcendent work to date, we are shown the story of Ireland from the 1940s to today through the eyes of one ordinary man. The Heart's Invisible Furies is a novel to make you laugh and cry while reminding us all of the redemptive power of the human spirit.

[kikuism]

is the goldfinch any good

[thereadingchallengechallenge]

JOMP BPC - October 29th - Freebie

this month's book club read is The Heart's Invisible Furies by John Boyne and it's been a fascinating, surprisingly funny read so far. I've still got a third to listen to but I'm intrigued to see where Cyril ends up...

[screamingiminlovewithyou]

They….

[mercerislandbooks]

50 Years of Island Books: Our Sales Reps

In this installment, we’re seeing Island Books through the eyes of our sales reps. Dan Christiaens, Christine Foye, David Glenn and Kurtis Lowe all have decades-long relationships with Island Books, with lots of stories to share.

Miriam: Welcome Dan, Christine, David, and Kurtis! I'm excited to talk to all of you. As key sales reps for the big publishing houses, you've all had long-standing relationships with Island Books, and we wouldn't be the place we are today without your contributions. Tell me some stories! It can be about your first impression of the store, how you came to work with us, a particular title that did well at Island Books, or any other fond memories.

Dan Christiaens (Norton): I’ll start off. It was around 20 years ago that I started covering accounts in the PNW. I was still living in SoCal. Island Books was on my account list so on my first trip I stopped by and met Roger. He was pretty terse, made it clear that he didn’t see reps, but would review my stuff and send me an order for anything that he wanted. The store was lovely, well curated, with the typewriters all over and a small music section featuring CD’s, which caught my attention. I would stop by the store when I was in town, say hello, and always buy a CD or two.

When I moved up here in 2004, I started visiting the store more regularly, chatting with Cindy or Nancy, or even Roger—and would buy a CD or order some music that I wanted that they didn’t carry, and began to suggest music they should be aware of. Then our books became the topic of conversation, and I started recommending various books of ours. Roger slowly came to respect my knowledge of our books—and we became friendly, and then MAGIC HAPPENED! And he started ordering from me!

Christine Foye (Simon & Schuster): Here's one of my favorite photos of all time, a picture of Laurie, Taylor Jenkins Reid, and me on tour for the hardcover of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Which leads me to.... 

A book that did especially well at the store and why—The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo! Laurie and Victor came to the prepub dinner that I had for TJR in Seattle. Laurie immediately embraced the book and shared it and hyped it and talked nonstop about it until finally pub day came and by gum, Island Books was outselling all of my other accounts within a month. This was the perfect storm of great book, passionate reader and responsive customer base. It's wonderful to find a book one can really get behind, and Laurie and the whole staff did that with this marvelous novel. Also, don't we look lovely in green? 

Remembering my first days selling to Island Books—I started selling to Roger in 1993. I knew nothing about anything, I was fresh out of the St. Martin's Press office in New York, selling trade paperbacks and mass markets and children's books and perfectly confident in my ignorance. Roger made short work of my inexperience but was kind about it, and commented on how I tidied up the store shelves and faced out titles. Had I worked in a bookstore, he asked. I sure had, and after that things were always affectionate between us in the Roger way. Which is to say, he let me sit and chatter for probably 10 minutes longer than he would have otherwise. And often I got a laugh out of him, which was wondrous. We did bond over having both been to Newfoundland — did you know he co-edited a book about it titled Outport: Reflections from the Newfoundland Coast? He did. (It's out of print.) I always loved Island Books, it was a pleasure to visit and see what kind of books Roger had decided to buy for the community. What a lucky community. 

David Glenn (Penguin Random House): Durn, my first visit to the store was so long ago I’m not sure I can even dredge it up from my addled brain. If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably way back in the mid-90s? Of course that was back in the “Roger Days,” and I think it’s fair to say that, within our tightly-knit rep community, Roger was known as kind of a tough buyer. He relied a lot on jobbers and didn’t particularly like being “sold,” especially if it was by someone he felt perhaps didn’t necessarily measure up, or wasn’t sufficiently prepared to defend a title if questioned about it. Roger did not, as they say, suffer fools gladly and, quite honestly, I was pretty intimidated by him at first. He gave me a bit of a rough few seasons there at the beginning—always good-naturedly, for sure, but also making sure I understood who the buyer/owner was. Early on, though, I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to win Roger over. I was gonna get a belly laugh outta that guy one way or the other. So every season I made sure to bring my A-game, and began my campaign to be “welcomed” by Roger. It took me a lot longer than I thought it would—at least a couple years—but eventually, the respect I had for Roger as an owner and businessperson, was replaced by just the simple goodness of the man. I loved his dry sense of humor, and if you could coax it out of him, he had a truly impish grin. So Island Books at that point became one of my favorite stores to visit.

When Roger decided he’d had enough and it was time to sell, I was pretty bummed. And in what was an odd quirk of fate, the fellow that helped Laurie come to a decision about buying the store was an old fraternity brother of mine who lives on the island. Happily, Laurie and Victor have been the ideal stewards to move Island Books along, post-Roger. The store has always had a wonderful vibe, a superb staff, a great location, and a tremendously supportive community.

As far as books go, I have to mention a title I feel is perhaps the finest novel any of my imprints have published during my 34-odd years with Penguin Random House: The Heart’s Invisible Furies, by John Boyne. Full disclosure: Island Books has sold a solid, if unspectacular 40-plus copies of it since it came out in August of 2017. So, not a real barn-burner. But more than the “zero” it would have sold had Laurie not been willing to take a chance, and an example of the fruits of the give-and-take between a rep and a buyer. It may not have set the world afire, but my fervent hope is that it will remain a staple at the store for years to come.

In January of 2018, I hosted a dinner for three PRH authors: veteran Amy Bloom, and newcomers Tara Westover and Karen Cleveland. Both Laurie and Victor attended that dinner and, at one point, Victor noticed that while nearly everyone was chatting away left and right, Karen Cleveland was looking a little lost and forlorn (whoever the rep host was that night should have been paying more attention). So he marched right over and began chatting her up. Well, cutting to the chase, Victor read her debut thriller Need To Know (based on the author’s own experiences as a former CIA counterterrorism analyst) and made it his own personal crusade to make it an IB bestseller. In short order, IB sold over 70 hardcovers, and another 100+ more in paperback, which is just an outstanding result for a debut novel. Tara Westover’s singular memoir, Educated, also struck a chord with Laurie and Victor that night. And while it’s true the book was a massive bestseller for nearly every bookstore in America (spending over two years on the NYT hardcover bestseller list in hardcover no less), IB more than held their own and, in fact, really punched above their weight, selling nearly 600 copies in hardcover alone. This is the power of the independent bookstore in general, and the superpower of a store like Island Books. Every community in America should be so lucky to have such a store, and I can’t help but believe that if this were actually the case, the country would be a far less frightening and chaotic place.

Kurtis Lowe (Imprint Group): When I started as a commission rep back in 1997, I did not work with publishers that ranked for a meeting with Roger Page. However, in early 2001, I joined Book Travelers West, so Roger was ready to meet with me to scrutinize the lists of Workman, Ten Speed Press, Running Press, Watson-Guptill, and more. As I pitched book after book (only the best), Roger would pause before a title, pen hovering over the printed catalog page… sometimes he would he would score a one, for one copy... saved! It would have a chance. Two copies. Looking good! Three copies… just about as high as he would go with me. That is because local wholesalers had no better indie partner than Island Books when it came to restocking a title if it worked, and the high shelves were too full displaying vintage typewriters to make room for overstock.  Roger’s team could be on the phone minutes before the deadline and receive a shipment by the end of the day. An initial order of one, two or three copies of could become 20, 50, or 100s sold over time.

When a title did not make the grade, Roger was not cruel, as he slashed a diagonal across the page, but at least he was definitive: “Not quite,” he would state, and often add a helpful comment of feedback for the publisher.  Perhaps the greatest feeling of triumph as a rep was to throw a Hail Mary, one more point to get that book on the shelf, and Roger would page back, look again, squiggle out the slash and enter a number and circle it for order entry.

