You keep the last voicemail Ryland ever left you. Just a 20 second piece of him shuffling around, apologizing about being late for dinner and that he’s running about 10 minutes late but still can’t wait to eat some Ramen with you. You’ve listened to it so many times you start to hear the faint sound of his keys jingling as he locks his classroom door. The way that his breath hitches slightly as he says your name and even the background hum as he steps outside into the parking lot. It’s the sound of a normal Tuesday, and it’s something you would give anything to hear again.
You keep the last text message you ever got from Ryland. Just a small little thing about a new exhibit opening up downtown about the Andromeda Galaxy. It was meant to be used as bait to get him to take you on a date there. “This looks awesome! I’m free Saturday, if you are! Let me know if you want to go!” You never answered. You got busy at work, but you were going to. You were going to type ‘Yes!” with a million and one exclamation points. Now, the message sits there, a digital ghost of a future that was planned but never arrived, the promise of a Saturday you wanted more than anything.
You keep the movie ticket stub from the last movie you saw together. It was for some Z-List cheesy sci-fi blockbuster he insisted on, claiming the effects and physics were “offensively bad but hilariously so”. You had spent the entire movie listening to Ryland whisper corrections until an usher had to shush him. He had folded the stub into a tiny, imperfect crane that looked more like a blob that he left on your bookshelf. You found it there two days after he’d gone missing, its delicate, creased wings feeling like the only thing holding you to the Earth anymore.
You keep the worn-out hoodie he left draped over a chair in your living room. It sits there for the longest time, still smelling like Ryland and too painful for you to hold in your hands. Until one day, when it was bad and the loneliness was all consuming, you tugged it on and curled up on your couch. The sleeves were too long, but you pulled them down over your hands and pretended they were his arms wrapped around you. It was a flimsy shield against the silence that crept into your apartment, a place that no longer had Ryland in it.
You keep the single, slightly blurry photo on your phone from your last date. It’s a selfie Ryland took, his face scrunched up and laughing too hard at something you had said, you were just a swipe of motion in the corner, turning to look at him. It’s admittedly not a good picture of you, but it’s the perfect picture of Ryland. Alive, happy and completely unaware that in this moment, was the last photo you’d ever get together. You stare at it sometimes, tears in your eyes, trying to memorize the lines around his eyes when he smiles because you were terrified of waking up one day and forgetting.
i love declining birth rates 🥰 "what a horrible problem! society will collapse!" oopsie it looks like you're gonna have to make having children worth it 😊 teehee you're gonna have to improve society in order to fix this problem, or it will all collapse. oh noooooo. how horrible. :3c
“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.
writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.
using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.
long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.
“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.
italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.
stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.
because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.
synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ the way they cope after your death.
including ⠀! ⠀ matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. angst. both matt and dex are fucked in the head. dead dove? not really. nsfw in matt's part. gifs by @.emziess. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶
MATT MURDOCK
Sex.
He will have sex constantly.
Every morning. Every night. Sometimes in the middle of the day when the silence becomes too much.
He fucks women who wear the exact same perfume you used. The one that still makes his cock twitch when he catches it on the wind.
He seeks out women whose heartbeats sync almost perfectly with the rhythm he still hears in his sleep. Women who moan his name in that same breathy pitch you once did, right before you cum on his tongue.
Matt always growls your name when he cums inside. Every single time.
“Y/n—” torn out like a prayer as he spills into a stranger’s cunt, hips stuttering, eyes squeezed shut so he can pretend it’s your wet heat milking him.
He knows it’s disgusting. He knows it’s vile.
But it’s the only way he can bury the grief, the guilt, the self hatred that rots him from the inside like maggots in a open wound.
Because he couldn’t protect you.
Because he didn't do shit.
He's daredevil isn't he? The devil of hell’s kitchen. The hand of god himself.
And yet he couldn’t keep one woman safe. One fragile, beautiful woman.
It’s his fault. All of it. Every fucking second of it.
Because he was selfish. Because he loved the suit more than you. Because he wanted to be superior to Fisk, better than the devil whispering in his ear.
Because he was a hypocrite who preached justice but did nothing when you needed him.
What a pathetic piece of shit.
If he had just been faster... If he had been stronger… If he had just killed—
Yeah. If.
It's always "what if."
Would it bring you back?
Would it let him taste your skin one more time instead of some stranger’s sweat?
What would you think if you saw him like this?
His face between another woman’s thighs just because her laugh sounded a little like yours for three pathetic seconds?
Would you be mad?
Disgusted?
Disappointed?
Or happy?
Are you happy now?
Are you smiling now? Do you laugh when he’s like this? Broken, leaking cum and tears into someone who isn’t you?
You must be.
You hated him, after all.
That’s when the hysterical laughter starts bubbling up while he’s still balls deep inside some poor woman’s pussy.
She is freaked out. He can tell by her heartbeats.
What was her name again?
Emma?
Emily?
Y/n.
Fuck.
He misses you.
He misses you so much. So much it feels like his ribcage is caving in, bones splintering inward to stab his heart.
He can't breathe.
There’s a stone lodged in his throat, heavy and sharp, and he doesn’t know if he wants to swallow it or vomit it up along with everything else rotting inside him.
His dick goes soft instantly. And then the tears come, hot and ugly, while some stranger holds him like a broken child, stroking his hair as he sobs your name into her tits.
Please come back.
Please.
He be better.
He do anything you want.
Just come back.
Please...
BENJAMIN POINDEXTER
The day you died, he had a mental breakdown.
His brain simply couldn't accept that you were dead.
