#it's impossible to chart a course without knowing where you are. and knowing where you are at 23

[dalniente]

Poppies are also frequently used to symbolize remembrance and resilience. Fallen soldiers. Rebirth, occasionally. Death and sleep as well of course, but they're more than just heroin.

i call this one “nobody likes you when youre 23”

[aventurineswife]

"In The City Of Flowers" - Anaxagorus x Astrologist! Reader

This particular track emanates a serene and contemplative atmosphere. Similar to the previous song, but not quite the same. Maybe we could toss them on a date or something... Up to you <3

Where Petals Fall, So Too Do The Stars

Summary: In the flower-draped streets of Okhema, the Astrologist and Anaxagoras share a rare, tranquil day together. Amid music, petals, and fading sunlight, they exchange thoughts on fate, gods, and the fragility of love. A quiet moment of intimacy unfolds, woven with unspoken fears and unshakable devotion. It is a memory preserved in your mind — gentle, fleeting, and already slipping into myth.

Tags: Anaxagorus x Reader, Astrologist!Reader, Angst with Comfort, Bittersweet Romance, Found Family, Vulnerable Characters, Pre-Tragedy, Memory Sequence, Soft Moments, Existential Themes, Hand-Holding, Star Motifs, Implied Past Trauma, Slow Burn Vibes, Unspoken Love, Semi-Poetic Prose.

Warnings: Implications of character death (Anaxagoras), Discussion of mortality and godhood, Emotional vulnerability, References to past trauma, manipulation, Melancholy undertones, Romantic intimacy.

Tagslist: @sewoui, @tremendoustragedybard, @axolotsofluv

The wind carried the scent of rosewood and old books. The streets of Okhema were aglow in the golden hour, their cobbled paths scattered with petals — scattered not by design, but by wild wind and the city’s irrepressible life.

It was the one place Anaxagoras allowed himself to walk without his gloves.

You remember this day — vividly, impossibly so — the kind that burns so deep into memory it defies time. His left hand, warm against yours. His right, still gloved.

"Even gods are jealous of cities like this," he said, and his voice had that rare softness. "They hold no dominion here — only memory does."

You had argued with him earlier that morning, of course. Over a star chart. Over the meaning of a flame-shaped constellation whose pattern you claimed predicted a catastrophe, and which he stubbornly called a "statistical coincidence amplified by myth-making." His words. You’d thrown a chair. He had laughed. And now here you were, walking alongside him like nothing had happened.

Anaxagoras stopped before a street musician playing a lyre, the notes faint, meandering like drifting stardust. He tilted his head toward the music, eye half-lidded as if listening to a voice only he could hear.

"You know," he said after a pause, "I’ve always found something poetic about your belief in destiny."

"You mean foolish."

"I said poetic." A pause. “Besides, I only call things foolish when I secretly wish I believed in them.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being sentimental again, Anaxa.”

“Mm. And you’re not running away this time.”

He was right. Usually, intimacy made you freeze. But now — walking beside him, amid flowers, music, and that waning sun — you felt calm. Tethered. Real.

You paused in front of a small fountain, where dromas pecked at fallen petals floating on the surface. It reminded you of the stories he told you when you couldn’t sleep — of artificial birds, of wind-powered toys that never soared, of a boy who knelt alone beside a burned house and never once cursed the gods.

He sat on the stone edge of the fountain. His eye was brighter than the sun through stained glass. And for a long moment, he said nothing. Just... looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every fragment of your face, should time rip it away.

Then softly — so softly — he said:

“I never thought I'd live long enough to fall in love.”

You flinched. The words stung more than they soothed.

“You won’t,” you whispered. “You’ll die, won’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’m not scared of death,” he murmured. “I’m scared of becoming a god. Of losing the capacity to change. To fail. Of forgetting what it meant to feel—this.”

He took your hand again. This time, both hands were bare.

“I’m scared of forgetting you.”

The stars weren’t out yet, but you knew them by heart. You’d named constellations after his scars. His laughter. The asymmetry of his love.

You sat beside him, pressing your forehead to his. He smelled of dust, ink, and something sweet — Antila oil, maybe. The silence stretched between you like silk.

“If I become a god,” you whispered, “will you destroy me too?”

He smiled — that crooked, beautiful smile. “Only if you ask me nicely.”

And the petals kept falling. And the birds kept singing.

And somewhere in the echo of a future that had not yet collapsed, a Titan’s heart trembled.

[Navigation]

[auroras-zenith]

what doesn't kill you // part 7

you had your whole life planned out for you; start an agency with your best friend, scale the charts and make japan your bitch. but when a tragic accident leaves you incapacitated and out of a job, you find you just need to start fresh. you cut ties–and for two years, you've all but disappeared. until they need you again and come knocking at your door.

bakugo x retiredpro!reader

prologue ✧ previous ✧ next

"Put the new vinyls out?"

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a pen from the desk and throwing it at your coworker. "You're so lazy."

"Please?" He groaned, his purple hair falling out of sight as he threw his head back. "I'm fuckin' tired."

"Shinso, you just came back from a week long vacation." You smiled murderously, eye quite possibly twitching.

The huff he gave you was epically loud.

"I'm getting used to being back." He shrugged.

The groan you returned was even louder.

"This is the last time I'm doing your job." You insisted indignantly, snatching the stack of vinyls from his arms and pushing him out of the way.

He gave a lazy, smug grin, tailing you to the front of the store. "You're in a good mood."

You ignored him, not denying the accusation.

"Am I invited to dinner?"

"Why would you be?" You worked as you talked, carefully arranging the display case to be visually pleasing.

"Because they're my friends too, and you didn't let me over the last time they visited?"

You scoffed. "You can see them when they come to visit you."

It was his turn to throw a pen at your back. "They're here to visit both of us, bitch."

"Tell that to the door that's going to be locking you out of my house!" You tease, laughing as you duck the arms that came to choke you. "I'm just saying! They're not having dinner with you, are they?"

He caught you this time as you came back up, a grin plastered all over your face. "You're horrible."

"What's horrible is trying to strangle me when I'm doing your work!" His hands gripped you by the shoulders, turning you round to face him.

"Invite me to dinner." He insisted, staring you indignantly in the eyes.

His warm breath fanned across your face.

Were his eyes always so purple?

You ripped away from his grasp, busying yourself picking up the vinyls that had fallen to the floor while your face burned. "You're impossible."

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as his broad shoulders easily rose than fell in a shrug. How was he so unbothered?

"Jesus christ–you're invited, Shinso. Of course you are, moron."

He nodded. "Thanks." A warm hand reached out, patting the top of your head. "That's all I needed, I'll finish the rest. You go do what you have to do prepare."

You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding. Having the only two people you had left from your past life over was kind of a big thing, you supposed.

"Yeah, alright. Thanks Shin."

The stack of dusty vinyls were lifted easily out of your arms as you grabbed your things, the bell on the door ringing delicately as you slipped out.

It was a quiet day in town today–not that the other days here were much different.

That had been the hardest part to adjust to for you.

Everything about your new life was quiet–when your old life was anything but. You had lived in the heart of Musutafu where a day without sirens blaring was one for the history books and there were practically more people than blades of grass.

And your best friend.

Boy was he ever noisy. Harsh words grating your ears every waking moment from dusk to dawn, waking you up in the mornings and staying through the nights.

It was different here.

The streets stayed a respectful quiet, and even the bustle that came with the midday rush hour was a calm one. Your home was for one instead of two, and the mug reserved only for Bakugo remained unused in the back of your cabinet.

Your footsteps were mindless and quiet as you stared at your shoes.

Shinso had helped a lot. He knew your story. He had a similar one himself. He hadn't been disabled–for him, leaving was a choice.

Still, he understood the odd, empty feeling that came with your newfound free time. And to compensate, he helped you fill it. In all that the world threw at you, the man plagued by eye bags was probably the best thing to come out of it.

Not that it was coincidence, of course. Kaminari and Jirou had figured you'd need a friend through this and had reached out to Shinso to see if he'd mind sharing his quaint little town with you.

He took up a lot of what Bakugo used to do for you.

He'd fix the one annoying smoke alarm that wouldn't stop beeping, swing by occasionally with a bag of groceries and take your shifts every once in a while.

And when he saw you losing yourself in the storm of your past, he'd be there. Show up at your door, three in the morning, drenched in the rain with his switch in hand.

He kept you anchored in the hurricane of your feelings.

Which was exactly why you couldn't lose him.

Not like you had lost your last best friend, and certainly not to some stupid, childish feelings.

The two of you were friends–absolutely nothing else.

a/n: a little bit of fluffy filler as you get to know your new home <3

taglist: @floverisland @biancatomlinson @rosaryia @highlandhyena @sarashu @rednicotine @emmaiscool22 @your-mum3000 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @sikuthealien @thefirst-ofus @harryzcherry @xoxoblueyy @moonz33 @lotusstarr @dragonscribble @3ve88 @thatgrlnany @shortie-chocolate @astolary @dreamybabbyy @ditzy-kie

permanent tags: @phtmmsqrde @pikachuzhc @stabbygabyy @frosted-flakes @didibanini

[guttersnarls]

He leads the world phenomenon that is currently number one on the Billboard charts. When another world tour was planned, he put his foot down - Ghost had to play in Linköping. " That's where all dreams were born" Tobias Forge tells Emil Oskar Andersson- Corren 2025-05-20

(Full article under the cut)

June 3, 2015, 9:55 p.m. It's a chilly early summer day in Linköping, but inside Agatanklubben Doom (Nightclub Doom) it's boiling hot. To the tune of "Monstrance Clock," the newly inaugurated Pope Papa Emeritus Ill and his entourage leave the stage. Getting a ticket was basically impossible, but the organizers manage to squeeze in a full 700 people - packed in tightly. But no one inside knows that it will be a decade before Ghost plays for the Linköping audience again. Or what will happen in between. 

A high-profile trial in Linköping District Court, where some of the band's musicians sued leader Tobias Forge, of course. But above all, Ghost has released four acclaimed albums, several new popes and cardinals have been presented, and the band has grown into an even greater worldwide phenomenon. 

At the time of writing, the new album Skeletá is at number one on the Billboard charts, the first Swedish album since 1993. And now, on May 22, Ghost is finally playing in his hometown again. When tickets went on sale, they sold out in just a few minutes. 

Ten years without a gig in Linköping - why has it taken so long?

  - The unsexy reason is that Linköping is too close to Stockholm. Ghost plays quite rarely in Sweden and if they do play a gig, it has often been Stockholm, Gothenburg or Malmö. Then there has been some pressure from above where they have said that if we play in Linköping we will cannibalize a possible second gig in Sweden. But this time I felt: "Then we'll screw up the second gig and play in Linköping instead", says Tobias Forge when we meet at the record label's office in Östermalm in Stockholm.

 You had to put your foot down and say, "Now we're doing this"?

- Yes, and when I said it, they were like: " Huh? What did you say?" but I insisted that we do it. And now that it's almost a fact, it feels really fun. I don't know if we'll ever do a gig on that scale again in Linköping.

We start talking about his childhood and upbringing. What places have shaped him and made him who he is today? 

Tobias Jens Forge was born on March 3, 1981 in Linköping. At the time, the family lived at Repslagaregatan 10A, near where Uncle Mellin's Square is today. At the time, the city's police station was located there, and Tobias remembers how, as a three-year-old, he found it exciting to watch the constables through the apartment window. When he turned four, he and his family, which mainly consisted of his mother Siv and his 13-year-old brother Sebastian, moved to Tegelbruksgatan in Tannefors, with windows facing the district's main street.

- Nya Tanneforsvägen is my ancestral home. It was the avenue that led into the city and away from it. That's where all dreams were born. Tannefors is a magical place for me. It was like living in a small town, just outside the city. And the district was interesting because it was both a villa area and an apartment building area at the same time. In terms of age, there was a mix between families with children and 20-year-olds who lived in studios. Then, in terms of socio-economics, there was the whole spectrum; those who lived down by the river and had money, the parents who lived together and had a car and so on. On the other side of Nya Tanneforsvägen there were homes with quite chaotic conditions.

- Nya Tanneforsvägen still lives in me today. In that I grew up in a kind of inner city environment, along a busy street where there were always people, life and the sound of honking. I am still completely addicted to that. I always have to be able to open the window and hear life going on outside.

You're not a country boy?

- No.

The rock dreams came early. Linköpings filmmaker Claudio Marino, who went to the same daycare center as Tobias, tells the podcast Ny Moral that he remembers little Tobias drawing the Rolling Stones tongue the first time they met. Tobias himself remembers how, as a three-four-year-old, he saw the music video for Scorpions' "Rock you like a hurricane" on TV and how it transformed his entire worldview. 

- It was drums and guitars and Scorpions in some kind of cage. The whole thing woke something up in me and when it dawned on me that you could actually make a living as a rock idol, it felt really relevant.

Tobias lived in Linköping until he was 16, when he and his mother Siv moved up to Stockholm. There, high school didn't work at all - he had

80 percent absences and he collected "about 20 IGs”. But the rock star dream was still alive, even though the music had become even harder than Scorpions. He fronted the death metal band Repugnant and played in an early version of the sleaze rock band Crashdiet. Although he himself felt then and there that his breakthrough was around the corner, it was never really close. At the same time, he lived on grants and felt rejected by the music industry in the capital. When he was 25 years old, he moved back to Linköping and a second-hand shop on Apotekaregatan. Career suicide, some might say, but Tobias had an intuitive feeling that it was the right step to take. It felt like a liberation. Once back on the plains, he played in the bands Subvision and Magna Carta Cartel. These bands included guitarists Martin Persner and Simon Söderberg, both of whom ended up playing in the new project - Ghost. 

Kent has done an audio-guided walk in Eskilstuna - what would a Tobias Forge walk look like in Linköping? 