The times that Roger really went for a book were beautiful, and he was ready to do something a little special. Back in 2014, Island Books picked The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry for their April store pick. I committed to touring Gabrielle Zevin to 27 Pacific Northwest bookstores in three days to celebrate this gift to the bookselling (and rep) community. Roger loved the idea; he set up a display in front and gave a little speech to the the late morning gathering. 

(Photo Credit: Kurtis Lowe / Roger Page introducing Gabrielle Zevin /The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill) / April 2014 Book of the Month Pick for Island Books / April 7th, 2014)

I’ve observed many bookstore succession stories. Laurie Raisys taking over, respecting traditions, and creating new ones, while bringing her own experience and energy to the store has clearly been a great success. Lillian Welch is my buyer now, and she eerily brings some of that challenging scrutiny that reminds me of Roger, but also a new and vibrant commitment to the best books for all readers in challenging times. Thank you to the many booksellers at Island Books who carry on your great tradition and congratulations to Island Books for 50 years as a shining literary light on Mercer Island!

Thank you to Dan, Christine, David and Kurtis, for giving us a glimpse into how those books get on the shelves at Island Books!

To our Island Books community: In the next 50 Years of Island Books installment, I’ll be talking to Cindy Corujo, who has been a bookseller for 36 years and has the longest tenure of any Island Books employee.

—Miriam

[irishtourney]

Hi, everyone!

Submissions closed, and we're going to get to work on sorting them all out! Our goal is to have a bracket lineup by the end of today, 11:59 pm EST!

[mina-can-read]

march 6th - the heart’s invisible furies

[sunni-stuff]

Three days had passed since Jellybean, your rescued stray, vanished. Though an outdoor enthusiast at heart, she'd never missed a meal. Now, your phone tracker beeped, signaling proximity. The crafty runt had escaped, but you were closing in. Jellybean's street-smart ways usually brought her home, yet this time felt different. As you followed the signal, hope and worry battled within.

You traveled alone as none of the townspeople were brave enough to help with your search. The mere mention of the North Woods shook them to the core, earning your request swift declines and slammed doors in your face. Whispers and rumors follow you with every interaction 

Secluded and untraceable, his cabin lies tucked away, invisible to prying eyes.

Rumors swirl of his territorial fury. Trespassers beware—this hunter stalks from afar. His domain is unforgiving, and his presence is a constant threat. The lucky ones spot the warning sign; others never see him coming.

Even the butcher, renowned for his toughness, said no, unwilling to even hear you out.

“There’s a man in the woods,” he said, voice unwavering. “You’d be smart to forget the idea.”

The boom of the door closing makes you flinch, jumping back a bit. A man in the woods? Surely not.

Even more absurd than some creep in the woods was the thought that the big, bad butcher was scared of him. This was a man who walked you home at night, who sneered at men and pulled you close to his side when you became uncomfortable. You knew him for a long time and you’d never seen him so much as flinch, but suddenly he was all squinted eyes and hushed tones at the thought of even stepping a foot off the beaten path. It couldn't be true, right?

Well, there was only one way to prove him wrong, and it was the only way you were gonna get Jellybean back. You’re going in that forest, urban myth or not.

Shadows lengthen as you exit your truck. The door closes with a hollow thud. The townsfolk's warnings replay in your mind, urging caution. You scan the area, heart racing. Drooping leaves cast an ominous veil over the forest. The murky depths seem to whisper, both alluring and forbidding.

Anxiety grips you as you take a step further. "Bean?" You whisper, voice trembling.

Silence answers. Twigs crack underfoot, and each snap creates an ominous echo. You cringe, the sounds amplifying your unease. Yet you press on, searching the quiet forest.

Minutes stretch like hours as you quietly call Bean's name, doing your best not to attract any unwanted attention, as the woods loom, hiding unknown dangers. Glancing down, your phone shows her location, unchanged, since she first wandered off. Jellybean's absence at this late hour is unsettling. She never stayed out of the house this long, and not so still, either. You can't help but think the worst, deciding to hurry closer to her, praying to find her safe.

Venturing deeper, the terrain grew wilder. Massive leaves parted, revealing fallen trunks and tilted trees. The more you looked around, the more it became clear that the uncharted wilderness wasn't made for humans.

There was no possible way.

The forest gave little leeway to those travelings through its domain. Predators strayed barely out of sight, lurking in hopes you'd be their next meal. A howl in the distance has you on edge, skin crawling, the feeling of being watched running anxious edges.

"Just keep walking. It'll be okay. The tracker says she's near." You reassured yourself under quite murmurs, trying to will your heart calm.

Then it appeared without warning.

A wolf lurches from the woodland gloom, baring his jagged canines, poised and ready to pounce. He circles you in a slow, menacing loop, foam pooling from his parted jaws. His eyes blaze with a frenzied gleam, wild and driven by something beyond hunger. Some dark, unseen force propels him, and you feel it tightening around you.

You turn and run.

Run as fast as your legs can carry you, tearing through the thick underbrush. Foliage slaps your arms and face, and the weeds clutch at your ankles like skeletal fingers desperate to drag you down. You ignore the stinging scratches, the pounding in your chest. If you fall, if you falter for even a second—you know it’s over.

Run.

The untamed beast snaps its jaws inches behind you, hot breath searing your calves, each bite narrowly missing as he hounds you with ruthless, single-minded determination. You crash through a thicket, branches clawing at your arms, tearing through your clothes, until you stumble onto a barely visible trail where weak shafts of light seep through gaps in the trees.

There’s no time to think. No time to process the sting of cuts or the burn in your lungs, nothing beyond the raw, primal instinct to get the hell away from the rabid creature on your heels.

Then you see it.

A cabin.

Really, a dilapidated shack, its sagging roof overrun with twisting vines, looms before you, barely held together by rotting beams and splintered boards. The whole structure looks one hard gust away from collapse, yet it’s the only shelter in sight. You don’t hesitate, heart hammering in your chest, and charge toward the door.

In your frantic rush, you miss the glint of watching eyes, shining like dark coals from the shadows behind, tracking your every move.

You burst inside, slamming the door shut with a desperate shove, then lean your back against it. Your chest heaves, each ragged breath scraping your lungs as you struggle to catch your breath, the weight of dread pressing down on you even harder than the beast’s pursuit.

The aroma of simmering soup wafted through the air, warmth enveloping you. A cozy scene unfolded: a bubbling pot atop a wooden stove, a modest desk tucked away, and a solitary lantern casting a soft glow. The space exuded an unexpected warmth, soft light pooling over worn furniture and the faint scent of old wood calming your frayed nerves. Your pulse slowed as the familiar coziness settled around you. Then, a gentle brush against your leg pulled you from the haze of adrenaline.

You glanced down—and there she was. Jellybean, her eyes wide and radiant, a few telltale crumbs clinging to her brown fur from some long-forgotten snack.

A rush of tenderness overtook the fading remnants of panic. You reached down, catching the elusive little troublemaker as she gave an indignant squirm. “You little—” The half-hearted scold fizzled, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming need to hold her close. “How—How did you end up here, huh?”

Holding Jellybean close, you feel the weight of your situation settling over you—a stranger in a cabin far from familiar ground, with the last of the sunlight slipping away, trapping you inside until dawn. Outside was darkness thick and impenetrable, the forest itself a living maze you dared not attempt at night.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as if speaking too loudly might stir something in the shadows.

Slowly, you move deeper into the space, eyes sweeping over the bare walls and spartan furniture. There’s something unnervingly sterile about the place—no photos, no knickknacks. Not a trace of personality or life. Who would live here? The rumors of some reclusive figure haunting these woods flash through your mind.

No. You shake your head, brushing off the thought. This was probably just some hunter’s shack. Or a place someone from town stayed now and then, just a shelter, nothing more.

Your foot presses down on a loose floorboard, and a loud creak echoes through the stillness. You freeze, heartbeat stuttering. Jellybean’s ears twitch, but she remains calm. Before you can step back, a low groan seeps from somewhere within the cabin, rolling through the floorboards, shivering up your spine.

Your grip tightens on Jellybean, and you hold your breath, listening.

“I-Is anyone there…?” Your voice barely steady. The words hover in the silence, as though the shadows themselves are holding their breath, waiting.

