Snippet - Blog Posts

Theon examined the bottom of Smiler’s hoof with a practiced eye. The frog looked well-formed still, his flare of thrush seeming to have receded fully after the regular treatments.

Smiler shifted against his shoulder, strong muscles quivering beneath smooth, sleek hair.

“Easy,” Theon soothed, reaching to run a hand across the underside of his horse’s stomach in hopes of comforting him. “Almost done.”

Before he could even reach for his hoof pick, a harsh, stinging smack to his right ass cheek nearly had him sprawled face-first into the dung-covered dirt.

He dropped Smiler’s foot abruptly in a way he never normally would, but the force of the slap, even through his riding breeches, had him staggering forward with a yelp.

With his left hand braced on his horse’s flank, he quickly regained his balance. He stood motionless for a moment, and resolved that whoever had the nerve to do that, had approximately three seconds to come up with a fantastic reason, before his fist met their face.

“Need some help?” A voice all but purred from close behind him.

Wait… he knew that voice.

Shit fucker.

He turned around and sure enough; Ramsay Bolton. Clad in his blue jeans, rough leather chaps and light pink button up shirt. Half the buttons were left open showcasing thick dark hair painted across his broad chest. Long, black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. A signature teasing smirk curling half of his thick lips.

Theon fought to stifle his groan. He’d gotten his hopes up that Ramsay wouldn’t be at this rodeo- he hadn’t seen his name on any of the sign-in sheets.

“What are you doing here?”

Ramsay raised his brows, his expression sardonic. “Well, you may be aware that this is a competition, and I happen to be a top competitor in it.”

“I mean harassing me in my horse’s stall, obviously,” Theon snapped, irritation thick in his tone.

The larger man put on an exaggerated, faux-wounded expression. “‘Harassing’? I only came to wish you luck.”

“Well, you did, so goodbye.” Theon made a point to turn his back, pick up a curry comb and start brushing the dirt off of Smiler’s back. It was pointless; he took immaculate care of him and nary a speck of dust could be brought up. He just needed something to occupy himself with and make it look like he was busy.

He jumped and dropped the comb when a large hand cupped his ass, spanning almost all the way across the entirety of it. Fingers dug into his flesh, kneading and bringing a throbbing warmth to the sore, abused cheek.

Theon shied away, pulling free of the grip and turning a glare on Ramsay. “Don’t touch me.”

The other man cocked his head, an amused, if slightly incredulous look on his face. “We’ve fucked, and you have a problem with me touching your ass?”

“First of all,” Theon said, drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, “we fucked once, and it was only because I was drunk and you took advantage.” He walked over to his black English saddle with gold accents, hefting it easily. “It hurt to take a shit for a week, in case you were wondering.” Ignoring the other man’s snicker at that, he tossed the saddle onto Smiler’s back and began fastening the girth and breast collar. “Second,” he purposely kept his back to Ramsay, “you didn’t just ‘touch’, you hit me.”

“It was a love-tap.”

“It. Hurt,” Theon grit out.

“Aw, want me to kiss it better?” He sounded far too eager for that; Theon could picture his eyes lighting up.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss,” Ramsay hummed.

Anemoia (How Long Will You Reach For The Ghosts Of Distant Stars?)

They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.

This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.

But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.

They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.

Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.

They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.

Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.

But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.

Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.

@n0tamused

Spider Web Lies Of A Thousand Mirror Eyes

Winding corridors of dust covered shelves, missing the little hatchling who wandered the halls. Wispy smoke reaches out, a frail finger tipping a half finished book into waiting hands. The ink has long dried, but the memories have not, so they take up a brush. Swirling the fine bristles into the ink, staining the pages with shadow and tar. Another name, another chapter, one more world to add to the archives. They set the brush down, dabbing away the ink with a damp cloth as they gather stardust into their arms, weaving it into the image of a spider's web. Engraving it into the leather covers with sunglow pins, the name shimmers in the faint light of the lanterns. A moment of hesitation before they turn, the doors silently closing behind them. Distant, ephemeral stories await their arrival, and a vast archive trapped in time can always wait just a little bit longer.

Blinded Visions (Won't You Open Your Eyes For Me, Beloved?)

The glimmer of sunlight flitting across the waters, crystalline reflections that fall into mist. His arms wrap around you, steady and firm as he feeds you piece by piece. The day is oddly quiet, but the change is welcome. It isn't every day your lover joins you for a simple walk. Though admittedly, you have derailed from your plans to visit the garden, but surely it can survive a day without your guidance. Overlooking the seas and sampling pastries from your favorite bakery with the most important person of your life is more than worth missing out on a few hours of fauna watching. It makes you almost wish these days would never end, just so you would never have to see him break from the countless cases he oversees. A judge in name, an executioner in form. It's all you can do to wipe his tears and embrace him close on rainy days. You would bring the world down to its knees for him, and he would do the same for you, but he does not want it for himself. It is a shame, you think, that he does not know the full weight of his worth. But it's alright, you have the rest of your life to convince him of your love.

Memories Of A Life Never Lived (Why Am I Worth Your Love?)

Starshine glimmer in dark oceans, the flicker of familiarity that truly made no sense yet still persistently existed. He does not linger on the memories he knows are not his, and yet they surface in his mind time and time again. He tips his head, bowing his head in submission as he is pressed onto satin sheets. He does not understand the ramifications of his remembrance, but he falls back into its embrace, willingly drinking from the truth that only he knows. He moans your name, gratitude lacing his every word and love flowing in his veins. Breathless whines and keening whimpers at the feeling of butterfly kisses across his skin, his eyes glazing in ecstasy. His mind falls, pleading and sobbing into quicksand, drowning in the memories that are not his, and yet they are all the same.

Each person he sees, he knows, is him, and yet he can not fathom how. For each iteration of his being has you by his side, steadfast and ever loving. His mind and his body wars with the other, pleasure overtaking the confusion blooming in his mind. His breath stutters, catching in his throat as he lets out a quiet but heaving sob. Tears glimmer in his eyes, beading on his eyelashes like the first of morning's dew. And for a moment, his world whites out, silence echoing in his ears like the death knell that he remembers hearing but never experiencing. When he comes to, he waits for a moment to catch his breath, and he smiles up at you. Wistful and longing and far too knowing.

The one who survives in the face of time and the tides of the seasons, and the one who lives and dies and lives again, to be mortal and not. They are doomed to fail, but that is the price of a live that was never meant to be. For eternity, they are sworn, but it is a tale of heartbreak and an ache soul deep.

miles from home — snippet

“Holy shit” The water graces your hands, each stroke through it bringing about bluish light that reflects on your face.

Jungkook watches you from afar, hands in the pockets of his shorts hanging loosely around his torso.

“This is so much better than having a house full of lights.” You nod at the passerby, maybe a couple of tourists exploring the sea at night, catching Jungkook’s eyes in the process.

“Doesn’t mean you should leave it open and go walk your dog.” He moves towards you, just enough for the waves to pass through his feet, catching each brush of your fingers against the water.

“You’re just so impossible to talk to.” 

“You hungry?” Your head tilts in confusion at the sudden question.

“Matty, stay.” He warns the excited golden retriever almost disappearing under the sand, rolling around at the mention of food.

“Bet you haven’t had authentic hwae yet, I know a place.” He says in between wrestling Matilda and trying to convince you for an impulsive market trip at almost 12 am.

Yoongi would take at least an hour to fix the electricity up, and you’ll have Matty under control with Jungkook around.

And free food? Count you fucking in.