- If I were to tell it, it would be very long... Yes, what would such a walk be like? Geographically, you could start down in Hawaii in Tannefors and then go up to my red preschool on Stationsgatan. My home is on Tegelbruksgatan 9 and then my entire elementary school education is along Nya Tanneforsvägen, the avenue of broken dreams, Tanneforsskolan and Kungsbergsskolan.T hen we continue over Drottningbron and at that time, when I grew up in Linköping, the bus station was on Magasinstorget, it was like the whole city was opened up there and it doesn't feel quite the same today. But we continue the walk up Nygatan and there I would bore everyone by telling them how many fucking record stores there were on the strip between Trädgärdstorget, via Tanneforsgatan up to Stora Torget. There were five or six record stores in between. They were all warp zones into another, more fun reality. And then we have the music stores and video stores... Yes, this walk could have been endless. 

It sounds like there are many places that have meant a lot to you in Linköping. 

- Of course. And we haven't really talked about places outside Tannefors and the inner city. Venues like Skylten and the rehearsal rooms in Bullerbyn? - When I really started playing in a band, we had a rehearsal space in Bullerbyn and l've probably been there more than I've been to Skylten actually. That place has really meant a lot to me. I was there for the first time in 1990 maybe and we recorded parts of the first Ghost album there in 2010. In between, it was as if time had stood still in Bullerbyn, I remember the corridor with posters looking exactly the same.

Videos on Ghost's social media mention "Lincopia, Otrogothia" as Ghost's headquarters. Does Ghost make more nods to Linköping? 

- Yes, absolutely. The Linköping municipal lion was embroidered in one of the popes' robes, but it has also been featured elsewhere in symbols and logos. Then I think most people have missed that we used the windows from the old bank premises on St Larsgatan, opposite S:t Larskyrkan, in our backdrop at concerts. You can see that quite clearly if you know about it. Then of course there is the Cathedral. The church on the cover of the first album is suspiciously similar to it.

Has the Cathedral been a place you have gone to? 

- I really like the Cathedral, it is a very beautiful place and, like many others in Linköping, it has had a great impact on me. Especially from an architectural and historical perspective. I have been there all my life, partly for funerals and masses and things that you have attended. As a parent of small children, I was there often because it was a lovely place to come with the children and walk around. I have many memories of being there as a child too. My mother is passionate about art and history, so l must have had some kind of Indiana Jones adventure in there. That has probably been how it has affected me the most, as a place of adventure more than spiritual. Not that I don't feel the whispers in the walls and the anxiety that probably lived between them. I find that very easy to come into contact with. No, it has above all been the adventure and the imaginativeness of the building that has affected me.

Time is running out, but I blame Tobias Forge for wanting to keep talking about his hometown - and who am I to interrupt him? Maybe that's why the gig in Linköping feels like more than just a tour stop. 

- It's going to be a day of guest lists. There are so many people I would have loved to meet - parents, siblings, old friends. But how do you politely say that... we probably won't get to see each other? Then you almost have to cancel the gig and just hang out instead. But maybe it's just me who thinks they want to see each other - maybe they just want to go to a concert, says Tobias Forge with a laugh. I walk out of the record company office and am met by a busy street in Ostermalm. So similar and yet so different from Nya Tanneforsvägen - the avenue where all dreams were born and which once led Tobias Forge away from the city, out into the world. When he now follows it back, it ends a stone's throw from Saab Arena. Maybe that's where the dream was always headed.

[bunnysnuff]

Silent heart.

Pairing: Galinda Upland x reader.

Trigger warnings: Unrequited love.

Request.

The grand dining hall of Shiz University was filled with the usual hustle and bustle, the laughter and chatter of students, the clinking of silverware, and the steady hum of conversation. But for you, all that noise seemed to fade into the background. Your gaze was fixed on one person: Glinda Upland, the radiant sorceress who had stolen your heart without even trying.

She sat at the head of the table, surrounded by friends and admirers, effortlessly charming everyone around her with her sweet smile and kind words. You, as always, sat a little further off to the side, watching from afar. You’d never been able to bring yourself to tell her how you felt, not even after all this time. There was something about Glinda that made everything seem so impossible—her beauty, her kindness, her effortless confidence. You were certain she would never look at you the same way you looked at her.

But the universe had a strange way of working, and today, it seemed like it was pushing you into the very situation you feared the most.

“Y/N,” came Glinda’s voice, light and melodic, pulling you from your reverie. “Could you help me with something?”

You blinked, heart leaping into your throat. You hadn’t expected her to address you, let alone ask for your help. “Of course, Glinda,” you stammered, already regretting how flustered you sounded.

“I’m organizing a little event with some of the girls, and I need a second opinion on the seating arrangement,” she explained, flashing you a bright smile. “It’s not a big deal, but I know you have a knack for this sort of thing.”

You nodded, trying to stay composed despite the rush of emotions flooding your chest. “Sure, I’d be happy to help.”

Glinda led you to a nearby corner where the seating chart lay spread out on the table. As she gestured to the arrangement, your hand brushed hers, and a jolt of electricity shot through you. You quickly pulled your hand back, hoping she hadn’t noticed the way your pulse had quickened. She didn’t seem to, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were in way over your head.

“You have such a good eye for this,” she said, her voice full of admiration. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ve always been so reliable.”

Her praise made your heart swell. You wanted to tell her that you’d do anything for her, that you’d be there no matter what, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you nodded, trying to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

“You’re too kind,” you murmured, carefully adjusting the names on the chart to Glinda’s specifications.

The two of you spent the next few minutes rearranging names, chatting casually about classes, the weather, and the latest gossip from campus. You tried to keep it together, but every time she smiled at you, every time her hand came near yours, you felt like you might implode from the weight of your unspoken feelings.

Suddenly, the door to the dining hall burst open, and a loud, brash voice called out, cutting through the air like a dagger.

“There you are, Glinda! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Your heart sank as you turned to see Elphaba striding toward the table, a determined look on her face. Glinda’s eyes lit up as she saw her best friend, a look of warmth and affection that made your stomach twist painfully.

“Ah, Elphaba!” Glinda greeted, her voice full of genuine excitement. “I was just going over the seating chart with Y/N. Have you decided who you want to sit next to?”

Elphaba flashed a mischievous grin. “I’ve already got my eye on someone,” she teased, winking at Glinda. “But I don’t want to cause any drama, so I’ll just wait for the seating arrangement to surprise me.”

Glinda laughed, and for a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You watched as Elphaba’s playful energy filled the room, and a pang of jealousy you hadn’t even realized was there shot through you.

It wasn’t that you disliked Elphaba—not at all. She was blunt, a little rough around the edges, but undeniably loyal to Glinda. It was just that, in this moment, you couldn’t help but feel like you were nothing more than a background player in Glinda’s story, while Elphaba was at the center of it all.

As if sensing your discomfort, Glinda turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here. You always know how to make everything easier.”

Her words, kind and sincere, were like a balm to your wounded heart, but they also made the ache deeper. How could you ever tell her how you really felt when she had no idea what she meant to you?

And that’s when it happened. It was so subtle that you almost didn’t catch it, but there was a flicker of something in Glinda’s eyes as she glanced from you to Elphaba and back again. A moment of uncertainty, perhaps, or maybe something more. It was gone before you could properly register it, but the thought lingered in your mind.

Was there something between them? Or was it just the easy closeness of long-time friends?

Before you could ask, Glinda turned back to you, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Hey, I was thinking…” She hesitated for just a moment, her eyes glimmering with something you couldn’t quite place. “I think Elphaba and I should set you up with someone.”

Your heart dropped. The words you had been so afraid of hearing had finally been spoken.

“Oh, no—” you started, but Glinda cut you off with a bright laugh.

“It’s not a big deal, I promise! You’re so lovely, Y/N, and you deserve someone as amazing as you. Elphaba and I know a few people, and—”

“No, Glinda, please—” Your voice came out much more desperate than you intended, and you quickly cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “I… I don’t need anyone set up for me. Really.”

Glinda blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by your sudden outburst. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. Of all the ways for this to go wrong…

“No, it’s just… I don’t want to be set up with anyone,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’m… ready for that.”

Glinda’s eyes softened as she studied you. “I didn’t mean to push you, Y/N. I just want you to be happy. But if there’s something else you’re worried about, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Your heart skipped a beat. Talk to her? You wanted to tell her everything—how you loved her more than words could say, how every moment with her made your world feel brighter, how you would do anything to make her smile. But the words wouldn’t come. They never did.

Instead, you gave her a shaky smile. “Thanks, Glinda. I’ll be fine.”

She smiled back, but there was a look in her eyes that made your heart ache all over again.

Maybe, one day, you would find the courage to tell her. But for now, all you could do was watch her from afar, pretending that being near her was enough.

And perhaps, just maybe, it was.

[pearlessance]

Faith in Me - Idle Threats [v]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel faces hard truths and discovers you've been assigned an impossible task. He doesn't intend to let you chart your course alone.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI (no smut in this part, but in almost every other in the series), brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, BIG angst in this one, reader shoots at joel, added backstory to progress the plot

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

The following morning, Joel wakes up to a cold bed. The sunlight leaks in through the window, casting rays of yellow across your room. He realizes he’s never seen it like this, all lit up. There’s a mahogany dresser across from the bed, one of those handmade ones that last through lifetimes. There are scuffs and scrapes in the wood stain, but they make it look cozy and lived-in and comforting and warm, just like you. He realizes too, that the sheets on your bed that he once thought were navy are more of a plum—and that, too, suits you.

He turns his head and finds the ripped paper sitting on your pillow. He unfolds it, and inside there’s a note in your scribbly handwriting that reads, I had plans with a friend. When you let yourself out, make sure you lock the front door. 

Joel’s a little surprised for two reasons. One, you allowed him to sleep in your bed, in your home, without you, as if it were his, too. It makes him feel tender yet…territorial, somehow. Like he wants it to be his. Wants to wake up slowly like this every day, with the smell of your shampoo stuck in the sheets and in his skin. And, two, he’s surprised he slept through the night. 

It’s been a long time since he’s done that. It’s been a little easier, being in Jackson, being someplace safe. But while the walls around the commune make sleeping a little less fretful, his thoughts are what keep him up at night. Guilt and shame and all the loss he’s suffered. The memories, the picture-perfect images in his head, the bloodstain that never seems to leave his hands, the sounds of gunshots and clicking infected, and the screams, always the screams. He’s lucky to get an hour or two of solid rest every night. 

But it was dark when he fell asleep cradling your head in his hands. And now the sun is out, blinding him— midday. He feels rested and sated and revived. As if sleeping here, with you, has changed something in him. Altered the chemical makeup of his brain.

Joel doesn’t know how to process it. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he finds his clothes on the floor and does just what you ask. He locks the door behind him, wondering who this friend is that you’ve left him for, wondering if it’s someone he knows, wondering if it’s another older man who’s got morals as loose as he does.

It had been your words last night, though, and that brings him comfort. I’ll only see you.

He believes it. He has to. Because the alternative is…unthinkable. Dangerous.

When he nears the two-story colonial that Maria had given them upon their arrival to Jackson, Joel notices the door to the garage, where Ellie has taken up residence, is propped open. He hears her rambunctious laughter, and his chest pulls tight at the sound. He makes a mental note to spend some time with her soon—her birthday is coming up, and she’s growing so fast, right before his eyes. But Joel wants her to enjoy this phase for as long as she can. Wants her to get a chance to be a kid the way he’d gotten to. The way…the way Sarah will never get a chance to. 

He swallows hard as the thought crosses his mind.

And he knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s an invasion of her privacy, but he lingers outside the garage, wanting to hear that easy happiness in her voice for a little while longer. He expects to hear Dina’s voice, or Cat’s or Jesse’s, or maybe even all three of them. But he hears you instead, and something akin to relief fills him to the brim as he realizes who your plans are with.

“No, no! It’s good!” You’re laughing too, and Ellie mirrors the sound twice as loud. “C’mon, look. Let me see.”

Joel can’t help himself. He peeks into the room, decorated with band posters and paintings and polaroid photos. The two of you sit on the floor with your backs pressed against the side of her bed, knees pulled up with a composition notebook held between you. In your lap lies that journal Joel has seen so many times, the same one he’s been so curious about. 

Part of him is a little envious that whatever you’ve put in it, you’re sharing with Ellie and not him. But he supposes if not him, at least it’s her.

He watches as you pluck the ballpoint pen from her hands, making minuscule edits to whatever it is she’s drawn in her notebook. “There,” you say, handing both tools back to her. “See? You just forgot the hindwings. That’s all.”

Ellie looks up at you, admiration in her eyes. “How are you so good at this? I love drawing but I feel like I suck at it sometimes.”

“It just takes practice,” you tell her. “And I’m not good at drawing. Just these two things.” You pick up the leather-bound journal in your lap and flip through several pages.

“Bugs and bones,” Ellie says, eyes scanning each page and drinking up its contents greedily. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you echo. “Just bugs and bones.”

She stops your flipping of the pages and points to one in particular. “What’s that one?”

“A moth,” you answer.

“Is that a skull?”

“It’s called a death’s-head hawkmoth,” you say, setting your journal aside and picking up hers instead. You take the pen and speak as you draw on the page. “People used to think because of the markings it has that it was bad luck to see one. That it meant trouble was coming. But, back before the outbreak, some scientists used to study bugs like this exclusively, and some of them wondered how they survived so long because all they do was eat honey. I mean, all they do. They don’t even harm the bees who make the honey. They don’t have fangs or claws, they don’t sting like bees or cause harm to the environment. How can something like that mean trouble? Just because of the way it looks, because of what people think ?” You shake your head and hand the journal back to Ellie.

Joel knows, without even having to look, that you must have copied the image from your journal into her notebook. He mulls over your words and thinks about all the reasons he’s told you he can’t be with you. Wonders if you’ve ever compared yourself to a moth, remembers Kelly’s words. 

