#the sun and moon in endless chase

[atopvisenyashill]

people really think arya is going to hate sansa when they meet again, even going so far as to hate her, want her executed, perhaps even as far as kinslaying with her own damn hands. meanwhile arya-

When she thought of seeing Robb's face again Arya had to bite her lip. And I want to see Jon too, and Bran and Rickon, and Mother. Even Sansa . . . I'll kiss her and beg her pardons like a proper lady, she'll like that.

does NOT give a shit lmao she just wants to see her sister alive again!

[chaos-has-theories]

Can someone explain to me why I keep dreaming about fridged Marvel Ladies. I haven't even SEEN any of the later movies

[yandere-wishes]

⭒ㅤׂ Do You Think We'll Be In Love Forever? ㅤׂ ⭒

⭒⌒★ Yandere!DC Men x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 ♡ ｡ ゜

​𓆩☾𓆪 Nightwing - Dick Grayson | بالشب - دیک گریسون

He's mesmerized by the sight of you between his arms. Definite little doll smiling up at him through tear-soaked eyes. He floods your essence with saccharine kisses, sweet vows, and anguished 'I love yous' all paying testimony to his sugar-laced obsession. He's desperate to taste your sweetness on his tongue, lick through your flesh like a lollipop, and unravel your bones with his teeth.

He had been so young once, chasing virtue and strength into every dark alleyway, following bats and hope into vicious nights. Back then, he hadn't understood his mentor's desperation for paper-thin kisses and phony love. But now feeling the push of your body beneath his fingertips makes him understand how satisfying real love can be. To observe you in the sun's gentle rays. To feel your body curled next to his on cold nights. He plays hero under the moon's watchful gaze only to return home to you upon daybreak.

❀࿔ Red Hood - Jason Todd | نقاب قرمز - جیسون تاد

He glides your fingers across his scars, shuddering under the weight of your touch. Stardust cauterizes ancient wounds, licking away the rotten grime. Jason clenches his teeth, there's something so intimidating about the softness of your touch. It stings worse than any crowbar or bullet wound, intruding, harrowing. It's almost like you're plucking the constellations of his past from under his skin, trying to rearrange the stars into something cathartic.

He can't help the hapless way his nails scratch across your bones, the gurgling laugh that escapes his throat. You're Elizabeth Lavenza and Ophelia trying to mend a broken boy, with your wry smile and terrified eyes. Jason traces his lips across yours, his kiss is ravenous, frantic. Faux-hero desperate for an inkling of love, of bliss, of softness.

´ཀ` Arkham Knight - Jason Todd | سلحشور آرکام - جیسون تاد

He likes to think he's shed his human skin long ago. Left it to die in that burning warehouse with his old mask and youth. But when he hears your laughter, that haunting echo reverberates off the edifice walls. He can't help but think maybe, just maybe a trace of humanity still lingers beneath his armor. Your smile glares at him in every carmine puddle he treks through. He dreams it's your blood marring his gauntlets, syrupy sweet as he licks them clean. Daydreams about your ethereal face painted in reds and purples by his iron-clad hands.

His kisses are razor blades cutting through your lips, forcing his love down your throat, and watching as you choke on the rust and ache. He's trying to merge two bodies into one void, to engulf you. Mirror his scars upon your flesh with dull knives and jagged fingernails. He kisses you again, you swear you're going to drown in his sea of red. Maybe that's all the love he has left. He

｡♦｡ Red Robin - Tim Drake | رابین قرمز- تیم دریک

He plays hero in the night, little bird chasing villains and evil by moonlight. When he blinks it's you he sees lying on the couch watching TV. He's starting to think you're his favorite show, afterall your window is about the size of a flat-screen TV and he's always too eager to peak through for the next screening. Episode 84, you're hugging your favorite teddy bear, lost in euphoria as your knuckles turn white around the controller. Tim watches heart in his throat as you claw out the boss's eyes. Sanctimonious champion vying to save the holy princess.

Tim bites his fingers, addresses each tooth mark to you. He pens his love letters upon his own skin, sealing them in red when he finally punctures through. Maybe life is just a video game, an endless kaleidoscope of cutscenes. And he's just a besotted hero dying to kiss the precious princess who doesn't even know he exists.

ꨄ︎ Robin - Damian Wayne| سینه‌سرخ - دامیان وین

His heritage pounds between his bones. The deja vu of an ancestral lifetime runs rapid through his veins as he chases you across the rooftops. His father, his mother, his brothers, always chasing, running after things they know they'll never reach. Your blades clash against his and Damian can't help but wonder if this is the closest he'll ever get to kissing you.

You leave him with paper cuts that feel like venom, like saying 'I love you' while chewing on his bones. He ponders, does his father have the same scars, if Damian pulled away Bruce's skin what would he find? Kittycat claws and dragon bites engraved in the nth-wielded ivory. He feels legacy clawing at his throat as he pictures your fingers between his teeth. Tears blooming in your eyes as he uses diamonds and ceremonial knives to engrave his name upon your flesh. Dotting the I with a heart and entwining each letter. God, he's so tired of being lonely...

🦇 Batman - Bruce Wayne | بتمن - بروس وین

He can't help but pick you apart, chip away at the bones and flesh until he reaches your essence. Dissecting your heart with his tongue and savoring the ichor between his teeth. He's the world's greatest detective and yet he can't unravel his own ardor. This mania, this addiction festering within his crux gnawing at his sanity until every thought is consumed by the cadence of your voice and the stars scintillating in your big doe eyes. This desperate need burning inside of him are you really divinity? Will you bleed glod, if he tears you apart with his teeth?

You're so ethereal squirming beneath, kicking and screaming vying desperately for freedom. He's fought this love for far too long, tried to preserve you in the light. Cover your eyes and ears and make you forget about the monsters that roam in the dark. But he can't not anymore, maybe he never could. Maybe the only way he knows how to love is by trickling his darkness like nectar between your lips and watching as it paints you in his shades.

ᯓ★ Superman - Clark Kent | سوپرمن - کلارک کنت

His kisses melt into your skin sweet like molten sugar drizzled on jasmine rice. Like lava smothering roses, leaving a trail of fragranced ashes. Clark smiles and he notices how you cover your eyes. Like you're staring directly into the sun. Like you're scared of being burnt. Clark can't help but bury his head in the crock of your neck, inhaling your ather. Molten roses and floral ashes he likes the amalgamate of your scents. Like how his presence lingers upon you.

He holds you like a doll, like the little straw dolls his mother used to make. It's easy to be gentle, coddling when everything is so fragile compared to you. He kisses down your neck, your jaw, nuzzling his nose into your soft skin, trying to earn a giggle a gold star. Trying to wipe the fear from your eyes. He kisses you again, mumbling cloying words between your lips, wishing he could just push his love between your fragile bones.

˚✶˚ Superboy - Conner Kent | سوپربوی - کانر کنت

He's fighting back the urge to peel your heart from between your ribs. To trail kisses across it and marr his lips with your ether. He wonders if your heart beats as frantically as his. He wonders if your ribs rattle when he enters a room.

He wants to push little superboy earings into your ears, to lay upon you the piercings he could never have. It'll be his way of telling the world you belong to him, that you belong to Superboy. And yet he settles for draping his leather jacket across your shoulders when senses a shiver run up your spine. He settles for the friendly hugs and airy hello-kisses. He wants to say he's he loves you. he can't. It's all so annoying, tasting the dead words on his tongue.

𓂃✮ Superman - Jon Kent | سوپرمن - جان کنت

He's scaping his nails along the Hershey's kisses re-aligning the red blue and gold wrapping. It'll be obvious, right? If he leaves them in your locker you'll understand the colored metaphor you'll answer the question he can never ask. You'll know it's him, everyone always does, for the byproduct of the world's greatest hero, he's terrible at keeping his identity a secret.

He blames it on the legacy flooding his lungs. On the promises that beat in his blood. He's born to be a hero, to play the role of savior, but aren't heroes promised love too? Aren't they meant to save the girl from burning skyscrapers and crumbling sidewalks, to fly above the skyline and kiss her in tune with the setting sun? He's so desperate for the sweet fairytale ending, so desperate to kiss the girl who always knows just what to say. He leaves the chocolate in your locker before making a dent in the metal door.

˚｡⋆🪙⋆ ˚｡ Two Face - Harvey Dent | دو چهره - هاروی دنت

He can taste your pain on his tongue, swallow the barbed wire, and relish in the familiar sting of hope, expectation, responsibility. Maybe that's why he can't stop himself from chasing after you. Burning the world demanding you stop him, desperate for a silver of your deficit attention. God, you're so ethereal with his gun aimed at your head, his pretty little girl with big starry eyes laced with dread as they follow the cascade of his coin. 'I know' he wants to scream 'I know what it feels like' but the words never quite spill out that way. And Harv only laughs at his foolish attempts to play hero once more. Sanctimonious bastard, the words reverberate in his skull.

You may claim to be a hero but Two-face knows you'll fall, plunder to the ground like all the rest, that's what happens when you reach for the sky, deem yourself Icarus, and let the flames of glory engulf you until there's nothing left. 'You can't save them' Harv screams only for Harvey to hear. They want to get closer, to slip the coin between your lips and make you taste defeat, maybe then you'll understand why he's so keen on fighting you out of your crusade. Maybe then you'll take their hand willingly, letting them sprinkle kisses across your knuckles like dying stars.

˙⋆���︎︎⋆˙ Black Mask - Roman Sionis | نقاب سیاه - رومن سیونیس

He wants to cut out your big heart and sink his teeth into it, engrave himself in every vein, and chew on the heartstrings. HIM he needs to be the only one in that plushie heart of yours. The only one with the right to be graced by your ethereal smile. He wants to awaken to your soft nimble fingers tracing hearts and stars across his chest. Pretty pink lips weaving feathery kisses across the scar of his pacemaker. Giggles tickling his neck as you bid him 'good morning' in that all too cheery voice of yours.

Roman almost moans as he hears his name spill from your mouth, each letter cradled carefully between your lips he can't help but want to push his thumb inside your mouth, to feel your purity and shock. There's so much he wants to call you so much he wants to whisper in your ear as he watches your cheeks glow red. To hold you in his lap and trail his fingers across your legs, to dress you in pretty dresses and short skirts and skin-tight tops. To taste the fear and dread on your tongue palpable like the blood he draws with every kiss.

༄✩༄ Scarecrow - Jonathan Crane | مترسک - جاناتان کرین

He likes the stars in your eyes, the mini constellations spelling out your greatest fears. The tears blooming in the corners of your dopey eyes have his lips twitching. You're so gorgeous like this, curled up on the floor trying to make sense of such an eerie world. Jonathan doesn't anoint himself a fool, he knows it's chimeric to think that you'd love him without the toxin, without the heavy drugs he's spilled into your veins. That's why he keeps you like this, scared and depressed. Always in need of him.

What's your greatest fear? He wonders when you tuck your head between your knees and sob all so quietly as to not disturb him. Is it him you see in your grandest nightmares? Is it the mask jumping at you from within the darkness, or is it Professor Crane abandoning you in such a macabre world? Mask on mask off it makes no difference. He just hopes he's the star of every nightmare, as long as you fear him as much as he fears losing you.

｡??｡ Riddler- Edward Nygma| ریدل - ادوارد نیگما

It's frivolous to think he will not solve this riddle. That he will no unearth this plague you have bestowed upon him. This fixation, this obsession, he needs to understand you, to peel away your skin and glimpse at your inner clock workings. To undo your screws one by one and find out what exists between that haunting laugh and those knowing vicious eyes. To rip apart your wires, and feed upon your mind. To understand, he needs to understand you.

He got close once when he had your neck under his shoe, but the evil lith of your laughter rings across the room and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't unnerved. He doesn't know what question to ask first. 'what have you done to me'? 'why do you think you're better than me?', 'Why don't you love me?' Instead, the silence shatters with your voice, proud melody rivaling his own, your eyes lock on him and he can't suppress his shutter. "Well Eddie, riddle me this. What can kill any man, but isn't even alive itself?"

⁺♡⁺ Deathstroke - Slade Wilson | مرگ سکته - اسلید ویلسون

You're like a shooting star, dancing across the night as you stalk his latest kill. Little asssasin, you know your stuff but he finds your thirst for ineage and morality both exhausting and honorable. Most people grow up and spit out their morals with blood and broken teeth. Let the world's cruel realities claw and gnaw at their skin until it's hardened enough to survive. He's yet to see you extend such a courtesy to the world, makes him think that pulling the trigger on you would be some sort of mercy. Bullet through the heart leaving your body coated in his essence and one final kiss pressed onto your paling lips.

He dosen't notice the inkling of you rattling around in his brain until he realizes that this is the eighth him he's seen you smile at the end of his barrel. Pretty little girl chasing after morals and sand, hoping to escape the endless night by spilling just a little more guilty blood. You look like some sort of ethereal doll, immortal in your innocence and vicious in your virtues. He can respect that, truly but Slade isn't naive enough to think you have what it takes to survive. Maybe that's why he wants all so badly to feed you his victim's hearts and eyes and livers, to push them past your pretty lips, staining them the deepest red. Watching your delicate throat constrict as you swallow everything he gives you. Reveling in the sensation of your greedy little tongue swirling around his fingers licking up the access gore. Can almost picture your smile and stupid little head tilt as you thank him for the 'candygrams'.

⭑.ᐟ Respawn | احیا

Respawn drowns in his love. Pulling apart his heart to lay at your feet. It's all he's ever known, broken boy built to harvest spare parts. But you don't look at him like that, you don't even look at him like an assassin. No, you smile fondly as you nuzzle his neck with your nose. You look at him the way his father used to, like he's actually worth something more. He's never quite kissed you, he's not even sure he knows how. Instead, he holds you close to his chest making sure you hear the dull patter of his jagged heart.

He's born from greatness, left to rot in the dark. He refuses to play pawn, anymore. So maybe that's why, when he finally kisses you -with all the grace of a schoolboy's first kiss- it's so desperate and erratic, clumsily licking your lips and nicking his tongue along your teeth trying to think what his father would do. His fingers dig into your arms, preassing prayers into your flesh, screaming 'Don't leave me, you're all I have left'.

⭑☽ Ghost-Maker - Minhkhoa "Khoa" Khan | روح ساز - مینه خوا "خوا" خان

There's nostalgia in your essence, in your presence, something he can never wash away. He's grown addicted to the erratic reverbate of your pulse between his teeth. Kissing the bites he leaves marring your perfect body.

Why can't you just love him, let him haunt your every thought, and erode those pesky creeds, until he is the only thing you'll ever need? Khoa hates to admit it but he sees something in you, something so reflective of the little boy laying in the sand of the gobi desert, shooting phantom bullets and mocking stars. You scream every time he kisses you, recoil your tongue, and cry at the bitterness sweeping in. But Khao loves the challenge, the fight, loves forcing you into submission, even as your knife digs between his ribs. He's only ever content when your pith floods his mouth and your melodic voice rings through his ears. His precious little princess tucked away between his arms forever.

☾⋆ Phantom-one | روح یک

he never shows you his face. He blames it on his upbringing too used to old rules that he can never escape their clutches not even for you. His kisses are always clouds dancing across your skin, so light and airy they may as well be the wind. But tries to leave traces of himself with every kiss. Desperate pleas for you to look at him, to touch him, to love him back. All so he knows he's alive, still real enough to love.

He's always trapped between the land of the living and the realm of the deceased. Always so gentle with the love he's stolen, so careful to not break his lover, as his mentor did to him. He laces his fingers through your hair, sucks gently on the length of your neck, all while pushing 'I love yous' into your soul, marking you as his forever.