You were not dead. You could not be dead.
Of course you're not dead.
You're sleeping.
You're sick.
You're tired.
You just need rest.
That's all.
That's all.
That's all.
You’re resting in the other room. You’ll wake up soon and smile at him with those pretty eyes that made him feel like he was on cloud nine.
You would never leave him.
You said it yourself. You said you loved him. You said you liked his eyes. You said he was good. You love him. You said you’d stay. You promised. You said you’d stay forever. You said— you said—
Ah.
He burned the eggs again.
Shit.
It’s fine. You can have pancakes today. You always liked them better. Extra syrup, just how you want it.
And apple juice. Cold. Fresh. Sweet.
He has to go get some right now.
Where are his keys? Where’s his keys? Where’s his keys? Where’s his fucking—
“Y/n? Have you seen my keys, baby? I need to get your apple juice.”
No answer.
Hmm?
“Baby?”
…Why won't you answer?
“Y/n?”
Nothing.
A chill crawls down his back, slow and wet like melting ice. His pulse hammers in his ears.
Dex immediately runs to your room. Heart beating so fast it feels like it might burst through his chest.
What if you fell? What if you hurt yourself? What if you’re dea—
Shut the fuck up. Shut up shut up shut up.
Then he opens the door and—
Oh.
Ohhh.
Haha.
So you’re still sleeping. Alright.
Ok ok ok, everything's fine.
Look at you.
So lovely. So perfect. So peaceful.
You look so cute like that, don’t you?
Cute?
Yeah. So cute.
What’s so cute about a rotting corpse, Dex?
…What?
He stands there smiling, head tilted, fingers twitching at his sides. The delusion cracks for half a second, then seals itself again like a fresh wound.
You’re just sleep. You’ll wake up. You have to. Because if you don’t… if you really left him…
No. No no no.
He’ll make breakfast anyway. He’ll set the table. He’ll sit across from your cold body and talk to you about his day, stroking your stiffening hand while the smell gets worse and the flies start to gather at the corners of your eyes.
Then he crawls onto the bed beside you, careful not to disturb the way your stiff limbs have settled.
He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead—skin cold, slightly slick now—and presses a kiss to your dry lips.
“It’s okay. You’re just tired. I’ll take care of everything. I never leave you.”
He curls around your decaying body, nose buried in your neck where the rot is sweetest, breathing you in like his life is depends on it.
His hand strokes down your side, over the bloating beginning in your belly, fingers tracing the places he used to mark with his teeth when you were warm and moaning.
You’re not leaving. You can’t. You promised.
And in the quiet of the apartment, with the flies humming their little hymn above you both, Dex smiles against your cold skin and whispers the same things he told you every night when you were alive.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He’ll stay right here until you wake up.
Even if it takes weeks.
Even if the smell gets worse.
Even if pieces of you start to slip off when he holds you too tight.
You’ll wake up.
You have to.
Because you promised.
Right?
If you want to be in my daredevil taglist let me know :)
You ever wonder if Bilbo sat expecting visits from the Company, and every time he heard a knock at his door he gets up from his seat or stops what he was doing to open it with the biggest smile and a "Balin!" Or "Ori!" Only to see it was his neighbor?
Maybe he cooks extra every meal, and while he's eating he waits for the sound of rough-housing dwarves to come barreling through for lunch or supper. He sits alone at the table, waiting so painfully patient for a visitor that isn't a hobbit.
Or, maybe, he sits out front on his bench and watches the horizon in case he can see a group of travelers that look vaguely like the Company.
Maybe, when he has everything in Bag End back to normal, he always makes tea at the promised time. Maybe he talks to himself, like he was talking to Oin or Nori. Has 10- no, 13- tea cups set out untouched by visitors that never come.
Every day, every week, every month.
Do you think, eventually, he stops? That he stares at the door with an almost contemptuous glare that seemed betrayed? What about his neighbors? They stop by with warm smiles and it's returned with a scowl and empty eyes that say "You're not who I want here".
Maybe he stops answering the door in general. As a matter of fact, he avoids it entirely- its existence is only to taunt him of who he made a life with that forgot about him.
Imperial Sharpshooter!Dex x Jedi Knight!Reader | Star Wars AU
TW Grief, mention of death, obsession, unhealthy attachment, stalking (?), mentions of spice/drug and alcohol use, suggestive sexual content, enemies(ish)-to-lovers, weapon kink.
You were one of the few Jedi who survived Order 66.
You didn’t survive because you were better, or because you were chosen. You didn’t survive because the Force had some grand plan for you. If anything, you thought it was cruel that you survived at all.
You survived because you were a coward. You got luck, and you ran.
That day, you found your Jedi apprentice dead in her quarters. She was only a teenager, and more importantly, she was your ward. She was a child who had been entrusted to you, and the last thing you ever got to do for her was cradle her body while the Jedi Temple burned around you.
You cut off her Padawan braids with shaking hands because you couldn’t leave all of her behind.
Then you ran and hid in the refresher of a cargo ship. You burned your robes in a trash compactor. You traded your lightsaber for passage twice and stole it back both times.
So, no. You didn’t really consider yourself a Jedi anymore.
Jedi didn’t drink cheap booze from chipped metal cups on deserted towns in imperial planets. Jedi didn’t sleep in filthy hostels under fake names. Jedi didn’t take spice just to stop dreaming about the people they failed to save.
And Jedi definitely didn’t sleep with strangers because they were angry and grieving.
Enter Dex.
You met him in a bar near some run-down hostel on an Outer Rim planet you barely remembered the name of. You were there because you were hunting the clone who killed your Padawan, but so far, you had nothing. No name, no trail, nothing.