Bit of a troublemaker, really.

He remembers the first thing his brother ever told him about you. 

That’s just how she is. Explosive, defiant, easily provoked.

Remembers how Tommy noticed the immediate change in you after that night spent in the tree blind, that night Joel saw you for what you were and wanted it still.

That girl has been a pain in my ass every single day. Someone has a complaint about her, or she’s hollerin’ about something or other. Never does as she’s told—fights Maria and I on everything.

He thinks about Stella standing outside the bakery, shaking her fist at you with your name shouted from her lips over the loss of a single strawberry scone. One you split with a girl who’s never had one before, and likely wouldn’t have even thought to try it if not for your thievery.

How can something like that mean trouble?

Joel feels that pinch in his chest again. It’s a little different this time, a little more like guilt than appreciation, a little more like perdition, like eternal damnation.

Because he did this to you. Joel put these thoughts in your head, didn’t he? And you don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you.

“You write a lot,” Ellie says, and there’s a sensitive tone to her voice. One that lets you know you don’t have to talk about it, but that you can. 

And Joel is a little surprised that you do. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you forget stuff all the time?”

You shake your head, flipping back to the next vacant page in your journal. You’re drawing inside of it, and Ellie is drawing in her notebook, and Joel lets himself appreciate the sight of the two of you seemingly so comfortable with each other. Two gifts he’d been given from God, two gifts he’s too corrupt to deserve but too lamentable to ever let go of. “Not really. It’s…it’s the opposite,” you tell her so softly he almost can’t hear it from where he lingers just outside the doorway. “There’s too much I can’t forget.”

Ellie’s drawing stops, but she still holds the pen tightly between her fingers. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you answer.

“I think…I think I like Cat,” Ellie says, and Joel isn’t even a little surprised to hear it. He’s old, but he’s not blind. “I mean, like like her. Is that…weird?”

“That’s not weird,” you say casually. You don’t even lift your pen, don’t even turn your head to look over at her. Joel sees the relief in Ellie’s shoulders, knows this confession has been made easier for her with how little you’ve reacted to it. “Cat’s cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Ellie says, cheeks flaming. She starts to draw in her notebook again, pursing her lips together to hide her pleased smile. “Cat’s cool.”

Joel clears his throat and knocks his knuckles against the door. “Hey, kiddo,” he greets.

“Hey,” Ellie says, brows pinched together. “Where’d you go off to so early this morning? Maria was asking for you.”

“Just had a couple of things to take care of,” he says. “I’m gonna shower and then I’ll go find Maria. We’ll grab lunch in the dining hall after. Sound good?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I think they’re serving venison today.” Her eyes widen dramatically, and she gives him a pointed look, and then she’s inconspicuously nodding toward you, hinting at something. 

It takes Joel a little too long to understand what she’s saying. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and shrugs as he turns to look at you, trying to prepare himself for the embarrassment, the discomfort. But when your eyes connect, none of it’s there. It’s just that warm tenderness you bring out in him, and somehow that’s even worse because Ellie is right there and he doesn’t know how to hide this, doesn’t know how to keep it under wraps when every time he looks at you he feels he might burst with the rapture he’s stolen with you. Joel fights his knowing grin as he says, “You can come.” And as soon as the words fall from his mouth he regrets them, coughs to cover up his chagrin. “I mean, for…for lunch. If you…if you want to. You don’t have to, but you’re…you can—if you want.”

You’re laughing as he stumbles over his words, and Ellie’s mouth falls open in astonishment. “Uh…sure,” you say. “Sure. I’ll come with you, Joel.”

His face burns, and he’s trying not to laugh and scream at the same time. 

“ Jesus,” Ellie huffs. “That was painful. Now go, please.”

He knows she’s pushing him out to save herself any more embarrassment, but Joel knows there’s no way it compares to his. He tries to remedy the conversation. “I didn’t mean…I’m just trying to invite you,” he says. To…to lunch. Venison.”

Ellie leans back, grabs a throw pillow from the mountain of them on her bed, and chucks one at Joel’s head. “Oh my God, go!”

Joel does as told, catching the throw pillow in his hands and tossing it on the floor at your feet before disappearing out of the garage. His mortification eases at the sound of joyous laughter that spills from both of you, and he can hear Ellie as he walks away.

“You wanna know something insane? I think he’s seeing someone. Like a girlfriend. Can you believe that?”

Your answer is spoken with mock astonishment, and Joel decides to make you eat your words later as you snark, “Whoever it is should teach him how to talk.”

He does just as he said. He showers quickly, trying to avoid thoughts of you, images that flit through his brain of your shampoo sitting next to his on the side of the tub, of a second towel hanging behind the door. He does his best to not think about you sleeping here, in his bed with your hair splayed out over his pillows. He tries not to think about hearing your soft sighs echo in his room, about waking up to the warmth of you wrapped around him, about your pretty sounding pleas for more, more, always more, needy little girl. 

Joel fails, of course—and twice he has to take his cock in his hand and grant himself a little relief in the shower before he feels sated enough to go about his day.

An hour later, he finds Maria near the stables. She’s talking to a young man Joel can’t quite place. He’s your age, and Joel’s seen him around, but his name slips his mind. Maria listens intently as he tells her about the foal who was born a couple of days ago, updating her on the horse’s progress. When she spots him, she gives him an inviting smile and says, “Joel! There you are.” 

He waits for her to say her goodbyes and the two of them leave the stables and start down the street. “Ellie said you were lookin’ for me.”

“I was,” she says, wasting no time. “When you weren’t home, wanna know the next place I checked?”

Her stare is weighted, heavy. And he suddenly feels a little bit like a child being scolded, knowing he’s been caught but not willing to admit fault.

Joel doesn’t offer a reply. Maria doesn’t either, because they both know right where she went. “She was leaving when I got there, on her way to meet Ellie. Said she hadn’t seen you since yesterday morning at The Tipsy Bison.”

She leaves room for him to confirm or deny the accusation in her words. He doesn’t. 

“You snore, Joel. Did you know that?”

He stops, feet sinking into the fresh snowfall in the middle of the street. The sun shines brightly, though—and he knows the spring thaw is coming soon. He hopes the end of this conversation comes sooner. “Maria…”

She turns to face him, several paces ahead. “She’s only lied to me once before today. And it was to protect someone then, too.”

He opens his mouth to say something, anything —but nothing comes out.

Thankfully, Maria stops him with a raised hand. “Don’t you go lying to me too,” she says. “Look, I…I know you probably think she hates me, and maybe—maybe there’s a little truth to that. But I love that girl like she’s my own, Joel. And she’s irreplaceable to this town. You understand? I don’t need her distracted. And I really don’t need you to be causing issues with the others because of her.”

It surprises him to hear it, in truth. The only interaction he’d seen between the two of you was the one in the dining hall where you’d been throwing things and screaming in Maria’s face, and Joel had assumed it’d given him all the information he needed about your relationship with her. Had he been wrong? Jackson has a pretty lengthy history—maybe there’s more to this than he once thought. Maybe there’s more to you than he thought. 

The desire to pry confessions out of you rises in him, desperate to discover that something that’s happened to you, to drink greedily from your well. Joel realizes he wants to know it all. The good, bad, and ugly.

“I’m not causing issues,” he says, but it even tastes like a lie. He’d sent Kelly away crying and almost stabbed Abel with a broken beer bottle just yesterday.

“Hey, Maria! Come take a look at this!”

Joel’s thankful for the distraction. She raises a hand in greeting to the older woman a few feet away, and then turns back to Joel with a heavy sigh and exhaustion on her face. “Look, you’re both adults, and I’m not trying to give you the talk. What you do together is your business—all I’m saying is…don’t do irreparable damage to yourself or to this town to indulge her,” Maria says. “I’m sure you know by now she can cause a whole lotta trouble when she wants to, and I don’t want you to start thinking this is anything but a way to get back at me, to prove her point. I know you think you’re what she needs, and, hell—maybe you are right now. But she’s young, Joel. She’ll never love you—not the same way you’ll love her. This is just a phase, and she’ll grow out of it. She’ll grow out of you.”

The words are cold and sharp, stabbing behind his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs, dousing that warmth you’ve elicited and leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Because in the back of his mind, Joel knows it’s the fucking truth. 

Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, though. He chokes on it instead.

Maria seems to sense his struggle and offers an apology that does nothing for him because she can never take the words back, can never replace the blindfold she’s ripped off. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was really hoping Tommy would get through to you but I think you’re more like me. Sometimes we need the truth to hurt a little to understand it.”

The woman tries to grab Maria’s attention again. This time she gives it to her, squeezing Joel’s shoulder in a way that makes his hands curl into fists at his side. He hates Maria at this moment because despite desperately trying, he can’t find a single lie in her words.

She’ll grow out of you. 

Joel swallows it down like a bitter pill.

When he returns home, he’s relieved to discover you’ve fled Ellie’s company for the time being. He thinks about canceling, urging her to have lunch with you alone because of a non-existent headache. 

But she’s so excited to see him when he gets back, excited for the three of you to share a meal, and Joel doesn’t have the heart to ruin it. She babbles about you the whole way to the dining hall, talks about how cool you are, how pretty you are, and Joel agrees.

It throws Ellie off guard enough that she squints and turns her face up at him as they settle at a table with one vacant chair. “I thought you hated her,” she says.

“Hate her?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t like that.”

This answer, it seems, has her even more suspicious. “Sooo…what is it like then?”

Like religion.

Because Joel wants the comfort you bring. He wants the warmth, the devotion, the prayer he makes you recite whenever he finds himself between your thighs. He wants the succor that comes with urging you into submission, wants the satisfaction that blankets him when you’ve got nothing bratty left to say, foul words replaced with pleas. He wants the respite he finds whenever you’re near.

But he’s never much believed in God, never believed he’d be good enough to get into heaven. And he’s having a hard time believing he can keep you, too.

It’s not the worship he struggles with. It’s the faith.

“Sore subject, I see,” Ellie says. And there’s something on her face akin to understanding, which makes Joel realize she’s growing up at the speed of light.

“Yeah,” he says, seconds before you and Tommy walk through the door. 

The laces in one of your boots have come undone, loosening with every step you take into the dining hall. You talk to Joel’s brother animatedly, a serious look on your face. Tommy’s nodding in response as you tick off something on your fingers, and it’s barely there but Joel can see the fear in his brother's face as he looks at you. 

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know what it is or how he knows it, but Joel knows. Can see it in the way his brother’s shoulders are pulled tight, can see it in the crease between your brows. Worry emanates from both of you. And when you glance over at Joel and Ellie waiting for you at the table, it dissipates for a single moment as a warm smile stretches across your face. 

Tommy pulls you into a tight embrace—something familiar and affectionate that would enrage Joel had you shared it with anyone besides his brother. Your goodbyes are muffled by the clink of silverware and the dull chatter of the people around you, but Joel can make out two of Tommy’s words. “Be careful.”

You shake off whatever unsettles you and sit in the chair between them. “Sorry I’m late,” you say. “Tommy caught me on the way here.”

“Everything okay?” Ellie asks carefully.

“Yeah, yeah—all good.” It’s a lie, and both of them sense it but neither prod for more.

Joel leans over, takes either side of your chair, and turns it toward himself, legs scraping noisily against the wooden floor. You glare at him and start to call him some obscene name, but then he gently takes your ankle in his hands. He can feel your gaze on him as he sets your boot between his knees and laces it back up—because it’s dangerous for you to be walking around like that. What if you trip? When he’s finished, he sets your foot back on the ground and stands from his chair, trying to ignore the look of bewilderment on Ellie’s face. “You two stay put. I’ll grab lunch.”

He hears both of you break out into hushed whispers the minute he walks away, but whatever it is the two of you are talking about is way less concerning to him than what you and Tommy were talking about.

It takes him less than a minute to slip out of the back door in the dining hall, round the building, and find his brother just outside. He stops him with a brisk hand to the shoulder. “Tell me.”

Tommy lets out a sigh and runs the back of his thumb over a wrinkle on his forehead. “A few months ago, just a couple before you and Ellie showed back up, there was a raid. A bad one. Only lost a few good people but…a lot of the survivors were pretty hurt. We made it through, but the stock we had in medical supplies has been slim ever since. An’ it’s hard—finding stuff like that these days.”

“That’s all it is? A run for supplies?” You’re the best runner Jackson has. Tommy’s said so on multiple occasions. That doesn’t scare Joel, the idea of you going out there. So why has it got his brother so rattled?

Tommy swallows, and Joel knows there’s more. But his little brother hesitates, pity filling his brown eyes, and it does nothing but fuel the panic slowly creeping into Joel’s bloodstream.

“Tell me,” he insists, a little more aggressive this time.

He has to look away to answer. Tommy instead finds the steadily melting snow far more interesting. “There’s a…there’s a hospital out in Casper. About two weeks on foot, one with a horse. It’s got all the supplies we could ever need—aspirators, sterile bandages, ECG monitors, ventilators, antibiotics.”

“Get to the point,” Joel demands.

And he does. Says it outright as if it’s not a death sentence. “It hasn’t been touched since before.”

Joel knows, but he narrows his eyes and asks slowly, “Before…before what, Tommy?”

“Before the outbreak.”

Which means that whatever’s inside… “No,” he says, shaking his head and taking a step back, suddenly unable to pull air into his lungs fast enough. “No. Find someone else.”

“There is no one else, Joel.” 

“Then call it off! Send her on a scouting mission—farther away if you have to. You have no idea what’s in there.”

He can’t imagine it—something worse than clickers, worse than bloaters. Joel’s mouth runs dry as one terrifying thought rings like a warning bell through his head. You’ll die, you’ll die, you’ll die.