🎀𖹭🎀 : @your-yandere-kiss @fancyfeathers @yandere-writer-momo @nxdxsworld @lilyalone @neverano @natsukicookies @googeecat44 @starrydollita @mune-writes @a4g3lstarfire @yourhornysister @froggy-voidd @rissareader @6helpneeded9

@blacklunardice @princesstrunkz @mona1704 @testification

[cum-a-calla]

Moon Fever

Joel’s acting funny, but he is not a werewolf.

under the cut: sweat, being chased in the woods, fear (so much fucking fear), soft ABO dynamics, soft sex-pollen vibes, heavy dubcon/noncon, forced orgasm, Joel knots, implied breeding, fingerfucking, did i say sweat? lots of sweat

A lot of the time, being stuck on an endless stretch of road is… well. Not your favorite idea, to say the least. Even with the day having been nice, and Joel being in a decent mood, it’s still hours spent in his truck. Sitting. Staring. Throwing bits of conversation at him while he occasionally interjects with a grunt or a laugh. It’s not that he seems to mind; he just seems distracted. 

One side of the road is a big, grassy expanse, open field that’s occasionally graced by a few trees or patches of dirt, of swamp and thin, rotting logs. On the other side (your side, luckily), there’s a seemingly never-ending wood. The trees are fairly dense, all those green canopies joining together to shade the forest floor and its inhabitants from the late-day break in the clouds. The sun is already on its lazy descent down before any of it can really be seen. It’s been super overcast the last several days. Seeing snatches of sky is more than welcome at this point, not to mention feeling the weak warmth of the dying light. 

Joel swipes a big hand over his forehead. He keeps peeking low to look up through the windshield, keeps craning around to glance at the sky. 

“Look, if you’re seeing, like… a UFO or something, you gotta have to point that out to me. It would be super selfish to keep that to yourself.”

“A UFO?” Joel looks distractedly at you, half irritated, half completely lost. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“You keep looking around like we’re gunna get abducted by aliens or something.” You half-laugh, waiting barely a beat before shrugging a shoulder. “I mean it was a joke, but my feelings on the subject aren’t a joke. I’d be pissed if you, like… did see one and didn’t point it out, is all I’m saying.”

“You should try sayin’ less,” he mumbles dryly. 

“Fat chance of that, pal.”

“Not your pal.”

“Well, that just makes you a liar, Joel.” You side-eye him a moment, watching him take a little breath and nervously flex his fingers on the wheel, his thick knuckles going white when he grips it once more. “Hey, are you… are you okay?”

“M’not thinkin’ so, no,” he admits, avoiding your persistent, searching gaze. A drop of sweat skims down over the side of his face until it disappears into his facial hair. “My mama used to call it ‘moon fever’. Every month, just about, for maybe - usually only a night, sometimes two.”

“Moon fever.” You roll the words around on your tongue, trying to figure it out. “So, you got, like - a disease, or something? Not a disease, a — I dunno. A condition? Something like that? Why’d she call it ‘moon fever’?”

“Moon’s always full,” he says gruffly. 

“The moon’s not always -”

“Yeah, no shit, kid. It’s always full during the fever. Fuckin’ gotta listen to me.” Joel sighs and the muscle in his forearms flex as he squeezes the driving wheel again. He spares a quick glance your way, and to his credit, he almost looks guilty. Almost. “Sorry. Jus’ feelin’ irritable.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Sorry.”

“No, y’don’t - don’t need to do all that. I’m the one that… yeah.” He trails off, and that nervous energy remains, filling the car like some invisible kind cloud, thick as cotton, muffling out anything that might make sense. For the first time, you feel a tiny pang of fear in your gut. Joel is being so unlike himself, and even if he’s sick, like… what exactly does that fucking mean? You need him to be solid, to be normal, and those aren’t things you can just ask him to do.

“Every full moon,” you parrot quietly. “So - so, kind of like a wer—”

“Do not,” he interrupts harshly. “Don’t fuckin’ say that.”

“Jesus, I was just -”

”Ain’t a fuckin’ joke. Listen, we’re gunna need to pull off soon. Ain’t staying in the truck. Not - not me, anyway, got it?” Joel turns and levels you with his gaze, and at this point the fear starts to build a little, a trickle of ice sliding up your spine. 

“Joel, not to be, like… I know you don’t feel good, but you’re kind of freaking me out,” you say, and your forced laugh sounds more like a nervous scoff. “I’m sorry I said the thing about - um, I’m sorry I’ve been kind of annoying. Whatever you need, I wanna help…”

“I know you do, darlin’. I know you do,” he says, and the strain in his voice makes everything worse. He sounds awful. Sweat isn’t just beading on his forehead anymore - he’s got a sheen of it, and he rubs the back of his hands over his cheekbones, his forehead, running fingers through his hair to get the slicked strands out of his face. “And what you’re gunna have to do is - is you’re gunna have to keep the weapons in here. Givin’ you everything I have on me til daybreak, understand? Knife, gun - all of it stays in here. Locked. With you. M’sleepin’ in the woods tonight.”

“Um - what? Joel, no, that’s so fucking dangerous, and I can’t -”

“You will. I’m gunna be okay, honey, just fuckin’ listen to me. Lookit me. I mean it.” 

Joel pulls the truck over by jerking the wheel, his breath heavy in his chest. The vehicle crunches on all that gravel, the dirt and rocks as he slams a foot on the break. The both of you rock with that motion and slam back against your seats, eyes silently meeting - yours, full of fear, confusion. His… what is that? Clouded? He looks like he’s being tortured alive. His sweat has started to slowly seep into the collar of his ratty t-shirt, turning it dark and damp. The cords of his throat are slick as well, cheeks pinked - he does look feverish. Feverish and upset in a way you don’t understand. Seeing Joel like this is throwing you off your axis, forcing you to reckon with a possibility that you’ve never considered before - Joel being out of control of something. He sighs, his chest shuddering with it.

“You promise me now,” he says, staring into your eyes. There’s something wrong with his, but before you can really figure it out. He reaches over to grasp your thigh and his grip is too tight, almost painfully so as he turns his whole body to face you. “You promise me that no matter what I say, you keep in this truck and don’t listen to a fuckin’ word I tell you. No matter - fuck, no matter what I say. No matter what I do. You gotta stay put.”

You stare at him, wanting to nod, wanting to be good for him, but it sounds crazy. You’re scared. Panic rises up inside your chest and you watch mutely as Joel pulls out his handgun, his knife, anything he might have on him. It’s then that it becomes a little too real - you realize this entire excruciating moment, you’ve been waiting for him to go back to normal. To stop being so scary. And now that he isn’t, it’s too much. Your heart thumps in your throat, skin vibrating with fear as he sets his things into your lap. His hands shake, too. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“C’mon, promise me. Need to hear it. I’m gunna leave the truck, okay? Say it. Don’t got a lot of time before -”

“Before what?” You ask weakly. God, you feel sick to your stomach as his eyes go too soft, sad, pleading with you. “Joel. Before what?”

“Before I can’t control myself anymore,” he manages, reaching for the door handle. He pushes the driver’s side door open and turns a last time toward you. “You fuckin’ lock these doors. Wanna see you do it, okay?”

Just as he asks, you lean over to push the lock, making sure each lock is set, each window rolled up. You slip his knife in your boot almost without thinking, putting the gun in the glove compartment as you watch Joel walk into the trees. 

You sit like that for a long, long time, listening to the nothing-silence of nightfall as the truck settles, as the birds stop chittering. It’s just the occasional breeze and the sounds of your own breathing and shifting in the passenger seat, staring off into the woods where Joel walked off long after he’s disappeared. It’s hard to avoid the feeling of being completely alone and spooked. Afraid. Anxious. You crank the seat back so it’s nearly flat and stare at some of the stars dotting the darkening sky, all velvety dark blue now. No hint of sun. How much time has really passed? How long have you been gazing fearfully out that window?

Sleep takes you a lot easier than you think it might. One moment you’re forcing your eyes shut, thinking of Joel alone in the woods, how awful he’d looked. Then… nothing.

It’s a sound. There’s a sound; in your half-conscious haze, you think of that urban legend you knew from childhood - how did it go? Something about a scratching at the car door, a hook hand. Something. 

The car door. 

You slam solidly back into your body in a violent jolt as consciousness drags you back up from the depths. It’s still absolutely black out, stars and trees and nothingness. A wild-eyed glance gives you nothing - nobody at the windows, nobody scratching at the car door. No Joel. Just you, the cold truck, and the glaring, full moon keeping its luminous eye on the area. It takes very little time to adjust to it, to allow that light to seep into everything and allow you to really see. 

And your bladder’s full. 

Well, what the fuck are you supposed to do about that…? Joel never covered this in his frantic fucking panic, did he? 

Waiting feels impossible. No position seems to help with the sharp, uncomfortable pressure, and there isn’t anything in the truck that could work as a good receptacle. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stare out the windows for a long moment, anxiety making everything worse. God, there must be hours left until morning. But if you just - if you slip out really quickly, relieve your bladder, and run back to the truck? I mean - he must be deep in there, doing whatever the fuck it is he needs to do. You imagine him somewhere among the ferns and trees and spiders, slumped over, wildlife sniffing at his sweat before leaving him there. It makes your heart ache… but not as badly as your bladder.

Fuck it.

You open the door as quietly as you possibly can, cringing when it creaks a little. It’s eerily quiet as you make your way just into the line of trees, as if anyone’s going to see you. Relief is sharp and instant - you have to hold your breath, holding in that desperate little moan of pleasure as the pain instantly disappears. The finer things in life, right?

Cleaned up and pants zipped, you take a moment to silently step out into the middle of the road. There are so many stars; it’s absolutely breathtaking. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but there’s a special sort of quiet when you stop and really, really look, not worrying about the next step or the next move. It brings you a moment of peace and tranquility. The moon watches you, lit so expressively up - you can make out the hollow eyes, the wide, gaping mouth. The man on the moon, stuck in his eternal howl.

You admire this for a long moment, stuck in the tranquil beauty of it. Soft breeze. Trees waving so gently in it, speaking their own secret language through the fluttering leaves and swaying branches. There’s an intoxicating feeling of knowing the universe, being one tiny thing surrounded by an endless expanse of other tiny things, thrumming on one of a billion vibrational wavelengths to create the larger fabric. 

There’s a tiny rustle off to the side and, expecting to see a deer, or maybe some raccoons, you’re absolutely floored to see a man.

Not a man - Joel. He’s nude, his flushed, strong body glistening with sweat. He’s covered in it, shining like some horrible beacon in the middle of the grass, and even from this distance you can see his chest heaving. The shock that paralyzes you to the spot is followed by abject fear, eyes wide and mouth open. Of all the things you’ve seen, of all the horrible situations you’ve encountered together, this is the most fear you have ever felt in your life. It rushes up into your head like static, making a home there like so much white noise as your blood roars in your ears. 

He takes a few steps forward and you tremble there, hearing his ragged breath as he gets closer. His - oh, god. His cock is hard, pulsing, heavy as it bounces with each forward step he takes. He takes a ragged breath and almost looks like he’s glaring at you, face contorted in some awful mix of agony and anger, something… something else too horrible to name. 

“Tol’ ya,” he slurs, voice slow. He licks his lips, moaning, his cock twitching. “Tol’ ya t’stay in the fuckin’ truck, didn’t I?”

That’s enough. He comes within a couple yards and the fear overtakes you in a way that makes your limbs tremble with adrenaline, your breaths coming in hitched, desperate gasps as you pound pavement. Pavement gives way to dirt and brambles and rocks, running blindly into the woods.

Should have locked yourself back in the truck.

Reason leaves you in a hot rush, replaced only with the hot, throbbing fear of a prey creature, and to your growing horror you hear his footsteps behind you somewhere. Running after you. You don’t dare glance back, ignoring the urge to - you can’t afford to fall. You just have to keep going. 

It hurts - there’s a stitch forming in your ribs, a sharp ache as your muscles scream at you to slow down, to stop, to take a proper breath. No time. There’s nothing in the banner of your mind except RUN RUN RUN KEEP FUCKING RUNNING, ESCAPE, HIDE HIDE HIDE.

Eventually, the manic rush of adrenaline wears down enough that your body can’t keep running. You tuck behind the thick length of a tree in all that dark, slumping down to sit as you cover your mouth with both hands. It’s hard to breathe softly - it’s fucking near impossible, so you do what you can, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Isn’t that the thing? Fuck, who cares. As long as you can draw the breath slowly, as quietly as you can. The birds are quiet. Sleeping. There’s only the natural sounds of the woods, the random shivers of wind and breaking branches, a rustle here and there. It’s so fucking quiet. You can’t hear Joel anymore - the paranoid thought that he’s near enters your mind with every random snap or break or crunch in the woods, but he’s so big, so powerful and… so rabid right now. So unlike himself. You’d know, right…? Your heart beats in your chest, the rhythm so quick, so uneven. You can hear it in this weird silence, along with the gasping little breaths you take. Trying to be so slow and quiet is hard when your chest aches like this, when every single fiber of your being is begging you to keep running, to rush, to protect yourself. You close your eyes and drop your head slowly back against the trunk of this tree, trying to trick your body into calming down. 

Time is weird. It feels like minutes crawl by in the relative silence, and your body gets used to each little sound of the forest. You find yourself relaxing as much as you can given your situation - heart rate going down, finding it easier to breathe. That awful stitch in your ribs finally eases up, your eyes get used to the stark darkness. It almost feels like whatever happened was a fever dream of your own. Joel would never - he… he wouldn’t. 

You think back quietly, the eyes in the back of your brain roving over the image of him in the field, walking toward you, shining with sweat. Utterly naked and hard. The sight of him throbbing like that, being so shocked you could see the twitch of his cock, even from that distance, just by the light of the moon. His expression - and in your mind’s eye, it doesn’t look as feral. It looks helpless, it looks… hungry, yes, but… desperate. 

“You - mmmh, I -”

The sudden voice makes you scream into all that cloying darkness, heart stopping in your immediate, panicky fear, and that scream closes up into an awful sound from your choked throat. All those muscles tighten up and it’s almost like a terrible little whistle as he grabs you, shoving you back down into the dirt, the leaves and grass and ferns.

“Told you. Told you, darlin’, fuckin’…. oh, fuck, I told you, I told you to s-stay… stay ‘way from me,” he moans, and it’s almost like he’s begging as you make his face out in the dim, still so sweaty, his eyes practically glowing. He looks just the same as before, like he’s a slave to…. to the - what did he call it, again? The moon fever. Fuck. He groans and grinds his hips between your thighs, terrifyingly hard as he fits himself there by force, holding your wrists down in his bruising grip, gasping his breaths. A drop of his sweat slides down his forehead and patters over your face, on your cheek. “Shouldn’t’ve - why… why’d you run?”

He moans as he leans down and buries his nose into the nape of your neck, skimming it up your throat. It’s followed by his tongue - he smells you, tastes you, the sound he makes so tortured and erotic it makes you shudder underneath him. 

“Joel - Joel,” you whimper. “You’re not - it’s just me, it’s me, it’s - why are you -”

“Mmm, I know, honey, I - oh, I know, I know, I’m ssooo s—so fuckin’ sorry,” he says. He bites into your shoulder and there it is, his hard cock rutting between your thighs. You scramble to back away, to escape it, but he puts his big, strong hands on your hips and yanks you violently back underneath him, working at forcing your bottoms off. “M’sorry. Sorry, baby, I - ohhh, I’m… ohh yeah, I’m… sorry…-”

Kicking does nothing. He’s so fucking strong, and before you know it, he’s moaning against your collarbone, shoving his rough, thick fingers into your cunt. He works them in, his tongue on your skin, rubbing and searching until he discovers the pillowy little spot that makes you clench. You’re near tears at this point, useless in your struggle, shaking underneath him while he sucks little marks into your skin. 

“All fuckin’ wet for me,” he groans. “C’n smell ya - that’s how I found you, honey. Could smell ya anywhere, your wet little pussy. So pretty, so fuckin’… wet… tight… mine.” Each word punctuated by the brutal thrust of his fingers, stretching you just a little bit, just enough that it feels too rough, too painful.