Dex was sitting beside you at the bar, trying to flirt because you smiled at him kindly when you walked in.
And oh, he flirted badly.
Like, it was painfully terrible. He was doing that thing where he clearly wanted to be noticed but was pretending he didn’t care if you looked at him.
You noticed.
And not just because he was intense, not just because he looked at you like he was already one bad decision away from obsession.
And you liked him. You really did.
There was something about that singular focus of his that drew you in, that almost made you admire him against your better judgment. He was charming in a way that should have been off-putting, but it worked on you anyway. Still, that was not why you noticed.
You noticed because the Force was strong with him.
He was clearly untrained and unfocused, but the potential was there.
Dex was Force-sensitive. He just had no idea.
And really, that should have been your sign to walk away.
You didn’t.
So you slept with him that night, because one thing led to another, and honestly? Fuck the Jedi Code. Fuck the no-romantic-attachment rule. Fuck serenity. Fuck letting go.
Anyway, sleeping with Dex was not an attachment. Obviously.
It was just one night. One stupid, desperate night with a stranger who made you forget, for a few hours, that your entire life had been purged before your eyes.
You ended up against the wall of his dingy rented room, breath heaving as he drove into you, nail scratching and teeth biting.
He was good. For a little while, you forgot the braid in your pocket, forgot the dead, forgot that you were supposed to be grieving, running, hunting.
And then morning came. Dex was still asleep beside you.
Last night was fun, but you hadn’t been paying attention. You had been too tired and too desperate to forget.
And you hadn't looked closely enough.
Because that morning, curiosity took over. When you looked around his room, your heart dropped.
You saw the Imperial uniform. You saw the Empire-issued rifle half-hidden under his bed.
And immediately, you were like: Maker, what have I done?
Because he was not just some strange man from a bar. He was not just an awkward, intense, off-puttingly charming man who you had a one night stand with.
He was an Imperial sharpshooter.
Which meant he had probably hunted people like you. He killed people like you. Maybe even surviving Jedi. Maybe even children who had escaped the Temple just to be found later.
So you left before he woke up. No note. No goodbye. Nothing.
And the thing was, Dex didn’t know you were Jedi.
To be fair, Dex did not know what he was either.
He had no idea he was Force-sensitive. He had no word for it, and no ancient teachings to explain why he can’t seem to miss, even if he tried.
The Empire, arrogantly, thought they had just trained a very good sniper.
He was sad that he woke up without you, of course. He wanted to get to know you!
So, when he got back to base, he started digging, researching your name day and night.
Later, he found your name in classified Imperial files: a surviving Jedi Knight.
Oh.
He should have told his superiors. He should have told them where he saw you. He should have said, yes, I met her, she was here, she went this way. Blah blah blah.
He didn’t. Because, unfortunately for everyone involved, Dex was already obsessed with you.
So instead of reporting your last known whereabouts, he does the most Dex thing possible.
He starts sabotaging Imperial operations near your suspected locations to flush you out.
Insane behavior. But very Dex, right?
He started destroying supply lines and even discreetly killed officers who got too close to your trail. Then, he started causing just enough damage that innocent civilians needed help, because in his head, he knew you. He knew you wouldn’t be able to ignore the sound of a sister begging for help or a child crying because they lost their mother in the chaos.
And he was right.
You showed up.
You kept crossing paths with him, and every time, you ran before he could explain anything.
At first, you thought he was hunting you.
Which, y’know, fair.
He was Imperial. He was dangerous. You were probably his mission. You had looked into his record by then, and it was not exactly comforting.
But then you started noticing that the bodies he left behind were not rebels or civilians.
They were Imperial officers. They were always one of his own.
Huh. Strange.
And then one day, there was a knock on your door.
You opened it. And it was Dex.
He was dragging a dead clone trooper behind him.
You ignited your lightsaber and put it straight to his throat. And the sick bastard looked like he was into it.
He only said, “I just wanna talk.”
So you let him in, but you kept the lightsaber at his neck the whole time because you were traumatised, not stupid.
You said, “then talk.”
And Dex explained that the dead clone on your floor was the one who killed your Padawan. You checked, he was right— he had the designation number of CT-0212. It matched information based on the blaster you found near the body.
Because apparently, while he had been trying to find you, he had also figured out what you were really looking for. He knew you were hunting the clone responsible. He knew you hadn’t been able to find him.
So Dex found him for you, killed him, and dragged the body to your door like it was a gift.
Like: I know what you wanted, so I brought it to you. Now please love me?
And to be fair, what were you supposed to do with that? Throw him back into the street?
The Empire had probably already realised he had defected. He had nowhere to go. He had just handed you the one thing you had been chasing since the day your life at the temple ended.
So you let him stay.
And because the Maker apparently had a sick sense of humor, you eventually let Dex back into your bed, and for more than one night this time.
Which was its own kind of disaster, because one night had been easy to excuse. One night could be grief, loneliness, bad judgement, whatever.
But this that was waking up tangled in his arms and kissing him back when he kissed you.
Worse, you eventually fell in love with him, too.
Which was completely against everything you had once been taught.
The Masters would have been disappointed in you. The Jedi rules against attachment existed for a reason, didn’t they? Possessive attachment and romantic love could lead to fear, jealousy, and the dark side.
You were supposed to be detached.
But where had detachment gotten any of you?
The Temple was turned into ash. Your masters were dead. Your Padawan was dead. Every surviving person you had once called a companion was now a name on an Imperial execution list.
So what if you loved Dex?
