#cloak: hidden in plain sight

[agender-wolfie]

It’s a shame what CLOAK has become. Not being transparent about where they source their clothes except “over seas” and no mention about the insane drop in quality, also the fucking wacko prices even though the ceo is a multimillionaire?! I got only one item from them, a day of the dead hoodie and the seams came out of the left sleeve before I even put it in the wash 😑

They aren’t a small business but claim to be even though they made $14 million last year and have game companies reach out to them and Mark is attached to it…

I’ve bought better hoodies from ACTUAL small businesses on ETSY and they still hold up years later because they actually care about their products and customers. It’s also no longer “Hidden in plain sight” anymore, just FNAF shit over and over again. I think this is why Sean stepped away from this brand because it’s gone downhill.

[owl-bones]

updated fae nightmare’s reference ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

some fun facts:

when he’s particularly upset, the room gets cold and the things around him frost over

his crown is ‘alive’ kind of, it’s been growing over time as he matured in his role as king

the silk that he binds his old wings with is enchanted. his wings are still visible, but no one notices them. your gaze will just skip over them if they’re visible, as if they’re not even there. he likes to joke that his secrets are in plain sight. the enchantments are very strong, and only Dream, Error, or Ink can see through them.

he doesn’t fly very much. he generally prefers to ride on his dragon if he has to travel long distances or go somewhere quickly

he is almost never seen without his cloak; it’s become something of a comfort item. when he does have to go without it he’ll usually wear another cloak or cape depending on the function

his old wings are a source of chronic pain; to manage it he often will visit a natural hot spring that he’s hidden away under layers of enchantments. it’s his private safe space where he doesn’t have to fear anyone seeing his damaged wings, and the warm water soothes his aches and pains.

he does have tentacles, he just doesn't usually summon them due to their association with the war

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (24 - The Last Day)

Chapter Summary: “Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, smut

A/N: Infinity War > Endgame, honestly. There won't be an update next Wednesday as it's already finals week for me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wakanda was a fortress. 

From where you stood, gazing at the seemingly endless plains and lush forests that cloaked the hidden nation, you could almost believe you were safe. The sight of the golden African sun spilling over the landscape had a sort of hypnotic effect—like it was trying to convince you there was no danger beyond these borders. 

Of course, you knew better. Nowhere was safe with Thanos out there, collecting the Infinity Stones one by one. 

You tore your gaze away from the sweeping view, letting out a heavy sigh before turning to Wanda. She stood beside you on the balcony, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face etched with quiet worry as she stared into the distance. With Vision gravely wounded and the impossible task of removing the Mind Stone without ending his life looming over everyone, she’d been on edge. You didn’t blame her. Vision was her friend and she cared about him. 

You slid closer, pressing a comforting hand to her back. “You okay?”

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t take her eyes off the horizon. “I will be,” she murmured, her Sokovian accent thickening with anxiety. You didn’t even realize it was still there. “It’s just… I hate waiting like this.”

You remembered the feeling of helplessness in Scotland: Vision had been pinned down, helpless, and you and Wanda had been forced to watch as he was nearly killed for the stone in his head. You closed your eyes, shoved the memory down, deep into that place where unwelcome things go to rot. You were both seconds away from the same fate—until Steve and Natasha arrived, pulling you all back from the brink. Just in time. Always just in time.

“They’re good people here,” you assured her. “They’ll find a way.”

“I know. I just…” Wanda swallowed thickly, her words catching in the process. “I… we were naive to think this was just another assignment. We’ve lost so much already.”

She didn’t have to say who else she was referring to. You knew about her parents, her brother, everything she had endured. And now, this war was threatening to take more. You gently pulled her into a side embrace, resting your forehead against hers for a moment.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” you promised, and you meant it.

—

You left Wanda alone with her thoughts and headed to the lab. It was a pressure cooker—hissing, ready to blow—filled with people moving like they were on rails, locked into some critical task. Everyone had a job, a purpose and no task felt too small when the goal was stopping Thanos. 

You came here because you needed to know your place in all of this—what you could do, how you could help. You couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around while everyone else carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Bruce Banner stood at a console, studying Vision’s neural scans. He didn’t look happy. You worried he’d start turning green from all the stress of figuring out the impossible task of separating the Mind Stone from Vision without reducing him to something less of a being and more like his former iteration. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked.