Then, clear as day, you hear it.

“Help… me…”

The voice is thin and broken, barely more than a whisper. Instinct screams at you to ignore it, to sit tight until morning. But something tugs at you. The sound is weak, desperate—human. The cabin feels suddenly smaller, its walls pressing in, urging you to run.

“Please… someone help me…"

A shiver races down your spine. Curse your altruism. You clutch Jellybean tighter, swallowing back the fear rising in your throat.

“U-uh, where…?” The question slips out before you can think, shaky and uncertain.

Silence stretches taut, pressing against your ears. Then, faint and low, a whining sound rises from beneath the floorboards, almost like a wounded animal. Every instinct screams at you to turn back, to stay safe. But you find yourself edging closer to the noise, heart hammering against your ribs.

Your gaze lands on a small, almost-hidden door near the far wall—the entrance to a cellar.

The pleas are louder here, wavering but persistent, each whisper curling up from the depths. “Help… please…”

You should walk away. This is a bad idea. A terrible idea. But, against every sliver of common sense, your hand reaches out, fingers trembling as they brush over the handle.

It turns with a rusty groan, and you pull the door open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadow. At the bottom, you catch the flicker of ember light, glowing faintly as if from a dying fire.

The cellar stretches out before you, a vast, dimly lit space far larger than should exist beneath such a modest shack. Shadows cling to the walls, the only light casting a faint, sickly orange glow that barely cuts through the murk. You step cautiously, heart-pounding, but then you glance to your right—and freeze.

The scene hits you with a nauseating force. Men hang suspended from thick meat hooks, bodies bruised and broken, some barely clinging to life, others unmoving, their faces blank and eyes empty. Their battered forms twist slightly in the air, like grotesque puppets left to dangle and rot. You swallow hard, stomach twisting as bile rises in your throat.

But then the horror deepens—recognition dawns. One face after another, familiar, each one seared into memory. The delivery driver who refused to take no for an answer, the lawyer from the pub whose relentless advances wore you down, the pizza guy who loitered outside your job, watching, waiting. All here. Hung like slabs of meat in this nightmarish cellar.

Your mind spins, the details piecing together in a sickening realization. The butcher. He’d warned them off, told you they wouldn’t bother you anymore. But this? This was something beyond any threat, beyond any punishment you’d ever imagined.

How? How had they ended up here? How did any of this exist beneath an unassuming cabin in the middle of the woods?

You weren’t supposed to see this. This was something that should have remained buried, hidden in the depths where secrets go to rot. The enormity of it presses down on you, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

But then, one of them stirs. The pizza guy, his head lolling weakly to the side, lifts his face. His eyes, clouded and bloodshot, light up with recognition—a desperate spark of life in his hollow gaze. “Help! Please, before he comes back!” he rasps, voice cracking.

He.

The word rings in your mind, cold and jagged. He? Who could do this? Who would do this?

Your voice trembles as the question slips out, a thin whisper in the oppressive silence. “W—who… who are you talking about?”

The cellar door slams shut behind you, the echo reverberating off the cold stone walls, trapping you in the silence that follows. Heavy, methodical footsteps descend the rotting stairs, each step creaking beneath his weight. His breathing is deep, ragged, each inhale and exhale marking his slow, purposeful approach.

Don’t turn around.

Your body locks up, instinct screaming to flee, but your legs refuse to move. You clutch Jellybean tightly to your chest, but suddenly, she squirms, thrashing in your arms in a way she never has before. Confusion twists through your terror—Jellybean has always clung to you, never trying to escape. What was she doing?

With a leap, she slips from your grasp, landing soundlessly on the floor. She pads past you, moving behind you, and the silence is filled with soft, delighted purring.

You don’t want to look. You hold still, desperately hoping that if you don’t move, you’ll disappear, fade into the shadows. But you can feel him standing just behind you, the weight of his presence pressing down like a storm cloud.

And then, a voice. Familiar. Deep, smooth, and thick with a British lilt, edged with something that both chills and soothes you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a note of affection clear in his tone as he addresses Jellybean.

Recognition strikes you like a blow. That voice—you’ve heard it a thousand times. The same voice that always offered a warm “good evening” when he walked you home at night. The same voice that laughed as he handed Jellybean her treats at the butcher shop. The same voice that warned you, with a peculiar intensity, to avoid these woods.

The butcher.

---

A/N: I don't usually do long writing stuff... but I've had this one in the drafts for too long and wanted it out. I kind of like how it turned out but I can def improve!

[connorsui]

"Tethered By Silence"

Pro Hero Katsuki x reader

Synopsis: he may not say it even when you're awake .. but his actions speak for him

Genre/warnings: fluff, soft katsuki, possessive attitude, constant physical touch, domestic moments, love without words, katsuki being gentle, overprotective on katsukis part, no warnings tho ...we die smothered in love

Note: more scenes of this man showing you how much he truly cares ...

w.c: 2.1K

Katsuki was not a man of many words. He had never been one to express his feelings eloquently, least of all when it came to you. For all his sharp edges and blazing fury, he was curiously quiet in the matters of the heart, as if his emotions were too large to be corralled by simple language. He wasn’t born with the gift of easy charm, and certainly not the grace to wrap affection in neat, verbal packages. He had always found his power in action, in the physicality of things—the blast of his quirk, the crackle of his fists, the way the world responded to his presence.

And so, it was with you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel love for you; in fact, the reality was quite the opposite. If anything, his love for you was too much—so overwhelming that he feared it might escape him in ways he couldn’t control, reduce him to something soft and breakable. Love, for Katsuki, was an act of survival, a fire that burned deep in his chest, wild and untamed, and you were the tinder. Every time he caught sight of you, every time your laughter cut through the air, light and free, or you absentmindedly twirled his fingers between your own, the fire roared louder, knocking the breath out of him.

But saying the words “I love you”—that simple, declarative statement?—seemed beyond him, like it might lessen the weight of it, reduce the magnitude of what it meant to him. He knew you wanted to hear it, could see it sometimes in the soft expectancy of your gaze, but Katsuki wasn’t the kind of man who could take the vastness of what he felt and stuff it into three small words.

So, he showed you.

Actions, he believed, were better than words anyway.

Like, It was something almost ...poetic ...about the way he moved around you, like the world demanded he orbit you constantly, pulled in by an invisible force too strong to resist. He wasn’t one to articulate such thoughts—his mind too pragmatic to linger on romantic notions—but the way he sought your touch told the story his lips never could. When you walked side by side, his arm always found its place around your shoulders, anchoring you to him, a silent promise of protection and possession. When you sat down together, it was the same—his hand finding yours, fingers curling over yours as though if he let go, you’d slip away from him.

He would never let that happen.

Mornings were when you caught him at his most vulnerable, when the light was soft and gold, casting a halo around your resting form. In those quiet, private moments, he allowed himself to admire you. His breath would hitch in his throat as he ran his fingers gently over your cheek, brushing stray strands of hair from your face so he could continue to watch you sleep in peace. It was then that the words bubbled up unbidden in his chest, words he dared not speak aloud but couldn’t stop from whispering when he thought you were deep in slumber.

"You’re so damn beautiful," he’d murmur under his breath, his thumb gently caressing your skin, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your jawline. "I love you."

You stirred sometimes, your lips curling in a sleepy smile as though his voice reached some part of you even in sleep. But when you awoke, if you dared ask him about it, his response was always the same—sharp denial, the faintest pink dusting his cheeks as he scowled.

"Wha- ..what are you on about?; I didn’t say shit?, don’t make things up..."

But the way his hand lingered on your cheek after pulling back, the tenderness in his gaze—those were the moments that told you the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Katsuki’s need to take care of you extended to everything, even the mundane. Every evening, when you offered to help cook dinner, his response was always the same—a scoff and a gruff order for you to “sit your ass down.” You’d try to insist, say that you could at least chop some vegetables or stir a pot, but he wouldn’t have it. He didn’t need help, not when it came to you. What he wouldn’t say—what he’d never say—was that he wanted to cook for you. That he found a strange sense of peace in it, in knowing that he was the one providing for you, making sure you were cared for. It was his way of showing love.