What were the Jedi Council going to do about it?
Oh, right.
They were all dead.
Eventually, you told him the truth: that he was Force-sensitive.
And suddenly, his whole life made sense.
How he was able to make impossible shots and ridiculous ricochets. The way he always knew where a target would move before they moved. The way the galaxy seemed to bend to his will whenever he aimed.
And you, who were absolutely not a proper Jedi anymore, taught him what little you could.
Not the Temple teachings. Not the holy religious bullshit.
You taught him practical things. You taught how to listen to his surroundings, how to focus, how to feel the Force on purpose instead of reaching for it blindly.
And after that, the two of you became an absolute nightmare.
Because after that, you started killing Imperial soldiers and officers out of pure spite. Out of revenge.
And Dex didn’t stop you. In fact, he encouraged it. He helped you cover your blind spots. He put blaster bolts through anyone who looked at you wrong. He ran a tub for you after a long day and scrubbed the sweat off your skin and kissed the blood off your face. He would say he’s so proud of you for putting those scum down, as if he hadn’t been one of them once, too.
The other Masters would have hated it.
They would have said you were slipping, crawling toward the dark side one body at a time. They would’ve said you were careless for letting your grief turn into rage, rage into violence, violence into a line you would never come back from.
And maybe they would have been right.
But you had lost too much to care.
And now the man you loved was enabling you to take out your emotions however you liked.
So, really. How were you supposed to stop?
Also, Dex with a blaster? Horrifying. Beautiful. Give me that please.
Give that man a custom ricochet blaster and it is over. He’d be bouncing shots off cantina walls, pipes, doorframes, helmets, beskar armor, whatever. He wouldn't even need a clean line of sight. He’d just tilt his head, listen to the Force like you told him to, and suddenly three bounty hunters are down before anyone could process where the shot came from.
So yeah, the Empire accidentally created a Force-sensitive trick-shot assassin and then lost him forever because one traumatised Jedi smiled at him at a bar once.
Pathetic of them, honestly.
—
Prompted by this ask.
—
Note : starting a dex taglist, but I won’t be tagging people in small blurbs like this, just full length fics! Also, The Matt Murdock and Buck Cashman Star Wars AU blurbs are gonna be posted tomorrow. Gotta sleep now, it’s 3AM and I just finished marvel rivals placement matches lol.
Valarr Targaryen x Baratheon!fem!wife!reader—in which, you die in childbirth and Valarr must follow you to the After as he's followed you forever.
TW: DEATH! The reader dies and Valarr kills himself because he cannot live without her. it is ANGST!!! There is also mention of wedding night sex, but it is not graphic. Mainly ANGST!!!!
A/N: This has revived me (just in time for studying for my last final!!)
You were everything to Valarr, every bit of good in this world, every bit of sunshine and moonlight and every hope. You were every wish he’d ever had come to startling fruition. You were the world and the sun and the stars and everything in the universe. You were, simply, everything.
You had been everything and his for years, since the moment he met you as a child, since he asked you at five years old to marry him—not because he knew what marriage was, only that he never wanted to lose you. You are everything to him and yet here you are, dying.
You are dying bringing forth your child, his child. You are his everything, his sun and moon and stars and yet you are dying. You are withering.
The one person who has always held him upright is dying, the one who was calm and gentle, who weathered every storm of his mind. The one who cared for him, not a crown or a legacy but him. Him entire and yet the world was trying to take you from him.
The world was trying to take you, the Stranger trying to steal you from him, your blood leaching out onto the mattress as a baby tried to leave you. The proof of your love was taking you from him. He did not want you to leave, he could not handle if you left.
He knew when he was five. He knew when he was six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He knew that all his life.
He knows that now—there is no him without you.
And there never was.
***
Valarr is tired of the festival, the tourney, the rowdy shouts and cheers of the people. He wants quiet and solitude. He wants to disappear and just be allowed to be a child, but he cannot because he is a prince. The heir of the heir and that means something to these men. These men who set the rules on his life, rules he doesn’t yet understand.
Rules of duty and piety and propriety. Things that are strange, things that his mother tells him not to think too much on, that it matters not, not yet. And yet they haunt the young prince as he wanders, a small toy dragon held tightly in one hand, tiny little fingers curled around the carved wood.
He heard the men whisper of betrothals and brides and alliances, his father answering back in an angry whisper, words harsh, “my boy will marry for love before we ever choose one of your houses!” Valarr didn’t understand quite what was going on, just that it was about him. As it always is.
Which is why he is running. Not forever of course, he’ll need to be back by dinnertime or else his mother will panic and panic isn’t good for the baby in her belly—or so his father tells him. But he is running now, running from the weight of the crown which he doesn’t even want.
“Why do you run, little prince?” calls a soft voice, one light and airy and it startles Valarr, the sound so unlike what he has heard all his life. The sound is that of peace and innocence and things Valarr doesn’t understand.
Yet.
“I’m tired of the court,” he answers, his head swivelling around, eyes scanning every inch of the forest, the glade just behind the tourney fields looking for whoever spoke, whoever spoke in that perfect voice that seems like something that he needs even if he doesn’t understand it yet.
“Courts are very tiring, aren’t they?” the voice continues, the words seeming to come from everywhere in the forest all at once. “But something being tiring is not a reason to run. My father says there is never a reason to run—Baratheon’s are the storm and storms flee for no man.”
“Where are you, voice?” Valarr asks, his head still spinning, sight only that of tree trunks and leaves and foliage on the grassy ground.
“Look up,” the voice says and he does, glimpses of clear blue sky visible through the shadowed stretches of tree branches.