Bruce didn’t glance up. “Stable, for now,” he said. “Shuri’s stasis is the only thing keeping him that way.” He finally met your eyes. “If we remove the stone and botch it, we lose him completely. We don’t have a margin for error.”

Shuri spun around, sweeping a hologram to the side. “Banner, look here,” she said, pointing to a tangle of code. “If we sever this pathway first, we won’t risk a chain reaction in the cerebral cortex.”

Bruce studied it. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” Shuri replied, not missing a beat. “But I’ll need time to reroute all these connections.” Her face tightened. “If Thanos shows up in the middle of that, or if anyone so much as unplugs the wrong cable, Vision’s done.”

Across the lab, T’Challa and Okoye conferred with Natasha Romanoff over a holographic map showing Wakanda’s borders. Multiple defensive lines lit up around the perimeter, funneling any possible attackers into one choke point.

Okoye pointed at the display. “We force them here,” she said. “We strike from both sides, and the rest of our forces remain mobile—ready to reinforce wherever the line thins.”

Natasha didn’t look away from the map. “Works for me. If Thanos wants what’s in Vision’s head, he’ll have to go through an army of Wakandans first.”

You caught T’Challa’s eye. “Where do you need me?”

T’Challa broke away from the map and leveled his gaze on you. “I need you with Shuri,” he said, “I hear you’ve been trained by Barton and Romanoff—made a habit of picking up new skills fast. My sister needs the best at her side.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. You understood what he meant without him spelling it out. If Shuri’s lab got breached, there wouldn’t be much left to protect outside.

“Tell Wanda I want to speak with her.” T’Challa added.

It wasn’t your place to ask, but you needed to know. “Where do you need her?”

He let his gaze drift to the massive layout of Wakanda’s borders. “The front lines.”

You’d been afraid he’d say that. You knew Wanda could handle herself, but the thought of her out there—exposed to whatever Thanos threw their way—turned your blood cold. Still, there was only one answer to give.

“Understood,” you said.

—

You stepped out of the lab, feeling a strain behind your eyes you couldn’t shake. Down the hall’s half-light, you spotted Steve and Natasha talking in low voices. Whatever it was, you could tell right away it wasn’t a happy conversation—probably the number of casualties from other places, other worlds, an entire universe. 

Steve caught sight of you first. His eyes dipped to your hand. “That a ring?” he asked. Then, without waiting for your answer, he offered a soft smile. “Congratulations. And… I’m sorry.” You understood exactly what he meant—sorry that a moment like marriage had to happen with a crisis looming.

“Thanks,” you said, offering him a timid smile. “For that and for coming to help me and Wanda in Scotland. I owe you.”

Steve shook his head. “No debts among friends.”

You cleared your throat again, forcing your nerves down. “Mind if I talk to Natasha alone?”

He glanced at her, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ll go see how Shuri’s doing.”

With that, Steve gave you a pat on the shoulder and slipped away, leaving you alone with Nat.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest and gave you a once-over. Her eyes landed on the ring before she spoke. “So,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You got married, and I didn’t even get an invite?”

You fumbled for a response. “It wasn’t exactly a ceremony—”

She waved you off. “Relax, I know the details. Wanda and I caught up already.”

“Oh.”

Natasha’ss lips twitched into a half-smile. “So you married your assignment. I guess you really like to go above and beyond.”

A laugh escaped you, along with some relief. “We both know you only gave me that job so I’d have a valid excuse to chase after her.”

Natasha merely smiled, letting you know she was waiting for what you really came here for.

“Listen, Natasha. About the messages you sent…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Look, I’m sorry about that. Things… they got complicated, and I just—” You trailed off, not sure how to put it all into words.

Natasha gave a slight shrug, like she’d seen all this coming. “I get it now,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. If I thought we couldn’t do without you, trust me, I’d have found a way to drag you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t need me, then?”

“Of course we do,” she shot back, “but it also means if you’d walked away, I’d understand.”

You exhaled slowly, guilt chewing at you. “I walked out on Steve, you know.”

A corner of Natasha’s mouth tugged up. “Steve told me he couldn’t find you.”

You looked down, your foot scraping the floor. Natasha took a step closer to you, her entire posture becoming a little rigid.

“This Thanos thing isn’t just another mission. It’s everything—our lives, the lives of everyone in this universe. Mine, yours, Wanda’s. I promise I’ll fight to the end for all of us. For this team. And I hope you’ll do the same,” she said.

You felt an odd calm settle over you. “I promise. For Wanda, for you, for all of them.”