Of course, his words were always wrapped in attitude.

"Just sit there and shut up, I’ve got this,”

he’d grumble, his back to you as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. But you’d catch the soft look in his eyes when he thought you weren’t watching, the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he plated your favorite dish.

Late at night, when he returned home from hero work, exhausted and sore, he never had the heart to wake you. As much as he craved your attention, he wouldn’t disturb your peaceful rest. Instead, he’d slip into bed quietly, careful not to jostle the mattress too much as he settled beside you. But once he was there, he couldn’t help himself. His arms would wrap around your sleeping body, pulling you close, your warmth immediately soothing the tension from his muscles. He’d bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, your scent grounding him in a way nothing else could. In those moments, he didn’t need words. Holding you close, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, was all he needed to remind himself why he fought so hard every day.

The first time he brought you to meet his parents, you were nervous. Katsuki had a... "somewhat".. complicated but loving relationship with his parents, and you weren’t sure how they’d react to you.

But Mitsuki was sharp, and observant, so much so that the moment her son introduced you, she noticed immediately how his rough edges softened around you. At the dinner table, she watched as he reached under the table to lace his fingers with yours, his thumb brushing the back of your hand absentmindedly as he ate. It was such a small trivial thing, but it spoke volumes.

Katsuki Bakugou, the explosive, untouchable hero, was calm and collected with you. He was happy, content and overall comfortable. And though Mitsuki would never admit it to his face, she was grateful that he had found someone who could anchor him, someone who made him feel at ease in a way no one else could.

Especially in those rare, quiet moments, when the world slowed down and it was just the two of you, Katsuki became someone else—someone softer, more vulnerable, someone who allowed himself to feel without the need to control or suppress it. He would hold you like you were the most precious thing in his universe, and in those times, you knew that you were.

His arms wrapped around you, his face buried into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. He would stay there for what felt like hours, possibly centuries, just feeling the steady warmth of your body against his as the only reassurance he needed after long days of hero work.

The outside world would fade away, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the softness of your skin, the way your hand would find his and squeeze gently as if to say:

I’m here.

It was these moments that Katsuki treasured most, even if he didn’t have the words to express it.

His mind, usually sharp and restless, was quiet now, but beneath that calm exterior, the words he couldn’t say out loud raced through his thoughts like an endless loop.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

It was always there, like a mantra, a constant hum in the background of every interaction with you. It consumed him, the weight of it so overwhelming that sometimes he thought he might lose himself in it. But rather than pull away, he held you tighter, pressed his lips to your neck in featherlight kisses that spoke volumes.

And in those moments of silence, when his mind screamed what his mouth refused to say, he’d finally gather the courage to lean in and kiss you. Not a quick peck or a rushed kiss filled with urgency, but something deeper. His lips moved slowly, gently, as if trying to pour every unsaid word, every hidden feeling, into that one act. His kisses were full of meaning, each one more tender than the last. He kissed you like he was trying to say everything he felt but couldn’t find the words for—how much he adored you, how much he needed you, how you had become the single most important thing in his life. The kisses grew longer, more fervent, and by the time he finally pulled away, breathless and slightly flushed, his heart was racing in his chest.

Katsuki didn’t need to say the words. He didn’t need to tell you how much you meant to him because you already knew. You could feel it in the way he kissed you, the way his hands lingered on your skin, the way he looked at you like you were the center of his world. But even so, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where his heart threatened to burst with everything he felt for you. Moments where he looked into your eyes and almost said it.

Almost let the words slip past his lips.

But instead, he would settle for pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky as he whispered something that came close enough to the truth.

“You’re mine.” His voice was low, rough from sleep and something else, something more vulnerable that he would never let anyone else see. “No one else’s. Just mine.”

There was always an intensity to the way Katsuki touched you. The way he held your hand, the way his fingers traced your skin absentmindedly when you sat together, the way he pressed his body against yours like he couldn’t get close enough—it all spoke of a love that was consuming, all-encompassing, a fire that burned so brightly in his chest that he was terrified of it sometimes. He needed you in a way that was almost primal, a need that went beyond affection and straight into the very core of who he was. You had become his anchor, the one constant in his life of chaos and battle, the only person who could make him feel both calm and alive at the same time.

He wasn’t used to this feeling—this deep, unshakeable need to be close to someone, to rely on them, to love them without fear. But with you, it was different. You grounded him. You made him feel human in a way that nothing else could. And so, he held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his lips brushing against your temple in a silent promise. He might not be able to say the words, but he could show you. And every touch, every kiss, every moment spent wrapped up in each other was proof of how deeply he cared for you.

And when he finally pulled back, his eyes would linger on yours, his expression softer than usual, his rough exterior melting away just for you. He would smirk slightly, trying to regain some of his usual bravado, but the warmth in his gaze betrayed him. “Don’t get used to this,” he’d mutter, though you both knew that wasn’t true.

Because no matter how much Katsuki Bakugou pretended to be tough and unyielding, when it came to you, he was anything but. He would always hold you close, always protect you, always make sure you knew how much you meant to him—even if he couldn’t say the words. And maybe, someday, he would. Maybe one day, he’d be able to tell you outright, with no hesitation, that he loved you. That he adored you. That you were his everything. But for now, his actions would speak louder than any words ever could.

For now, it was enough. Enough that he kissed you like he was afraid of losing you, enough that he held you like you were the most precious thing in his life. Enough that, every night, he’d come home from hero work, slide into bed beside you, and wrap his arms around you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

And as long as he held you close, as long as he kissed you with that same unspoken intensity, you knew. You knew that Katsuki Bakugou loved you in a way that was fierce and all-consuming, in a way that words could never fully capture.

And that was more than enough.

Note P2: My forever HC is that Katsuki would be this type of lover and will always be this type of lover ..🍒

[kihyunsflavor]

Cross my heart part 1

next chapter ↪︎

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x f!reader

Summary: When Paul Atreides is killed by Feyd-Rautha, the only hope for the Bene Gesserit plan lies with Feyd. As the eldest daughter of the emperor, your father promises you to the na-Baron to forge an alliance between your two houses. However, this turn of events is not to your liking, and you harbor little fondness for him.

Warnings: arranged marriage, sexual tension (smut in next chapter), mentions of violence and blood, pet names, size kink, enemies to lovers trope (?)

Authors note: English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes. Also let's imagine Margot Fenring did not visit Feyd on his birthday. 

Horror plays on her face when her lover falls to the ground. Blade buried deep in his chest, where his heart was beating only seconds ago. There is no scream from her, she is quiet as the tears fall. Soon the room is filled with loud gasps and cries. You watch her break down on her knees. Now her lover was dead and the Fremen had lost. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of your father's face. There's a subtle hint of relief, a fleeting expression that only you can discern. Meanwhile, Feyd-Rautha turns around, a broad grin stretching across his lips. "Is this your Lissan al-Gaib? The Mahdi?" he mocks the Fremen gathered in the hall.

But in that moment, the Emperor and the na-Baron were invisible to them. All attention was focused on the fallen messiah as they swarm around the body. It doesn't take long for the left over armies to come and escort you to safety. Feyd trailed closely behind, a constant amusement playing on his features.

Your father's fury is evident; his clenched fist betrays his agitation. Yet this time, you won and destroyed the upcoming force from Arrakis. You tried to match his steps, but he was eager to leave this planet. You look back once, only to see her again. You didn't. She was hidden by the crowd. Instead, your eyes meet Feyd's. He had been walking closely behind you. "Don't worry, princess." Is all he says. You turn your face away, but he falls into step right by your side.

There is a ship, that will escort you back home. Feyd stayed alongside you and your father until your departure. "For now, I will return to Kaitain. But we will come back and slaughter them all." The emperor declared. Feyd Rautha nodded solemnly. He had dropped to one knee in front of your father. "You will stay here to oversee the spice harvest." There was a long silence. You noticed how your father exchanged meaningful glances with the revered mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. The silent communication left you puzzled, unaware of its significance.

Suddenly, your father rose from his chair. "And I will give you my eldest daughter." 