“I do not see you, forest sprite,” he says and he can hear the voice laugh, the sound perfect and precious and like the sound of silver bells pealing and yet at the same time like the rumble of thunder during a storm before the first crash of lightening.
“I sit in a tree, little prince. I am not the sky nor no forest sprite,” the voice says and Valarr looks, peering at every tree until he finds the owner of the voice—until he finds you. You are as young as he, resting on a tree branch, halfway up a tall, towering oak, a dagger spinning in your two small hands, large eyes glimmering with mischief and focused solely on him, looking every inch the forest sprite he believed you were.
“Then what are you? A fairy or a nymph, perhaps?” he calls out, running towards your tree, jumping and catching a branch in his two hands, hauling himself up and towards you, his dragon resting at the base of trunk.
“I am but a girl,” you reply as he reaches you, climbing onto the branch beside you, his back against the trunk, head twisted to you—taking in every inch of you, this forest spirit complaining of the tiring nature of court.
“My father is talking with the court about marriage and betrothals for me,” he tells you, unsure why he tells you this, yet not choosing to think so much on it. That is the nature of children after all. “But I am just a boy! What do I know of marriage and love and alliances?”
“My father is the same,” you reply, your voice light, carrying through the woods, ringing and echoing. “He says the Storm needs a match. Someone proper and strong; someone who will not try to bottle the power. Whatever that means.”
“You do not want the marriages?” he asks you and you turn to him, exasperation in those forest sprite eyes and you shake your head.
“I do not want to be caged!” you cry, standing now, tucking the dagger into a makeshift belt at your waist, jumping once on the branch, Valarr’s heart rushing into his throat, a strange and foreign feeling constricting his throat and his chest, making breathing difficult as he watches you hop up and down on that thin branch.
Fear, that’s what he’s feeling. Fear.
Fear that you will fall and die. Fear that you will die and he will be alone again and just when you were becoming friends. He told you of his fears and now you court death?! That’s hardly fair!
“Stop that!” he demands, his voice every inch the spoiled prince he is.
“Why? I am a storm beholden to no man and I do what I want,” you answer, not rude simply plain. The words simply facts to you.
“Because I do not want you dying!” Valarr cries and he can feel tears welling in his eyes, the same feeling as when his cousin mocks him for his dark hair, saying he’s not Targaryen, not truly—just a bastard in noble garb. “You are my friend and I do not want you leaving me!” He watches you sigh and stop bouncing on the branch, simply sitting down, legs dangling off the edge, eyes wide as they look at him.
“Fine. But the you cannot leave me either since I have no friends either,” you tell him and he can feel the fear abate, a smile growing on his face as the tears dry up, disappear.
“Since both of our fathers speak of marriage…” he muses, lips curving up in a mischievous smile, “why don’t we marry each other and then we never leave each other and are married to our friend?!” He’s excited, very much so and even more so when you nod, once, assent to the arrangement.
“Very well,” you reply, “have you a ring? To marry someone you need a ring?” And Valarr looks down at his hands where the signet ring his father gave him when he was born rests as it always has. He likes the little ring but he doesn’t want to lose you, the first friend he’s ever had, the forest sprite made of storms.
“I have this,” he says, pulling it off his hand and holding it out to you in his palm. “Will it do?”
“Very much so,” you tell him, lips curving in a smile. “Now you have to put it on my finger and then we’re married…Or I think so…that’s what all the Storm’s End ladies tell me makes a marriage and they shouldn’t lie.” He takes the ring and slides it onto your small, chubby finger, the left ring one that you indicate.
“Now we’re married!” he cries and you smile at him once, a pleased sort of smile before you slide off your branch, hopping down until your feet rest on the forest floor and you look up at him, cupping your hands around your mouth and yelling up at him: “Come on, little husband! We must inform our parents of the matters!”
And Valarr follows you, his only friend, the storm in girl’s skin. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he thinks he would follow you forever, no matter where you went.
He did not want to lose you.
Not ever.
***
You were a storm in a human body, a storm wrapped up in beauty and grace and perfection but a storm nonetheless. And storms are strong, they are not supposed to die like this. Die in agony and pain and blood.
Storms are supposed last for a long time, slowly slowly slowly going out, fading away so perfectly, so painlessly. Not like this.
Never…like this.
Never with hands clutching and squeezing, voice screaming and blood seeping and body just…stopping. Storms are supposed to fade not just stop. There must be an end not a sudden disappearance. Storms reshape lands, they don’t just disappear, just stop.
Storms are infinite.
You are infinite. There should be no end to you. Not yet. Not yet. You’re still so young, there is more life to live. More life to live with him. He can’t lose you, he could never lose you. You have been everything to him since the moment he heard you call him little prince, a nickname you have never let go of.
“Just…just hold on, my storm…please, just hang on!” he cries, falling to his knees by your bed, both of his hands clutching yours like lifelines, holding onto you, trying to anchor both you and him here, in this world. He wants his touch to prevent the Stranger from taking you, he wants to be like his ancestors of old.
He wants to be strong enough to keep you here.
“I…love…you,” you wheeze, breaths constricted as the midwives pull the baby, its cry shattering through the room, so strong, so full of life.
The life it stole from you. The life it took from you, the life it takes from you. It is the reason you are dying when there is still so much to live, so much to do, so much to see.
You promised him you would never leave.
And you cannot break a promise.
***
He watches as you step from the carriage, dressed in pure gold, spun through with threads of black, every inch the Baratheon daughter. Every inch the Young Prince’s promised bride.