His lips pull away from your skin with a wet pop, the scrape of his teeth making you whine. He grabs your hips and ducks down, his shoulders undulating like a creature’s as he settles his scratchy face between your thighs. He buries his mouth against your cunt, licking, moaning. He devours you there even though you’re whining for him to stop, to let you go.

Those words melt off - all your “Joel please fucking don’t Joel please Joel you can’t you can’t”s turn slowly into a mantra of his name, over and other til you’re breathy and moaning with him. When did that happen? When did you stop struggling and start threading your fingers into his graying hair, gripping it, hips twitching under his hands as he rubs the pads of his thumbs into your willing flesh? 

Sooner than you might think, you’re starting to scream - it feels like he’s making you come apart cell by cell, atom by atom, that horrible heat winding down your guts and into your pelvis until it grows too big to hold inside of yourself. His desperate, mindless lapping, his hands making bruises into the meat of your thighs. It’s too much - you have tears in your eyes and then it’s like you’re (howling) shrieking into that black, dark night, pulsing down hard on his beckoning fingers.

“Hurts,” you sob. “Hurts, hurts…”

“I know. I know, honey, I fuckin’ know. Just gotta - mmmm, gotta be brave, j’st - lemme -”

Wait - be… brave? What - what does that fucking mean? Panic blooms into your chest as your climax starts to fizzle out, all that heavy breathing turning into the same panicked, high-pitched, whining kind of gasping you’ve been doing since you saw him in that fucking field. Joel pulls you toward him, grunting, naked from the waist down with your shirt rucking up as he drags you. God, he’s drooling, making the most terrible, longing sounds from deep in his chest as he grabs you and forces you around to your belly, hauling your hips up into the air for him.

“Joel - no, no,” you say, and to your horror, you just can’t be loud enough. Everything else is louder - the scrape of the forest floor under your hands as he forces you into the position he wants, his labored breaths, growling, like the effort of it is breaking him apart, too. Maybe it is. It makes everything worse, one of his big hands creeping up the front of your shirt to paw at your tits, rutting his cock between your thighs. God, it’s so hot against your slippery folds, his calloused fingers too rough on your nipples. 

He seems to envelop you as he reaches back to notch the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your hole. He rocks his hips in this barely controlled rhythm, working himself deeper and deeper and god, he’s big. Thick, stretching you open in his manic sort of thrusting, and your stomach lurches as you realize that he’s trying to be gentle. He’s barely hanging on to himself. He moans and gasps as he fucks your pussy open, and once he’s fully seated, the pain really comes. He rears back and slams it home, again, again, heavy balls against your clit with each pass.

“Fuck - oh, fuck, darlin’, so… goddamn tight…” Joel nuzzles his nose down against your shoulder blade and inhales your scent, the sound he makes so nakedly erotic it makes you clench around him again. He grunts and pauses for a moment before resuming his pace, pounding into you, the hand up your shirt reaching further to hold you by the throat. “Y’mine, you know that? Only mine. M’gunna make sure you - fuck. Oh, fuck. Gunna give you all of me.”

Joel reaches his other hand between your thighs, and there he is, holding you against him like a hostage. Hand on your throat, his fingers pressed right up against your pulse there, and wouldn’t you fucking know it - his other hand snakes right over your mound, fingers delving between those plump, spread cuntlips to circle your clit. He’s frenzied, but not clumsy - he knows what you like. It’s jarring at first; too much too quickly, his cockhead nudging up against your cervix with each roll of his hips. 

“Needja to cum, honey,” he manages to whisper, and it’s a wonder he can do that at all with all the sounds he makes. “Seen ya do it like this. Mmm? I - ah, f-fuck - I know you’re already gettin’ close. Don’t lie to me, now.”

You make a tortured sound, the pit of your stomach swirling with a special, sick kind of fear. His fingers trace fire into your flesh, willing or not; he’s absolutely fucking right. You’re going to cum on his cock, no matter how much it hurts, how afraid and helpless you are. 

“The - the fuck does that mean, Joel?” you ask desperately. You sound just as angry as you feel. Betrayed. It comes out cracking and pathetic all the same, drawn high and useless as he splits you in half. God, holding your breath doesn’t even help. You’re going to cum - it’s only a matter of time.

“Don’t fuckin’ be like that, “ he growls, his breaths coming ragged. “M’not as stupid as ya think, not - not… ohh, not even close. All those times y’thought I was sleepin’, hmm? Yeah? Whimperin’. Hand down between these thighs… whispering my name, like I’m goddamn deaf. Heard you loud ‘n clear, honey. Y’let me take care of you.”

As if to drive his point home, Joel changes both the angle at which he fucks into you and the rhythm of his fingers, forcing an unexpected gasp from your throat that exhales into a loud, keening wail, so exquisitely erotic that he holds himself flush to your body for a moment, cock throbbing, and it’s those aching little throbs that shove you over the edge along with everything else. True to his word, Joel knows what you need, and he forces you to cum. The pleasure crashes down like a tidal wave, molten and overwhelming enough to white you out behind the eyelids for a moment. It’s incredible. Your body ripples and contracts and squeezes against him, all that hot pink velvet flesh wrapped around his thick cock, and he kisses along your back where he’s shoved your shirt nearly off your body. His lips trace patterns of fire over your exposed skin, wet, open-mouthed kisses between your shoulders. 

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is more of a rumble against you as opposed to a voice; so low, deep, rabid. Curses fall from those lips like a font, and there it is - he’s so engorged it hurts, and it must be the combination of your overlapping climaxes. It’s almost painful, and then it keeps going. The stretch, the feeling of him expanding impossibly inside of you as he pumps jet after jet of his seed inside, hips twitching, holding you close as he humps forward. 

“Joel - fuck, it - it fucking hurts, please…”

“I know. I know, I know, I know, just… hold on, babydoll, let me…” he trails off, dragging his tongue up your spine as he moans. “Don’t move. Don’t you move. Be so still f’me.”

The pressure in your cunt reaches a point that is actually painful, too filled, and a new sort of fear fills you as you struggle with it. Joel keeps… expanding, his cock getting thicker, thicker, stretching you so that it burns. 

“Joel, I can’t,” you gasp, trying to pull away. He keeps his hands firm on your hips, groaning and yanking you back so you remain flush against his body, his hips rocking so softly. ”Why does it - fuck, it fucking hurts, it hurts!”

“Few minutes,” he grinds out, holding his breath just as much as you are. “Just a few minutes. Stay still. I mean it. Gunna hurt us both if you keep fuckin’ squirmin’ like that. It’s gotta take.”

“It’s gotta —” Your mind races in that moment, with the pain of his enormous cock, the way it just seems to get bigger and the way you want to pull away from it even though it hurts so fucking badly to try. “Take? Joel, what - what does that mean?”

Joel shushes you, his scratchy facial hair, his lips on your hot, sweaty skin, and he licks you, he tastes the salt of your body and moans, one hand fixed firmly on your hip. There’s going to be bruises there, later, proof of his strength, his utter control of you in this moment. You shake underneath him and make the worst little noises, somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Like a kicked dog. You just want it to stop. 

“Y’know what it means, darlin’. Almost done. Fuck… y’so tight, baby. How you been keepin’ this from me all along, huh?” Joel hums and you can feel it against your body, the low rumble of it like a living force as it finds a home in your ribcage, all the way down from where your back meets his chest to where his cock is still buried immovably tight in your cunt. All his cum caught inside, sealed… taking. He seems so calm now, so drained. Like he got all the poison out. “Mmmh - there we go. There we fuckin’ go.”

His cock seems to finally soften, finally releasing all that pent-up pressure, the pain, the aching stretch. Both of you make these little sounds of relief as you can ease the physical tension and he’s finally able to slip out of your body. Your first instinct is to keel over and roll to your back, sticks and stones and dirt be damned. You pant there, legs spread, and Joel looks… like Joel. He’s still sweaty and still very, very naked, but he doesn’t look scary anymore. He looks like him, his brow pinched in his way as he looks down at you. There’s a secret sort of sorrow in his expression, and despite it all, your only impulse is to reach up and take his scruffy face in your hands. You manage to coax him down and kiss him on the lips - surprisingly soft, yielding. He moans a little, but it’s less sensual and more longing. Like he’s wanted this part all along. Wanted your gentle warmth, your comfort. Your brush your thumbs over his cheekbones as you kiss him like that, chaste, no tongue. Just tenderness. You rub the pad of one thumb over those worry lines between his brows, down over the bridge of his nose as you kiss. 

Joel reaches down to gently push his fingers inside of you. You’re sopping, dripping with his cum, your poor little cunt all sore and wet and aching from all of that. 

“M’sorry, babygirl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Didn’t wanna hurt ya. Swear.”

There’s a little stretch of silence as you kiss and he slowly, lovingly fucks his cum deeper into your body with his fingers. He’s so gentle - there’s no real goal, no end point. Just Joel, just his rough, thick fingers being as kind as they can be inside your sensitive body. Just the two of you. The sweat starts making you cold and Joel pulls away, helping you brush off and work your clothes back into place as you awkwardly make your way back to the truck to sleep. He’s got a blanket in there, and on the way to the vehicle, you catch him glaring at the moon. He looks beautiful, even in all his exhausted anger. The lines in his face. The drawn, tired eyes. His chest, his body. Everything about him is beautiful - does he even know that? You don’t have the heart to tell him. Not now.

For now, all that exists is his big, warm body, the nook you settle in where he wraps his strong arm around you so you can lie on his chest in the bed of the truck, covered in a couple blankets, listening to the insects start up again. The big, fat moon now has a sliver of dark on its edge.

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Second House

☉ Sun in the Second House You carry your worth like fire in your chest, burning through the cold spaces where doubt tries to settle. Every choice, every effort, feels like building your own sun from the inside out. You’ve spent lifetimes proving you deserve to exist in the light. But even in the silence, even when no one is watching, your glow does not fade. You are the warmth that survives winter. You are the sun that rises, not to be seen, but because it is your nature to burn bright.

☽ Moon in the Second House You hold onto love like it’s air, terrified of what happens if you let it go. Safety feels fragile, like a thread you dare not loosen, so you gather familiar comforts and press them to your chest. You build homes inside people, inside moments, inside memories that soften your fears. Even when life shifts beneath you, your heart knows how to survive the storm. You carry your home in your bloodstream, and it follows you, wherever you go.

☿ Mercury in the Second House You stack words like stones, building walls around the parts of yourself that feel too tender to leave exposed. Thoughts become shelter, conversation becomes proof that you belong. You want your mind to be worth something, something they can’t take from you. But beneath all the noise, there’s a quiet truth: you’ve always been enough, even in your stillness, even in your silence. Let your words be bridges, not barricades.

♀ Venus in the Second House You fall in love with what feels like it could last forever, the weight of gold in your palm, the softness of skin against yours, the fleeting moments you try to make eternal. Beauty feels like something you must hold tightly, or risk it slipping away. But beauty was never meant to be caged. It breathes through you, moves with you, and lingers in the spaces you’ve touched long after you’ve gone.

♂ Mars in the Second House You fight for your place in this world like it’s the last breath of oxygen. Action feels like survival, motion like proof that you deserve to take up space. You’ve learned to measure your worth by what you conquer, by how fiercely you push through resistance. But even when you are still, even when the battlefield quiets, your fire does not go out. You are power in rest, force in stillness, strength that exists simply because you do.

♃ Jupiter in the Second House You stretch toward life like roots searching for water, always believing that something greater waits just beyond the horizon. You carry hope like a heartbeat, like the sun rising again and again no matter how long the night. Abundance flows through you not because you chase it, but because you trust in your own expansion. The ground you walk on becomes fertile because you believe it can be.

♄ Saturn in the Second House You build yourself from the ache of effort, from hands that have known the weight of scarcity. Discipline is etched into you, a quiet voice that says: keep going, even when the climb feels endless. You’ve learned that stability must be earned, but deep in your bones, you carry something stronger than fear. What you build may take time, but it will outlast the storms. You are stone beneath the surface, solid even when the winds howl.

♅ Uranus in the Second House You chase freedom with wild hunger, yet somewhere in your chest, you still long for something to hold onto. Stability feels like a cage, but the absence of it leaves you restless. So you gather pieces of yourself from every place you’ve ever run to, and you stitch them together into a life that moves with you. You are both the storm and the shelter, untamed, yet whole.

♆ Neptune in the Second House You reach for beauty in places no one else sees, finding meaning in dreams that drift like mist between your fingers. The tangible world feels too harsh, so you soften it with imagination, with longing, with hope. And though you fear losing yourself in illusions, you are more than the haze. Beneath the tides, you carry a depth that anchors you home, even when the waves rise high.

♇ Pluto in the Second House You guard your worth like a hidden vault, locking it away where no thief can find it. Power tastes like survival on your tongue, and you’ve swallowed too many fears to count. You hold tight to what you’ve built, because you know the cost of losing it. But even if everything else falls away, what lives inside you remains untouchable. You are forged from depths no storm can reach, and your value was never something that could be stolen.

[peachyprophets-blog]

BETWEEN SUN AND MOON

Humanoid! Catnap x Reader x Humanoid!Dogday

CW: Nicknames "Angel"

Summary: You get a letter calling you to an old factory. When you arrive, you recognize old faces that you once saw and loved as a child...

A/N: I've finished Chapter 4 of Poppy Playtime and felt the urge to write a FF.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The letter was on the table in front of you. You were surprised when you found this letter in your mail. The letter had an address that you hadn't been to for a long time, Playtime. When you were younger, you went there every day. Your favorites there were always Catnap and Dogday. Unfortunately, at some point you couldn't go anymore because your parents moved with you to another state. The last time you went there as a child, you were given two cuddly toys, Catnap and Dogday. The employees had known you long enough now and thought it would be a pleasure to give you smaller versions of two of your favorites as a parting gift. When you remembered it, you had to smile, of course that made you super happy. You still had them both to this day, and they accompanied you when you moved with Catnap and Dogday, you never felt lonely. And when you moved back to the city where you grew up after years because you had been offered a well-paid job, you suddenly found the letter in your mail inviting you to the Playtime area. You had already heard about the factory closing back then, but like everyone else, you didn't know why the factory with the great figures and the endless fun had closed. So you decided to drive to the factory the next day to see how things were going and maybe find out why the factory was closed.

When you went to the factory the next day, you were already excited inside, you were finally returning after all these years to the place that was so dear to you as a child. When you entered the factory, you were confused why it was open, but you didn't worry about it. After many terrible events such as the chase by Huggy Wuggy or Mommy Long Legs, you finally arrived at Playcare, the place that had shaped you so much. But you now knew how terrible this place was in secret and could also imagine why it had been closed. When you arrived at Playcare, you sat down for a moment because you were exhausted, but as soon as you had found some peace and quiet, a red mist came towards you before your vision became increasingly blurred and you fell into a restless sleep.

You can remember this dream, you had had it once before as a child. You woke up but your eyes remained closed, you heard two voices communicating with each other and there was a slightly sweet smell in the room. "Are you sure they're okay?" a voice asked worriedly but got no answer, just a deep "mhhhm". You were slowly able to open your eyes and what you saw frightened you. Dogday and Catnap were standing right in front of you, they seemed to be arguing with each other. When Dogday noticed that you were awake, he started to smile and sat down next to you before gently stroking your head with his hand. "Angel, you're awake," he said to me in a soothing tone. Before I could answer, I felt another weight next to you. Catnap had sat down next to me and laid his head against mine. "Don't worry, angel, he's missed you all these years, just like I have," Dogday assured me. Catnap gave an affirmative purr and looked me in the eyes for a moment longer. He seemed to notice that the dream was getting to you because shortly afterwards he rubbed his head against yours in a soothing manner.

