Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel And Four Essays

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals

“I found you”

1.01 | 8.06

Sleeping At Last

For a man of slight stature, he takes up so much space in her bed. And his feet are like blocks of ice. He will rub them against her leg just to make her shriek and squirm away, because even as she pouts at him, inwardly, she's smiling, and she can't hold it back for long. And these antics inevitably lead to far more intimate pursuits.

She's been sleeping with him for a fortnight. She has never felt so loved. And not just that, but respected and revered. They have so much in common. Had fate not brought them here, they would never have realized. In the end, all they've ever wanted is home. She thinks, or hopes at least, that they have found it in each other.

She wants to please him; not to survive, as she had done with her husband, but because she has opened for him a world of possibilities he probably never considered with his repressed Northern upbringing. Whatever she's suggested, he's been game. And he is insatiable.

But she thinks her favorite moments are these, after they've coupled, their heartbeats slowing, their bodies naked and perspiring, their limbs entwined. He doesn't talk after fucking. He just holds her. Sometimes they fall asleep. Sometimes, it's just a quick respite, then they have each other again. He's good at it. Her other lovers were more experienced, but he actually cares about her pleasure. She could do little else for the rest of her life, but this, lying in his arms, trying to imagine where they are on the map, and what would happen if the ship changed course, and carried them off to the ends of the world. She honestly wouldn't mind.

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He's never been an easy sleeper, but he is with her. The mattress is too soft. The blankets are too hot. Sometimes she kicks him in her sleep. Sometimes she talks while she dreams. He'll take it all.

He never thought he'd share a bed with anyone. He's slept beside a woman before, on hard, wet ground under furs, shivering and praying to his gods that he wouldn't freeze to death. Even then, he didn't forget what his purpose was, nor his place in the world.

With her, it's easy to forget. Maybe that's dangerous. But he doesn't care. He loves her. It's not infatuation or lust. It's beyond anything he ever imagined. And the more unbelievable thing is that she loves him back. She hasn't said so in words, but her body says plenty.

Her bed is his fortress of sheets and blankets and cushions. He is at peace there, because the troubles of the outside world can't reach him. There is no one else, only them.

He loves to lay with her. He usually wakes before she does. She's so lovely in her sleep, her mussed hair fanned over pillows and his chest, her long lashes kissing her cheeks, her pliant body curled into his. It makes him feel protective, but also safe himself. And it makes him wish they could stay that way forever, that this ship will sail the sea for the rest of their days, and if the sea reaches an end, then perhaps they could sail amongst the stars, and someone else can save the world for once.

He never wants to leave.

Tormund: Who is your favorite person?

Jon: Dany.

Tormund: Okay, who do you trust most?

Jon: Dany.

Tormund: Well, what's your favorite thing to do?!

Jon: ...Dany.

Tormund: What about your favorite thing to eat. It can't be Daenerys!

Jon: And yet.

🌹

Hello! I’m available to draw your OTP in exchange for some kofi 💕 just message!

Jon: *picks up a piece of paper* What’s this?

Daenerys: My to-do list.

Jon: it just has my name on it…

Daenerys: And?

Your reign is over. My reign has just begun.