“You think that’s the kinda man I am? That I’d send her in there knowing how dangerous it’ll be without giving her a choice?” Tommy glares at him. “It was her idea.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care whose idea it was, I’m sayin’ no.”

“It ain’t your decision to make,” Tommy says in warning.

And Joel knows it’s the truth as much as he knows Maria’s sharp words were the truth—but he doesn't care about any of it. Not when your safety is on the line. “Nah, Tommy, you’re not—you’re not hearin’ me. I’m telling you it’s not going to fucking happen.”

“Maria’s gonna give birth soon, Joel. We need those supplies,” Tommy says, finality in his voice. He shoves past Joel, a clear sign that the conversation is over—but Joel doesn’t care about that, either.

He shoves his brother hard, and when he turns around to face him Joel can see the anger on his face. But it’s no match for his. “Don’t you walk away from me!”

“It’s not your fuckin’ call!”

Joel scoffs. “This is someone’s life you’re gamblin’ with, Tommy. You’re tellin’ me you need those supplies more than this town needs her? More than I need—?”

He stops. Freezes beneath the weight of his brother’s accusatory stare, knowing just what he’s almost said, knowing just what he’s admitted. So much for keeping it secret, Joel thinks. 

His chest constricts, ribcage closing in on his lungs. Joel suddenly can’t breathe. 

Tommy’s eyes soften as he watches his brother fall apart in the middle of the street. “I tried to warn you, man,” he says. “I told you to put an end to it. Told you nothing good would come of it.”

It becomes obvious to him then that there’s no getting through to his brother. Joel decides to take a different approach instead.

When he storms back into the dining hall, you and Ellie have already gotten plates for yourselves and one for him—and the sentiment would warm his heart if he wasn’t currently fuming. He doesn’t sit back in his chair. He stands over you and says firmly, “You’re not going.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what the hell he’s talking about, and roll them dramatically the moment it clicks together in your mind. “I didn’t ask, Joel. Sit down. We got you lunch.”

“It’s a goddamn suicide mission and you know it,” he says, trying to no avail to keep his voice down.

He expects you to lash out, to fight him like you always do. But you sit still in your chair. Don’t even turn to look at him. Just stare pointedly forward, knee bouncing furiously beneath the table. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you hold back that anger, the first time he’s ever seen you try to keep it in check.

Joel’s not sure what that means. For him, or you. “If it’s been left untouched for that long, it’s probably been that way for good reason. Have you lost your mind? ”

It’s then you stand abruptly from your chair. Even though the words are dripping with irritation, you try your best to put on a gentle front as you say, “I’m sorry, Ellie. I’ll catch up with you later.”

And then you’re pushing past him, shoving him with a shoulder, leaving the dining hall with watery eyes. And Joel starts to feel a little bad, but he knows he still hasn’t gotten through to you and he has to. He needs to make you see reason before you run off and get yourself killed. 

Because he’s only just gotten a part of you. It can’t end so soon. It can’t. He won’t let it.

He follows you back to your house, calling your name, trying to avoid the stares the rest of the Jackson residents are giving the two of you. It isn’t until he says your name one final time that you turn to face him.

Joel’s chest cracks at the sight of the tears on your cheeks. He needs to get through to you, but he wishes it didn’t have to be like this. “Baby, please—just listen to me. It’s not safe.”

“Nothing is safe, Joel! Have a little faith in me. Why are you so sure I won’t make it back?”

“Because whatever’s in there is going to be so much worse than anything you or I have ever seen. Don’t you get that? You can’t do this. I couldn’t do it. No one should have to.”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and breathe a long sigh. When you finally compose yourself enough to speak again, you don’t look at him. And that hurts more than anything, Joel thinks. “Miley…she, uhm…she’s fifteen. Same age as Ellie. Been in Jackson her whole life, never been outside. Not really. And she’s so sweet…one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She has…she has a—a tumor on her spine,” you say softly. “It can be removed, and she’ll live. But to operate, we need anesthesia. You know where to find anesthesia, Joel? A hospital.”

He shakes his head slowly, feels pressure build in his throat. “No,” he says softly. “We’ll…we’ll find it somewhere else. I’ll help you, baby, okay? We’ll go together—we’ll figure it out—”

“She doesn’t have that kind of time! God, are you hearing me? I’m going. And when I make it back in one piece with everything they need to save her, you’re gonna feel real fucking stupid for not believing in me.”

You turn away, push through the door and slam it closed behind you. Joel scrambles up the steps after you only to discover that, this time, you remember to lock it.

An hour later, Ellie finds him in his room with his backpack on the bed and his boots laced tight and an extra flannel on beneath his coat. She leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed and asks quietly, “Tommy told me what happened. You’re going with her, right?”

He doesn’t find any resentment on her face, and it relieves him if only a little. “Yeah,” he says. “That alright with you?” He prepares himself for any answer she gives. Decides then and there he'll remain here, in Jackson, if that's what she needs from him.

“‘Course,” she says, much to his relief. “Just…be careful.”

He hugs her tight, makes her promise she’ll bother Tommy with everything she needs, makes her swear she’ll stick with Cat or Dina or Jesse, that she won’t hermit in her room. She makes a joke about how he’s the hermit between the two of them, and then she urges him on his way. 

As he’s descending the stairs, she leans over the banister and says, “Hey, Joel? By the way, fuck you for stealing my wife. I liked her first.”

It makes him laugh, and the small moment of ease she creates just before he leaves brings his spirits up. He says goodbye to Tommy on the way to the stables, who points him in your general direction. He ignores the look his brother gives in response to his decision. Ignores him, too, when he warns, “Maria won’t like this.”

Because Joel doesn’t give a fuck what Maria thinks. Not when it comes to you. Because she might say she loves you like you’re her own, but she doesn’t love you enough to refuse to send you to your death. It’s all the information Joel needs about her opinion. 

He takes a horse and enough rations for two weeks and follows the tracks you’ve left behind in the mud. Once he’s deep into the forest surrounding Jackson, Joel realizes that you’re smarter than you let on—because the hoof prints veer off a mile into the trek, off the trail, and into the more secluded brush. He knows he’s getting close when the tracks become more defined, knows he’s just on the cusp of finding you. 

But it’s not him that finds you at all. 

Joel feels the hair on the back of his neck rise a second before he hears your voice from behind him. You look a little like some sort of Valkyrie warrior, standing tall beside your horse with your bow pulled taught, an arrow aimed right at his head. “Go home, Joel,” you say, an edge in your voice he’s never heard before. 

And he knows it’s partially due to frustration, but mostly because you’re here— outside the walls, out in the open where everyone has to be harder, sharper, crueler. He dismounts, keeping a loose hold on the reins. He raises his hands in surrender. “Let’s not do this,” he suggests. “You and I both know I’m not goin’ anywhere. Alright?”

The stiffness in your limbs subsides the smallest bit at his words, the soft side of you he knows and loves peeking through. But it’s only a second before those walls come slamming down again. “I don’t do runs like this anymore,” you tell him. “I don’t take partners.”

Anymore. The word haunts him. Because it implies that you did at one point. But something changed, something happened to make you break Jackson's most important rule, to draw the boundary he’s currently crossing. He can feel the pain it causes you, even from several feet away. And Joel doesn’t want to hurt you any further than he is right now but he can’t let you do this alone. “Put the bow down,” he says, taking a tentative step forward.

You only raise it higher, pull the bowstring back further. “Joel,” you say in warning. “Go. The fuck. Home.”

Another step, closing the distance. One more and fear bleeds into your pretty eyes. 

“Stop.” Your jaw clenches. He’s moving a little faster now, steadily invading your space. “I said stop!” You release the arrow, changing its trajectory in a second. 

It whizzes through the air, sinking deep into the earth between his feet. It’s dead center—and Joel would be impressed if he wasn’t furious. “You just shot at me,” he says in disbelief. 

“No fucking shit,” you bite back. “Maybe now you’ll take me seriously.” But then he lets go of his horse’s reins completely and is stalking forward, face contorted in rage because how dare you. “I swear to God! Don’t do this!” You reach behind your head and pull another arrow from the quiver strapped to your back in the blink of an eye. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

You won’t, and he knows it. The moment he’s able Joel rips the bow from your frigid fingers, ready to grab you by your hair and force you into submission if need be.

But the moment your hands are free you’re pushing his chest—pushing and pushing so hard it nearly sends him off his feet. But Joel feels that anger, that sadness, and he realizes suddenly this has nothing to do with his being here and everything to do with what happened to you. It’s about your something. “Please,” you say, the word broken in your mouth. “Please, Joel, please don’t do this to me.”

“Hey,” he says softly, laying your bow on the ground at your side. “Hey, baby, hey, c’mon now.” He takes your hands between his, pausing your assault. They’re so cold that he brings them to his mouth and tries to warm them with his breath. It seems to calm you if only a little. “S’okay, sweetheart. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, alright?”

Your cheeks are flushed crimson and water lines your lashes as you confess, “I don’t care about me, Joel, what about you? What happens if you get hurt? What do I do? I can’t lose anyone else, I can’t— please. Just go home, I’m begging you.”

It’s then he understands. Joel knows this kind of grief, is real intimate with it, in fact. He knows how unforgivable it feels to lose someone on account of bad judgment. He pulls you close, wraps his strong arms around your frame and cradles your head against his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, little girl. Okay? You’re alright. I’ve got ya. Shh…s’okay, baby. I’m right here. I’m right here .”

And he is—wherever you are, he silently vows to be with you. To keep you safe, always. To do his damndest to keep you from suffering any more loss, any more of that sinking misery. He lets you cry it out, lets your tears soak into his flannel, lets you catch your breath. 

When you do, you lift your head and wipe your face and fix that hard stare back onto it. “Okay,” you say softly. And then again, a little stronger. “Okay. But you play by my rules, Joel. You do what I say, when I say it.”

He hears the echo of his conversation with Ellie back in Boston. Feels the urge suddenly to spill his guts to you so you know he really, truly understands. But now isn’t the time. So Joel caresses your cheek, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Your run, your rules,” he says. And he means it. 

You lean down and pick up your bow, sling it across your shoulder, and pull yourself back up into the saddle. “It’ll be good, having two horses,” you say. “We can carry more supplies back.”

Joel leaves your side only long enough to mount his horse, who he steers back toward you the moment he can.

“Only one problem now,” you say. 

He furrows his brows, following you back onto the path through the forest. “What’s that?”

“You’re twice my age, Joel,” you say dismally. But there’s something else there, something teasing in your voice. “Not sure if you can keep up with me, old man.”

Joel shakes his head as you set your horse off into a gallop, flying effortlessly through the trees at a break-neck pace. He can’t resist the grin that tugs at his lips. He scoffs and mutters under his breath before following after you. “Brat.”

[part four] [part six]

[leeny-leens]

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

CW: Angst, argument, no happy end it’s a short scene, unedited, not proofread

A/N: One of the promised scenes from the fic idea about the AU where the reader raises harry and has some bad history with Remus, the angst potential is off the charts. Pls dont mind the weird dialogue im still trying to get the hang of writing it

Series masterlist

“No Lupin,” you snarled, his name venomous over your lips. “You don’t get to try and…and pretend like you care about him now,” his amber eyes, once all soft and sweet whenever they looked at you, were darkened now, an edge of distance swirling in them. “Like you care about me,” you added, your voice barely a whisper. You didn’t expect it to hurt this much, not after all those years. You’d made peace with it, stopped looking for him in every corner, in every goddamned star that shone above you each night. You made peace with the fact that he left, ran away from you when things unraveled and shattered and left you to pick up your own pieces after he’d promised to always be there.

Clearly not, with the way the words gutted you from the inside out.

What hurt more, the realisation you still weren’t over it, or the fact that he was over you?

“Listen, I made choices I’m not proud of-“

“Clearly,” you snarled “Tell me all about it then.” With crossed arms, you fixed your narrowed eyes on him, as if silently challenging him to listen any more excuses. “Go on,” you demanded mockingly “Tell me about all the hardships you went through after you left me in the fucking dust.”

“Would it kill you to lose the fucking attitude and be an adult for once?” His voice was levelled, calm even, betraying the anger that writhed beneath the surface like a snake waiting to attack its prey.

You wanted to throw something in his face, hurt him the way he had hurt you, but you didn’t. Not because you cared about him or his stupid feelings, but because you had pride and call it stupid, but dignity as a mother that you did not want to compromise. Merlin knows how often you’d sat Harry through those conversations, teaching him how to talk to people without letting his emotions ruin his relationships, express himself without being cruel or vindictive. How could you face your son and preach those lessons to him if you did not follow them yourself?

You took a few breathes, willing yourself to calm down enough to be able to face him again without exploding in his face, or worse yet, hexing him to the other side of the room. “Alright then,” you said, your voice thin and strained with the effort it took to bite back the excess venom. “You have 3minutes,” you held up your fingers, as if to underline your statement, “Three minutes for you to explain where you got the nerve to decide things about my son’s life.”

His face contorted with amused disbelief at your words, shaking with sardonic laughter “He’s not your fucking son, he’s James’ and Lily’s son for Merlin’s sake!”

You knew that, all too well of course, who his birth parents were. he did not to remind you that your dead friends, buried six feet under, had merely witnessed one year of that boy’s life. “I don’t see them anywhere,” you spat, internally recoiling at the low blow you’d just delivered. “Oh wait,” your voice rose, as if suddenly coming to a delightful realisation “I don’t see them because they’re fucking dead Lupin, and I am the one who raised him for the last 11 years!”

His fists clenched at his side, knuckles so white the scars on them faded entirely with the flesh. “I ask myself every day why it couldn’t have been you instead,” he growled, his voice low and strained with suppressed anger. He was at the edge of sanity, you knew that, barely hanging on to the last bit of marbles before he completely snapped. A sick and twisted part of you longed for it, to see him break and slip into madness, all at your hands.