"We've never forgotten you, of course, but we were always with you." When Dogday said these words, you remembered the cuddly toys you were given back then. Sometimes it felt like they were watching you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[moonselune]

I've been playing alot of harvest moon/stardew recently and was wondering how the companions would react to a tav or durge prefering to settle down for the farming life post game. I know Shadowheart would love it anyway but Astarion would be the type to groan about the summer heat at times.

Btw love your work ❤️

Awh thank you! I freaking love stardew valley, I actually got to the point where I would see things in real life and be like oh i need that for my bundle...

Minthara:

Minthara had agreed to come with you back to your little patch of dirt. That was the first miracle.

She stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the rows of squash you'd lovingly planted weeks ago. Her elegant armor had been swapped—begrudgingly—for leather trousers and a dark green blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She claimed she only wore it because it “blended well with the shadows.”

In reality, she looked dangerously attractive, and you told her so often enough that it stopped earning you eye rolls.

“I still don’t see the appeal,” she muttered one morning, kneeling beside you in the loamy soil as you both weeded a row of carrots. “Endless dirt. Scratching at the ground like a deep gnome grub. You truly believe this is more fulfilling than conquering the Underdark?”

You grinned, pushing your hair back and letting the sun warm your face. “The carrots don’t scream when I pull them out of the ground.”

Minthara snorted—an actual laugh, short and sharp. She caught herself, frowning like she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

“I could grow mushrooms,” she said after a pause. “Real mushrooms. Not these surface-dwelling imitations.”

You perked up. “You want to farm?”

“I do not want to farm,” she snapped, yanking a weed a little too aggressively. “I simply think someone must bring standards to this pitiful excuse for agriculture.”

That night, you caught her carefully organizing mushroom spores in neat rows in the shaded part of the garden, whispering Drow words of encouragement under her breath.

And every evening, she helped you without complaint. She said it was only because you were “hopeless on your own,” but there was a softness in her touch when she handed you tools, when she brushed dirt from your face. Once, she found a fat, horned beetle in the lettuce patch and spent nearly an hour observing it before letting it crawl onto her hand and releasing it at the edge of the forest.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured that night, curled beside you on the porch. The stars glittered above like Underdark crystal formations, distant and sharp.

“You already have,” you whispered back.

She didn’t argue.

Karlach:

Karlach loved it from the very first moment she stepped onto the farm.

“This place is sick!” she bellowed, boots thudding across the dirt as she chased one of the goats around the field. “Look at this little beastie—oh, she’s got attitude! Just like me!”

You could barely keep up with her enthusiasm.

Where you had slowly learned the rhythm of the fields, Karlach plunged headfirst into it—planting, harvesting, repairing fences with her bare hands. She named every single animal and gave them nicknames too. Your prize ram? “Sir Headbutt.” The hen with the limp? “Motherclucker”

You’d wake some mornings to find her sitting in the barn, curled up with your herd of goats, one snoring against her shoulder as she scratched behind its ears.

You stood in the doorway, arms folded. “I’m starting to think you love the goats more than me.”

Karlach looked up, grinning that wild, warm grin. “Babe. You don’t chew cud and you hog the blankets. These little sweeties are pure, no complaints.”

You made a show of gasping in betrayal, and she laughed so hard she nearly toppled into the hay.

She was clumsy with gardening, planting seeds so deep they never saw the light of day, but she didn’t care.

“I’m all about the brawn of the operation, baby!” she said, hoisting a broken fence post like a weapon of war. “You’re the one with the gentle hands. You’re the heart. I’m just the muscle.”

You couldn’t count how many times you found her fixing things, adding improvements. She built a rainwater system for the fields, oiled the hinges of every barn door, and even made a small, hand-carved sign with all the names of the animals.

She hung it crooked on purpose.

And on summer days, when the sun burned and the sweat clung to your back, she'd scoop water straight from the well and splash it over both of you, laughing as you sputtered.

“You look good with dirt on your nose,” she’d say, brushing it off with her calloused thumb.

And you’d smile, because she was the kind of fire that didn’t burn—it warmed. And here, among the goats and gardens and peace, her flame could finally just... flicker, without fear.

Lae'zel:

No one had expected Lae’zel to take well to the slow life of a farm. She had always been all sharp angles, roaring fire, and a blade ready at a moment’s notice. But then again—no one had expected her to stay, either. And she did. With you.

What none of you accounted for was how seriously she’d take the training of the livestock.

"These creatures lack discipline!" she declared one morning, standing in the field, arms crossed and unimpressed as a trio of goats casually ignored her barking orders and continued to gnaw on the same patch of fence they’d been told—repeatedly—not to chew.

She turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Do they understand Common?”

"They understand,” you said, trying not to laugh as a particularly rebellious chicken pecked at her boot. “They just don’t care.”

You would have offered to help, but you were too busy melting at the sight of Xan, the tiny Githyanki infant wrapped securely to her chest in a sling you had made together. Lae’zel had first insisted that she didn’t need it—that she could carry her hatchling in her arms at all times like a proper warrior—but even she couldn’t argue with the convenience of two free hands. Especially for chicken combat.

You’d find her some mornings standing in the pasture, her face serious as she recited commands to the goats and hens like they were soldiers on a battlefield. "Form ranks! Maintain spacing! No, Clucker, no! That is not your perch—”

And all the while, little Xan would nap contentedly against her, a bundle of soft green skin and big yellow eyes, utterly unmoved by the chaos of the yard. Occasionally he’d gurgle and tug at her leathers with one hand. Every time you saw the two of them, your heart swelled nearly to bursting.

You leaned against the fence one afternoon, watching as a pig stubbornly refused to move out of Lae'zel's designated “training circle.”

“You know,” you said, grinning as she glared at it with more intensity than she had ever shown a goblin, “maybe farming isn’t about commanding obedience.”

“It should be,” she replied sharply. “They would be more efficient.”

Still, you saw her lips twitch when a goat headbutted her in protest. And she didn’t stop them from clambering all over her later when you both sat in the grass and let Xan play in the sun.

Shadowheart:

The house was small, sun-dappled, and always smelled like hay and something baking. Scratch lay sprawled across the front steps most days, belly-up, completely spoiled. The owlbear—too big for the barn, too curious to be penned—had taken to nesting in the orchard, gently knocking apples from the trees like it was performing some kind of divine rite.

Shadowheart had fallen in love with it all faster than even she expected.

You found her in the mornings tending to the goats with a quiet, practiced grace, her long hair tied up messily, a smear of dirt across one cheek that she never noticed. Her cleric’s robes had been replaced with linen tunics and earth-toned skirts—though her armor still hung by the door, just in case.

“What happened to the chicken pen?” you asked once, only to be met with a long sigh and her pointing silently toward Scratch—muddy, feather-covered, and absolutely unrepentant.

You were never alone. Not really. The animals had adopted you both. Scratch followed you everywhere. The owlbear guarded the house like it was the holiest temple. You even had a few stray cats that Shadowheart swore she didn’t feed, but you caught her slipping them treats more often than not.

Still, there was one part of the land she hadn’t explored yet—because you were keeping it a secret.

You worked on it in the evenings, tucked away behind the western slope of the hill. A dozen rows of posts were driven deep into the soil, with the first few vines already climbing, green tendrils reaching for the sky. You’d been studying grape varieties, borrowing books from Gale, and mapping sun paths like your life depended on it.

And finally, one golden evening, you took her hand and said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She followed without question, her fingers warm in yours, and when you rounded the hill, her breath caught.

“You—” she started. “You planted a vineyard?”

“For us,” you said simply. “I know you love wine. I thought… one day, you could make your own.”

She stared in stunned silence, eyes glossy in the light.

“This is…” Her voice trembled, and she smiled so wide you saw the dimples that only showed when she was truly, deeply happy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” She launched herself at you, arms thrown around your neck, kissing you with such fervor that you stumbled backward into the half-dug earth. “You sappy, wonderful thing. I don’t deserve you.”

“You absolutely do,” you whispered, burying your face in her hair.

And from the other side of the hill, the owlbear let out a low hoot of approval—promptly followed by Scratch barking and barreling toward the two of you like a freight train.

“You know,” Shadowheart said as you braced for impact, “we might have too many animals.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jaheira:

Jaheira had said no at first.

She’d crossed her arms, brow furrowed in that eternally war-hardened way, and declared she was not the “settling down type.” A Harper, a druid, a warrior—too much duty still ran in her blood, and she wasn’t one to lie to herself.

And yet, you often found her on the porch in the morning, sleeves rolled up, tending to the basil or trimming back the ivy that tried to swallow the trellis. Her hands were calloused, steady, already shaped by years of coaxing life from the soil—and the moment she touched the earth here, she remembered. Not war. Not rebellion.

Peace.

She fit into the rhythm of the farm as if she’d always belonged. Milking the goats, harvesting herbs, reorganizing the tool shed within an inch of its life.

“A sharpened blade is less likely to betray you than a dull one,” she’d say when she caught you leaving shears in the dirt. You tried—gently—to get her to stop sometimes.

“Jaheira,” you’d say, handing her a mug of tea in the shade, “you’re supposed to relax. Remember that? The whole ‘breathing’ thing?”

She’d huff, but her smile would betray her.

“I’ll rest when the tomatoes stop growing unevenly,” she’d mutter, before adding with quiet fondness, “Besides… this is good work. Healing work.”

And the best days—the very best days—were when her children visited.

The younger ones would come tumbling down the trail with satchels and stories, running up to greet their mother, who stood like a pillar of strength at the garden gate. The number of times Jaheira had to pry Fig from a scarecrow as she was practising her 'wrestling moves' was one too many. You’d watch her soften visibly, smile lines crinkling, arms open as they piled into her.

They helped with the animals, with mixed results. One of them always ended up covered in chicken feathers, another face-first in a flowerbed, and Jaheira would roll her eyes while secretly delighting in every second of it.

It was domestic. Soft. Loud and messy and full of warmth.

Every now and then, you’d catch her staring out over the fields as the sun set, a quiet melancholy in her eyes. You knew she felt the pull of Harper duty—that someday, she’d have to return to that life. But she never pulled away from this one.

And you never stopped reminding her: “This moment is yours. Don’t let it slip away.”

Gale:

Gale loved farm life. Maybe a bit too much.

He delighted in every step of the process—from sowing seeds to baking fresh bread in the stone oven. He was the first to rise (with magically summoned coffee, of course), and the last to go to bed, always muttering about “optimal composting cycles” and “rotational planting enchantments.”

You never had to worry about the crops failing. Not when Gale enchanted the soil to stay perfectly moist and fertile. Not when your scarecrow occasionally waved to you and politely asked for new clothes.

And that might’ve been fine.

Until he started taking the produce to Blackstaff Academy.

"Look at this carrot!" he’d proclaim with the glee of a proud parent, holding up a perfectly orange, absolutely normal vegetable.

Then he’d bring it back.

And it would be the size of a horse’s leg, glowing faintly, humming with a magical pulse, and—for reasons unknown—smelling like cinnamon.

"Gale!" you’d exclaim. "It’s a carrot. It does not need to be arcane-tuned!"

“But imagine the nutritional value!” he’d insist, delighted. “It now increases constitution by two points for an hour! Also, I added a small glamour charm—look, it sparkles in the moonlight!”

You buried your face in your hands. “It was for stew. Now it looks like it is for a health potion with a beard.”

The tomatoes came back one week with eyes and a faint sense of existential dread. The potatoes exploded on contact with fire. A single cucumber once tried to recite Elminister.

You instituted a new rule: No magical alterations unless specifically requested.

Gale apologized with his signature dramatic charm, bowing deeply and presenting you with a bouquet of roses (grown in your garden, made of light, that sang quietly when touched). You forgave him. Eventually.

You did catch him sneaking a pumpkin to his satchel the next week. You pretended not to see it.

After all, the man who once swallowed a Netherese orb deserved a little whimsy.

But gods help him if your wine starts talking.

Astarion:

The summer sun blazed above your little stretch of farmland, turning the sky into a wide, cloudless expanse of light and heat. Cicadas sang from the trees. The golden fields shimmered. You were sweating through your shirt, but you'd gotten used to it by now. Not everyone had, though.

“I am wilting,” Astarion declared from the shade of a fig tree, fanning himself with a piece of parchment and looking like the most glamorous corpse in Faerûn.

You were knee-deep in the garden bed, dirt up to your elbows, pulling weeds with the satisfied sort of grunt that only came from knowing your tomatoes were going to thrill the next farmer’s market.

“You know, you are wearing a magical ring that lets you walk in the sun,” you reminded him, not even glancing back.

“Yes, and I am grateful,” he said in a tone that was both long-suffering and exasperated. “But that doesn’t mean I must enjoy it. Honestly, do farms not understand the concept of ‘shade’? Or a cool breeze? Or a bloody parasol?”

You chuckled and wiped sweat from your brow. “I can take the ring back, you know. Could always go back to lurking in crypts and brooding in velvet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “How dare you.”

You turned just in time to see him stalk toward you, predator grace still intact despite his muttering.

“That was a threat, wasn’t it?” he said, tone mock-scandalized. “You’d condemn me to a shadowed existence just to win this argument?”

Before you could get a word out, Astarion planted both hands on your chest and shoved. You stumbled backward with a yelp, landing with a mighty splash in the nearby pond, water closing over your head with a slap. When you surfaced, spitting water and pushing your hair out of your face, he was at the edge of the pond, arms folded, grinning.

“Next time you threaten to take away my precious accessories,” he said smugly, “perhaps you’ll remember who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, swimming toward him with a grin of your own. “I also remember that you’re a terrible swimmer.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you—!”

You grabbed his ankle and yanked. Astarion screeched like an offended seagull as he tumbled in after you, limbs flailing in the most elegant way a vampire can flail. The water swallowed him with a splash, and when he resurfaced, gasping, you were already laughing.

“Well,” you said, treading water beside him. “You’re cool now.”

His curls were plastered to his forehead, pale skin gleaming with pond water, clothes clinging in all the right places.

“I loathe you,” he hissed, completely unconvincing as he waded toward you.

“You love me,” you replied, and when he tried to dunk you under, you laughed even harder. He did try to drown you (with affection), and the pond echoed with splashes and laughter long into the afternoon.

Wyll:

Wyll loved the farm. Really, truly loved it. He dove into farm life with the same unshakable optimism he brought to battle: sleeves rolled up, a bright smile on his face, and an absolutely terrible sense of crop rotation.

“Look!” he said, beaming, holding up a vaguely wilted carrot. “That’s my fifth one! It only took me six tries!”

The carrot was... lopsided. And slightly blue.

You peered at it. “Wyll... did you plant it next to Gale’s ‘experimental vegetables’ again?”

He gave you a sheepish grin. “Maybe?”

Despite his noble upbringing, Wyll took to labor like it was second nature. He loved feeding the chickens (even if they pecked at his boots), singing as he milked the goats (who responded by trying to eat his shirt), and tending the soil (even if he constantly mixed up which plants needed full sun or partial shade).

But he tried. Gods, did he try.

He’d wake up before sunrise to help gather eggs and bring you wildflowers with muddy fingers and a bashful smile. He gave names to every single pumpkin, saluted the cows like old comrades, and taught the pigs how to sit. (One of them sort of learned. You suspected it was coincidence.)

The vegetables he harvested often ended up a little too bruised, or crooked, or tiny—but he presented them with the proud air of someone who had just defeated a demon lord.

“This one’s for you,” he’d say, placing a funny little beet in your hand like it was a diamond.

And honestly? It was perfect. Because Wyll’s joy was infectious. His laughter echoed over the fields. His presence made every sunrise feel warmer, every day brighter. Even if his corn always grew sideways.

“I might not be the best farmer,” he’d admit, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’m exactly where I want to be.”

And when you kissed him, fingers brushing dirt from his cheek, you couldn’t help but agree.

Halsin:

If anyone was born to thrive on a farm, it was Halsin.

Where others groaned about early mornings and sore backs, Halsin greeted the day with that warm, deep voice and a calm certainty that made the roosters crow more enthusiastically. Shirtless more often than not, with the morning light catching on his golden skin and broad shoulders, he looked like a god of the harvest incarnate—muscles flexing as he hefted hay bales like they were pillows.

