Hello🍀

Welcome to my small dragon cave; so nice of you to stop by. Make yourself at home; plenty of comfy space available. Coffee will be served shortly. ☕🥰 Or tea, if you're so inclined. I also have Kombucha. Water is always an option, however alcoholic beverages will never be available. Sorry, not sorry.

💜 Name: Robyn || Coffeedragon 💜 Pronouns: they/them 💜 In a nutshell: Demi. Queer. Non-binary. Poly. Quirky dragon 🐉. A butterfly 🦋 flitting between ideas💡. 💜 Feel free to ask me stuff. 💜 I only post on AO3 or on Tumblr, though pretty much everything I post on here eventually ends up on AO3. If you see my works elsewhere, in their original form or translated, I didn't post put them there and whoever did so did it without my permission. 💜 I frequently write smut and kink fiction. 💜 You can find all of my published works on AO3 [link here]. 💜 Kinktomato, SALS, DLDR. 💜 Minors, you know the drill, DNI. 💜 I do not allow translations and/or podfics of my stories. Do not repost my stories to other platforms. 💜 (some of) my fave pairings: Haryy Potter: Draco/Harry, Teddy/James, Scorpius/Al, Draco/Ron/Harry, Harry/Teddy, Draco/Teddy, Harry/Teddy/Draco, Sirius/Draco, Harry/Charlie, Draco/Charlie, Harry/Draco/Charlie, Draco/Al Potter, Harry/Scorpius Captive Prince: Laurent/Damen, Ancel/Berenger, Nikandros/Jord, Lazar/Pallas

Lament

Fandom: Black Sails

Pairing: James/Thomas

Notes: Earning, Lost Love, Drunken Dreams

Reunited

The stench of rotting seaweed and tar clung to the docks, but beneath it lingered the faintest trace of orange blossom, carried inland from some merchant’s garden. James’s fingers dug into the splintered wood of a barrel beside him. Ten years. Ten years of swallowing hope like a bitter tonic, of waking to the phantom press of a hand that wasn’t there.

Longboats slid through the ink-black water, oars muffled by rags. His pulse roared in his ears, louder than the surf. Shadows coalesced into men as they clambered onto the jetty—barefoot prisoners, their footfalls uneven on the warped planks. Then, a figure emerged, taller than the rest, posture rigid as a mainmast. Moonlight caught the angle of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders.

*Thomas.*

James’s throat closed. Sand shifted beneath his boots as he stepped forward, the wind carrying the salt-crust of Thomas’s coat, the old leather and bergamot soap that had haunted a hundred sleepless nights.

Thomas turned. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow—new, livid—gleamed silver. His eyes widened, sea-grey and achingly familiar.

“Thomas.” James’s voice frayed on the syllables, raw as rope-burn.

The name hung between them. Thomas’s lips parted, his exhale visible in the cool air. When he spoke, the cadence was unchanged—the rolling consonants of privilege tempered by years God knew where.

“James.”

Their hands met. Calluses rasped against James’s palm—Thomas’s hands, once ink-stained and soft, now roughened by labour. He gripped tighter, anchoring himself in the heat of Thomas’s skin, the pulse fluttering beneath his wrist.

“You’re here.” The words tore free, jagged. “They said you were dead. I saw the—”

“Letters forged. A cell instead of a noose.” Thomas’s thumb swept across James’s knuckles, a gesture preserved in memory. “I would’ve written, if I’d found paper that couldn’t be used as kindling.”

James’s fingers found Thomas’s face—the ridge of his cheekbone, the stubble grazing his palm. Real. Alive. The scent of him, sweat and iron and faintly of lemongrass, unspooled the last frayed thread of James’s restraint. He kissed him, salt and desperation, the taste of Thomas’s mouth as it had been that final morning in London—before the hammer of judges’ gavels, before the stink of prison hulks.