“Been asking the same about you.”

“You’re impossible and the worst person I've ever met”

“Well then you haven’t met yourself yet it seems” you responded lightly, eyes never once leaving his, challenging him to argue more, fuel the fire so it turns into an all-consuming, raging inferno that would swallow you both up and reduce you into nothing but mere ashes.

He clenched his jaw, the skin across his face stretching tightly as he fought to keep himself together, and you felt a pang of disappointment when he turned on his heels, storming out of the room to leave you alone. He took all the warmth of him, leaving nothing but ice cold dread in his wake. You quickly sprinted to the door, watching him disappear down the corridor before you yelled after him. “Go on you bloody twat” if he had heard you, he made no effort to turn back. “Leave again, like you did in the past!”

[justadram]

How long after birth were man and wife not suggested to sleep with one another? I assume they didn’t know about the 6 week postpartum- or did they?

I'm going to speak in generalities, and again, medieval Europe covers 1000 years of history, some Christian and others not. As a result, there are great variations in practice over time and from one region to the next.

Churching was a practice where a woman would be received back into the community and blessed by the priest following the delivery of her child. While this was not a universal practice in the Middle Ages, it involved both lying-in and the concept of purity, which are worth addressing.

Following birth, women typically existed in an all-female space for a period of time known as the lying-in. This could last about 4 to 6 weeks, which happens to coincide roughly with today's recommendations. Renaissance manuals don't give a precise number of days that must be spent isolated. Other cultures do, but Europe didn't have a set period. So, I suppose if you felt up to bidding it goodbye earlier, that would have been acceptable.

We know women have a dinner plate-sized wound inside of them from the placenta, but they did not. So, why the lying-in and female space? Giving birth was just as much hard work as it is now and without the benefits of modern medicine or nutrition. Women were in a vulnerable and weakened state following birth, so I imagine these recommendations reflected the reality that staying in bed secluded from all but your female helpers was, to some degree, a necessity.

Of course, how long a peasant could afford to stay in bed probably looked different from a noblewoman's lying-in period. But, presumably, communities rose to the occasion to help newly delivered women.

A woman risked her life giving birth. That's a good reason to receive a blessing once you survive. But another reason women were blessed in the church after this period was to remove impurity--that whole pesky Eve business. Given that the lying-in space was all female and the newly delivered woman was considered impure, I suspect this discouraged sex.

An additional issue revolves around nursing. Artificial feeding was almost impossible and wet nursing was more of an early modern practice than medieval, so odds are your wife was nursing during the lying-in period and well after. Nursing mothers were supposed to abstain from sex. That was sinful, too!

Again, where there's a will, there's a way, and I know some extreme examples of Irish twins to demonstrate this is still the case, but medieval people really did take church imposed notions surrounding sex pretty seriously.

The one example I like to dredge up surrounds Lent and sex. Sex was prohibited during Lent. And you might assume, without a priest peeking in windows, that medieval folks just nodded along and then did what they liked in the privacy of their homes. However, if you chart baptismal records, you'll find there's a distinct pattern. If you plot out from the previous Lent, there's a gap in births within the year, which indicates that people were actually more or less abstaining.

This leads me to believe people probably abstained during the lying-in period, when the woman was supposed to be secluded from males, including her husband, still impure, and nursing.

[jedidryad]

WIP Wednesday: It's hard to be practical and pragmatic in this galaxy

If you've read The Hand of Thrawn Duology, you will know that Mara's search for Jorj Car'das results in data on how to get to a planet called Exocron. Since it's all a retcon, Zahn handwaves it with about three lines of set up in a dialogue exchange between Karrde and Lando while Mara is on Nirauan.

But she had to get that information somehow, so here's my supposition about how the journey to Exocron began, with information pulled from The Darkstryder Campaign- Kathol Outback via Wook.

“You found something then.” Karrde sounded relieved if still nonplussed as he grabbed two datapads off his desk. He handed one to me as I stood up holding one of the datacards.

Ghent continued to wriggle uncomfortably. He mumbled about things being impossible as Karrde and I pulled up the records.

What he’d found was a collection of star charts and entries in historical records, and also references in other texts: mythologies, religious ceremonies, folk tales.

I felt my brows knit together as Karrde continued to ask questions and Ghent only grew more flustered.

Then I stumbled across a verse, a holographic image that had clearly started life as vellum or nerf hide. The quatrain looked ancient.

I read aloud, 

“The coveted haven of the precious vessel, In celestial realms of treach’rous spectro, None alight without doubtful wrestle –”

“– on the hidden world of Exo”

I glanced up at Karrde as he cut me off to finish the fabled verse. He looked at me, bemused, “it’s the Cothian Rubei”

“Kriff. We’re at a total dead end.” I flopped down on Karrde’s sofa next to Ghent, “Sithspawn. Two years and all we come up with is a crikking mythical planet!”

“Car’das was a philosophical sort,” Karrde mused, rubbing his chin.

“Deamos Na Coth wasn’t a philosopher,  he was a madcap spiritualist.”

“Says the Jedi.”

“I’m not a Jedi!”

“Fine, you just use the Force sometimes.”

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”

“Mara, do you really think it’s impossible there’s some unexplored planet out there that resembles the lush green paradise of Exo?”

I stared down at the star charts and historical accounts in my hands. I’d read the stories of the expeditions to find Exo. They’d been led by a philosopher named Deamos-Na Coth in pre-Imperial times. The planet was supposed to be incredibly beautiful, a paradise available to those who knew where to seek it. 

Most of the expeditions had been disasters with few ships ever returning. Those that were recovered had clearly been raided by bloodthirsty pirates and slavers, or had become sites of bitter mutinies. Most ships had disappeared forever, lost somewhere between the stars. It had been presented to me as foolish to try to find a mythical planet when there was a beautiful, glorious Empire to serve.

“Of course it’s possible." I conceded, "there’s any number of planets that could match that description: Naboo, Yavin, even Endor if your paradise includes Ewoks, but that’s the thing. He could be anywhere now.”

“Ghent’s digging seems to point to Kathol.”

“Oh of course, the Kathol Rift, where comms get inexplicably jammed,  pilots go mad and pirates lie in wait to scavenge over the wreckage.”

“You don’t need to go in there, just pay a visit to the Kathol Republic and see what you can find out about the area.”

“You’re starting to sound desperate, Karrde.”

“You know I wouldn’t dare trust anyone else with this.”

I frowned. “I know.”

[wendichester]

𓂃˖ ࣪ 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤

˚₊‧꒰ა @star-yawnzzn ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ⋆˙⟡ where aquarius, libra, libra meets aquarius, leo*, saggitarius. ⟡˙⋆

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐

ꔛ. meeting each other,

✧ what’s the most likely way for you two to meet?

you meet in a bar—of course you do. dean’s on a job. you’re passing through, maybe handling your own kind of mess. he watches you throw back a drink, call out a dude twice your size, and win. you clock him the moment he walks in: swagger, sarcasm, a hero complex dressed in leather. you roll your eyes. he smirks. game on.

✧ are you a hunter or a civilian?

you’re a hunter—but not the kind that’s broken yet. you’ve got that aquarius resilience, that libra grace, that capricorn steel spine. you didn’t fall into this life. you chose it. your mars + jupiter + sun in aquarius scream rebel with a cause. you believe in saving people—just maybe not following orders to do it.

✧ what’s his first impression of you?

"this one’s trouble.” in the best way. your venus in aries throws him off—bold, flirty, impossible to pin down. but it’s your mercury in capricorn that hooks him. you’re smart. grounded. a little intimidating. he’ll pretend to be annoyed by you. he’ll secretly want to impress you.

ꔛ. friendship compatibility,

✧ how would the friendship be like?

unmatched banter. late-night car rides arguing about music, philosophy, and whether pie counts as breakfast. he makes you laugh when you’re spiraling. you pull him back when he’s self-destructing. there’s loyalty, teasing, and a silent promise: “i’ve got your back, no matter what.”

✧ how would it begin?

one botched job. one shared motel room. one too-long glance. you patch him up. he offers you his flask. you steal his french fries. he lets you. the rest is history.

✧ quirks and fun things about it:

✶ nicknames. endless ones. half teasing, half flirty. ✶ you steal his flannel. he acts mad. he’s not. ✶ you beat him at pool once. he hasn’t recovered. ✶ he pretends to be annoyed by your weird aquarius facts. he's not. he brings them up later like they were his own.

ꔛ. romantic compatibility,

✧ are you compatible? is there a chance for friendship to develop into more?

so compatible it’s kind of unfair. your charts have double aquarius energy, so there’s this unspoken understanding between you—both a little emotionally detached on the surface, but so fiercely protective underneath. your venus in aries and his venus in sagittarius make sparks fly. loud laughter, rough flirting, everyday adventure. your moons in air + fire (libra + sag)? emotionally fun, passionate, not clingy. it works.

✧ what type of relationship would it be?

a partners-in-crime romance. you kick down doors together. you cover for each other’s lies. you argue like hell but fall asleep tangled up, limbs everywhere, breathing in sync. he lets you drive the impala sometimes. he never lets anyone drive the impala.

✧ what are your love languages according to the charts?

✶ you: bold actions + mental connection (venus in aries, mercury in capricorn) ✶ him: playful affection + freedom to love without pressure (venus in sag, moon in sag) he shows love by being there, making you laugh when you want to cry. you show love by fighting beside him, choosing him every damn time—even when you don’t say it out loud.

ꔛ. scenario, ₊˚⊹౨ partners ৎ ₊˚⊹

you’re sitting in the impala at 2am, legs kicked up on the dash, eating takeout on the side of the road. your head’s on his shoulder. he's playing with your fingers like he’s memorizing the lines in your palm. you’re bickering about your fake IDs, about which diner has the best pie. he leans over, presses a kiss to your cheek without warning. “you know you’re stuck with me, right?” you don’t say anything. just reach over and start the engine. he smiles. because you didn't say no. you share motels, duffel bags, inside jokes, coffee orders. he never lets you walk behind him. always beside. when you get hurt, he’s silent for hours. doesn’t speak until you squeeze his hand. “i’m still here, dean.” and he says, “i know. but i never want to have to check.”

ꔛ. overall, score : 9.9 / 10

you two are the kind of couple that laughs into kisses. who fight, flirt, protect, and understand each other with zero bullshit. there’s respect, there’s equality, and above all, fun. you’re both strong-willed, smart, and maybe a little emotionally guarded—but that’s what makes it so good. it’s messy-soft love. it’s i choose you in every timeline love. a damn near perfect match.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

* since the birth time of dean hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a leo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.

[seafoamreadings]

week of august 13th, 2023

aries: hot vibes this week! fiery in element as well as personality. definitely feisty. don't waste it sitting at home in your pajamas. if you WANT to be home in your pajamas at least send out a few flirty texts or buy yourself some good beauty products to use later.

taurus: perhaps your week starts out tumultuous or simply tense. fear not, as things progress it is like tensing and relaxing the muscles. soon enough it's relaxing and harmonious. hang tight. (then loosen up.)

gemini: you might have a calm week in store. calm does not suit all (most?) geminis. if you need to get out there and cause a ruckus just don't mess up anyone else's life, do your thing but note that not everyone has the lull you have.

cancerians: new moon in leo means set an intention about your finances. not your debt, credit, taxes, inheritance or spouse's income, but your money that you made that belongs to you and if you don't have such an income, or even if you do, this is also about values, integrity, and whatever material or other resources you possess.

leo: let people say what they will about new moons hitting cancerians the hardest, you don't have a new moon without the sun and the sun is your ruling planet. take it as seriously as any cancer would, and don't fear outshining anyone, now or ever but especially this week!

virgo: as we approach the precipice toward virgo season you may catch yourself scoffing a bit at any hype. it's practically been virgo season ever since mars got here, and with mercury too? already the height of virgo vibes. but next week when the sun arrives too you may feel so very much yourself as to be unnerved by incarnate form. just relax, try to find some animals or plants to be kind to, and then do the tasks that need doing.

libra: equilibrium is slightly easier than usual to attain this week, at least until the moon enters your sign at the end of the week. and that's not even a bad thing, a mild perturbation, perhaps even towards the joyful end of things; if we live always in balance we get no ecstasy.

scorpio: tension at the beginning of the week is like a gentle irritation, a little too much noise or an uncomfortable sock. by next week it grows to seem to throw your entire fate out of balance. but your fate is always balanced - this just goes against your plans. you know what they say about god laughing at our plans...

sagittarius: the leo new moon makes you smarter. really! especially if you're willing to use it to learn which, of course you are. it can be good old fashioned book-learnin', but it can also be cultural, psychological, or underworldly, depending on your life circumstances and choices.

capricorn: your whole raison d'etre may seem to be climbing mountains, scaling impossible walls, and other feats of will. but this week just take it a little easier. just because you see an obstacle doesn't mean you have to knock yourself out overcoming it. sometimes they are simply moved for you.

aquarius: your vibe overall this week is hard, honestly, and yet in a way that is productive and frankly worthwhile. if you find yourself seeking comfort and not sure where to look, at least you can be sure any suffering you're having is not simply in vain. it is a process, with some purpose.

pisces: if you find your confidence wavering this week, tap into whatever part of your chart has leo in it. what house is that, what's the general vibe there? do you have any natal planets around you can consciously channel? when you find them, focus on channeling their strengths - they do all have weaknesses, too.

[writesbycandlelight]

Fanfic: Small Fires

Pairing: Edward Teach / Stede Bonnet Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Words: 552 Part: 5/31

By week’s end at sea, the little habits began to surface.

That’s what started to get to Edward.

Not grand gestures. Not confessions. Just… Stede. And the way he had a habit of doing things with absolutely no understanding of the effect he was having.

Or maybe he understood perfectly.

Edward hadn’t decided yet.

It started a few days after the tavern.