You tried not to gawk every time he wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his tunic.

(You failed often.)

“I thought you were a druid,” you teased one day, leaning on a fencepost, watching him load the cart with fresh hay. “Shouldn’t you be turning into a bear and napping under trees or something?”

Halsin smiled, the kind of smile that settled in your bones like warmth. “Being one with nature doesn’t mean shying away from hard work. Besides, the goats get nervous when I shift. And they like it when I talk to them.”

He said this while gently stroking the head of a particularly moody billy goat, who stared up at him like he hung the moon.

You raised a brow. “Are you telling them secrets?”

“I’m telling them not to eat your herb garden,” he said. “Again.”

It wasn’t just his strength or his ease with the animals—it was the way Halsin belonged here. The land responded to him. Trees leaned in closer. The soil felt richer. Even the bees seemed to hover around him longer than they should’ve. And when the chores were done and you sat together beneath the old oak with your hands dirty and your hearts full, it felt like everything was in balance.

He never rushed you, never questioned your need for this life. He only helped shape it into something stronger, steadier. More alive.

And when he pressed a kiss to your temple after a long day, murmuring about stew for dinner and the chickens needing checking, and building some new play equipment for the goats -and the orphans, you couldn't help but smile.

Because your druid? He wasn’t just a bear in the forest. He was the heart of this little farm.

OMG how freaking wholesome was this, I did it more as a drabble style as I kinda had rambling thoughts about this, but I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[sixosix]

wc, 500. talks a lot x listens trope, but with xiao.

Xiao dislikes wasting time.

There are a million reasons why he doesn’t indulge in small talk. Get to the point, he urges, tell me what you want. For their sake, but there’s also that he’d rather not involve himself in anyone else’s affairs.

But he could listen to you talk for hours. Days, years. You could hold him down, trap him in your arms—and he can break free any time, and he would, had it been anyone else, but he finds that he doesn’t want to right now.

“Xiao,” you say. Your breath hits his face. He feels warmth creep to his cheeks, and he’s already thinking about using your “unbearable” proximity as an excuse. “Xiao… Listen, you know how two weeks ago I made you that plate of Almond Tofu?”

Xiao hums, willing himself to make his gaze less soft, to something more intimidating. But you’re undeterred, grinning at him and skirting around why you’ve pinned him against the wall and completely disrespected his bubble of space. Not that he minds, anyway. He finds that he doesn’t mind a lot of things when you do it.

You’d been terribly occupied yesterday. You didn’t call Xiao’s name once—and usually, you’d be calling for him all the time, doing it to provoke a reaction out of him, but if Xiao really hated it, he would’ve stopped appearing eventually. He always appears, be it when you’re on the brink of death, or you want him to pick what you’d have for dinner that day.

Now, he’s willingly helpless as you talk and talk and he listens.

“And you hated the Almond Tofu I made, do you remember that? You made a face. All scrunched up—and it was cute, actually. That was a really funny face you made, I wish I had my Kamera with me at the time.”

Xiao wilts, still embarrassed you caught onto his visceral reaction. He doesn’t mean to offend you, even if right now it seems you’re taking it all in stride. “It was just different.”

You laugh brightly, like Xiao’s looking right at the sun, and he’s the moon chasing after your endless warmth. “No need to protect my pride. It made me want to do better. So, yesterday, I practiced all day to perfect it. I had all the chefs I know taste it, and they said I’ve gotten better this time!”

Xiao’s face burns. He squints to keep his eyes from blowing too wide.  “You were… practicing.”

“For you.”

“For me,” he echoes.

“…Do you want to try it?”

“Tell me about the events that transpired yesterday as I eat it,” Xiao demands, shifting to free himself from your arms, entirely missing the surprise that washes over your expression. He turns and finds you frozen in the same spot. “Well?”

Your gaze snaps back to him, beaming. “Well, if you missed me talking your ear off and wasting your time, then gladly.”

It’s not wasting time if it’s time spent with you, is what Xiao keeps to himself.

[averycutesalamander]

Brighter than the Sun, Bigger than the Moon

wc: 8k. hurt/comfort, angst with a happy (kinda bittersweet?) ending, warning for vague mentions of sex. also up on ao3 if that's your preference

One of the greatest mysteries in the universe is that of soulmates.

They’ve existed for as long as history itself – perhaps even longer. No one knows if it’s the influence of an Aeon, or if it’s something stranger; the most recent theory is that Aha is behind it all, but it’s a joke to even think about getting a straight answer from THEM. Not every soul bond is the same, and they don’t even have to be romantic or sexual; plenty of them start and remain as entirely platonic, but either way, you have a partner for life. The details differ person-by-person as well; some have matching marks, some have a red string, some can't see color until they meet. 

Shared dreams are on the uncommon end of the spectrum - even more so when they live on different planets. Such is the case for you and the boy who will later be known as Boothill. 

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun. 

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller. 

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person. 

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all. 

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears. 

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare. 

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him. 

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty. 

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth. 

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest. 

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing. 

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up. 

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that. 

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive. 

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions. 

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had. 

Neither of you know that it will be the last. 

They lose. 

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win. 

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride. 

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke. 

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink. 

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know. 

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief. 

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky. 

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself: 

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you. 

Two: he's going to slaughter that man. 

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree. 

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top. 

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body. 

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest. 

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one. 

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars. 

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it. 

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel. 

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later. 

No.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you. 

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.” 

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick. 

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream– 

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve. 

And one of the worst things about it all? 

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame. 

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure. 

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you? 

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again. 

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer. 

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree. 

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash. 

Your dream is dead. 

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach. 

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking. 

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then. 

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss. 

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you. 

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling– 

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt. 

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway. 

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time. 

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed. 

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body. 

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.  

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway. 

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again. 

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest. 

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart. 

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual. 

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint. 

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it. 

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him. 

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt. 

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them. 

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod. 

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head. 

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying. 

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes. 

There's only one thing missing, now. 

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold. 

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it. 

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.  

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.  

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after. 

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair. 

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add. 

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person. 

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.  

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek. 

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her. 

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises. 

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand. 

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.  

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips. 

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream. 

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are. 

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face. 

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree. 

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash. 

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

…it's that his love for you is brighter than the sun, and bigger than the moon.

[atopvisenyashill]

there’s a few potential sansa romantic endgames that i think have some textual basis and i think all of them come with a lot of issues wrt sansa being able to publically claim these relationships which is why i think sansa will say her children are “fathered by a wolf” because regardless of Who she’s with or even the legality of it, she’s going to be actively concealing their identity AND YET she needs to have children.

i think especially that even though arya’s love life is guaranteed to be less complicated, sansa will feel obligated to take this “burden” of ensuring their line onto herself; she wants arya to have the freedom to go where she pleases, be with who she pleases, and follow her passions and that is not easy to do if everyone is expecting you to come home and start popping out kids. I consider them a sort of reflection of ned and lyanna in this way in that sansa, second born and not meant to rule, uses her newfound power to let the wild, youngest girl (but not youngest child) in the family follow her passions wherever they may take her.

this is all kind of weird with the nixed time jump but considering that george has talked about writing stories from arya’s pov about her adventures, I think it’s going to be fairly important in story regardless of their ages that arya will attempt to offer to stay home and marry and have children as a way of helping to protect sansa’s very shaky claim on winterfell but that sansa encourages arya to do whatever she wants. to travel, to help shepherd the boatloads of refugees from the various wars to wherever they want to call home, to settle displaced northerners in other parts of westeros as well, to get involved in the lives of the people arya is helping and agree to help them liberate their own homes by using her skills (crucial here that arya is A leader but not the SOLE leader), or to go out into the woods and be a secret not-quite-an-outlaw (bc sansa isn’t outlawing anything that could hurt arya’s lil crusades, probably is helping bankroll arya) to bring justice to the smallfolk, like whatever it is arya wants to do with her life, the point is that she offers to give it up and sansa refuses to take the offer.

and then we have the idea that her kids are fathered by a wolf. not elizabeth-ing herself here exactly because she’s having children but never publicly acknowledging a father or a husband or even a lover.

i think the candidates most likely are jon snow and theon, with both brienne and podrick as like “i’m not saying he’s gonna do it but i am saying they make a lot of sense narratively” and aegon vi as a huge long shot but still undeniable contender. if briensa does go canon everyone owes me five bucks each tho. i think the options other people float are not just wildly unserious they also clearly don’t think sansa will be The Ruling Lady Of Winterfell, but some much more minor or less emotionally resonant title and i just do not vibe with that shit at all. harry the heir, sandor, sweetrobin, tyrion, littlefucker, like never mind sansa never once showing any real interest in these guys and NONE of these dudes being satisfied by the idea of being her secret husband, if sansa says to arya “yeah i’m marrying tyrion” arya is going “blink twice if you’re being held hostage and you need me to kill him” but it’s too late because jon snow is already unsheathing longclaw and bran is attacking with every raven in winterfell. it’s not fucking happening and imo it’s unserious to pretend like it could happen in canon. (and if it DOES happen in canon you will find me rocking up to george’s house in jersey and demanding to know why he’s so weird about teenage girls). i think margaery is a huge long shot here (and not just bc it would make them both canonically on screen gay) because i don’t think she’s gonna live to the ending, and jeyne poole is too traumatized at this point in time for me to feel confident in putting her in the same category as brienne and pod.

(theon’s trauma is WHY i think he’s still a contender - post reek theon is going to struggle a lot with figuring out where he’s supposed to be, who he’s supposed to be, and who he can trust as he puts himself back together, and that lends itself nicely to the idea of a secret husband/lover imo. once again, we are talking extreme trauma bonding here - that’s just the only way i see sansa’s romances going).

if you’re asking “who do you think arya is winding up with” it’s gendry. i don’t doubt that there were some plans for edric dayne, arya, and gendry but i think gendry was always going to be her great love here, that she’s always going to turn down the idea of marriage to him but gendry doesn’t care so long as they are still together. there’s a neon blinking sign over gendry’s head that says “endgame material” and i think it’s unserious to pretend it’s not there too!!

[venussaidso]

𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧-𝐑𝐚𝐡𝐮-𝐊𝐞𝐭𝐮: 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐦

the prominent themes of vampirism such as desire, hunger, mystery and illusions tie so perfectly with the moon and its nodes. it wasn't surprising to find the nodes dominating this genre the most, along with the luminaries (moon & sun nakshatras, but more fittingly the moon). i will not be touching on the few sun nakshatras playing vampires, as the moon makes far more sense symbolizing true vampiric nature.

So many vampire movie posters have this luminous glow to them, likely done consciously because of these creatures' affinity for nighttime, and generally being nocturnal as they're extremely sensitive to any type of sunlight.

I've once briefly mentioned, in my "Moon Dominant Themes" post, that lunar natives can operate very secretly, such as 'working in the shadows'. And the whole lore of vampires always emphasizes their ability to hide themselves while still living among humans.

Vampires undergoing periods of dormancy and resurgence is interesting as that can also be linked back to the moon's cycles of waxing & maning. The influence that the moon has on vampires, in some legends, is during certain lunar phases in which they become more active. A full moon could literally mean that their strength has enhanced, whilst a moonless night could mean their desire for blood is heightened.

Rohini Sun Colin Farrell

Claire Nakti explored, in her "TOP 3 Most Magical & Mystical Astrology Signs | Cults, Divination, & Occultism | Part 2 (Nakshatras)" documentary, on the ability of Moon nakshatra natives to brainwash/mind control/hypnotize.

daniel kaluuya is a hasta moon, not rohini.

As these natives are often cult leaders, their ability to influence the mind goes back to their lunar-rulership. The Moon rules over the mind, emotions and subconscious. A vampire's ability to hypnotize humans and other lesser beings is in parallel to the Moon's influence over the psyche and subconscious.

This illusory nature found in vampires can be connected to the shadow planet, Rahu. As Rahu is illusions, desire, hunger. Rahu is very seductive and tempting; this could tie back to some legends in which vampires lure their prey giving them promises of pleasure.

Ardra Sun Tom Cruise.

In "Interview with the Vampire", Tom Cruise plays Lestat who is an overindulgent, greedy vampire. Rahu governs desires and the pursuit of worldly pleasures. It's related to insatiable cravings that lead to greed. The lustful nature of Rahu is seen in Lestat's intense bloodlust and the chaos it brings.

Rahu's associations with eclipses relates to their ability of being hidden in the shadows. Another hint is in Rahu being a Shadow planet itself, just like Ketu is which is also related to vampires.

The story about Rahu's head getting decapitated by Vishnu for trying to get a drink out of the nectar of immortality can be brilliantly paralleled with vampirism. Due to Rahu's consumption of the drop of the nectar, he became the infamous dismembered immortal. His dismemberment a symbol of the detachment from humanity to vampirism.

Rahu is considered an entity of darkness and malevolence, preying upon cosmic forces and defying the natural order of things (such as vampirism which does defy nature itself, ie. the dead becoming undead) in pursuit for immortality. Vampires are literal parasites, and Rahu is also parasitical. Vampires feed on humans without providing any benefit in the ecosystem in return, a one-sided relationship which resembles one between a parasite and its host. Rahu is depicted as insatiable and consuming, feeding and draining one's energy. It creates a cycle of thirsting for more without any fulfillment, a predicament vampires find themselves in.

Ashwini Sun Luke Evans

Rahu and Ketu represent the lunar nodes, respectively depicted as the head and tail of the celestial serpent. Their energetic interaction can be likened to the endless chase between a vampire and a vampire hunter, villain and hero, the friction between unlikely lovers. It's obvious in how Rahu embodies the insatiable hunger for experiences and the craving for fulfillment that it can be the vampiric force in such a dynamic. Like a vampire, Rahu relentlessly pursues its desires, often leading to greed and excess. And then you have Ketu, on the other hand, which embodies detachment, spirituality, and liberation from worldly attachments. It quite literally symbolizes the renunciation of desires and the quest for enlightenment, opposing Rahu's restlessness for more. Ketu is a cutting force, and like a determined vampire hunter, is skilled in tracking down illusions and breaking free from temptations.

Although it sounds like a more fitting interplay between Rahu as the evil force and Ketu as the hunter, it's actually more seen in the other way around.

It is more so that Rahuvians are the vampire hunters, which I found so intriguing; showcasing how Rahu is both the parasitical (illusory), and also the one to be rid of parasites (disillusionment). And I have explored this particular theme in my Rahu post -- how Rahu natives experience a lot of disillusionment from their reality, wanting to cast away the illusions that drain the life force.

The reversal of roles showcases the fluidity of the nodes; their roles almost always expected to reverse, illustrating just how Rahu and Ketu are deeply intertwined with the concept of karma, representing the push-&-pull between cosmic forces of destiny.

More nodal-vampire movies, and other examples in which Rahu & Ketu find themselves on opposite sides of the same spectrum in which they are both vampires, similar to the friction seen between Louis (Ketu) and Lestat (Rahu) in "Interview with the Vampire".

In the film "Fright Night", the one who has to kill the villainous vampire is an Ashwini native. It is also interesting how in "Queen of the Damned" (above, right), the villain is a Magha native who must be stopped by her Mula lover -- both being vampires.

As mentioned in the figure image about the film "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter", where a nodal-ruled native is paired up with someone who is lunar-ruled, this is a type of pairing seen a lot in these supernatural stories.

Similarly to "Twilight", as Edward was the one to turn Bella into a vampire, we see the planetary reversal of this in which the lunar-native is the one who turns the nodal-native.

Or the film "Vamps" in which Hasta Sun, Shatabhisha Moon native Alicia Silverstone turns Mula Sun, Magha Moon native Krysten Ritter into a vampire.

