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Yen`s black kestrel

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circles, thinking about summer

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forever grateful i was simply too lazy to let the makeup industrial complex get its hooks in me. I was just like im not doing all of that. in fact. im doing none of that

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This intense portrait of Gwyn was by artist tasbaqaart and commissioned by @miseryreads

We love the emotion and intensity in this artwork

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Lost In Thought, Santa Monica Beach, 1962. Edward Weston. Giclee print on paper.

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Gwynriel Fic | Post Canon |Slowish Burn

Words: 4k+ (Gwyn's POV)

Chapter: 8 of 10

Rating: Explicit

Platform: Ao3

Story Summary: Gwyn discovers a hot spring carved into the mountains high above the training ring at The House of Wind...

After the Blood Rite she spends every night for almost a week soaking in the healing pool, when one night Azriel and his shadows crash her solitude...

But, he is more than welcome company, and his presence soon becomes a routine...

START FROM THE BEGINNING HERE

Read a snippet of chapter 8 under the cut

Azriel was right. He had caught her trying to flee that morning.

When she awoke from the best sleep, possibly ever, draped over his body like she belonged to him, she panicked. Again.

He looked like some kind of beautiful sleeping god, lying there all unbothered and contented. She watched his relaxed features, took in the calm rise and fall of his chest as he slept. And panicked.

Because what if?

What if she misread the signs?

Mating bonds could be fickle pairings. Though rare and coveted, they were not perfect. Mystery shrouded The Bond, and most of the documentation she could find on the subject were religious texts written by biased and often fanatical priestesses or speculative tales scrawled by High Lords and their delegates. Often, if not always, the male would realize the bond first, and as one could imagine, some males took what was meant to be a gift, whether the female agreed or accepted the male or not. And if history taught Gwyn anything about this unique, tumultuous gift, it was that a rejected party would descend into madness quickly.

But there was very little documentation from the female perspective.

So what if she was wrong?

How could he sleep next to her and touch her as he had without feeling the clawing she felt? How could he not hear her? How could he not feel her? How could he just ignore what she was sure of?

What if his shadows were wrong?

What if they sang of her feelings and not of facts? What if it was nothing more than infatuation? What if it was all just lust?

What if she was wrong about everything?

As morning crept into the darkness, so did her fear and her doubt, and the only logical thing she could think to do was run away, to hopefully preserve her sanity and her heart. And when Gwyn was caught trying to sneak out, she was sure Azriel would be upset.

But he wasn't.

If anything, the sweetness he showered her with calmed her nerves and her racing thoughts. He soothed her worry with a simple touch, with the press of his lips, and she was sure all the more that a life without him would drive her insane.

There had to be something there, something larger than themselves. There had to be. Because if there wasn't, she knew that madness would be nothing but a breath away from taking her under.

And as they moved together, as their bodies, lips, and tongues melded, she gladly lost herself within this lazy morning pleasure. She took the pleasure offered greedily because, if this was all they were, she would need these memories just to continue on without him. She felt like a coward, unsure how to broach the subject, didn't know how to put herself out there or how to put her feelings into words, and didn't know how to open up to be vulnerable like that.

"You should probably get dressed." He muttered half-heartedly against her throat, as he trailed kisses across her skin, and Gwyn let out a whiny sort of moan. "Or you will definitely be late."

The thought of leaving him, though, felt like ripping roots from dirt, like walking against a current, or like sinking into quicksand. Still, she was expected at their morning priestess service, and she had never been late before. But the notion of leaving him now, after watching him unravel below her, after the feeling of him wrapped around her, she couldn't bear it. So she devised a way to keep him closer a bit longer by inviting him to their morning service. Even if she wasn't at his side, she would know that he was there, and that might be enough to satiate her anxiety.

Read More Here!

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Marilyn Monroe photographed by Don Ornitz, June, 1951.

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my fave writing reminder

honestly, this phrase has been on my mind more times than i can count. i've kidnapped it, taken it as a hostage with no ransom money because i need it to live permanently in my head.

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Where's my Breakfast?

Oil on Panel 30x30 cm

Artist: Daniel Arthur

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Enter the void

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In a Rare Daytime Appearance, Flying Foxes Keep Cool in an Indian River

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Polished Moss Agate from Trenggalek, Java, Indonesia.

[Photo ©️ @Nusantara_lapidary]

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Art by Lavera Grace

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Under the Lemon Trees (1884) by Claude Monet