Thomas clutched the back of James’s neck, fingers tangling in hair long since stripped of its powder. The kiss deepened, a language of teeth and shared breath that needed no translation. When they broke apart, James pressed their foreheads together, inhaling the truth of him.

“Come.” He hauled Thomas toward the cobbled lane, boots slipping on moss-slick stones.

Thomas laughed, the sound bright against the harbour’s dirge. “Must we run? I’ve only just disembarked.”

“Yes.” James didn’t slow. The tavern’s lanterns glowed ahead, their light pooling on the street like spilled ale. Every shadow threatened to swallow Thomas whole.

The door to his rented room stuck, swollen with humidity. James shouldered it open, the reek of mildew and tallow candles enveloping them. He barred the latch, hands trembling.

Thomas stood motionless, moonlight etching his silhouette through the grimy window. “James—”

He crossed the room in three strides. Their second kiss was slower, deliberate. James worked free the buttons of Thomas’s waistcoat, linen sticking to his palms. The scent of his skin—sunbaked wool and the metallic tang of long confinement—flooded James’s senses.

“I dreamed your voice,” James muttered against his collarbone. “Every storm I weathered, every port. It kept me—”

Thomas’s hands stilled on his belt. “Alive?”

“Angry.”

A huff of laughter warmed James’s temple. Thomas’s fingers traced the scar along his ribs, a relic of Maroon arrows and older wars. “You wear it well.”

The bedframe protested as they sank onto the mattress, straw stuffing prickling through thin sheets. James mapped the new geography of Thomas’s body—the knotted muscle along his shoulders, the ridge of a half-healed burn on his thigh. Proof.

Thomas arched into his touch, breath hitching. “Still commandeering, I see.”

“You’d have me gentle?” James nipped his earlobe. “After a decade?”

“Never.”

Outside, the tide retreated, dragging pebbles across the shore. James memorised the rhythm of Thomas’s breaths, the hitch as their hips aligned. When dawn crept over the horizon, staining the floorboards amber, he still hadn’t closed his eyes.

Apple-Crisp Days

The orchard was dappled in soft sunlight, the golden rays filtering through the canopy of leaves to scatter the ground with patterns of light and shadow. The air was ripe with the scent of apples—sweet, crisp, and faintly tangy—mingled with the earthy undertones of fallen leaves and damp soil. Damen felt the tranquillity of the place settle over him like a warm cloak, soothing in its simplicity.

He followed Laurent along the narrow path between the rows of trees, his gaze drifting to the pale golden apples clustered above them, some weighing down the branches so heavily they nearly brushed the ground. Laurent moved ahead with his usual quiet grace, his hand brushing against the bark of one of the trees as he paused to examine a particularly glossy apple.

“This one,” Laurent said, plucking the fruit with deliberate precision, “looks entirely unworthy of all the effort they’ve put into this orchard.”

Damen chuckled, stepping closer to inspect the apple Laurent held. It was almost perfect, its skin smooth and its colour a warm blend of green and gold. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, amused.

Laurent gave him a long-suffering look, as though Damen’s failure to grasp the apple’s obvious faults was a personal affront. “It’s too symmetrical,” Laurent said, his tone dry. “It lacks character.”

“Character,” Damen repeated, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re criticising the aesthetic integrity of an apple?”

“Not criticising,” Laurent corrected, his expression calm. “Observing.”

Damen reached for the apple, plucking it from Laurent’s hand before he could protest. “Let’s see if it tastes as dull as you think,” he said, taking a decisive bite.

The crunch was loud in the quiet of the orchard, and the burst of tart-sweet flavour filled Damen’s mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, watching as Laurent crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Well?” Laurent asked, his tone faintly mocking.

“It’s good,” Damen said, smiling as he swallowed. “Better than good, actually. I think you’re being unfair.”

Laurent sighed, the kind of sigh that managed to convey both exasperation and indulgence. “Of course you do.”