A cold shudder went down your spine as you heard his words. You stared at his side profile, hoping this was a misunderstanding, but the revered mother came into your sight. You understood why it had been done, you remembered the words from her. Feyd was yet another prospect for the Bene Gesserit. When your eyes fell on the Harkonnen, he smirked up at you. 

"I will not leave with you, will I?" You asked, as the na-Baron had left the room. "You will. He won't claim you until he has proven himself." Your father affirmed. He referrered to the need for the spice harvest to resume successfully.

"He will come to Kaitian when the time is right." 

When you arrived on your homeplanet, the emperor dissappeared immediately. He was busy tending to the Fremen rebellion. The news of Paul Atreides getting killed by Feyd Rautha spread rapidly. The other houses remained firmly aligned with the emperor, since Paul had attempted to disrupt the spice harvest. Now there was no hope, no Lissan al-Gaib, for the Fremen. No one, who would bring them to Paradise as the prophecy had been told. However, Paul had not been the awaited Kwisatz Haderach, the Bene Gesserit had anticipated. Few knew, but the hope now rested upon your future husband.

Over the past few months, reports were sent to your father. They arrived from Arrakis, each carrying Feyd's signature. He described the spice harvest as successfull and on the best way to reach big numbers again.

As your father reviewed the latest missive, his expression grew pensive. "He seems to exceed the expectations. The baron sent a report himself." The emperor said, while leaning over his table. You nodded approvingly, your heart racing at the mention of Feyd's name. "Will he come soon?" Your father frowned at your question, fully lost in his thoughts.

"My daughter, I think I need to send you away." Your eyes widened, but his remained fixed on the scroll. "You will go to Giedi Prime. Solidify our alliance with House Harkonnen, familiarize yourself with the Baron and find out his political plans. The wedding will take place on Kaitain in due time." You listened well, while he explained. "Will Feyd-Rautha also be on Giedi Prime?" The thought of facing the Baron alone on this dark planet made you shudder. It was a nightmare. "Yes."

Before the month´s end, you yourself send a letter to the na-Baron. It was a request form your father, advised by the revered mother. Every word was carefully written by yourself with your name prominently displayed beneath the message. It was not a long letter. You informed him about your upcoming trip to Giedi Prime to meet his uncle, the Baron. And suggesting that he should join you as well. It was not a plead, but like a beckoning call to him. Of course you had to charm him first. In the future he would either listen to you willingly or you would resort to manipulation. Feyd Rautha was known for his ambitious and ruthless character, willing to do whatever it took to achieve his own goals.

Oh how it angered you to travel to this unpleasant planet - but you were hiding your feelings from everyone. It was a duty you had to fulfill. Showcasing the amicable relations between the two houses was important.

The ship was prepared at the start of the next month, laden with various garments, jewelry, shoes, and other essentials. The dresses, in particular, were meticulously crafted for this trip, symbolizing the prestige and authority of House Corrino. A few servants and a Bene Gesserit sister accompanied you.

The journey was short and soon you found yourself descending into the atmosphere of Giedi Prime. Sitting composedly in your chair, you awaited the ship's landing. A scroll was clutched in your hand, an unfamiliar excitement stirred in your stomach. You read the single line repeatedly. "As you wish, my princess." While technically you couldn't hear him say it, in your mind, it was as if he were speaking directly to you.

He was a very intelligent man, with a mind sharp like a knife, yet charming and handsome at the same time. He effortlessly commanded attention wherever he went. Despite this, you wished you could avoid marrying him. While he ignited unfamiliar passions within you, you were certain they were nothing more than fleeting fantasies. There was excitement, but you couldn't shake the feeling that he wouldn't hesitate to cause you harm. Maybe with time, you'd figure him out better.

As the ship landed, there was no time left to dwell on these thoughts. Stepping out onto Giedi Prime, a servant handed you your long coat, its once vibrant color now subdued by the planet's dim light. The Baron awaited your arrival, surrounded by a crowd gathered to greet you. It was to be a grand entrance, fitting for the daughter of the emperor.

With confidence, you made your way to the Baron, your eyes catching Feyd standing beside his uncle. A smirk played on his lips, betraying his excitement to see you. In that moment, you felt a sense of relief that he was here.

"Welcome to Giedi Prime, Princess. It's an honor to have the daughter of the Emperor grace our humble planet with her presence. I trust your journey was pleasant?" The Baron's words brought your attention back to the present, as he bowed before you, followed by his nephews.

"Thank you, Baron. The journey was indeed smooth," you replied politely. As the three men straightened up, Feyd stepped forward and gently kissed the back of your hand. First, you wanted to pull away, but his touch was surprisingly soft, and you allowed him to continue. After all, it was a well-mannered gesture.

"I was waiting for you, my princess," he whispered slyly, his words dripping with charm. There was a palpable tension building between the two of you, and despite yourself, you found him captivating. Your mind wandered back to the Fremen girl you came across on Arrakis, the one who had lost her beloved. In her eyes, there had been an unmistakable depth of love and dedication. You couldn't help but envy her, for she had someone to fight for, someone to live for. You were never going to experience that.

As you were led through the castle, the architecture and decor caught your attention, though not in a favorable way. Everything seemed dark and robust, with a metallic, cold feeling permeating every corner. The building reflected the characteristics of the residents of Giedi Prime, with their porcelain-white features and hairless appearance. You couldn't help but feel relieved that the wedding would take place on Kaitain, away from this grim atmosphere.

A room was shown to you by Feyd Rautha himself. It was an uncomfortable walk. Conflicting emotions churned in your stomach, leaving you uncertain of how to act. There was only one topic you both could talk about. "I heard the spice harvest is going well," you ventured, breaking the awkward silence. Feyd, who had been walking slightly ahead, slowed his pace and turned to look at you. "Yes, my princess. The Fremen haven't been attacking our spice harvesters. They have withdrawn almost entirely." You acknowledged his response with a subtle nod. "That's great."

Suddenly, Feyd stopped, causing you to pause in confusion. The servants trailing behind also halted. "Is it?" Feyd's smirked, as he turned his body to face you directly, now standing pretty close to you. "Well, why wouldn't it be?" you replied, perplexed by his demeanor. "You know what I mean by that, my little princess," he said, his hand reaching up to caress your cheek. You allowed the touch, still unsure of his intentions. Seeing your confusion, he smiled, showing his black teeth. "My dear, you know what your father told me. If the spice harvest was doing well, I could make you mine." He leaned in, now towering over you. "And if I understood correctly, you're looking forward to our union?" It was as if a switch had been flipped in your mind. Your praise for his work could easily be misunderstood as eagerness to marry Feyd.

You took a step backwards to create more distance between you. Feyd let his hand drop to his side, his smile remaining in place. "I see what you mean now. Perhaps it could be interpreted that way, but it wasn't my intention. I was simply acknowledging the work that had been done on Arrakis." You said.

Feyd appeared disappointed by your response, his eyes betraying his displeasure at your lack of reciprocation. But first, he would have to work to earn your attention. While he may have proven himself to your father, it didn't mean you were now at his feet. You would make it especially challenging for him.

He escorted you to your chambers without uttering another word. "Good night, Princess." His tone was cold and desinteressed. You stood in the door frame, contemplating wether to say something, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "My Lord." You interjected at the last moment. Feyd paused abruptly, turning to face you. "Thank you for heeding my request and returning to Giedi Prime." You offered him a little smile, before closing the door behind you.

It was all just manipulation, to wrap him around your finger and keep him under your influence. He was thrilled to marry you anyways. Though love and affection were foreign to Feyd Rautha, his sexual desire was his weakness.

next chapter ↪︎

[redvexillum]

Hot damn, I can't believe it took me this long to finally get around to answering this ask. I would like to dedicate this story to @todash-darkness and Ms. 🍑. Thank you for being my friends and always cheering me on even when I get whiny and say "writing too hard!"

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, rough s♡x, possessive!alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, dual pov, reader is a sweetheart, established relationship, alastor is allergic to feelings, rough ♡ral s♡x, finger♡ng, miscommunication, one sided (alastor) denial of feelings

In the vast, unfathomable uncertainties of Hell, Alastor’s mind was a sanctum guarded by his own design, his kingdom of carefully orchestrated chaos. He adored unpredictability, yes – but only when it danced to his tune, his rhythm, his control. Anything else, anything beyond his boundaries, was sacrilege.  