“Lord Lyonel,” Baelor calls and Valarr turns, orienting unconsciously to his father like always, still ever the boy who wanted to be a man like his father, who wanted nothing more than his father to tell him he loved him. That he was proud. “Wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Prince Baelor,” your father responds in kind, face splitting in a wide grin, the one that is whispered about by the women of the court as they plot and plan to become the second Lady Baratheon, your mother having passed when giving birth to you, the only Baratheon heir.
“Little prince!” you call out as soon as you see him, those forest sprite eyes glimmering with mischief, lighting up like lightening cutting through the darkness of a stormy night, the stars and sun cutting through the dark clouds. “I did not expect to see you so soon! Is it not bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding?”
Valarr cannot take his eyes from you, wanting nothing more than to take you in his arms and run away with you, ceremonies and propriety be damned. You are his and he is yours and that is the most basic truth of his existence. He exists for you and you alone.
He discovered that when he met you at five, placed the signet ring on your finger—the one still sitting there, glimmering the sunlight, catching off the three-headed dragon.
“You have never cared for luck before, my forest sprite,” he answers, stepping towards you, crossing the distance in two bounds, catching up to you, his hands taking yours, pulling them up to his chest, forehead resting against yours, your breaths his air.
“I am no forest sprite, little prince,” you counter, voice teasing but a thread of iron, hardened and unbreakable, running through it. “I am a storm. One infinite and powerful that cannot be bottled, caged or broken. Ours is the fury, after all.” He watches as you smile, that mischievous smile that you have always had, the one that makes you seem more fairy kin than storm—not that you listen.
“Infinite, hmm?” he asks you and you nod once, the movement echoing through him. It would even if his forehead were not pressed to yours because he would feel every movement of your body always. You are his and he is yours.
“That is the nature of a storm,” you whisper, tone lilting and falling and rising and soaring. “You think it has broken, but it is never really gone, simply biding its time before returning.”
“Then if you are an infinite storm,” he muses, “that must mean you’ll never leave me.” The two of you are all that exist in the moment, every around you having faded to nothing more than blurs on the side, focus on each other and each other alone.
“I promise, little prince,” you whisper and the teasing tone is gone, the words not a continuation of a jest, but a vow. An informal one, but one just as powerful nonetheless.
“I shall hold you to that, my…storm.”
***
“Stay! Just stay with me goddammit!” he cries, his head falling to the mattress, pressing against your joined hands, pulse stuttering and slowing to a stop beneath his fingers. “You need to stay! You promised!” His words are not truly words, not truly screams or cries or yells, no they are roars. They are animal and primal because he needs you.
He has always needed you and even more so now.
“We…cannot—always…maintain…that which…we need…to…little prince,” you whisper, the words ragged and wheezing and he lifts his head, looking at you through eyes that cannot truly see, so lined with tears that the world is barely more than blurs, smudges.
“But…you promised me,” he whispers, the fire inside of him dwindling in the face of you, of your love, of your dying eyes still faintly glimmering with the shine of mischief, of fairy troubles.
“And…I never…shall,” you breathe out. “Am always…in…here,” your one hand presses against your chest, above your heart, the one that’s slowing slowing slowing, dying dying dying. “Never…gone.”
“But I need you here,” he cries, the tears falling too fast to truly try to stop. They fall and burn like fire, like the nature of his blood has only truly come alive in the wake of losing you. “I need you with me!”
“I…love…you,” you breathe, your hand rising, shaking and quivering from your breast to fall upon his head, sliding to rest upon his cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth, the gesture like that of a butterfly kiss, barely there and quivering all the while. “Always…will.”
“Please,” he begs but you are gone, hand slipping from his face, body going lax and eyes now glassy and dead, the glimmer of fairy kin gone.
Stolen.
“COME BACK TO ME!” he roars, crawling up the bed, crawling to you, pulling you against him and shaking you.
Begging you, to just come back and be with him.
To maintain your promise.
***
He watches you as you approach, mismatched eyes glimmering as you twirl, dancing around the dancers on the stone floor of the Keep, exasperation glimmering in those perfect, fairy kin eyes.
“Why do weddings take so damn long?” you cry, falling into his arms, his body reacting, twirling you just slightly as he lifts you up, managing to somehow pull you closer against him, yet it is not enough. Will never be enough.
“People love us, my storm,” he whispers, voice happy and relaxed, tone full of love and amusement. Amusement that only grows when you place your feet back on the floor and look up at him, exasperation growing, fairy kin eyes narrowing at him, the storm of your nature shining through.
“They could love us a little less,” you mutter, glaring at the people around you, lips, those perfect, plush lips, pressing into a line at the sight of the courtiers dancing and laughing and talking, drinking deeply from their cups. “Or you could love me a little more.”
And that is when Valarr realizes what you want, what you are waiting for. You were waiting for him, possibly for a long time and he had been too dense to understand. To notice.
And so he remedies his mistake, guiding you from the hall, up the stairs to the chambers you shall share, the ones which will be the walls of your future, the walls that protect and guard the two of you, shelter you and your love, watch as they grow.
He shuts the door behind you, his gaze falling to you, hands careful and gentle as he undoes the laces which hold your gown upon you, slipping the dark red and gold gown from your body, guiding you out of it, of your small clothes, letting you strip him, his body coming alight under your touch.
And then his lips find yours, the kiss sweet and innocent before deepening, a collision of tongue and teeth, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, naked form to naked form, the two of you walking to the bed, him pressing you down, his body entirely too hard and rigid, but he ignores.
