TOP 5 WIPS THAT YOU’RE CURRENTLY WORKING ON ❤️
MARRRRRR did u know that i adore u?
i. our hands are cold, the moon sets low ◆ asoiaf ◆ jon/sansa
The heat of the fire is harsh against her skin. She grits her teeth as it roars over her, forcing herself to bear the pain in silence. The cold always burns as it recedes; soon it will subside to stinging warmth. If only the same could be said of her trust. If only the same could be said of her heart. Beside her, Jon shows no signs of discomfort. No emotion at all: whatever shred of tenderness bade him hold her in the godswood has all but vanished. Gone like the summer, gone like her songs. His face might well be carved from stone, as still and stern as the Kings of Winter in the darkness of their crypts. The thought lodges in her chest like a knife.
ii. the chimneys hardly ever fall down ◆ mota ◆ john/gale/marge
It hits him like wind shear: the bone-deep fear when Bucky said he was going up with the 389th, the helplessness of watching him withdraw into himself as the war dragged on. Freefall, wind tearing at his eyes and stealing away his breath, and all he could think was Bucky’s safe in London. Horror clawing at his throat when Crank turned up asking after John, and then the dizzy, crushing relief of seeing him limp through the gates, so powerful it nearly drove Gale to his knees. Bloodied and exhausted, Bucky looked like he’d just staggered out of hell itself, but he was alive. That was all that mattered. Alive, and he stayed that way until Gale left him behind. He crashed down on the other side of the wall with John’s voice still ringing in his ears, sick with the thought that he might never hear it again. Go, Buck! Get out of here! It haunted him all the way to Allied territory, gnawed at him when he finally made it back to base. Surrounded by men he didn’t know, Bucky’s absence was almost unbearable; a gaping hole in his chest, a wound no one else could see. And then like a fucking miracle, there he was, voice crackling over the radio as Gale white-knuckled the yoke and stared at the instrument panel in disbelief. Bucky, alive. Green fields with their guns all silent, war all but over. Nothing but blue skies.
iii. nature offers a violence ◆ hotd ◆ rhaena/aemond
“You seek to unman me.” She laughs. “I unmanned you when I was twelve.” “It wasn’t you who took my eye, princess,” he sneers. “No,” she says simply, because that victory belongs to Lucerys. “I took your dragon.”
iv. the black queen ◆ hotd ◆ daemon/rhaenyra
The sun is setting in bloody splendor, staining the water and the stone bridge and the scrap of paper she holds in her hand. She meets Otto's stare, back straight, head high despite the pounding ache between her legs and the terrible emptiness in her chest. The godswood dreams of her childhood are far away; small things, almost tawdry in their innocence. That Alicent thought to use them against her in such a manner— It does not matter. "Tell your grasping, traitorous daughter that I remember well Nymeria and her ten thousand ships, fleeing the might of Old Valyria. Remind her, if you will, that the blood of that same empire flows through my veins." She pauses, staring at Otto with dragonfire in her heart. Behind her, Syrax shifts, jaws open in a silent snarl. No flames bloom in her throat; Otto flinches all the same. "She will not meet half so kind a fate as the Rhoynish queen if she continues down this path."
v. the knife i turn inside myself ◆ dune ◆ irulan/feyd-rautha
Feyd-Rautha does not languish in his cell like a man defeated; rather, he has the air of a predator denied a kill. She does not allow herself to shiver. Instead, she reaches out with her limited mind-speech. If I let you out of this cell, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, would you take up my father’s cause once more? His gaze on her feels like a knife at her throat. He is prone and bleeding, locked away and destined to die as soon as Paul takes the throne and incites his holy war, and yet he is the most dangerous thing in this fortress. Terror surges in her veins, and he smiles as if he can sense it. Your father’s cause, or your own?
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