There was no greater agony, no venom deeper, than the sensation of his world teetering beyond his grasp. His order, his routine ...demolishing right before his eyes.  

One such certainty he held with unwavering conviction was this: your soul belonged to him, irrevocably. He had claimed you in ways that transcended mere words. Every part of you – your thoughts, your desires, your body, and even the delicate cadence of your laugh – was woven into his web, bound and stitched to his very being.  

So why, then, were you here, laughing with that cur, the very embodiment of mediocrity beside you? Why did the melodic lilt of your voice drift toward that miserable fool’s ears instead of his? The sight of you smiling at such filth was an affront to everything he held sacred, and yet you persisted. You continued to share laughter with that loser, indulging his vapid words, his feeble presence.  

From his seat on the single couch, Alastor’s grin cleaved his face, a mask of delight that undercut the roiling fury within. Around him, other souls babbled, meaningless, and insipid, but he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed solely on you – typically nestled by his side, hanging on his every word as if he held the keys to your reality.  

You, who would meet his stories with wide-eyed fascination, as if his very words spun magic into existence. You, who would follow him, entranced, into his realm.  

But now, now...his hand dug into the flesh of the couch, claws piercing through its plush surface as he fought to restrain himself, to keep from dragging you to his side where you belonged. In his mind, he could feel the invisible chains around your neck, the ones you had so naively accepted, binding you to him to the moment you surrendered your soul – for a little of wretched Hellmutts, no less.  

You were naive. Weak. Ridiculously innocent.  

But you were his.  

His eyes tracked every move you made, his gaze darkening with each soft smile that graced your lips for someone else, each glimmer in your eye cast in that foul creature’s direction. And then – then that trash, that waste of a soul, had the audacity to touch your shoulder.  

Alastor’s heart stilled, a visceral freeze rippling through him as he watched your fingers lift, as if in slow motion, to meet that filthy hand.  

And within him, something snapped. 

An uncontrollable twitch seized his left eye, a slight tremor echoed in the clench of his jaw. Rage coursed through him, an intense, molten fury tightening every muscle until he vibrated with it. A violent energy was held back only by a grin that split his face, frozen, even as his eyes bore into you, unblinking.  

Come to me, he thought, his voice a dark whisper in his mind, willing you to hear, to obey, Come here, darling. Come... 

Yet, you didn’t hear him. Not a single glance in his direction, as if the tether binding you to him had snapped. You, with those disgustingly bright eyes, filled to the brim with such boundless, grating cheer – those eyes that never strayed from his, were now fixed on someone else. They were facing the wrong way.  

The ownership he held over you was absolute, and he was certain there was nothing of value in this world next to your name – nothing but your soul. And that? Well, that belonged to him. You were his in every sense, a fact as unshakeable as death itself.  

The thought simmered, rolling over in his mind like a storm. He’d planned to speak with you tonight, to remind you of the boundaries that came with selling your soul to him. A gentle “discussion” about your arrangement, perhaps a reminder of the dangers of your reckless naivety, especially around others’ wandering intentions. After all, what did you understand of the hunger that prowled in the depths of Hell? 

But then you laughed. That joyous sound, brimming with warmth and energy – the very light he’d basked in so possessively – spilled from you for someone else. In that instant, something dark clawed up from within him, overriding every fragment of patience he thought he’d possessed.  

The lights flickered; sinners looked up and whispered, confused, looking up as the room dipped into pitch-black darkness. And in that instant, Alastor’s hand seized you, pulling you into the shadows before anyone would notice.  

The darkness folded around him, dragging you both from their prying eyes, and when he materialized in his room, any pretense of control shattered entirely.  

You’d been talking to a gentleman about butcher shops in Cannibal Town, a respectable topic considering he was a proud consumer of sinner flesh. Though you yourself didn’t indulge, you knew Alastor had a certain...fondness for the taste. This stranger, to his credit, offered genuine recommendations – shops known for prime, fresh meat. You listened attentively, committing every word to memory, already imagining the gleam in Alastor’s eyes when you surprised him with a choice cut of fresh deer sinner’s flesh.  

The best part? Each piece came with the sinner’s full consent. Nothing could be more natural, organic, and you supposed, humane in a macabre way, than that.  

Your smile grew brighter as you pictured his reaction, and out of courtesy, you kept the conversation flowing. After all, Alastor had always instilled in you the importance of politeness, of maintaining grace, especially in the realms of Hell. When the man touched your shoulder and praised your kindness, you felt a warmth spread through you. Kindness was a rarity down here, and it was refreshing to be in the company of someone who appreciated it without ulterior motives.  

But then the lights flickered, and instantly, the room plunged into darkness. Panic flared, voices rising in confusion, and before you could fully process what was happening, a cold hand clamped around your wrist. A sensation, chilling and immediate, enveloped you, and the world melted away.  

When you blinked, you were in Alastor’s room.  

The sudden brightness left you blinking against the light, your vision adjusting. But when you finally looked up, you were met with a sight that sent a shiver down your spine.  

Alastor stood there; his eyes ablaze with a crimson fury that bordered on madness. His grin stretched wider than you’d ever seen, jagged and vicious, as if it had been carved from his very rage. His gaze cut through you like a knife, every muscle in his frame taut with anger. Twin streams of red trickled from the corners of his mouth, and in that silence, you could swear you heard the crackling of something deep within him breaking.  

Before you could even form the words to ask why he seemed so upset, Alastor summoned the soul chain. A sickly green chain flickered into existence, snaking around his wrist, and in the next, you felt a sudden, brutal tug around your neck. Your teeth gritted at the sharp pull, and he yanked you forward until you were barely an inch away from him, his nose almost brushing yours as he bent down to meet your gaze.  

The dial in his chest swung wildly, ticking back and forth like a metronome set to a frenzied beat.  

“Uhm, Alast-” you started, confusion clouding your mind. You knew he was eccentric, yes, prone to outbursts and fits of emotion, but they always carried some purpose, a hidden logic that only he could fully understand.  

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his voice frigid and sharp. The chain clinked as he pulled you even closer, the heat of his body blazing through the air between you.  

“Y-you,” you stammered, searching his eyes, your hand trembling as you gently touched his sleeve. “It’s you.” 

For a fleeting second, your answer seemed to calm the storm raging in his gaze, his crimson eyes softening back to their usual dark slits. “That’s right,” he whispered, his voice low and deceptively soft. “You belong to me.” His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in possessively. “And yet,” his voice dropped to a hiss, “you had the gall to let another sinner touch you.” 

A wave of bewilderment washed over you, leaving you scrambling to make sense of his anger. Physical contact was far from uncommon in the hotel – just yesterday, Angel Dust had clapped you on the back after you told him a joke. Surely, Alastor wouldn’t be so enraged over something so trivial? 

But Alastor pressed himself against you, his body taut and seething with an intensity that left you breathless. “My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched with a mocking chill, “thinking about that wretched sinner already? Right here, in my presence?” 

“That’s not-” you started to protest, realizing with a sinking dread that you’d indeed just thought of Angel Dust. But surely, that alone wouldn’t justify this terrifying fury, this raw possessiveness radiating from Alastor? 

He let out a bark of laughter, sharp and scathing, before pressing his forehead to yours, his lips grazing dangerously close to your own. “I own your soul, darling,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous, velvety edge. You felt his claws inching up your skirt, his fingers scraping against your bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t share what is rightfully mine.” 

Unexpectedly, his mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and bruising, teeth grazing with a hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You whimpered against him as his sharp tooth nicked your lower lip, the sting mingling with the taste of blood as his hot tongue lapped over the wound, a low groan reverberating from his chest.  

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained crimson with your blood, he gripped the front of your dress, his eyes blazing. “Who do you belong to?” he demanded again, his tone laced with desperation, as if even your words might not be enough to satisfy him.  

“You. It’s always you, Alastor,” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face, placing a soft, tender kiss on his lips – a striking contrast to the bruising passion he’d unleashed moments before. “The contract says forever, remember?” You tried a slight, playful grin, but his gaze held none of his usual amusement, his eyes fixated on yours with an almost haunted intensity.  