He ignores it, taking to you, to your body, your pleasure. He worships you as you were always meant to be, delighting in the way you unravel around him. Delighting in the way you cry for him. Not his touch, but him in you. The joining.
And he obliges, sliding inside of you, the feeling too much and yet not enough, strange and all too perfect. He would happily remain like this for all his life, but desire surges and he finds the rhythm of snapping his hips forwards, driving up into you, his tongue still covered in your flavour, the taste of perfection, of storms and dreams and wishes and sins.
And when he comes undone, you coming undone around him at the same time, he collapses beside you, pulling you close against him, your chest to his, delighting the way he can feel your heartbeat in his chest, knowing you have the same.
Knowing you can feel the evidence of his life as clearly as he can feel yours. And for a moment it is enough, more than enough with the way your lips are pressing against his, lazy kisses, soft kisses, deep kisses. But it’s not enough.
“Did you mean your promise that you would never leave me?” he asks now, his voice surprisingly quiet and you look at him with surprise, those fairy kin, storm-bred eyes glimmering with surprise and hurt and fear and love.
“Yes, of course,” you whisper, voice fierce, tone fiercer. “I meant every promise I have ever made to you.” And he holds you closer, the feeling of more than enough spreading through him, calming at your words.
“I just cannot lose you,” he whispers, watching as your perfect eyes widen in knowing, understanding.
“I promise I shall never leave. Never.”
“I shall hold you to that, my storm.”
***
“Your Grace,” one of the midwives calls out, her voice cutting through his cries, his desperate pleas of come back to me, just come back. “What about your son?” He glances over, eyes still so full of tears and pain and loss, betrayal anger and inevitability that he cannot see, not truly, not clearly, but at the same enough because he can see the colour of your eyes in the bundle that the midwife holds.
And it is too much—and not in the right way.
He knows that there are two ways having a child and losing a wife in the same breath can go, knows because your father chose when you were born to love you and because his chose to love Matarys, but he cannot.
He cannot love the child that took you because if it had never been born, you would still be here, alive and vibrant and warm in his arms, laughing and dancing and twirling, causing mischief as every inch the storm.
He cannot love the thief of your life.
“GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” he screams and the midwife is startled, taking a step back and away, the child held loosely in her hands and Valarr wishes she would drop it, that it would die as punishment for taking yours.
“But he is your son!” she argues and he only pulls your body, pulls you, closer to him, tears still streaming, sight now impossible and he thanks the tears for he cannot see your eyes in that thief.
“GET IT OUT OF MY SIGHT!” he roars and the midwife runs, the Maester following behind until the room is empty, empty of all but you and him.
And he pulls you against him, catching the scent of you, cutting through the metallic smell of blood and the sour scent of death. He can smell you, can feel you, can almost pretend that you are warm and alive, blood pumping through your body, that it has not seeped and dried into sheets.
No. No, you are alive. You are. He is holding you and you are breathing and your heart is pumping. You must be because you promised.
“Come back,” he whispers against your skin, voice cracking and breaking and shattering, throat thick with both shed and unshed tears. “Come back to me. Come back and love me. Please. You promised me!”
And that is what he whispers into your body’s skin over and over and over, you promised me.
***
“I thought I would find you here,” he calls out to you, watching as you stand with your arms spread wide, spinning and twirling in the rain as if you are embracing the storm, dancing with it.
“Where else would I be, Valarr?” you reply, your voice sounding like heaven, calm and quiet and joyful, the sound of laughter in a voice and he loves it, loves you. “When the sky opens up, it is because it calls me home!”
“Home is underneath the rain?” he asks, stepping out into the yard, feeling the droplets land warm and light upon his skin, his hair, plastering it down onto his forehead as he walks to you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, holding lightly as he begins to sway with you, your arms wrapping around his neck in response.
“I am a storm, little prince,” you tell him, lips curving up into your fairy kin smile—the one that matches the gleam in your perfect eyes. “And a storm should find peace in the chaos of itself.”
“Why are you more poetic when you speak of storms then of me?” he asks and is delighted by hearing your laughter, the sound still that of thunder in a lightning storm and silver bells cutting through stillness and silence. The sound so perfect that he wants to bottle it up and save it for whenever you are apart.
Which is never, but it could happen. One day. Maybe.
“Because I need not be poetic of you,” you answer when your laughter has quieted, one hand coming to cup his cheek, the rain still falling on the two of you, faster and heavier than before. “I love you and I am yours and you are mine and no poetry could ever express that. We,” you lean forwards, pressing your lips to his, the kiss turning deep and hungry, tasting of love and fire and spring rain, “are infinite,” you finish when you pull away, storm and fairy kin eyes turning black as pupils spread.
“That we are, my storm,” he replies, leaning forwards, capturing your lips in another kiss. And another and another and another because one is never enough. “That we are.”
***
Valarr knows not how long he stays there, holding your body to his, only that it has been long enough for the sun to set and rise again, for the moon to sleep and wake again, for night to eat away at day and for day to grow stronger, defeating night for time again.
He knows not how long he stays there, holding you close, only that it is long enough for your body to grow rigid in his arms, stiff and unyielding. Only that it is long enough for you to truly disappear, soul disappearing with the Stranger, the body in his arms no longer you and yet still you.
He knows not how long he stays there only that it is long enough for his tears to turn to memories, images of you and only you dancing through the room. He can see you as a teenager on your visits to the Keep, climbing trees and swearing and teasing. He can see you dancing in Baratheon gold and the Targaryen red. He can see you, you, you, you—a thousand different iterations, but always still you.