It isn't a surprise that the moon and its nodes are related to the extremities of the mind. These energies can cause isolation due to how polarizing they come off in regular society (furthermore validating its relation to vampirism), so they become attracted to one another -- especially the nodal natives to the moon natives, because of how much they feel magnetized by them, and vice versa.

edit: also paul wesley could be a purva phalguni moon instead of magha, there is an unconfirmed birthtime out there + he is a pushya sun and i have noticed sun nakshatras along with saturn nakshatras in vampiric roles as well. might touch on this some time soon.

The presence of some Sun nakshatras in vampire stories is present and that could tie to the Sun's influence over the Moon despite the fact that solar symbolisms regarding vampirism don't exist, and vampires are far too sensitive to the Sun so much so that they get sunburn during the full moon where the sun's light reflects (interesting to think about). The whole point of a vampire is to lurk in the shadows or during nighttime, so the strict avoidance of the Sun could make sense in there being solar-natives in vampiric roles. It makes for an interesting contradiction, certainly.

Ketu is the body of the severed demon Rahu following the consumption of the elixir. Much like Rahu, Ketu is also associated to darkness and illusions. But it symbolizes the darker, unseen aspects of reality -- all the hidden forces and energies as I've touched on in my Ketu exploration. Ketu and Rahu are two sides of the same coin, it isn't surprising to see them share many vampiric roles/stories.

Ketu is about spiritual liberation, detachment (in this context, becoming a vampire means a harsh detachment from normality/the old life), transcendence; these existential themes are found in vampirism.

The character Louis in "Interview with the Vampire" played by Mula Sun Brad Pitt describes his existential crisis as a vampire to a Magha Sun human who interviews him.

The enhanced strength, agility, speed, hearing and all these abilities are gained after the painful transformation process, going from human to vampire. This process is seen in the film "Interview with the Vampire", Mula Sun Brad Pitt's character going through excruciating pain when turning. My mind immediately takes me to Claire Nakti's first Mula nakshatra exploration, in which she touched on the interconnection of pain and evolution for access to more powers.

edit: robert pattinson is an ardra moon, not sun. and i accidentally used jk rowling's face as l.j smith, ugh! 💔

Vampires are caught between worlds, trapped in a liminal space between life & death. Ketu can cause feelings of entrapment. The yearning for release from their eternal existence is a common theme, as Ketu wants to escape its body. Louis de Pointe du Lac is the best character as example of rejecting one's own nature and wanting to cease to exist.

Mula Sun Brad Pitt

nodals being so emo jfc

[bluemoon1331]

Lol struck by random ideas again.

Y/N stuck in a land of never ending dreams that tend to repeat themselves, spawning in an ever changing corridor they cannot resist trekking. Sun is in charge of good dreams, Moon handles lucid dreams, and Eclipse is the more surreal/nightmare type.

And they are kinda grouchy having this random person trouncing about their domain, but they just can't seem to get rid of them for some reason.

They try everything in their power to dissuade Y/N, to get them to go back where they came from. The longer Y/N remains, though, the less they feel the desire to turn back, becoming increasingly interested in the three brothers and their antics.

Thinking at the end, when they finally actually reach the boys and the end of the path they're on, they all ask why Y/N went through so much. What they were hoping to accomplish. And Y/N just smiles and says they weren't after anything, they just wanted to meet the owners of the mysterious voices that took them on such a grand journey.

They're absolutely baffled at this, and Y/N ends up further shocking them by offering them pecks on the cheeks. They're kinda stun locked while Y/N stands there giggling for a moment, then moves past the monarchs, curious about the places beyond them.

Realizing you're starting to wander off again, they quickly turn to follow you, brimming with questions and burning to understand the emotions and thoughts filling them at your endless boldness. The tables turn quite suddenly, and now it's them chasing after you.

Becomes a silly little fluff/slice of life thing after, with maybe the occasional angst as they continue to figure themselves and this budding relationship out, but yeah.

[entities-of-posts]

Hi, I have a question not directly tied to the roleplay (though I don't mind if you answer it in that direction): A while ago, you talked about your theory of a potential 16th Fear emerging to balance the emerging Extinction: the Dull. I find that concept compelling, but in that post you also said that each of the powers has an "opposite" due to how people like to categorise things and I'd be curious what you would consider the opposite of each power. (Mostly because I like lists and sorting things xD)

Some do have a pretty clear opposite (Vast/Buried, Lonely/Corruption), but with a lot of the others it's less immediately obvious or simply up to a bit more interpretation. iirc Elias says the Stranger is the antithesis to the Eye, but the Dark and the Spiral similarly foil its central concepts, and I'm not sure what else their opposites would be, really.

Let me just preface this list by saying that this is my own opinion and interpretation, and thus 100% right and correct and indisputable.

I will also say that there are Fears which I would call near opposites, but imperfect mirrors - such as the Stranger and the Eye - and some that just seem to hate each other without being antithesis - such as the Desolation and the Corruption. It’s also worth mentioning that overlap always exist between mirrors, of course; this is why there is a classic duality between the moon and the sun, but no one talks about the duality between the moon and a giraffe, even though they have much less in common.

That said, here is my list:

The Vast - The Buried: the most widely agreed upon. Spaces too large versus too small. The terrible freedom of being adrift in an endless ocean, of freefall, versus being crushed in place with not the space to crawl an inch. You get it. The comparison is so clear and easy that it kickstarts the speculation about all the others.

The Eye - the Dark: extremely straightforward; just as much as the Vast and the Buried, to me. Knowledge versus the lack of it. Stark light versus impenetrable darkness. What sees you versus what you cannot see. Literally symbolized respectively by an open eye and a closed one.

The Corruption - the Lonely: Toxic love versus miserable isolation. An overabundance of company, much too close, under your very skin, a swarm of uninvited guests within your deepest sanctuary who will not leave, versus a life so barren of any company at all that that you might almost start to crave the former. The heat of fever versus the cold of fog.

The Web - the Desolation: careful planning versus reckless destruction. A trap so intricately laid, hundreds of delicate moving pieces and redundancy measures waiting for just the right time… so easily laid to waste by an unthinking, spontaneous act of cruel hunger for rubbles. Man’s quest, since the dawn of time, has been to tame and leash fire. And we still haven’t mastered it.

The Hunt - the End: a wild fight for life versus its cold ending. The journey versus the destination. The two oldest fears. The Chase wants more than anything to never End. The End doesn’t Chase; it just waits. And you’re the one that walks towards it every instant.

The Stranger - the Slaughter: here is the part of the list where people start to look at me oddly, because they’ve often never considered those pairings; but hear me out, and remember that I am inarguably correct. The fear of something Else pretending to be human versus the fear of what truly lies at the core of every human person. The fear of being tricked by an elaborate disguise versus the intimate knowledge of the truth: that those who hurt others aren’t monsters disguised as people. They’re just people. And the urge is in you too. Masks, versus what is revealed when all masks are cast off. And they both have musical motifs which makes for some fun parallels.

The Spiral - the Flesh: the horror of the mind versus the horror of the body. Unreality versus a reality only too physical, only too inescapable. Your brain is lying to you, but your body keeps the score. Follow the patterns, the Spiral says, there is more, they are lying to you, just follow me down - this is all there is, the Flesh whispers, this is the raw and dripping truth, this is all you are and you will never escape it. The Distortion even admits it can’t digest an avatar of the Flesh.

[ur-nutt]

a memory of blossoms and blades

blade/yingxing x gn. reader // angst? angst!

warning: character death

The lake stretched before you, endless and shimmering, a mirror reflecting the sky’s tender blues and whites. The afternoon sun bathed everything in gold, casting gentle shadows of the lotus trees swaying nearby. You were perched on the grassy banks, hands idly skimming the cool surface of the water, while Yingxing lay sprawled beside you, the edges of his robes damp from your earlier antics.

“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes,” he said, not bothering to turn his head. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re captivated.”

You scoffed. “It’s not my fault you’re too lazy to move. I’m debating whether I should push you into the lake.”

He finally glanced over, his azure eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “You wouldn’t dare.”

And you did.

The splash startled a flock of cranes nearby, their wings flapping as they disappeared into the endless sky. Yingxing surfaced a moment later, hair plastered to his face as he wiped water from his eyes. His glare was fierce but short-lived, melting into a crooked grin. “I’ll make you regret that.”

You were already laughing, taking a step back as he lunged toward you, his wet hands catching your wrist. “Yingxing!” you shrieked as he dragged you into the water with him, your laughter echoing across the lake.

The two of you wrestled in the shallows, your attempts to splash him thwarted by his quick reflexes. Finally, he caught both your wrists, his grip firm but gentle as he stilled your movements.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “there’s no one else I’d let throw me into a lake.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, what an honor.”

“I’m serious,” he continued, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone. “You make the world... quieter. Even when you’re loud.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. The sunlight danced on his features, and for a moment, you swore the lake envied him.

“You’re terrible at this whole ‘being sweet’ thing,” you said, but the warmth in your voice betrayed you.

“Maybe,” he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But only for you.”

The two of you collapsed onto the bank after that, soaking wet but breathless with laughter. He leaned over, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “If there’s a way to freeze time, I’d do it now,” he murmured.

“I’d keep us here, just like this.”

Somehow, the weight of his blade was heavier than the memories.

The cool metal kissed your throat, unmoving and absolute. His face—so familiar yet now so distant—betrayed nothing, his crimson eyes dull and lifeless.

You lying down, surrender, your weapon forgotten at your side. There was no point in fighting anymore. You knew it, and somehow, you felt he did too.

“Go on,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “You’ve already taken everything else. What’s one more life to add to the pile?”

For a moment, his expression flickered—barely, like a shadow passing over the moon. Was it hesitation? Recognition? Or just your own desperate hope clawing at the edges of reality?

“Why don’t you finish it, Yingxing?” you whispered, and the name fell from your lips like a prayer.

His grip faltered.

The silence between you was deafening. You stared into his eyes, searching for any trace of the man who once chased you across sunlit fields, who once swore he’d freeze time just to keep you by his side.

It wasn’t there.

Or maybe it was. Just for a moment, fleeting as the last rays of sunlight on a dying day, you thought you saw it—the glint of a memory neither of you could bear to let go of.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” you said, a soft smile curling your lips. “Even now, you can’t decide whether to hate me or miss me.”

His jaw clenched, his hand trembling slightly as the blade pressed closer. You felt the sting, sharp and cold, but you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you closed your eyes, letting the memories wash over you. The laughter, the sunlight, the way he had looked at you as if you were his entire world.

“I’ll remember for both of us,” you murmured, your voice fading as the warmth drained from your body. “I’ll carry it all.”

You opened your eyes one last time, meeting his gaze. The tears there were silent, unacknowledged, but undeniable.

“Yingxing,” you said softly, your smile bittersweet. “You were always the sun. I was just lucky enough to orbit you.”

And as the darkness claimed you, you swore you saw it again—that flicker of a memory, brighter than the blade, softer than the past, lingering in the once azure depths of his eyes.

sleep schedules are all over the place, but i’ll deal with it later.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 17 "Equinox"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: Wow, we're really, really getting there now and I feel so conflicted about it 😭 I don't want it to end, but I'll also be so happy to wrap up their story ❤️ Thank you for every motivating comment along the way, you're the reason why I kept going ❤️

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 140

Lurid clouds are chased across the roiling skies, stripped apart by the fierce winds of the high troposphere. Through the cracks in the clouds, the guests and bridal pair witness a macabre glory in the firmament.

God's inverted eye is glaring down on the altar and everyone in its frayed shadow becomes dancing motes at the center of the universe.

Today marks not only the spring equinox and the wedding of Feyd-Rautha and his alien bride, it is also a solar eclipse and Giedi Prime's white moon creeps in front of the black sun like a wandering pupil.

Past the smog-polluted urban canyons of Barony and even past the endless trenches of mines and factories of Gyed are the tasu aurinkosesti — the planes of the ever-sun, closer to the equatorial belt than any Harkonnen-built settlement. While not safe enough for permanent residents, the majestic landscape is just safe enough for festivities overlooked by the full glory of Giedi Prime's volcanos who crane their tapered maws proudly to the black sun.

Here is where nature breaks through the cracks of bleached Earth, dry, short grasses and creeping inkvines. The active volcanoes are gentler masters than the human settlers.

Today, delicate, black garlands flutter from the temporarily erected poles, seats and slender archways which mark two aisles down a semi-circle of hand-picked guests, one thousand of them — Harkonnens only for this special festivity. Stirred by the hot winds from the south, the garlands look not unlike human entrails strung up for a carnival. 

The aisles meet at a slightly elevated pedestal, on it a massive, roughly cuboid slab of obsidian. An ancient altar dented in the middle by the thousands of brides who had laid on it, or been forced to, and spilled their maiden blood onto the stone with the sun as their witness.

Feyd-Rautha's bride won't have to spread her legs on the ancient ceremonial site today. She is an off-worldler and her delicate flesh would be burnt to crisps and become a cornucopia of tumors if she spent but a minute unprotected in the open air. The radiation is strongest near the equator and only her wedding gown keeps her sheltered from it.

Panels of scintillating material shift heavily around her legs, hard but bendy, each layer painted with lead to isolate her flesh from the lurid sun's gamma rays. The gown tapers in at the waist and breasts and crawls over her shoulders, arms, and hands, covering her wholly. Her head is crowned by a veil of the same iridescent panels, protecting hair and face, only the face-panel is see-through. From afar, her shape is entirely otherworldly.

She will be an alien to the populace first, in her looks and in her ways, and then share her humanity. But first, she wants to enjoy the company of her husband and not think about anything for a while, no world-changing battles, no masses in arms.

Her gaze trails along the twisted, black archway that connects both sides of the elevated pedestal, Crowns of Thorns around it twining, Giedi Prime's only native flower. Skywards, God's inverted eye stands directly over the altar, filling her heart with horror and beauty, a feeling she can appreciate because it's not malicious, unlike the many human workings she has encountered in this universe.

Her eyes' appreciative journey ends at the man who will soon be her husband. On the other side of the pedestal, three meters away, stands Feyd-Rautha, the counter-image of her. His bare skin is as white as the chalky terrain and the glaring skies, only his loins are covered by a cloth that is wrapped in ceremonial manner, leaving the sides of his hips and strong thighs exposed. His hands are bare, ringless, and his hip weaponless.

On his exposed belly and chest, she will later be painting the markings of fertility and eternity, a winding symbol like a serpent devouring its own tail.

Feyd-Rautha bares his ink-black teeth, smiling when he sees his woman doing the same beneath her veil, white teeth between her painted lips. While she looks a hundredfold more pompous in her scintillating gown, to her, Feyd-Rautha is the most glorious sight in the world; the way he presents himself to the universe freely now and with no fear.

The drums begin to play and deep-throated chanting soars from the crowd who have risen from their seats, each of them clutching a hand over their hearts. They too have come in ceremonial robes, heavy fabric that reaches down to the knees and a strap of fabric that stretches diagonally across the chest and over one shoulder, leaving one side of the chest exposed — men and women alike.

Feyd and his bride turn to the crowd whose feet raise and stomp down in unison and whose hands mimic the drum beats over their hearts. The ceremonial chanting claps across the planes like thunder from a thousand throats. In the front row are Mikhail Kyelug and Lilia Bauer, the groomsman and bridesmaid by old Earth tradition.

On Mikhail's other side is a man who Feyd-Rautha would have stabbed on sight a week ago. Glossu Rabban looks up to his little brother by the altar, and the Count of Lankiveil is smiling.

Six days prior

"Can't believe you're tired already — hick! — na-Baron!"

It's Baron by now, but Feyd doesn't bother correcting Mikhail as they slouch through the array of corridors which will eventually lead them to the concubines' wing where Feyd has moved in with his wife-to-be, his old quarters burned down together with the Baron's. That is unless they get lost, liquor-blurred eyes blinking into predawn darkness.