He’d been giving orders on deck—firm, low-voiced, in command. The sun was punishing, but the crew moved sharp under his gaze, every man knowing not to slack when Blackbeard had that edge in his voice.

And then Stede passed behind him.

Light steps, nothing unusual. But his hand brushed Edward’s lower back as he went by; brief, warm and worst of all not unwelcome. 

It wasn’t a grab. Wasn’t even a touch that could be called deliberate. Just a press of fingertips to let him know he was passing. Like it was nothing.

But Edward forgot what he was saying mid-command. The crew looked at him sideways until he cleared his throat and barked the rest of the order.

Later that night, in the galley, it happened again.

Stede poured him a drink and passed it to him with a small smile. Fingers lingered on the rim of the cup. Their knuckles touched. Not for long. But long enough.

And Edward’s throat went dry.

“Thank you,” he said, a little too gruffly.

Stede only smiled wider. “Of course.”

He wasn’t trying to seduce him. That’s what made it worse.

He was just… being kind. Being Stede.

At least until the map room.

They were reviewing old Spanish routes, trying to chart a shortcut that wouldn’t send them straight into naval teeth. Stede was seated beside him at the chart table, sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed.

He was warm. He always ran warm.

And as he leaned in to make a note on the parchment, his thigh pressed against Edward’s.

He didn’t move.

Edward pretended to be reading. But his whole body had stilled.

“Do you think we could cut through the reef here?” Stede asked, tapping the paper.

Edward blinked. “Hm?”

“The reef,” Stede repeated, turning to look at him.

They were too close.

And Stede’s mouth—pink and soft and slightly bitten from where he’d chewed it in concentration—was right there.

Edward cleared his throat and forced his eyes to the map. “It’s risky.”

“But not impossible.”

“No,” Edward said. “Not impossible.”

Their eyes locked.

Just for a breath.

Just long enough to feel it. Too long. 

Stede tilted his head. “You’re warm,” he said suddenly.

Edward blinked. “What?”

“Your leg. It’s warm.” Stede smiled, barely a lift at the corner of his mouth. “It’s distracting.”

Edward pulled away like he’d been burned.

Stede returned to the chart with a hum, like nothing had happened.

And Edward sat there for a long moment, hands clenched in his lap, trying to remember if he’d ever been stripped of his edge by a touch that hadn’t even landed.

He wasn’t sure.

But Stede Bonnet was doing it—slowly, relentlessly, without ever raising his voice.

And Edward was beginning to suspect that, when he finally gave in, it wouldn’t be a fall.

It would be a surrender.

And Edward “Blackbeard” Teach didn't surrender. 

…He might consider accepting it, though.

Just this once.

---

See Masterpost / other one-shots here

[outeremissary]

♡■♦ for Ismene my friend Ismene?

Our friend Ismene :) Somehow it is very easy to just imagine her out Doing Things

[prompt]

♡ - romantic headcanon

Being brought up in the isolation of Candlekeep in the company of residents who were mostly significantly older made it more or less impossible to pursue romance or intimacy, something that always frustrated Ismene. She has had some dozens of crushes on guests to the library, none of which ever resulted in anything more. At one point in her mid teens one visiting scholar had come in the company of a personal guard, a dashing woman who had entered his service at the end of a career as an adventurer. The guard was charmed by Ismene's company, enjoying the sharp wit and breadth of knowledge Ismene brought to their conversations. For a time she continued to exchange letters with Ismene even after leaving the keep, which only deepened the girl's fixation on her, but after the first few months the response time began to lag until slowly correspondence ceased. It was a major heartbreak for the girl, and for a long time she held out hope of another letter. Looking back on it she can begrudgingly admit to herself that it's unlikely that the interest that woman had in her was the same kind that she had in the woman.

■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

Ismene's bedroom has always been a mess- blankets and pillows wind up anywhere she's been spending time, so they're not only strewn across the bed in a haphazard next but thrown over her desk chair, draped over the window seat, and sometimes scattered across the floor. The ever shifting stacks of books tend to settle in similar ways: they go where she was using them. Her small bookshelf and the chests of her belongings are actually quite well ordered, but few of the books in her room at any given time actually belong to her, and because of that they occupy temporary spaces in the room. She does tend to go through books quite quickly and few linger in these precarious piles, but because of how quickly she replaces them the piles never disappear. Her project notes are a similar story: tidy once complete and collated, but an ever present mess on the floor, bed, desk, and walls because there's always some project ongoing. Around the time when she left Candlekeep these had begun to cluster around the window, where she had been making star charts based on naked eye observation.

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

Ismene has dabbled with a number of hobbies over the course of her childhood in Candlekeep- when you're stuck in those walls all your life, you find ways to occupy your time. She's fond of games of strategy and skill. She's a highly proficient chess player and used to play frequently both with the monks and with the keep's upper class guests (the source of most of her other strategy game knowledge). The only person who could regularly best her by her teen years was Gorion, and even as they drifted apart during that time chess continued to be a way that they connected and met. It had been a while since their last game at the time of Gorion's death- he felt guilty about that, and had brought a small portable set with him for when they made it to the Friendly Arm Inn. She still has his travel set.

Her less high culture game experience comes from spending time around Winthrop's inn with Imoen, where the other side of the keep's culture thrives. She knows a number of popular card games and has spent a lot of time with the inn's dartboard. She's a less exceptional player in these areas- she's middling at reading other players (especially without magical aid) and her hand-eye coordination, while quite good, will never be quite as sharp as a professional player's (or Imoen's). Regardless, she feels quite at home in the gambling halls of Baldur's Gate.

[siderealmaven]

Houses in Sidereal Astrology

The most important part of astrology is the planets and the second most important thing is the houses. The houses in a chart show you where the planets are, what they’re doing, and who they’re doing it with. They provide the context for the story being told by the planets and ground them in reality. Without an exact time to indicate the rising sign of a chart, knowing the houses is impossible.

House significations can change depending on the branch of astrology you’re engaging with, such as mundane, natal or horary, or the zodiac being used such as sidereal or tropical. And of course, each astrologer is going to have their own tried and true preferences that they swear by.

Here’s mine.

(Originally published on Sidereal Maven's Patreon Page as a free post.)

1st House

The Self + Personality, outer appearance of the body, things that happen to you + actions that you take, changes made to your appearance such as: hair cuts, body modifications, surgery and injuries. Personal style can also be found here, such as the types of clothes you wear and how you like to present yourself to others.

2nd House

Food, money, and personal possessions. Your income, how you create it, and who you create it with. Your food, what you eat, how you eat it, and who you eat it with. Your sense of self esteem and personal values can also be found in this house, as we live in a capitalistic society that ties personal possessions and income to our individual worth and value.

3rd House

Siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and close family friends. Family gatherings, parties and reunions. Primary school, classmates, and neighbors. Your daily commute to work or around your local area. Day trips and short distance travel. Reading, writing, and studying. Social media, radio, podcasts, and self publishing. Private spiritual practice that is engaged with alone or within the home with family members.

4th House

Your parents, their home, and/or your childhood home. More specifically your father(s), father figures, and your paternal line. Your physical residence, the land you live on, agriculture, farming, gardening and real estate. Ancestral lands and ancestral parents, as well as your relationship to them. Family secrets, stories and heirlooms. Your private life. Your own relationship to being a parent if you are one, could be found here.

5th House

Children, childhood, and your inner child. The creative projects that you give birth to and nurture into existence. Your romantic partners and lovers, the dates you go on and the things you do together. Sex, sexual health, and baby making. You’ll also find cooking, fitness, sports, and physical activities. Creative hobbies such as art, theater, music, dance, etc. This house can also represent your father’s money + income and how it affected you growing up.

6th House

Job description and work environment. Your coworkers and/or employees that you hire. This could also be creative projects that you consider to be work and self employment. Service oriented work such as; medicine, public service jobs, community service and taking care of ill family members. Pets, veterinarians, and animal related work. Your physical health, illnesses, diagnosis, and treatment is also found here, along with your daily routines of care.

7th House

Partnerships, such as business partners, spouses, and co-parents. Courtrooms, litigation and legal battles. Lawyers, Doctors, Therapists, Astrologers and other professionals that you consult for advice. Rivals and competitors. Open enemies and people/groups/ideologies you find yourself in conflict with.

8th House

Shared finances and resources, especially those you share living spaces or financial responsibilities with. Inter-generational and communal living. Gifts, inheritance, loans, investors, debts and taxes. Death, loss, major life changes and initiations into new ways of being. Mediums and spiritualists.

9th House

Institutions of power such as governments, universities, and religious organizations. Government jobs, leaders, and organizers. Judges, diplomats and ambassadors. Higher education and learning, mass media, journalism, film, and traditional publishing (newspapers, magazines, and books.) Religious leaders, organizers, buildings, and sacred sites. Far distance travel and exploration. Oracles, divination, psychics, astrology, palm reading, etc.

10th House

Public status and reputation, the way you are seen and known by the outer world. Public Personas and your public life. Your mother(s), mother figures and maternal line. Authority figures, bosses, supervisors, and people who hold power over you + your relationship to them. Promotions and scandals.

11th House

Mentors, teachers, guides and helpful friends. Unions, nonprofits, and communities that you are a part of and participate in. Industry partners and allies. Sororities + Fraternities. Students, apprentices, step-children and other people’s children. Child support and custody. Your mother’s money + income and how it affected you growing up. Audiences + fans.

12th House

Foreign or unfamiliar places, cultures, and people. International travel. Immigrants and immigration. Remote work or work from home jobs. New experiences that take you out of your comfort zone. Solo spiritual exploration and experiences. Solitude and isolation. Hospitals, rehab, jail and prisons. Monasteries, convents, or other isolated religious groups. Estrangement + estranged family members.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy...

Sidereal Zodiac Signs: What You Need To Know

Tropical VS Sidereal: What's the Difference?

How to Cast Your Sidereal Birth Chart, A Step by Step Guide

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 19

[Day 1] [Prev] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 19: I'm reading a book about anti-gravity. It's impossible to put down.

The angel did not have a desk, because desks had not been invented yet. He did not have a pencil, because those hadn't been invented yet either. What he had was a quill and a book and an innate understanding of the physical laws of the universe and a mission ordained by God.

He was going to build a nebula.

Not design it, technically, just build it. He was given the designs by the Archangel Saraqael, who said that they had been written by God Herself. He'd given a bit of feedback at the beginning, proposed a couple edits, and Saraqael had just looked at him and handed it right back, but that was okay. She hadn't said no, so he went ahead with them anyway. It had been a lot of red, very nouveau-Gothic except that original Gothic hadn't happened yet.

He thought that in the Z quadrant, there should be a bit of a pinky-blue kind of thing, and a bright orange splotch up in the corner of B area, and a big bright yellow streak right down the center. It was going to be glorious.

He sat on the firmament, insofar as firmament existed enough to be sat upon, the book floating in front of him as he worked out the calculations.

Time wasn't really a thing that existed, as such, so there's not a measurement that can tell us how long the angel worked there, alone in the firmament. It was long enough that each time he returned to Heaven to rest or to retrieve a tool, he didn't recognize any of the angels he saw there. He didn't know where Saraqael went. He didn't mind, because he hadn't known any of the angels to begin with. He hadn't been born with friends, just a Divine plan to enact.

Eventually, his nebula was nearly complete. He'd constructed over a million pages of meticulously detailed calculations, graphs and charts, all to carry out the Concept he'd been handed down from On High (plus his couple little tweaks, stuff to make it even better). He'd gotten the winding kit from the Quartermaster and the blessed scroll to concentrate the miraculous energy that would activate the firmament.

God's Plan was going to go off without a hitch.

Except... there was one last bit.

The blessed scroll wasn't like the book. It didn't interact with the firmament, didn't float in the nothingness of space. The angel needed two hands in order to hold it properly, and then he'd need to stand a foot away and turn the crank in order to wind up the nebula. For all the brains God had given him, he couldn't figure out how to work it solo.

He tried for a while, growing more and more frustrated, until he saw a bright blue light zooming through what would become the cosmos. A fellow angel—someone to hold the scroll!

"Excuse me! Hi!" he yelled, waving them down.

The blue light changed course. He agreed to hold the scroll. And the other angel was there with him, watching as he said "let there be light" and as his nebula was born. He thought the other angel would leave after that, but he stayed and talked. He introduced himself as Aziraphale, tried to warn him about what happened when you made suggestions to God.

The angel had already made suggestions to God, and nothing bad had happened, had it? No. This Aziraphale's heart was in the right place, the angel thought, but surely whatever he was all worked about couldn't be that bad.

Sometime after Time started, the demon remembered this conversation, looking up at the angel on the wall. He remembered his book and his nebula. He remembered Aziraphale, and how much he had cared about someone he'd barely met getting into trouble.

He slithered up the wall to say hello.

[the-tomato-patch]

The Hand that Needs You ( Ch. 2 )

"Scourge had left with little notice outside of a single message sent to his Jedi. A single note left on her datapad for her eyes only, and though his words were as melodramatic as ever, she knew he had meant every one of them. Though they did little to ease the burden in which she faced now knowing that he was somewhere, out there on the brink of wild space, having told her nothing of the situation save for his belief that this would keep her safe." In which a Jedi dearly misses her Sith.

( Cringe ahoy! This chapter is straight up smut. You have been warned. )

Pairing:

Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge ( established relationship )

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52621306/chapters/137169583#workskin

Updated 03/23/25 ( Grammar, extended scene, formatting )

They moved swiftly through the twining base, down one passage and then another, assuredly empty of all else save them. Yet, it didn’t matter where they were—the heat of his gaze never left her for more than a moment. As they entered familiar corridors, Rhiasen found herself lost in her observations. Becoming a captive to his scrutiny meant she was constantly aware of every detail of his face, or at least those she could see without craning her neck. The slope of his nose, the deep crimson tinge across his cheeks.