“The contract,” he repeated slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on your dress. “Yes...that’s right.” His hands trembled for a fleeting moment before he forced them behind his back, his posture rigid. “I own your soul,” he said, voice hollow, “your servitude, I suppose.” 

It was as if he were no longer fully present with you, his gaze dark and distant, a hint of revelation in his eyes that seemed to tear him apart even as he chased it. You could see it, how this realization – this twisted revelation – pained him, even though he seemed oblivious to its source.  

You’d been here before, watched him spiral from bursts of passion to bitterness and then back to his lonely solitude. So, as always, you took that first step forward, drawing closer until your arms circled his waist. You smiled up at him, that bright, open smile he so often brushed off with sharp words, though you knew it softened him beneath the mask.  

He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, a breath escaping as he murmured, “My, you're suddenly so clingy.” But you caught the waver in his voice, hiding behind his usual teasing edge.  

“Because it’s you,” you replied simply, hands trailing up his back until they slid into his hair, guiding him down to meet you. “Besides, you haven’t kicked me to the curb yet, Alastor.” You giggled, only for the sound to be cut off as his lips claimed yours.  

His movement slowed, each kiss lingering, his fingers finding the front of your shirt, hesitating there. “I don’t share,” he murmured against your mouth, his claws grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “This chain,” he whispered, tracing it with reverence, “it binds you to me. I own you.” With each word, he deftly unbuttoned your dress, his gaze smouldering as the fabric fell open.  

“I know,” you answered softly, sinking beneath him as he lowered you to the hard floor, his arms and legs caging you in. “I haven’t forgotten,” you murmured, your fingers trailing down the front of his red-pinstriped suit, savouring the rough texture beneath your touch.  

He stiffened, a flash of raw anger crossing his features. “Then why,” he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness, “why let that waste of breath near you? Why laugh, why smile, why seek his company when I was right there?” His words tumbled out, unbidden, raw and unrestrained.  

At that moment, as his heated words filled the space between you, you caught a flicker of shame and horror in his eyes, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal this part of himself. But before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring him to you.  

“No one touches me like you do,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, until you kissed him fully. And I don’t think anyone else can make me smile until my cheeks hurt.” You laughed softly, fingers combing through his hair, each touch soft and grounding.  

His response was immediate, his lips pressed against yours, his hips grinding against you with desperate fervour. His soft groans mixed with your sighs, and he gently took your wrists, guiding your hands back to the front of his pants. His lips never left yours, his hands tracing a slow, searing path as you undid his pants, feeling the heated weight of him pressing against your stomach as you freed him.  

“Darling,” he hissed as our fingers wrapped around him, stroking from his tip down the length of his hardened cock, slow and tantalizing. The fire in his eyes darkened, his pupils widening to pools of obsidian as he shuddered beneath your touch. “How should I make you remember,” he murmured, voice a low growl, “that you belong to me always?” 

His lips traced down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt to your waist with a deliberate slowness that made you ache. “Perhaps,” he breathed, his fingers pressing against the damp cloth covering you, feeling your desire seeping through, “I’ll make your body remember.”  

Without hesitation, he tore your underwear away, his fingers grazing the slick curve of your inner thighs, drawing a gasp from you as his touch lingered there. “Enough times,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, “That you never forget who I am to you.” 

Two fingers slipped inside, filling you in one firm stroke. The sensation sent a sharp tremor through you, and your breath hitched as your walls clenched around him. “Alastor...” His name fell from your lips in a shiver, and his eyes darkened at the sound, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  

“Shh, darling,” he cooed, his voice a velvet command. His fingers moved slowly, plunging into you with an unhurried intensity, dragging your slice over every sensitive spot before plunging them back in. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he pumped his fingers, his own arousal pressing hot and hard against your thigh. “Tonight, I’ll make certain you’ll never consider anyone else.” 

Pleasure flooded through you, erasing everything except the feel of him, each pump of his fingers building heat within you. You wanted to tell him he was always in your mind, to confess that you’d never once thought of leaving his side. But words tangled and dissolved into moans, as if even trying to say them would break the spell.  

Things like, I like you.

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

A gasp tore from you as his mouth latched onto your breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak as he hummed in satisfaction, the wet sound of his fingers moving within you intensifying with each movement. You arched against him, hips moving of their own accord, desperate for more, clinging to every sensation.  

And just as you teetered on the edge, his fingers slipped free, leaving you throbbing, gasping from the loss of him. He rose above you, his cock fully erect, tip glistening. He lifted his fingers, coated in your desire, to his face, watching with fascination as he pressed them together. A glistening thread stretching between them before he spread too far apart, breaking it with a hungry grin.  

Then, without looking away, he brought them to his lips, sucking each finger clean with slow, deliberate motions, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you.  

“Who do you belong to, darling?” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you. His hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, pressing his hips forward, his cock nudging against your slick entrance, sending a shiver of pure heat coursing through you.  

Your breath caught as he began to push in, the head of him stretching you with a slow, delicious pressure. Instinctively, you tried to shift your hips, to take him deeper, but his grip tightened, keeping you firmly in place. “Say it,” he whispered, his voice edged with a fierce tenderness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding.  

“You,” you whimpered, voice trembling, and Alastor rewarded you by sliding himself just a bit deeper, the stretch trying to accommodate him making you gasp.  

“That’s right,” he crooned, his grin sharp, eyes narrowed to slivers of wicked delight. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hot against your ear, the words like fire igniting every nerve, “tell me how much you want me. Go on.” 

When you hesitated, struggling for breath, he drew his hips back, leaving you painfully empty. Every nerve in your body was alight, humming, craving more. Embarrassment coloured your cheeks, but the heat, the need, drove the words from you. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and fragile, “please Alastor, I-I want you.” Your eyes closed, the vulnerability tightening in your chest, sending waves of desire flooding your veins.  

The moment the words escaped your lips, Alastor surged forward, filling you to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, a shuddering groan escaping him. His length throbbed inside, stretching and filling you perfectly, leaving you breathless as he began a steady rhythm, each thrust pulling a whimper from your lips.  

“That’s right,” he rasped, finally finding his pace as he withdrew and slammed back into you, your breasts bouncing with every relentless stroke. “Say you want me,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking, with the intensity of his need.  

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, firm and unyielding, while the other squeezed your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure through you. His hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the wet, smacking sound of skin on skin mingling with the sharp cries and moans filling the air. Each one tore through you as you clung to him, helpless against the power of his thrusts.  

“I want you,” you cried, voice trembling, head tilted back, your body limp and yielding beneath his strength. Every nerve was alive with a searing stretch, his cock grinding into your most sensitive spot as he drove deeper, forcing pleasure to crest higher and higher. His name fell from your lips in broken cries, each syllable dripping with the intensity of your desire.  

With a raw groan, Alastor shifted, grasping your hips firmly as he rose onto his knees, lifting you with him. Your body arched upward, shoulders and head the only parts still anchored to the floor as he drove into you harder, faster, every thrust meeting no resistance. He slammed his hips against yours, the force of it stealing your breath, pushing you to the brink, an overwhelming spike of pleasure building with every powerful relentless motion.  

Your lips parted, gasping, as his grunts filled your ears, his low, primal sounds mixing with the wet, sinful noises of your bodies colliding. The world around you faded to nothing but the feeling of him, the ecstasy of his touch, and the unstoppable climb toward a blinding, shattering release.  

His eyes locked on the place where your bodies joined, a hunger darkening his gaze as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot, dragging every pulse of pleasure from deep within you. Your stomach tightened, thighs shaking, and as he drove in again, the pressure burst.  

You came with a shattering cry, your fingers scraping at the wooden floor, desperate for anything to hold as your walls clenched around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

He pulled out suddenly, letting your body drop as he rose to his knees, his cock slick and throbbing against your parted lips. His hand wrapped around his length, pumping himself with frenzied strokes as he looked down, his gaze fierce and covetous.  

“I should mark you,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his cock grazing your lips as he leaned forward. “Make sure my colour stains that smile.” His grin was wild as his hand moved faster, his muscles tense, his breaths shallow and ragged.  