They continued deeper into the orchard, the trees growing thicker and the air cooler as the sunlight waned beneath the canopy. Damen let the peace of the moment settle over him, his eyes drawn to the way the light caught in Laurent’s hair, turning the pale strands into something almost golden. He found himself smiling, unbidden, at the sharpness of Laurent’s words, the precise way he moved, the way even in this quiet, domestic setting, Laurent carried himself with the poise of a king.

As they rounded a bend in the path, Damen’s gaze caught on something above them. Perched on a thick, gnarled branch of an old apple tree was a sleek black cat, her fur gleaming in the sunlight as she licked her paw with leisurely grace. Her tail flicked lazily behind her, and her green eyes glanced down at them, filled with feline disinterest.

“Looks like we’re being watched,” Damen said, nodding towards the tree.

Laurent followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. “A cat,” he said after a moment, his tone flat.

“Not just a cat,” Damen said, grinning. “A very judgemental cat.”

Laurent tilted his head slightly, studying the creature with the same keen gaze he reserved for political opponents. “She’s clearly unimpressed by us,” he said, his tone so dry that Damen laughed aloud.

“I can’t imagine why,” Damen said, still smiling as the cat paused in her grooming to blink slowly at them.

“Perhaps she takes issue with your terrible taste in apples,” Laurent suggested, his lips curving into the faintest smirk.

Damen shook his head, still grinning, and leaned casually against the tree trunk. “And here I thought you’d find some kinship with her,” he said, his voice teasing.

Laurent raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp. “Because I, too, spend my time perched in trees, glaring at people?”

“No,” Damen said, laughing again. “Because you both have a knack for making everyone around you feel just a little inadequate.”

Laurent’s smirk deepened, though he said nothing, his attention drifting back to the cat. The creature stretched languidly, her claws flexing against the bark, before settling herself more comfortably on the branch.

They lingered there for a while, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft rustling of the cat’s movements. Damen plucked another apple from a low-hanging branch, turning it over in his hand as he watched Laurent out of the corner of his eye.

“You know,” Damen said eventually, his voice quieter now, “I think she likes you.”

Laurent glanced at him, his expression sceptical. “What makes you say that?”

“She hasn’t left,” Damen said simply.

Laurent huffed softly, though Damen thought he saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He turned his attention back to the orchard, his hand brushing against the low branches as they continued their walk.

Damen made to follow, curling his bare toes into the thick grass growing beneath his feet while the soft hum of a gentle breeze filled the space between them. He couldn’t stop the warm smile that spread across his face as he watched Laurent slowly move ahead, his figure framed by the dappled sunlight.

In that moment, beneath the branches of the orchard, with the air heavy with the scent of ripe fruit and the warmth of the afternoon sun shining down on them, Damen thought there was no place he’d rather be.

Dance of Blades

The spring sunlight bathed the training grounds in a golden glow, warming the earth beneath Damen’s boots. A faint breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and blooming flowers, mingling with the metallic tang of steel and the faint hint of sweat from those who had already trained that morning. The sound of clashing blades echoed across the grounds, sharp and rhythmic, underscored by the occasional burst of laughter or applause from the gathered onlookers.

Damen adjusted his grip on the dull practice sword in his hand, the leather-wrapped hilt familiar against his calloused palms. Opposite him, Laurent stood with his usual poise, the dull edge of his own blade catching the sunlight as he rolled his wrist in a fluid motion. His stance was relaxed, almost deceptively so, but Damen had sparred with him enough times to know better. Laurent’s stillness was always a prelude to precision.

“You know,” Damen said, tilting his head slightly as he circled, his boots crunching softly against the gravel, “you could at least pretend to take this seriously.”

Laurent’s lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze fixed on Damen with razor-sharp focus. “I am taking it seriously,” he replied. “I’ve just yet to see anything worth exerting myself over.”

The crowd that had gathered around the training ring chuckled softly at Laurent’s remark, and Damen couldn’t help but grin. “Big words,” he said, testing the weight of his blade with a quick flick. “Let’s see if you can back them up.”