Whether it was his lineage, the power granted to him by the Force, or something else entirely, Scourge was distinct in ways she had never noticed in others. Beautiful. He radiated the fire of a mighty inferno—capable of melting ice, kindling a forge. A deep ruby flame burning so brightly it was impossible not to feel its heat. Impossible not to be engulfed by it. To fall into its intensity until she could breathe nothing else but the air between them.

What she wouldn’t give to let that desire burn her alive.

But his gaze, though fleeting at times, promised more. It whispered of warmth. Of slow presses of his body over hers. Then faster. Harsher. Heating her blood until it coursed beneath the press of her fingernails along his neck. Or perhaps... gentleness. His strength, channeled into the tender rock of his hips. The delicate way he might explore every inch of her with a curious tongue, learning her through taste. Mapping her pleasure as if charting unknown systems.

Oh stars.

She’d likely kill a man for this to end sooner—or tear through anything in her path if it meant hastening their arrival at his quarters. The only thing tempering the edge of her need was Scourge’s demeanor. Contained. Disciplined. His composure could endure the unrelenting pressure of a collapsing star. To rush him, to challenge that patience and watch him come undone... it was an unspoken, forbidden temptation. One to be savored.

And yet, like oil on flames, his gaze, the slow strokes of his palm over her thigh, all fed into a mounting madness. Twisting her need into something no beast could easily sate.

But something felt amiss. A faint buzzing at the edges of her senses.

The door opened with a heavy metallic swish, breaking the silence. When the sound ceased, the air became so quiet Rhiasen could hear her own heartbeat thudding steadily in her chest. As the door closed behind them, the world seemed to forget their presence.

His quarters greeted them—spartan and stark. Smaller than her own. Far less accommodating. But Rhiasen barely glanced around. Scourge pressed her back against the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation. Her ankles locked behind him, drawing him closer to the growing ache within her. The barrier of clothing did nothing to hide his readiness, and when he nuzzled against the skin of her neck, she closed her eyes. Her hands slipped over his scalp, tracing the ridges of his shoulders.

The warmth of his breath brushed softly along her pulse, igniting sparks that danced along her nerves. His fingers tightened briefly, betraying a tremor that shook beneath the surface—whether from desire or something deeper, she couldn’t say.

Then, he paused.

His grip loosened, her ankles sliding free as he set her gently back on solid ground. His hands hovered near her waist, unsure. Scourge stared at her, rubies of his eyes darkened by a gathering storm. His expression spoke volumes: desire, need. But also... hesitation.

“We can stop this if you desire it,” he said, voice low. “You only need say it.”

"Scourge." Her voice was a whisper, unexpected. Light. Barely audible. Her throat felt dry, unable to form another word.

Instead, she took his hands, entwining their fingers. She stepped back, kicking off her boots and pulling him away from the door. It sealed them inside, shutting out the rest of the galaxy. She kissed the back of each of his hands before peeling off his gloves, her lips caressing the bare skin beneath. Then she pressed his right hand to her cheek, leaning into its warmth.

"What I desire," she whispered, "is this. With you."

Rhiasen gazed up at him, willing him to understand. This was no fleeting passion. No emotional slip. “I need you. Do you still need me?”

“With an intensity you can scarcely imagine, Jedi.”

His words held none of the detachment the title usually carried. He leaned down, erasing their height difference, and kissed her softly. His lips were cautious at first, hesitant yet charged with a barely-contained fervor that spoke of restraint long practiced. It was as though centuries had built a wall of discipline between desire and indulgence—and that barrier trembled now beneath each soft, exploratory press of his mouth. His fingers curled gently into her hair, holding her as if she were something impossibly fragile, yet desperately precious.

Rhiasen shivered, tracing her fingertips lightly along his jaw, feeling the tension locked in muscles that had guarded emotions for lifetimes.

“Three centuries,” he murmured thickly against her lips, voice threaded with a haunted edge, “I’ve forgotten how to touch, how to be touched.” His eyes opened, raw vulnerability glittering amidst their crimson depths. “You deserve more than rusted memory.”

“I want only you,” she whispered fiercely, her mouth brushing softly over his cheekbone, “All of you. Rust, scars, memories—I’ll cherish every one.”

He exhaled sharply, drawing her even tighter against him, the careful hold beginning to fray at its edges. Anxiety whispered through his controlled breaths, subtle vibrations betraying the weight of his uncertainty. Yet beneath it all, his heartbeat quickened—an unstoppable tide rising, reclaiming the long-forgotten shore. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, tracing gentle patterns with lips unpracticed but eager to relearn. Each kiss was an apology and a promise: an acknowledgment of time lost, and a vow to surrender the solitude he had clung to so tightly.

Rhiasen tilted her head back, willingly baring herself to him, savoring the way his breathing quickened at her invitation. Her voice trembled softly in the dim quiet of the room. “Promise me you won’t deny yourself again.”

“Never again,” Scourge vowed, the words spoken into her skin with solemn reverence, as if making an oath not only to her but to himself. “Tonight, eternity ends.”

Bites and slow caresses of his tongue lavished her neck, climbing higher until their lips met once again. The kiss lasted only a moment before it deepened. Desperation laced his movements, restrained need unfolding. Desire, over three centuries old, unfurled with unrelenting force. Yet, Scourge was deliberate. Each motion was careful, calculated, as well as it could be given his state. He listened to every sound she made, following the rhythm of her body like a composer reading a score.

They moved together, inching toward the bed. Rhiasen’s knees hit the edge, and they tumbled onto the sheets. Scourge remained above her, leaning on one elbow as his other hand traced her features. Mapping her, memorizing her.

His fingertips trailed slowly down her cheekbone, glided along the delicate curve of her jaw, and lingered over the fluttering pulse at her throat. His touch was reverent, yet beneath it hid uncertainty—a tension that betrayed centuries of solitude. The rhythm faltered. His touch hesitated. A shadow passed over his face, darkening his expression.

“Scourge?” Rhiasen propped herself on her elbows, concern flooding her gaze.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, back to her. His jaw clenched, tension radiating from him. She watched the muscles tighten beneath his robes, felt the tremor of hesitation ripple through the Force, and her heart twisted sharply.

“I... desire your embrace. I yearn to bring you pleasure,” he admitted, voice strained. His words were heavy, laden with frustration and regret. “Pleasure I cannot provide. Not with the damned effects of—" His words broke off, and he turned away, as if shielding her from a truth he found shameful.

Rhiasen shifted, wrapping an arm around him. She leaned her head on his shoulder, offering silent comfort. This wasn’t her specialty. She wasn’t used to handling situations like this. But she couldn’t bear to see him like this. Despondent.

‘What do I do here?’

Scourge didn’t need platitudes or empty reassurances. He needed to believe he was enough. And the truth, despite its complexity, was plain.

She came in front of him, placed a hand on his cheek, and guided his chin so they were face to face again. She started this way—soft, testing the waters to make sure he would respond—then put both arms around his neck, bringing them flush together. Rhiasen made sure their foreheads pressed together lightly and kept the contact. It wasn’t a kiss, but something deeper, quieter, as their breaths intertwined and all her focus went to communicating her every intention to him.

“Look at me,” she breathed softly. “I’m here because I want you, all of you. Let me decide what I find pleasurable.”

Scourge did not fight her. Instead, he leaned into her and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, drawing his arms to slide up her sides and hold her delicately around the middle. He was almost uncertain whether he should go further, or draw his hands back and lose her warmth, her contact.

Then, without much warning, he gripped tighter and laid back on his bed, bringing her down to lie atop him, curling her in his hold. The position reminded him of the first night they spent together in each other’s arms—quiet, peaceful, and filled with nothing save each other’s breathing.

Together, they lay without so much as a word, minutes dragging, though how many, she did not know. Nor did she care, as slowly his fingers carded through her hair. With his chest under her ear, Rhiasen felt his heartbeat settle into a steady cadence of calm. He sighed softly, seemingly without meaning to, and Rhiasen tilted her head so his chin came to rest atop the crown of her head.

"Scourge..." she whispered into his chest, and with all the patience and softness she could muster, she said, "Will you allow me something?"

There was a short moment where he seemed to consider. He tensed subtly beneath her touch, a ripple of anxiety breaking his careful composure. Whether for him or her was unclear. But nevertheless, she lifted herself up, perching an arm on either side of his shoulders as she hovered above him.

"Ask what you will," he finally responded, voice carefully guarded, eyes dark with apprehension and curiosity entwined. His hands came to rest upon her hips as she moved to sit up, fingers flexing minutely as if uncertain of their place upon her.

She traced a slow fingertip down his chest, feeling his breath hitch beneath her careful exploration. "Let me see you," she began quietly, eyes softening with sincere intensity. "Let me touch you."

It was then that he found his objection. His jaw tightened, crimson eyes dropping briefly in shame. "There will be no satisfaction in this for you."

"That's for me to decide," she rebutted immediately, her voice gentle yet unwavering. She cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze once more. "You don't have to endure this alone anymore."

Scourge’s expression fractured briefly, a subtle crack revealing vulnerability buried beneath centuries of practiced discipline. "Jedi," he murmured, voice low, rough and restrained, "my desires have been chained for longer than you have drawn breath. I cannot offer what you seek."

"You've already given me more than you know," she whispered fiercely, thumb brushing softly along his lower lip. "I want every scar, every ache, every hesitation. I'll find pleasure in knowing you—in helping you rediscover yourself."

He drew in a sharp breath, the tension between them shifting palpably as her words took root. Slowly, carefully, he reached up, gently catching her wrist and pressing a lingering kiss to her palm, his eyes closing briefly in silent acceptance.

"Then show me," he said quietly, his voice edged with profound vulnerability, heavy with anticipation and apprehension alike. "Guide me, as you see fit."

Rhiasen smiled softly, warmth spreading gently through her chest. She leaned forward, brushing a tender kiss along his jawline, lips tracing the sensitive pulse that quickened beneath her touch. His fingers tightened slightly against her hips, drawing her closer. Hips arching a fraction upwards.

"Trust me," she breathed into his skin.

"With my life,"  And in all his ire and determination, he answered with the barest nod, leaning back and sitting up. In that instant, the fire had returned to him—or had perhaps just been sparked again, to illuminate the lurking darkness that had lulled him earlier in that black tide of anxiety. A hunger, deep and long restrained, flared visibly in the burning depths of his crimson gaze.

"My body is yours," Scourge spoke low and clear. His voice, one so used to issuing commands, cut through the air. 

He followed the cues, let her take the reins and begin. For Scourge was tired. So very tired from the back and forth within his own mind. Let this decision, this action, become something outside of himself for a time. Let someone else shoulder his burdens and show him the path forward. Oh, to be selfish and submit his body and soul entirely. Only if for a night.

Her hands started slowly, easing him back and helping him strip the confining garments away. Scourge wasn’t sure how she managed to divest him of his belt, robes, and other layers. Yet in the span of what felt like mere heartbeats, he’d grown accustomed to the cooler air in the space of his quarters. He lay back, propped on his forearms, staring down at his bare figure—no more clothing concealing his body save a simple pair of gray briefs.

Her eyes roamed over him. From the broad expanses of his shoulders, trailing down the dips and ridges of toned abdominal muscles, carved by time and extensive physical exertion. So utterly masculine in form and contoured with age and experience. There were marks all over his body—cuts, gouges, and other scars of ages past, mingling and weaving their own history across his skin. Some shallow, barely noticeable. Others long, deeply carved. The galaxy had tried to cut Scourge down, and despite its most bitter efforts, it had failed.

"Beautiful," she whispered, leaning down, peppering gentle kisses from the ridges of his face, trailing them lower, running over his collarbone.

"Wait," Scourge called, and Rhiasen hesitated, her lips resting on the upper point of his chest, pulling away.

"Are you alright? Was I doing too much?"

"No," Scourge let out a slow exhale. His body's anticipation was plain to see. "I wish to savour you as you savour me," he stated, drawing up to meet her eye level, bringing his hand to cup her chin, brushing over the flushed curve of her cheek. "Let me see you. All of you," he finished, sliding his hand along the clasp of her cloak, a question which she replied to by reaching up and opening it, letting it fall loose around her shoulders, pooling around them, making it that much easier to cast off to the ground and join the growing pile of discarded clothes.

Where he was jagged, hers was the curved flow of the river's ripples. Her figure a gentle wave that did little to hide a warrior's shape. She lacked the bulk his form boasted, but he saw a strong set of legs that had run for miles—miles they had run together. He saw arms strong enough to defend those in need but still soft enough to soothe him with nothing but a touch. He saw her. And she saw him.

"Now… let me continue?" she teased lightly, and she was given a slight nod as Scourge settled back. Rhiasen leaned down to press her lips against the expanse of his skin once more, this time drawing a line down his sternum, bringing his breath to catch in his throat.

Then she did something he hadn’t expected. Rather than follow the trail downwards, towards the tell-tale twitch and heaviness beneath his briefs, she instead traced the muscles of his abdomen with the light brush of her fingertips, hand ghosting downwards before retreating. Scourge, whose eyes had drifted to half-lidded, fluttered open at the loss of contact. He didn’t get a chance to ask about the detour she took, for her answer came in the way she began trailing kisses across his chest.

With feather-soft presses, her lips mapped his contours. She explored him in ways he didn’t quite recall having experienced with previous partners. Every inch of skin was fair game. Fingers mapping a trail where lips did not travel. Those same hands working the hem of his briefs, gradually lowering them and revealing his length, which jumped to life as it was freed from its confines and soon became so solidly erect. His pulse quickened, breath sharpening audibly as his hands gripped the sheets beneath him, knuckles whitening as control ebbed away.