"Not tired," Feyd-Rautha protests, shoving his comrade into the nearest wall. The guard bounces right back, sending Feyd staggering.

"So, lovesick?"

"I can go a night without my woman."

"Yeeaah, but you don't wanna." 

There is not a single club in Barony that doesn't have poles for strippers and slaves of every shape, size and age at their disposal, yet neither of the two men have indulged in anything other than alcohol and the occasional pill or pipe tonighr. The physiology of anything living on Giedi Prime is much harder to poison. Common alcohol is barely a challenge for Harkonnen livers, hence why booze from Giedi Prime's distilleries can kill an off-wordler after just a glass.

"It's Bull's Night, so 'course I want my prize at the end of the night."

"Point is you should take some other prize, ya know? Spread out your seed, eh?" Mikhail gesticulates with one hand, drawing complicated circles in the air.

"Did'you spread out your seed before you married Lilia?"

"Nah," Mikhail laughs and Feyd scoffs, grinning to himself. The night has been long and his cheeks are hurting.

The sudden echo of a shoe around the next corner snaps both men out of their drunken banter. These aren't guards' boots. Feyd-Rautha's blade hisses from its sheath and he barges forward, coming to an abrupt halt behind the corner. It is Mikhail who speaks first.

"Beast — hick! — Rabba-ban!"

The stocky frame of Feyd's older brother fills out the hallway. He wears dark brown, a cushioned pad on one shoulder and a sword belt around his hip. A comfortable uniform as it is worn on Lankiveil. He's gotten fatter, Feyd notices through the shock of finding his brother, whom he hasn't seen in over five years, in his palace, let alone while he is drunk and blabbering. 

The sight has burned him sober.

Under his arm, the intruder carries a gift box, beige with a crinkled but shiny, golden ribbon tied around it in sloppy loops.

"What are you doing here?" Rabban rumbles, mouth standing open in bewilderment. 

"It's early morning. What are you doing here?" Feyd snaps back sharply, muscled shoulder angled towards his brother who is still several feet away.

"I was on my way to your room."

"My room isn't that way anymore."

Rabban can't find it in him to close his mouth, but he does plod into Feyd-Rautha's personal space, uncaring of the way his younger brother twitches and how his long limbs tense themselves to lunge. Despite his drunkenness, Mikhail's fist is screwed tight around the handle of his half-unsheathed blade and the smaller man is poised like a guard dog behind his Baron and friend.

After a moment, Feyd exhales a slow lungful of air. "Go now," he orders and gives the tense guard a firm slap on the shoulder and a little squeeze. 

"Are ya sure, my Lord?" Mikhail hesitates until Feyd-Rautha squeezes his shoulder again.

"Go and mount your woman. She must have been waiting for you all night. And tell mine not to come here!"

Mikhail sheathes his blade with a noisy hiss and trails around Rabban in a curious half circle before wandering off into the hallway, a sway to his footsteps as he keeps muttering that he needs to tell Lilia about Beast - hick - Rabban.

Looking past Feyd's raised, wicked blade, Glossu's dark brown eyes find his brother's icy blue ones and Feyd is enraged when Rabban's cheeks fill up with laughter out of all things. 

"How did you get in here? You're not invited." Feyd rumbles, tilting the blade’s tip towards Rabban’s neck. “You should kiss your Baron's feet and beg him for forgiveness for trespassing.”

Still, the older brother disregards his sibling’s threat and merely tightens his grip on the curious box. He doesn’t even bother to draw his sword. Feyd is seething.

"I'm still a Harkonnen by blood. I don't need to be invited to attend my little brother's wedding."

Feyd-Rautha snarls at that. Being a few inches taller and considering himself considerably smarter than Glossu in every regard, he sees himself as anything but the little brother.

"You're not a Harkonnen, you're a Rabban and you're dressed like one too."

"You're a Rabban as much as I am! You would look good in a uniform like mine." 

Feyd's brows knit together in bewilderment. "I look nothing like a Rabban."

"You look just like our mother," Glossu barks and Feyd hisses through bared teeth, pupils shrunken to deadly pinpricks.

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to attend my little brother's wedding."

"I'm not your little brother, you dumb boar."

"You'll always be my little brother!"

"And you've taken the title of big brother literally as of late? You look fat. Have you been drinking?"

"A little," his brother admits. Now being way past fifty, Glossu 'Beast' Rabban looks old and bloated and Feyd finds it hard to believe that he could have ever looked up to his older sibling.

"Say what you want in my palace or feel my blade in your neck."

"I've only been truthful to you," Rabban insists. "I came to celebrate and to… talk.  I'm happy for you."

"Are you now?" Feyd tilts his head in cold mockery.

"I hope I get to meet your woman one day. I've heard plenty of rumors, ranging from heartwarming to mind boggling."

Feyd would rather keep his brother a thousand miles away from his wife to be. The last time they had seen each other, they had clashed with blades and teeth. Rabban, spraying spittle, had yelled that he would shatter everything his spoiled prince of a brother calls his own to pieces, and Feyd had made a gashing cut along Rabban's ribs, snarling with honeyed voice that even a pig had higher chances at success.

There was no love lost between the brothers.

"What's in there?" Feyd's gaze darts to the beige box under Glossu's arm and flits back up with resharpened coldness. But no icy glare can hide the fact that he's taken the bait, like a boy who can't resist a candy bar dangled in front of his face.

"It's for you," Glossu beams and offers the box all too freely. Feyd can't remember a time when his brother had ever willingly shared, let alone given.

Opening a mystery present from Rabban might as well be his last foolish mistake, but Feyd too may be a bit drunk, a bit drugged, and his curiosity kindled a bit too much by this irritating encounter.

"Open it," Feyd demands, holding the blade unwavering at Rabban's neck. His brother complies, pulling on the bow so it flutters to the ground, then wrapping one thick hand around the lid to lift it.

Feyd had expected many things, but not that.

From inside, a soft thing meets his incredulous stare and Feyd-Rautha's free hand lifts slowly, sliding into the box to pick up the item with pointy fingers. He holds it at arm's length, as if its soft fur might bite, and rotates it by the flipper. A stitched face with a little snout regards him, black marbles for eyes, handmade. It's a seal, its plush made of brown whale fur. Some spots are lovingly worn and matted by young, playful hands.

"Why don't you just go over there and say that you want it?" A man's droning baritone. "Because I don't want it!" Icy wind whistles around the fur hood of Feyd's coat, along with the scent of pines, roasted almonds and smoked meat. "So you tugged on my sleeve because you don't want it? You're a big boy now, you can go over there. Are you scared?" "Let's go! You're stupid!" Feyd yowls and the faceless man laughs as the little boy fruitlessly pushes against his thick leg to get him to move away from the market stall. Blades clatter when he throws himself against the man's hip. "No, no, no! I hate you!" A pair of muscled arms sweep up his body like he's only a doll and throw him over a broad, fur-clad shoulder. Feyd finds himself thrashing against the coat that covers the man's back with his tiny fists.

“You remember it?” Rabban laughs and Feyd hates the way a web of crow’s feet spreads around his brother's eyes. It makes him look aged.

“No,” he snarls like a dog. 

“But I do." Rabban points at the stuffed seal. "I got it for you.” 

"You?!" The muscles of Feyd's hairless brows tic upwards in perplexity. The man from that wicked memory was not his father then? But he had looked so tall and big and grown-up. The idea that his bull-headed brother had been kind to him once and did something as mundane as take him to the market and buy him a toy is one that Feyd viciously rejects. It stands out jarringly against the brutal colors that paint his concept of family.

“You acted like you didn’t want to have it. Thought I wouldn't see the way you looked at it, big eyes and all. You thought it was embarrassing to have a— a plushy thing.” Rabban’s voice falters, like there is more hidden there. Old anguish that hurts so freshly when he sees his grown-up baby brother with an old toy in hand. Baron now. “You really don’t remember?”

“I remember that you threw me over your shoulder like a big brute. So, you’ve always been a boar, even then.” Feyd’s eyes glint like his blade as the pale dawn that creeps over the horizon, shedding light through the arched windows between bulging pillars.

“Yeah, I did that!” Rabban dares to fill the quiet morning air with guffawing laughter once more. "You were so small and light. You were on my knees a lot, brother. Used to sit there and watch me whet my blades. You still whet them like I showed you back then, do you know that?" 

"I was never on your fat knees, brother, and if I was, it must have been by force." 

Feyd's left forearm ricochets into Rabban's chest, pinning him to the wall. The blade pokes into the side of the bulkier man's neck, sharp and glinting like a snake tooth and Feyd’s features are screwed into deadly violence. 

Rabban grunts in a way that Feyd finds downright pathetic when the back of his head hits the solid tiles, barely fighting against his baby brother's assault. His eyes are squeezed into crinkled lines. From up close, one can see the blotchiness of Rabban's puffy face. Feyd sneers.

"You'll die younger than our uncle if you go on like this," he comments on his brother's tumid appearance and scratches the blade tip against his cheek. “You embarrass your Baron.”

Rabban shrugs his shoulders and releases a puff of air from trembling lips. It bewilders him that even though he’s afraid, he wouldn’t mind if his little brother slit his neck right here. At the very least, he would die at the hand of the last person he had ever loved. “You’re no Baron to me, you’re just my baby brother.”

Glossu Rabban prepares himself for metal to sink into his neck in quick, searing pain, like he had seen Feyd do so often, a boy sharpened into violent psychosis by a violent man. But his brother's presence only grows deadly silent until Rabban opens his eyes. Feyd has never liked capable prey who doesn’t fight back. His younger brother’s expression is hard to read, shielded always by a wall of either fire or ice. Does that woman who he is to marry ever see him without? Glossu is almost jealous.

“Do you remember any of your childhood?” Rabban finds his own voice meek and brittle, thoughts drifting to a warm, cozy nursery, a round carpet on the floor, an arm chair and a toy chest on the floor, an ever-blue sky and icy hills covered in lush pines which seem to tickle the ivy firmament. The room is still unchanged in the Lankiveil fortress, a capsule of the past, waiting for the little boy who still lives somewhere in Feyd-Rautha.. "Our home?"

"I don't. Giedi Prime is my home," Feyd bites and his seething lips nearly brush against his brother’s. It is a home now that his uncle is gone.

"It is not!" Rabban suddenly bristles and shoves Feyd-Rautha’s blade aside, cutting his sleeve on it. "You know what's a good home?! Caladan. Or Kaitain. Or Lankiveil."

"You're not even a Harkonnen anymore, brother. You disgust me."

"And neither are you! We're half Harkonnen! I took after our father…" Rabban rubs over his ever-hairless skull and the many old battle scars there. "But you had blonde hair once, did you know that? And there would be snow on it when you came inside from playing."

"I wasn't playing!"

"Yes, you were!" Spit sprays over Feyd's chest, narrowly missing the stuffie which he has come to cradle unwittingly against his chest, and Feyd's eyes flash with offense. "You were a little boy, of course you were playing! You were three when I—" Rabban halts and anguish twists his aged features. He is fifty-five now and suddenly it shows. Suddenly, Feyd can only see his brother as what he is, an old veteran fallen from grace, drinking the rest of his brain away on Lankiveil. Rabban adds with a thick voice: “I always tried to be there.”

“Where?”

“With you! Everyone knew that our mother didn't want you. But I tried to be there.”

The vicious fire in Feyd's stomach dies to frozen ashes and his teeth are screwed into his bottom lip. The extended blade quivers and his fingers dig into soft fur. “What are you talking about?”

Rabban shrugs again and looks down at the stuffed seal like he hopes the magma channels will open up beneath the palace and swallow him whole. “Our parents had you under the premise that you would be given to our uncle as an heir. It was father’s and uncle's idea. A good deal. You don’t deny House Harkonnen when it offers wealth and reputation in exchange for something so…” So little.

So that’s what he had been all his life. A good deal and nothing more. Feyd wants to sink his blade into his own crunching bones.

Rabban’s face snaps back up with sudden vehemence. “Our mother could never look you in the eyes and it hurt me to see it! When you were born, I thought I would hate you. Who wants a sibling when they’re already past twenty?! But I couldn’t hate you. You were so little…”

Feyd can’t speak, his jaws clenched into a painful vise, so Rabban goes on. “You always tried to get her attention, but she never relented. She wouldn't even hold you to her own breasts for milk."

"Shut up."

"That woman you're going to marry, what is she like?" 

“I said shut up!"

Only Emmi Rabban knew the real reason why she couldn’t hold little Feyd-Rautha Rabban. It was not her husband's and her brother in law's idea, even though she let them think it was. It was the Bene Gesserit who needed her little Feyd for their breeding program, who needed him honed and sharpened the Harkonnen way because she, Emmi, had failed to raise Glossu as a respectable son. Too wild, too dumb they said. She hated herself so much for birthing Feyd-Rautha under this pretense, that she couldn't love her little boy, for she knew she couldn't bring herself to give him away if she ever started loving him.

“Sorry.” Glossu's voice quivers and it’s pathetic, so pathetic, Feyd thinks. His own breath does something quite similar.

"So, you're telling me you were the good guy all along? The good big brother?"

"Not all along, no," Rabban draws a hard breath. “You always wanted to be like me. That's why you became like this.” He spits it out like it’s a bad thing. “When I killed our father, I killed our mother and my baby brother too, I just didn't know it yet.” Fat tears roll down Glossu’s cheeks and he doesn’t even care to wipe them away.

Feyd suddenly remembers why he had felt such satisfaction when his mother looked at him with fright when he sunk the blade into her neck at night, when she was tucked into bed, helpless. He had always envied the way their mother looked fearfully at Glossu, because at least she looked at him. 

“I killed our father because he deserved it for the plan he made with our uncle. And mother… She suddenly said that you are her only son. It was worth it for me. But the deal hadn’t died with our father and then someday uncle showed up and I think you… You wanted to punish her. You wanted to be like me, so you killed her, and uncle was so impressed.” Glossu exhales shakily. “I would have killed him too, but… I visited you on Giedi Prime after your first months there, you know? I saw what he did to you. You were covered in bruises and I… did nothing. And you grew mean. And you had every right to. But with no one else left to hate, I started hating you, for many years. It’s all my fault.” 

Glossu Rabban cries into his fist’s and Feyd-Rautha traps his sobs within his throat, which hurts like a blade was stuck in it. But no matter how tightly he seals his throat, it doesn’t keep his eyes from going blurry and the hot, salty wetness from spilling down his cheeks.

Present Day

Rabban smiles encouragingly, fist beating down on his thick chest to the mighty echo of the drums. Feyd tilts his head, smiling too, shoulders squared and chin held high, even as his heart plummets into his stomach.

The rhythm changes, becomes uncharacteristically softer and gentler. Quick, almost like cats' paws chasing over the plains. The ring bearer is released into the aisle, holding one ring in each quivering face-hand. Big, pearlescent eyes seek out the man and woman at the end of the aisle who both hold out their hands encouragingly, but they are so far away and so many strangers sit and gawk all around.

Glugo shivers, cowering. 

Until the two other faces it has grown to love leap up from their seats in the front row and hurry all the way to the back, offering one hand each. Glugo is lucky to have more than enough hand-feet to hold each offered hand in two of its own and strut down the aisle with newfound confidence. The distance shrinks rapidly and it clambers up on top of the pedestal all on its own. Its half-human heart is terribly proud as it holds up the rings as high as it can reach, looking from Feyd to the bride and back. Glugo doesn't like her gown. One hand-foot fingers the splayed, lead-coated plastic panels which are anything but soft. She should have worn a blanket or a fur cloak, it thinks.

"Well done," she praises softly, stroking over the top of Glugo's head with one gloved hand.

"Thank you, my friend" Feyd rasps and the drums fade away entirely when the bride and groom pick up the rings, him holding hers and her holding his.

The wedding bands are blacker than the universe itself, held up against the lurid sky. Forged out of obsidian from Giedi Prime's volcanic mines, they have been chemically reinforced to withstand the eons.