Laurent didn’t reply—not verbally, at least. Instead, he lunged, his blade slicing through the air in a quick, precise arc that Damen barely managed to deflect. The force of the impact reverberated through his arm, and Damen was forced to step back, his boots skidding slightly on the gravel.

“That was almost impressive,” Damen said, his voice light despite the heat of the exchange.

Laurent arched a golden eyebrow, his blade already moving in a graceful sweep towards Damen’s side. “If you think that was impressive, you’re about to be very disappointed.”

Damen parried, their blades clashing again with a sharp clang. The crowd murmured appreciatively as the rhythm of their sparring quickened, each move and countermove drawing them deeper into the dance. Damen pressed forward with a series of calculated strikes, trying to force Laurent onto the defensive, but Laurent’s footwork was impeccable, his movements precise and unyielding.

“You’re slowing down,” Laurent remarked, his tone infuriatingly calm as he sidestepped another strike.

“I’m just pacing myself,” Damen shot back, adjusting his stance as he tried to anticipate Laurent’s next move. “Don’t want to end this too quickly—you’re enjoying yourself far too much.”

Laurent’s eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. “How considerate of you.”

The crowd was growing now, stable hands and soldiers pausing in their tasks to watch the match unfold. Damen could hear their murmurs, their quiet bets on who would land the next strike. It wasn’t uncommon for their sparring sessions to draw attention—there was a certain spectacle to watching two kings cross blades, especially when their skill levels were so closely matched.

Damen feinted to the left, then brought his blade down in a sharp arc, aiming for Laurent’s exposed flank. But Laurent was too quick; he pivoted smoothly, using the momentum to step into Damen’s space.

“You’re telegraphing,” Laurent said, his voice low enough that only Damen could hear.

“And you’re gloating,” Damen replied, even as he narrowly avoided the edge of Laurent’s blade.

Their faces were close now, and Damen couldn’t help but notice the faint sheen of sweat on Laurent’s brow, the way his hair clung to his temples. There was a flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the day, and Damen felt his breath catch, momentarily distracted by the sight of him.

Laurent seized the opportunity, his blade darting forward to tap lightly against Damen’s chest. The crowd erupted in applause and laughter, and Laurent stepped back, lowering his blade with a small, satisfied smirk.

“You were saying?” Laurent asked, his tone maddeningly smug.

Damen shook his head, grinning despite himself. “I let you have that one,” he said, straightening and raising his blade again.

“Of course you did,” Laurent said, his voice as smooth as silk.

The sparring continued, their movements growing faster and more fluid as they pushed each other to their limits. Damen tried to predict Laurent’s next move, but his strategy was as elusive as ever—each feint, each calculated strike designed to keep Damen off balance.

“You’re holding back,” Laurent said at one point, his blade deflecting Damen’s sharply.

Damen’s grin widened. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Laurent replied, his gaze narrowing as he stepped forward, his strikes growing more aggressive. “Stop treating me like your lover. Fight properly.”

The challenge sparked something in Damen, and he surged forward, meeting Laurent’s blade with renewed intensity. The crowd roared their approval as the match reached its peak, the clash of steel ringing out like music across the training grounds.

But it wasn’t the crowd Damen cared about. It wasn’t even the thrill of the fight. It was Laurent—his quicksilver movements, the sharpness of his wit, the fire in his eyes as he matched Damen blow for blow.

In the end, it was Laurent who landed the final strike, his blade coming to rest just above Damen’s collarbone. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Laurent lowered his blade with a small, triumphant smile.

“You’re predictable,” Laurent said as they stepped out of the ring, his voice low enough that only Damen could hear.

Damen laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “And you’re insufferable,” he replied, though the warmth in his tone softened the words.

Laurent glanced at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a faint quirk of his lips, he said, “You’d be bored otherwise.”

Damen couldn’t argue with that.