He can see you and where else would he want to be? He is surrounded by every you that you have ever been. He can see you at five, ten, fifteen, twenty. He can see you as you were weeks ago and years ago and it is enough.
It has to be.
Because you are all there has ever been. All there ever will be and he wants you and only you and yet you are not here. Not truly at all, no. No, he’s surrounded by memories of you, hearing your voice, but not being with you.
Your warmth is gone, your tender touches are now just ghostly skims of memories against his skin and it is not enough but it has to be because he can never get you back.
But this? These memories, as much as he wants to stay here, he cannot because this is no life. This is a half-life and he promised you a life, not one half-lived. He promised you life and death. Sickness and health.
Life…and death.
And it is then that the memory he needed surfaces, the sight of you smiling, a Queen piece in your hand sitting at the edge of the bed.
And he lets himself fall into memory one last time.
***
“What would you do if I ever died?” he asks you, eyes on you, not the chessboard as they should be because he is, after all, losing. And losing badly.
“Depends,” you answer, your bishop taking his final pawn. “Do we have children in this hypothetical or no?”
“Children,” he answers and you shrug, watching as he moves his knight forwards, scoffing at the location on the board.
“I would mourn you and wear black for the rest of my life and never marry another,” you tell him and he looks at you, confusion in his eyes, confusion warring with happiness, knowing that even if he were gone, he would be the only one for you.
“And without children?”
“I’d hurl myself off the balcony,” you tell him, tone thoughtful as you move a pawn to the left, taking the knight he’d just moved. “I wouldn’t want to live without you in either hypothetical but children need a mother. No children…well, I’m free to follow you into the Stranger’s hold. And personally, I like the idea of meeting my end and seeing it happen and watching it as my soul takes the Stranger’s hand and my body smashes into the ground.” To punctuate the statement, you clap your hands together, a giggle escaping from your lips as he moves his rook forwards two spaces.
“Very graphic,” he tells you, watching as you lift your queen, twirling it between your fingers.
“What about you? What would you do if I died?” you ask, slamming your queen on top of his rook, the chess piece ricocheting off the board and landing on the stone floor with a clatter.
“Children or no?” he asks you, noting that he only has one more rook and his king—at this point, you’re just toying with him.
“Both, humour me,” you tell him as he slides his rook to the side.
“If we have children…I’d have to stay because that’s what’s necessary but no children? I’d follow you to death…just not sure how,” he answers, watching as in one move, you take his rook and place him into checkmate, the game done.
“The balcony is a solid choice, my love,” you tell him, giggles leaving your lips as you take in your win, but the giggles don’t last long because he pulls you to him, across the board, pressing his lips to yours.
And then he follows you down to the bed.
***
Valarr stands, knowing that when he joins you in the After, you will be angry, but also, that you will get over it. You must. Because he promised you life and death and so he must follow you.
He has to.
There is no him without you, you know this. He’s told you this and you promised him you’d stay. That you would never leave him and he cannot let you break that promise. He must follow you so that you are not a liar.
He is doing this for you, for him because he only exists with you. He is Valarr and he is a prince and he is yours. Above all else, he is yours and he only knows how to be yours. How can he live without you?
The truth is, he cannot.
And it is that truth which pulls him from the bed, his arms still holding onto your body, unwilling to let you go, unwilling to be parted from any form of you. Instead, they will find his broken, dead body with yours.
Life and death shared.
He rises and crosses to the balcony, holding tight to you and looking down at the grassy knoll far below, the one that will soon plummet up to meet him and he looks at the body in his arms, the one that is you but not and he nods.
And then he steps forwards, falling off the ledge, gravity taking its toll. He watches as the ground comes rushing up at him, not a single scream leaving his lips because this is what is needed. What he promised you and what you promised him.
And he will not see the two of you made liars.
It is when the ground is oh so close that he sees you standing there, your hand outstretched and he reaches forwards, taking it and stepping towards you and away from what once was.
He is gone before his body hits the ground, before it shatters with yours, before his blood mingles with yours upon the ground. He is gone, with you.
To the After.
He is not there when his father, holding the bundle of child made of him and you, finds the corpses, the silent screams of a strong man echoing. He is not there to see his father break, to see his brother break. To see a strong family shatter.
To see his father cry and his brother curse. No, he is gone, blissful and unaware, knowing only the after, knowing only you.
Because it is there, in the After, when he is able to tell you why he followed. Why he will always follow you, through all the lives there could ever be.
“There is no me without you,” is what he told you but he needn’t have because you knew. You had always known.
summary: during your period, eridians, Rocky, and his mate, Adrian, fuss over you! eridians purr. and rocky getting mad ragebaited at the idea of human 'engineering' (part of da 'saturday cuddles' universe!)
yaps!: thank you so much @saturnhas274moons for recommending this idea to me!! mhwamhwa, hope u like this..hehe..ook enough of angst (for now), for my next fic, what would u guys want?? more fluff or ANGST..lmk! listened to "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last, and "And The Winner is" while making this!
You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.
Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.
A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.
"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."
You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.
“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”
"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."
Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.
"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."
“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”
"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."
Adrian tilts her head, her eye focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”
"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."
The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.
Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”
Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.
Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.
Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.
"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.
Then, the sound starts.
It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.
"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.
"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."
“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”
Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."
The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.
You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.
The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.
The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.
Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.
yippee, WHAT DO WE THINK GAIS.....once again, many thanks to @/saturnhas274moons and friends for proof-reading/inspiration! much love, Aντίο, atsisveikink, paalam, and adiós! thanks 4 reading!1! 💚🤞 next fic might be ry n u meeting rocky and adrians pebbles EHEHEHEHE....👀
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