Glugo climbs bravely back down and joins Lilia and Mikhail in a comfortable basket at their feet, loafing and watching attentively.

As Glugo leaves, the master of ceremonies steps onto the raised platform from behind the altar. The tattoos that cover his torso in thick, blocky stripes make him appear almost fully dressed, even though he is clad in only a toga, with black panels of fabric twining loosely around his arms. Nodding towards the Baron and his Lady, the man readies his throat to speak, but a timid servant who comes scurrying from the side beats him to it.

"Eruption imminent, my Lord," the scrawny man murmurs and points to Feyd-Rautha's side where a jagged vent has begun spewing black, billowing smoke into the firmament. A thousand heads turn to the mountain ridge, each towering giant an active volcano. The earth growls and moans beneath their feet.

"Should we evacuate?" The bride's worried voice comes muffled from beneath the layers of scintillating plastic.

"No, we will proceed," Feyd-Rautha decides, turning back to her, leaving the volcanoes at his back in plain sight for her. "Let my bride see the glory and beauty of our world."

She inhales shakily, squaring her shoulders when Feyd grins, blinking in cat-like manner.

"Very well!" The announcer speaks, his recognizable voice as loud as a war horn. When he raises his arms above his head, a fierce breeze picks up the panels fluttering from his pale arms. The wind carries notes of ash. "Let us commence the holy union of our beloved leader, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and his chosen bride! The planet itself celebrates with us!"

Drums begin to boom like thunder, punching a rhythm that pumps red and black blood alike through their veins in a rapid chase. At every fifth beat, the crowd throws their hands up high, chanting. At every tenth beat, the next gust of smoke billows over the crater edge. The man who can make his voice heard across an entire arena has no trouble outdoing the drums.

"The rumors are true, dear people, dear Harkonnens. Our bride is a woman of lost, ancient kingdoms, a relic, the first astronaut! Imagine the ancient secrets she will share with our new Lord, with us!" The announcer punches his fists wildly in the air, black teeth bared in a gashing crescent. "This spring equinox marks the dawn of a new age for our glorious House!"

The planet's crust screams in agreement and gives birth to sparkling rivulets of black, hot lava with an earth-shattering roar. Like ghastly fireworks, they splash against the storm-battered, frosted sky.

The announcer laughs, clutching the bride and groom by the arms. "Foretold by dreams, their union is now written in the flesh!"

Feyd-Rautha curls his palm around her covered cheek and she does the same to him, gloved hand cool against his skin. She is gawking in awe at the terrible spectacle at his back, but a soft tilt of Feyd's head is enough to snare her attention back to him. His uncanny beauty outshines even the brutal convulsions of Giedi Prime.

"Speak after me," the announcer hollers. "I swear by the blood and the flesh that my heart belongs to my Manducor, in life and in death. The honor to devour it after my passing goes to my Manducor and my Manducor alone. The glorious, black sun is my witness."

Manducor means heart eater. Days prior, when Feyd came  home drunk and weepy after his Bull's Night, he had confessed to her that he had always been afraid of dying, because he knew his uncle would eat his heart in a final, cruel violation. But not anymore, he had whispered with such fondness that she now finds it easy to repeat the words and mean them.

Her voice is amplified by a device offered by the announcer and her words roll like a tidal wave across the semi circle of guests. Feyd-Rautha's features twitch in euphoria, eyes gleaming like the lava that rolls in hot rivers down the mountain flank. Like an animal ready to pounce, his voice quivers when he repeats the sacred words.

The drums' chasing rhythm crests and the screams that rise from a thousand mouths are guttural and primal. The volcano hisses above, the earth howls below and Feyd-Rautha claims his bride to the grandest cacophony of man and nature.

Lilia cries and presses Glugo's head to her knee. A beaming Glossu Rabban shakes Mikhail's hand.

The relic's palms meet Feyd's belly when he crosses the distance in one powerful stride, sliding over the twitching hills of his muscles when he parts her veil up to the nose, baring her painted lips to the scalding air.

"My woman, I love you," her husband snarls before his lips find hers in needy violence, taking her breath while her fingers curl around his back and dig into his flesh. 

With one radioactive kiss, their bond is sealed, hearts, flesh and souls bound for all beautiful, horrifying eternity.

The Garden releases its last radiance, not as something failed, but as its full reason for being: to give continually, to its last bit of energetic being. Its giving is its beauty. It is a smile, it is the heart of love. Even the smell of decay, drifting from the deer, dead by the side of the road, says: “This is what I am and no other. I do not pretend to be. Even in death I speak without deceit, even unto my flesh, my very bones.

- Equinox by Richard Wehrman

A/N: See you in the, starts sobbing , last chapter 🥺🥺🥺

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[mylove-iv]

⠀𐔌 . ⋮ eyes don't lie .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ʚ botw! link x hyrulean princess, fem! reader ɞ

synopsis: in a sea of people bearing facades, his blue eyes oh so honest enraptures your heart unbeknownst to even yourself.

genres: fluff, romance.

content warnings: implications of mistreatment and a power imbalance, snapping due to frustrations, really messy but pining idiots who've yet to realize that they're pining for each other, longing disguised as helpfulness.

reader specifications: reader was detailed to have rosy cheeks and wears heels.

word count: 2.39k words.

―originally posted on @mydarling-iv, dec. 31, 2023

‎‧₊ ─ masterlist .ᐟ ༘

The sun warms the skin of your rosy cheeks as it pours from the canopy of leaves overhead. The woods smell of fresh earth as it had just rained prior, allowing the cool air to kiss your nose sweetly.

You've forgone your constraining heels, deciding to go bare foot as you race through the forest, hoping to find a rare herb whose blooming window now only opened.

If you miss such an opportunity, the herb won't bloom until a couple moons later. Such a thought causes you to huff as you continue running, hoping to out run your knight who seems keen on following you.

Besides your soft pants, you hear your assigned knights heavy footfalls. Odd, you think as his foot steps are always so light.

Breaking from the tree line, the morning sun paints you in a golden glow that warms you up, chasing away the chill that was starting to settle in your limbs. You hear the footfalls come closer and you start your sprint once more, being careful with running on a fallen log that acted as a bridge over a small ravine.

"Your highness!" A voice calls out, the familiarity of his voice causes a slight upturn of the corners of your lips.

You're halfway on the large log before you meet sky blue eyes that remind of you clear, cloudless skies that you oh so adore. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his hair windswept from the run from the castle to the forest you've forced him to endure, and yet, his eyes remain kind.

"Ser Link," You hum thoughtfully, borderline coy. "Kind of you to finally join me."

You see Link's nose scrunch slightly, such a small twitch would've gone unnoticed if you haven't been paying close attention as your knight never seems to break character.

Always it seems that he chooses to keep a tight lipped mouth, his face stern, his body rigid as to alway be prepared, and yet, his eyes are such an endless pool of blue that you can read quite well—more likely are allowed to—and only with you, he seems to talk, his words always so soft and endearing.

Even if you cause trouble, like now, where he's to chase after you, or if you were to endanger yourself accidentally, it is never anger or frustration you see in his bluebell eyes, but always worry.

"It's dangerous." His words are curt, yet there's a slight furrow to his eyebrows that will go unnoticed by many. But you aren't like most people, you catch on quick when it comes to his tells and his eyes-

Stars, they're filled with an apparent worry that guilt starts tugging at your soul.

You swiftly turn, resuming your dash to the other side as a flash of lavender and your eyes widen as you see a superbloom of armoranth, a rare commodity even for the likes of the nobility and imperial family as well.

"Princess!" Link calls out worriedly but your feet is already touching the soft grass on the other side of the ravine and only after a few steps away from the log, you turn.

Your eyes widen as you see Link hurriedly crossing the makeshift bridge, his sword strapped to his back as his arms a somewhat raised to help him balance on the log as he hurried to you. His lips are pursed cutely, the furrow between his brows deepening and becoming apparent. Such a sight causes you to smile widely as a sweet laugh tumbles from your lips, being unable to hold it back.

Link's eyes widen as his head snaps quickly to your direction as he stumbles off the log slightly and onto solid ground. You're kind enough to quickly grab ahold of his hand to keep him steady and even kinder to reduce your cackles to soft giggles.

"You must be careful now, Ser Link, I don't want you tripping again." You tease softly as you give him a sweet smile and your knight looks gobsmacked at the sight.

You cough slightly, snapping Link out of his daze before he drops to one knee, keeping your hand in his in a firm yet soft grip that allows you to pull away if you so desire to. He's quiet as his eyes become somewhat sad and you feel bad for teasing him and keeping such a nonchalant facade with him.

┊ ੈ✩‧₊*°࿐ྂ

Palace politics and the nobility were unkind, you and Zelda having not been spared from it as the sole heirs to Hyrule. Having been assigned knights against both of your wishes, Zelda was rightfully angered, feeling more constrained by your father's decision.

In a fit of anger, she had urged you to rebel against your knight as you also shouldn't be controlled even more. You sighed, silently promising yourself that you'd be polite to your knight while trying to maintain a facade of indifference to your knight in hopes of quelling your sisters unhappiness.

It was only when Zelda's showcase of her displeasure and unfair treatment directed towards her knight became so blatant that you are reminded to maintain your promise to yourself to treat your own knight with grace.

You recall of the times Link had saved you from your own stupidity so selflessly and without regards to his own safety and it pushes you to soften your cold facade with your knight as he too is only fulfilling his purpose, a royal guard bound by the king's order whose words is absolute.

After arguing with your father about the medical treatment regarding those affected by a sudden winter blight, or therefore lack of, you stormed out of the throne room in anger.

You then callously snapped at Link for no reason as he simply followed you as he usually does to your quarters. In the heat of your frustration, you became blind to his sky blue eyes faltering, hurt flashing through them briefly.

Later that night, going against your father's orders and not informing Link, you sneak out of your room and into the Applean forest. The said forest is a great deal of distance away from the castle but you had caught wind of a great deal of herbs growing there that would effectively help combat the effects of the blight.

Bundling them a handful in a small cloth, you scolded yourself for your harsh words to your knight and promised to make a healing balm composed of the herbs to give to Link as an apology, and to hopefully turn a new leaf as well.

But as you are starting to make your way out of the forest, a loud squeamish squeal rips through the air and your blood chills. From the corner of your eye, you see the red skin of a bokoblin wielding a wooden club.

Chastising yourself for not bringing Link with you, you break into a sprint, the beast giving chase. Breaking out of the the tree line, your heart pounds against your chest but as you gain a decent distance between you and the bokoblin, a chilling sound of a guardian focusing its laser causes your heart to drop.

You look up swiftly, seeing the reddish glow of a guardian going on the offense due to detecting an enemy. A malfunctioning one, Zelda had mentioned some defects. You cursed, biting your bottom lip anxiously as the bokoblin closes in on you and the guardian prepares to fire its beam.

You berate yourself for your unkindness towards Link in your last moments with him and you are forced to come to terms with your untimely death.

Time seems to slow and just as you see the laser make its away to you, a firm yet gentle arm wraps around your waist as your back lands against something solid and warm. The smell of sweet spearmint and earthy pine fills your nose and your body slackens in relief as you recognize this scent—his scent.

"Link." You murmur softly as you turn your head, bearing witness to his skills that rivals none in the kingdom.

He quickly brings the Hylian shield you had gifted to him during his knighthood ceremony and quickly parries the guardian beam causing the large tank of ancient tech to combust immediately before Link tears his arm away from you, choosing to draw his sword and making a quick work of the bokoblin.

Time between you and Link seems to stand still as you stare at his back. Guilt consumes your heart, you worried him horribly this time. Stars, if anything had happened to you, they would've punished Link and ultimately put his head on a pike.

You open your mouth to profusely apologize but Link is quick to bend the knee in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours and you feel horrible when you bear witness to the clear stress and worry swimming in his eyes.

Link gently grasps your hand, squeezing softly that doesn't hurt you in anyway that seems to reassure himself that you're safe and real. "I-.. I know you despise me for restricting your freedom, but please- please, next time if you wish to go out, please take me with you so I am to safeguard you from harm." He looks away, lips pursed softly as his eyes become sullen.

By some instinct—an urge—you cup his face, softly easing him to look at you in the eye once more. You're to speak yet the earnest look in his eyes forces any words to die on your tongue and you're taken off guard with how kind and true your knight is.

"Ser Link, I'm sorry for making you feel as if I despise you. In truth, I don't hate you at all, yet despite that, my actions showed you otherwise, and for that, I apologize. I apologize for snapping at you earlier, and I'm extremely sorry for worrying you with my stupid stunt tonight."

His eyes widen softly, the stars gleam from overhead making them twinkle and the sight seizes your breath. "I'm sorry, Ser Link, for everything." You murmur softly, bowing slightly.

A gentle squeeze to your hand encased in his brings your attention back to him. Your eyes widen from the sight in front of you, your heart stuttering and breath hitching ever so slightly as you see a small smile grace Link's face. He then leans further to place a soft kiss to the back of your balm, his honest eyes never straying from yours.

┊ ੈ✩‧₊*°࿐ྂ

Guilt ebbs away at your psyche once more as you recall that you've never apologized for your constant indifference towards him and have actually kept it up.

A grimace itches at your face, "I'm sorry, Ser Link, for the incessant teasing." You sigh meekly, your thumb mindlessly rubbing back and forth on Link's gloved hand.

His eyes widen slightly and you hate yourself even more at the implications—stars, of course he doesn't expect a sincere apology from you as you've gone up and ditched him the second time since the guardian incident!

His reaction bothers you more knowing that the reason why you've began to avoid your knight was because of the constant skips your heart would make whenever you and Ser Link interacted.

Stars, he is your knight and you a princess, never mind your reputation, you'd only sully his and make him a court fool in front of the nobility if you're to pursue him-

You lose yourself to the brewing storm in your mind and ever the observant knight he is, Link notices how your eyes become sullen. He gently squeezes your hand, a move you've become familiar with, and it works as your attention moves back to him.

"Princess, I've no need to forgive you for something that doesn't upset me. I- I'm just glad that you've begun to talk to me comfortably." He murmurs softly and you will your heart to not skip a beat because stars-

His eyes are so blue—an endless sea of honesty and softness that you've come to realize that he's granted only you the privilege of seeing—and the sight has your heart pounding.

A small smile tugs on your lips, "It is one of the many things I can do to make up for how cold and indifferent I've acted towards you, Ser Link." You purse your lips, looking away and Link sees how truly sorry your are in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand once more to get your attention on him once more and the pained smile on your face tugs at his heart strings. "I've constantly taken advantage for your unwavering loyalty, Ser Link. I'm-"

Stars, it truly is upsetting. He is only doing what he is ordered to by your father and you punish him nonetheless? How unkind and unjust for you to treat him like that-

How cruel can you be to someone so innocent in royal affairs? The thought is chilling and it overwhelms your control over your emotions.

A choked gasp leaves your lips as he sees your eyes glaze over with unshed tears. Link is quick to rise, his body moving closer as he patiently waits for your signal.

You catch on and nod despite being unaware of his intentions. Yet from the honest look in his eyes, you realize that you trust the man in front of you wholeheartedly. "I'm sorry for every wrongdoing I've committed against you." You mutter, looking away from him in shame.

Link's hands gently cups your face, and like on the night of the guardian incident, he mimics what you had done and makes you look at him in such a gentle manner that intensifies the ache in your chest.

Your lips are pursed, eyebrows furrowed in guilt, and Link smiles softly to ease your worries. You melt, cheek leaning into his hand as he gently caresses your cheek with the soothing motions of his thumb.

Beautiful. Absolute stunning. Link finds the thought at the forefront of his mind as he looks at you.

"It's okay, princess. Just promise me that you'll allow me to stay by your side." Link murmurs, eyes looking into yours with such a softness that could make you melt even further.

You bring up your hands to cup his as the sweetest smile gracing your face sends his heart racing. "I promise, Link."

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