His desire was undeniable. Yet, Rhiasen barely gave him any thought, instead, her sole aim appeared to be to devour him whole. Her attentions were insistent and almost desperate, and for a brief moment, she didn’t quite look like the fallen Jedi Master who was known for her collected exterior, but instead, the woman she truly was inside—a Sith. This moment of freedom and open, unbridled passion. She lavished her affections upon him, her own form almost as hot as his skin as she left not an inch untouched.

Suffice it to say, his need became near torturous. With the constant attention, every brush of her hair, her breath, even the smallest sighs and mewls had the effect of kindling him, raising him higher. The deliberate choice in her actions—to stimulate the whole of him, even parts which weren’t strictly erogenous—only succeeded in ratcheting his sensitivity and need. Soon, the very anticipation of what she would do was enough.

"Rhiasen…" the name spilled from his lips, sounding strangely alien with how little he actually used it, instead going mostly by 'Jedi'. His voice was roughened with barely-contained desperation, as if the single whispered word were the last defense of his dwindling composure.

She paused then, lips hovering mere inches above his skin, her gaze lifted slowly to meet his. Those brilliant eyes, now darkened with hunger and heavy-lidded with desire, seized him and refused to let go.

"Will you let me have you?" she whispered, her voice a low, velvet-soft caress, more intimate than even her touch.

"Utterly," he rasped immediately, sincerity raw in the single word, his crimson gaze burning fiercely into hers. "Completely."

She smiled faintly, leaning down once more, pressing a kiss directly over his heart—steady and warm beneath his heated skin. "Then surrender," she murmured softly against his chest. "Let me show you pleasure."

Scourge closed his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her touch. His jaw tightened, a visible tremble running through his powerful frame as he forced himself to relax. To yield control.

"I am yours," he breathed out roughly, words edged with anxious vulnerability and profound relief. "Do with me as you will."

And with those words, all remaining walls between them crumbled entirely, leaving only trust, tenderness, and exquisite anticipation in their wake.

As much as Scourge wished to close his eyes, surrender his sight and simply feel, to indulge in the raw pleasure and simply exist, he forced them open, unable to truly do anything but stare down the expanse of his form, where his Jedi lay worshiping his body. Her hair trailed the sharp grooves that carved his belly, a mess of crimson, wine, and midnight, so close to his length. Each silken strand slid against his sensitized skin, a teasing torment that sharpened every nerve to unbearable awareness. Her mouth wandered the entire plane. Tongue lapping where a lifetime of service had marred him, fingers following closely behind.

Every scar she touched felt reborn beneath her reverence, as though she were rewriting his painful history with gentle, loving strokes of her lips and fingertips.

Scourge did not know this flavor. He had lived long, but never had his needs taken form for something like this. Such things as love, romance, and the satisfaction it brought, he had never conceived a world in which he could experience them for himself again. Yet his Jedi did. In the simplest way imaginable. She simply sought to show him. Through the mists of his indifferent shell, her purpose came into focus.

He could not hide his panting now. Her mouth drew lower and lower, parting and settling with her palm cradled between his thighs. His muscles trembled visibly, control slipping further with each heated exhale ghosting across his hypersensitive flesh. The slow drag and brush of skin became her true instrument of torture, keeping his senses grounded to this room. To this moment in time, his stomach pulling inward when finally, she kissed her way from his thighs to the base of his length. The sensation forced a low sigh from deep in his chest, an unguarded, unfiltered admission.

His arousal was so evident from her wandering, lingering mouth. Rhiasen finally looked him straight in the eyes, a question forming within that orange gaze—a want unadulterated and completely shameless. The answer came to him easily. With his brief nod, he gave his consent to proceed.

And proceed she did, as the heat and wetness of her mouth encompassed him. His eyes widened briefly, then fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the exquisite warmth that enveloped him fully. She dragged her tongue, lavishing him in that divine sensation, sending a fierce tremor up his back. The purest essence of sin, a perfect mix of carnal pleasure, intimacy, and even love.

He could no longer suppress the subtle rocking of his hips, instinct overcoming centuries of restraint, matching the slow, deliberate rhythm she established. His breathing grew harsh, uneven.

From her, it was his undoing.

The grip of his hand in her hair was that of instinct. Even as he grunted softly, he guided her at the pace he knew and recognized best. Although initially uncertain, Rhiasen took to the experience easily. She listened closely to his signals, to his tone and pace. Unhurried, patient. After all, there would be many, many times for them, as Scourge had hoped there to be. He was simply content. Here. Now. Feeling his Jedi so close, her head between his thighs, and his hands stroking through her hair.

At first, she merely caressed and flicked the underside of him with the very tip of her tongue. Meandering, languid, and enjoying the taste and sensation of her lover, no doubt savoring every hitch in his breathing and quiet sighs. His fingers twisted slightly in the sheets beneath him, each gentle stroke of her tongue unraveling another thread of his composure. That built until her pace quickened, sucking him down and slowly dragging herself up the rigid heat of his shaft. This repeated. A slow build into a steadily climbing rhythm of pressure. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the muscles in his abdomen clenching beneath the exquisite torture of her relentless affections. He closed his eyes, indulging, submitting, focusing on nothing more than the rising tide that began in his core and tightened and clenched around his spine.

and-

No.

Not like this.

He wasn't going to finish, not like this, not alone.

Although his arousal was near excruciating, Scourge desired far more than the relief she gave him. He wanted their pleasures and releases to be in synch. He was adamant, and his plan set. Three hundred years he had waited for a love like this, for a love like her, he would not finish yet. Scourge knew this moment and its importance, his mind already prepared, as a war raged between his arousal and his brain.

With tremendous effort, he forced his breathing steady, regaining control for a brief, crucial moment.

Gently, and perhaps a touch regretfully, he shifted and grasped her. His hand slid tenderly into her hair, guiding her upward with unmistakable determination.

"If we are to finish this, then we finish together," he rasped, his breathing short from their previous endeavors. But his voice held that conviction she was so used to, one which meant the matter was sealed. And although, as Scourge himself could hear, the frustration of his arousal seeped into his words, he would not compromise—not in this. Yet, all that seemed unimportant in the moment, as her thoughts were suddenly drawn to his intentions, and his goal. She felt her pulse quicken, desire rising sharply within her chest at the intensity and certainty radiating from him. Her skin was burning with arousal, and the aching heat within her had begun to intensify, near painful in its urgency.

"Up here, Jedi." Scourge's growl was not meant as a command, but came as such anyway, and Rhiasen did not hesitate, parting from her position between his legs, and straddling him properly. Yet he insisted on dragging her higher. Further and further, up the ridge and furrows of his chest, the expanse of her slim form looming over him. His palms smoothed firmly along her thighs. It wasn't until her core hovered inches from his face, did Scourge lower her gently, his hands guiding her down, and ensuring her stability. She shivered slightly, anticipation coiling tightly within her chest.

But this didn't satisfy her. Rhiasen awkwardly readjusted, shifting her position the opposite direction so they could both give and receive. He made a low sound of approval deep in his throat, hands possessively tightening against her hips as she settled herself comfortably over him.

Only when that was done, did Rhiasen's senses erupt as she felt the wet and broad flick of a tongue lick into her heat and tease her folds. The suddenness of his intimate touch drew a sharp gasp from her, sensation erupting in white-hot bursts through her veins. Her fingers grasped his thighs, holding tight as she trembled above him. But it wasn't long before the same heat, followed by her lover, came upon her like a storm, as if a fire ignited the blaze and passion within Rhiasen. Scourge couldn't stop himself even if he had the power or inclination, the taste of her, sweet and intoxicating, filled his senses entirely, urging him onward with ravenous desire. It felt as though something had been unleashed within him, some inner beast long caged and dormant was woken and it came roaring out in force, making Rhiasen shiver and writhe, pinned and forced to the same pleasurable torture she'd made him submit to before.

His every touch was precise, intense, and relentless, as though he’d spent centuries memorizing exactly how he would worship her, how he’d unravel her composure and reduce her to breathless surrender. Each movement of his mouth and tongue, deliberate yet raw, echoed his unspoken promise—to offer her everything he had once denied himself.

But just as his intentions had been plain and his words a promise, Rhiasen promised too, her mouth resuming its devoted attentions to him with renewed fervor, matching his intensity stroke for stroke, taste for taste. She vowed silently, fiercely, that neither would find release without the other; their passion now an entwined dance, shared hunger, desire, and affection cocooned.

Her pace and ferocity came almost instantaneously. Not merely relishing in his length, she used both mouth and fingers in tandem. Coaxing him. Delighting in every grunt, every little tremor, she felt running through the planes of his stomach and thighs beneath her. It was an effort to concentrate now, and keep track of every caress, every stroke. His tongue was everywhere, inside her, swirling and tasting her and laving against that bundle of nerves with a fevered desperation she'd never seen in Scourge before, as if it was their last time together. His powerful hands gripped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer as he surrendered entirely to the fierce hunger that consumed them both. The moment he pulled back, to utter her name and cry out from the intense sensations, Rhiasen redoubled her efforts, her mouth tightening, drawing deeply, determined to bring him beyond the very limits of pleasure. His sounds were music to her ears.

It felt like a delicate dance. Like two opponents standing in a room, coming closer, and closer, circling around one another as their instincts led their bodies. Only a moment's notice to grasp each other by the waist, and tug, drawing one another to meet at the center, pressing, exploring. Their needs clear and urgent as they fought with teeth and tongue, hands groping and roaming with wanton abandon. Both yearning for more. For as much as was possible. For this to never end.

Never end.

Never—

A moan shattered the calm, and the inferno that had come in his wake consumed them. Rhiasen stiffened and arched, crying out softly and bearing down, the first trembles of climax rocking through her. Her body tensed sharply, her thighs trembling violently as sensation surged through her like lightning, stealing the breath from her lungs. But Scourge held her firm, guiding and soothing her through the release, continuing to nudge her along, drawing that peak out even further. Her cry quickly transformed into a moan, the tension releasing from her shoulders and Scourge's head fell back, his whole body stiffening and bucking his hips, a hot white heat radiating from within, up his back, spreading the shock wave to every part of him.

Every muscle in his powerful frame seized at once, a strangled growl erupting from his throat, unrestrained and raw with pleasure.

It was then Scourge saw stars as an overwhelming amount of emotion slammed into him as his climax hit him like a speeder. He released, throbbing and grunting into her with no control, no sense or feeling besides pleasure. And she swallowed every bit. The world faded. Or perhaps, his consciousness did. What were seconds felt like hours to him, his release so forceful and debilitating and he almost forgot to breathe as his hands desperately grabbed onto the body above him for something. Anything, to hold onto in order to anchor himself. His fingers dug gently yet insistently into her flesh, holding her tightly, grounding himself in the heat and softness of her body as his senses fractured into blissful chaos. It wasn't until the warmth began to dwindle, did he begin to drift back, but only after an intense and almost agonizing wave of ecstasy.

Even as it ebbed, those lingering memories remained. Still vivid, and oh, so clear. It was a mercy then, that his Jedi had slipped from atop him, settling to sit, facing him and straddling his waist as she leant over him and brushed her locks aside so she could properly kiss him. Their tastes intermingled, saline, sweet and yet, rich and slightly bitter all at once. He kissed her deeply, slowly, savoring the mingling of their essences as though she were a precious delicacy, meant to be explored thoroughly and carefully.

A finger slipped beneath her chin, and, with a gentleness Scourge had not quite demonstrated previously, he met her gaze with his, his words a promise and declaration, "I am yours. For now, and as long as our fates are intertwined."

Rhiasen did not hold the same formal, elegant air about her as they spoke. Rather, she appeared utterly disheveled, in a way only Scourge got to see, her hair wild, lips reddened, cheeks flushed with satisfaction and lingering passion.

"As long as the galaxy lets us be," her reply was immediate. It would have sounded romantic and endearing had she not followed it with, "—So, round two?" a playful quip, not yet finished, but obviously wanting more. Her eyes sparkled mischievously, openly daring him to deny her request, the seductive tilt of her lips unmistakably bold.

Her words were cut off when Scourge leaned and began pressing tender kisses against the delicate column of her throat, trailing down to her shoulder, moving at an easy, deliberate pace, taking his time to enjoy this. His breath warmed her skin, sending gentle shivers down her spine as he traced lazy patterns along the sensitive curves of her collarbone.

"Hnn..." it came from somewhere in the back of his throat, low and husky as his large hand spanned the fullness of her hips and his kisses reached her neck once more. His touch was possessive yet infinitely gentle.

"What have you awakened inside me, my Jedi?" he growled softly into her ear, voice dark with lust, his other hand smoothing a path down her spine. She wasn't quite the woman he'd met in the Emperor's fortress years ago, or even the Jedi he'd seen from his vision anymore; this one was fierce and fierce in love. A warrior who had reclaimed her desires, and whose passion now burned just as fiercely as his own.

With their noses barely touching, Scourge parted his lips and inhaled deeply, filling himself with her essence. "This could keep us occupied all night..." his words drifted lazily, giving in and losing himself to her scent, his desire returning with even more power. He wondered, how long had she kept these passions in check, just waiting for the chance to come free and he smiled softly against her neck. A rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes, reflecting tenderness and devotion reserved only for her. His sly smile a secret between lovers, and the night their own.

"I would gladly spend an eternity discovering every hidden part of you," he whispered, the words heavy with a sincerity that transcended mere passion, carrying a promise of something deeper, lasting.

Rhiasen’s playful smile softened, eyes meeting his with unguarded affection. "Then let's start tonight," she breathed against his lips. "And tomorrow, and every day after."

Scourge brushed his thumb gently over her cheek, lips brushing hers with tender reverence, as if sealing a silent promise. "For as long as you will have me," he murmured quietly, voice thick with emotion. "For as long as the Force permits."

Their kiss deepened slowly, softly—an affirmation of something beyond words, deeper than passion, and as enduring as the galaxy itself.