You lifted your head, mouth open to take him in, your lips wrapping around the tip as your tongue swirled, savouring the mingling taste of him and your own desire. A moan tore from him, and he let his head drop back, his hands cradling the sides of your head, guiding himself deeper as his hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. His length stretched your lips as he pressed to the back of your throat, the guttural sound of his groans and the slick noises filling the air.  

Your own moans vibrated around him, spurring him on. His hips moved faster, his hands clinging tighter as his moans grew sharper, each thrust sending him closer. With one last hard thrust, he shuddered, and the first hot pulse of his release spilled down your throat. He withdrew, letting the rest spill over your lips, dripping down your chin in thick streams as he marked you. His eyes locked on your face, a wild satisfaction softening his gaze as he watched.  

The warmth of his release lingered on your skin, drying as your breaths filled the space between you. Your tongue darted out, tasting the lingering saltiness on your lips, and he groaned, his cock twitching in his hand as he watched, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.  

As if coming back to himself, he gently cupped your face, wiping his release from your skin with his sleeve, his expression caught between wonder and something deeper. His touch was unexpectedly soft, eyes holding a vulnerability he rarely let surface, the unspoken question hanging between you as his gaze searched yours.  

“We could be more,” you whispered, heart pounding as his fingers tilled on your skin, “if you want, Alastor.” 

His movements halted, his gaze slowly focusing on yours, a flicker of confusion slipping beneath his usual veneer of confidence. “I already own your soul,” he murmured, his voice edged with something darker, guarded. “There is nothing more you could give me.” His words were resolute, as if trying to cling onto their simplicity, yet the way his brows furrowed, and his head tilted betrayed a hesitation – a lack of understanding for the weight of what you meant.  

For all his power, Alastor had taken your heart without ever offering his own in return. The notion of “more” was something he danced around, something he coveted without daring to hold. He wanted you fiercely, hungrily even, but in ways he could still control – never in ways that would strip him bare and vulnerable.  

You placed a gentle hand on his thigh, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. With a soft sigh, you felt the truth of it settle heavy between you; until he could meet you on level ground, until he was ready to open himself as wholly as he demanded of you, this fragile back-and-forth was all you’d have. This quiet ache, this unspoken ache, would remain hidden, cloaked in omissions and denials.  

It wasn’t entirely his fault, either, this painful standoff. After all, there were things you held back too – things that lingered on the edge of every kiss, every touch, words that clung desperately to the walls of your heart, refusing to release themselves. The word that waited to change everything.  

Things like, I like you. 

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

I love you.  

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[edges-of-night]

I’m so happy you’re back I adore your writing! I wanted to request one where the reader comforts the lotr characters after they have a nightmare💕

Thanks love

This is a sweet request, anon! It turned out a bit angsty, at least in parts... I hope you’ll enjoy the read ♡

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Aragorn frequently dreams of Narsil, Isildur, and the shadows of his ancestors. Those nightmares leave him distraught and at first even disoriented. It takes you a while to get through to him with soft Elven whispers and gentle hands to steady him. When you do, he does calm and holds onto your hand tight and keeps mumbling weakly, “Meleth nín…”

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･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Nightmares are worse for Elves than Men, due to their gift of foresight which amplifies the bad things they see in their dreams. The dark future Arwen sees at night haunts her during the daylight, too, but you are there to hold her hands and offer a shoulder to cry on. While she won’t lose hope easily, the shock in Arwen’s heart is deep every time.

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･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir won’t tell you about his nightmares until he would start crying one morning, seemingly out of the blue. You are there to comfort him with a gentle hand on his back and all the silence he needs to collect himself, before finally opening up about his fears and the nightmares they conjured. “At least I have the certainty you would not think less of me, knowing what you know now…”

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･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

You wake by Elrond’s side when his nightmare punches him out of sleep. For long, terrible moments, he was back amidst the fires of Mount Doom, desperate lungs filled with poison smoke and disbelieving eyes on Isildur’s back. Now you can provide him with air and water to bring him back to the cool calm of Rivendell.

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･ﾟ✧ Éomer.

It has taken you far too long to wake poor Éomer from his nightmare. His feverish, sweaty, desperate face would have broken your heart had it lasted any longer. But war leaves its invisible wounds, and Éomer wasn’t spared. He holds onto you for dear life as if he was only half-way back to reality, but you tell him everything would be all right.

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･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.

Upon waking her from her nightmare, Éowyn draws her sword at you, staring you down with a fury you have never seen in her usually so kind eyes before. You back away slowly, speaking softly to bring her back to reality and away from whatever has been haunting her. When she recognises you, Éowyn bursts into tears, hiding her face. “Oh, forgive me! Forgive me, love…!”

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･ﾟ✧ Faramir.

Childhood trauma has often kept Faramir awake, but creeping its way into his dreams was even worse. When he wakes, he needs only seconds to reorientate himself, but would then cover his mouth to not wake you with his sobs. You, of course, are not bothered but concerned by what you hear and offer Faramir to spend the night awake with him until he would fall asleep in your arms as you watch the sunrise.

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･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

Frodo tosses and turns in his sleep with big sighs and sobs which eventually wake you up. You know that Frodo isn’t an easy sleeper, but his nightmare phases still shock you anew every time. You gently wake him up to tell him everything was fine, and at first Frodo genuinely seems relieved. However, you know that the following hours won’t be easy for him, so you keep supporting him with kind words and his favourite tea, taking it easy all day.

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･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

Nightmares are so rare for Galadriel that she has no way of dealing with them. They bring tempests not only to her heart but Lórien, too. You stay with her throughout and guide her back to the light in the days afterwards. She is weak but leans on you for incorrigible support. Thanks to your care, closeness, and words of affirmation, the Lady of Light can return to her normal life.

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･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf’s nightmare has summoned thunder and lightning, keeping you from sleeping. When you try to deliver him from whatever evils keep chasing him, a magical fire flames up. When you try to touch Gandalf’s shoulder again, it diminishes, and you manage to wake him up. The storm is gone almost in an instant, and Gandalf’s face is as soft and friendly as ever. He won’t talk about his nightmare right away.

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･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

One night, you would hear quiet sobs next to you and realise Gimli was crying in his sleep. He would not wake up easy when you pat his shoulder or caress his arm, but eventually his eyes would open and he’d meet yours with a sad and tired gaze. Perhaps he would like to talk to you about his nightmares of Moria’s fall at a later point, but for now, he is content with you letting him cry without judgement, stroking and kissing his hair gently.

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･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Out of fear of giving others leverage against him, Haldir won’t tell anyone of his horrible nightmares. Since your sleep has always been light though, you notice very soon that something is wrong with dear Haldir. While he would deny your offers of comfort rather coldly at first, he eventually asks you to simply listen to his sorrows so that they no longer weigh down his heart. You know how bad the sentiment is for Elves, so you thank him genuinely for sharing it with you.

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

As with all Elves, nightmares are poison to Legolas due to his Elven abilities. Darkness and terror spread in his heart, and it will take him weeks to recover. You are always there to hug and kiss him – physical touch is what comforts poor Legolas the most in these times. He is as restless as ever, but you remind him that he is safe with you. “Indeed, there no fortress in this world where I would be more secure than in your arms, my love.”

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･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Merry always tries rationalising his nightmares, to the point where he won’t allow himself to be vulnerable and let his fear sink in. That is where you can help your poor Hobbit the most: by reminding him that you will always be there for him, no matter if it’s the middle of the night and some random “nonsense darkening his mind”. You sit down with him by a fire and talk about it all.

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･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

After nightmares, Pippin is often still scared for a longer time. After helping him calm down, you make sure to light as many candles and lamps as possible. Food is also a good comfort for Pippin, which has led you to make strawberry sandwiches at three in the morning twice already. To ground himself further, Pippin would also sometimes sing to you quietly.

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･ﾟ✧ Sam.

Sam’s nightmares are intense but thankfully leave as quickly as they come. He usually sleeps well whenever he is with you, and you comforting him after a traumatic dream reminds him why: You take him seriously, sometimes more than he himself does, and don’t ridicule the encounters of his nightmares. Cuddles and a bit of talking usually do the trick, and the two of you fall asleep again soon ♡