Natasha’s face softened, and she clapped you gently on the shoulder. “I’m glad to have you back, Y/N.”

—

You found her in the small quarters Wakanda had assigned the two of you, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing pajamas you recognized from your old drawer in Scotland. The cotton was a bit wrinkled—made sense, given you’d both only had ten minutes to pack what you could before leaving the life you’d built together.

Wanda looked up when you entered, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hey,” she said.

You set your jacket on a nearby chair, letting out a long breath. “Hey yourself.”

You crossed to the bed, and for a moment, all you wanted was to sink into her warmth, forget the day, and pretend tomorrow didn’t exist. But the world wouldn’t let you off that easily.

“Natasha filled me in,” you said. “I’ll be posted in the lab with Shuri. Make sure no one interferes with her while she works on Vision.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up in quiet relief. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Someone has to watch out for him.” She set aside whatever she had been distracting herself with. “You’re the best person for that job.”

You blew out a breath. “Doesn’t mean I’m thrilled you’ll be out there on the front lines, Maximoff.”

Wanda giggled and tapped the spot beside her. With an exaggerated sigh, you flopped onto it, resting your head comfortably in her lap. “You worry about me?”

You closed your eyes and she started massaging your scalp, making you mewl in appreciation. “Of course, I do. I’m your wife.”

Wanda laughed. “Wife,” she repeated fondly. Then she sighed and said, “I need to be where the fight is. All this power… what good is it if I’m not going to use it to protect the people I love?”

You opened your mouth, but no argument came out. You wanted to tell her to stay safe, to keep her away from Thanos’s reach, but you knew there was no talking her out of a fight she believed in. She had never backed down.

“Just… be careful,” you whispered, voicing the same plea you’d made countless times, even though you both knew Wanda could handle herself as well as anyone.

Wanda huffed softly, her hand smoothing over your hair. “I’m always careful,” she murmured, eyes softening with concern. “But I also have to do what I can out there. You know that.”

“I do,” you admitted, shifting so you could look up at her. 

The bed dipped as she scooted beside you, the cotton of her pajamas brushing your arm. Wanda leaned down, her hand settling at the side of your face. Your hand slid around Wanda’s waist, pulling her closer until she was nearly on top of you, your lips parting against hers in a  tentative kiss.

“Wanda…” you breathed, voice catching on the edge of desperation.  You had missed her. It felt like an eternity had passed in the single day you couldn’t be alone together. She didn’t answer, only kissed you deeper, pouring a day’s worth of tension into the press of her body against yours.

You rose from your position and tugged her with you onto the bed fully, your fingers curling into her shirt. She helped you yank it off, and then she was pulling at yours, too, the scent of her hair flooding your senses. You helped each other strip away clothes that felt suddenly cumbersome, until there was nothing left but skin on skin. You found yourself pressed into the bed, Wanda’s body above yours, her hair falling like a curtain around your face.

In that moment, you could no longer stop yourself from being selfish.

“Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

She froze, her mouth curved into that coy smile at hearing your repetitive plea. You could see the flicker of mild annoyance at your overprotectiveness—like she thought you were being adorably childish. But then you felt your throat tighten, tears suddenly burning in your eyes at the thought of losing her.

“Please,” you choked out, a tear slipping free. “Please, Wanda… I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

The teasing smile she wore vanished instantly. “Oh, love,” she whispered, pulling you into her arms. You let yourself cry silently into her shoulder for a few moments, feeling a little pathetic for breaking down like this. You knew asking Wanda to run was an absurd request, but you had to say it. Deep down, you knew it would absolutely destroy you to lose her in any way.

Wanda’s own voice cracked as she cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back to hers. “I’ll come back to you,” she promised. “I promise—if there’s nowhere else to go, I’ll run. I’ll run straight to you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, brushing away your tears with the back of your hand.

Wanda kissed you again, and this time, her hands slid lower, her hips shifting against yours. You surged up to meet her, your palms sliding over her ribs as she gasped into your mouth. The slow, careful strokes turned into something more insistent: hungry, messy, a collision of lips and muffled pleas.

“Y/N, please…” Wanda mumbled almost incoherently as she moved down your jaw. The huskiness in her voice sent a thrill through you, and you pecked her inviting mouth one more time before moving behind her and circling your arm around her waist, as she braced herself on all fours. Her skin was warm under your touch, her back arching instinctively as she pressed her hips back against you.

Leaning forward, you pressed a line of kisses down her spine, your lips lingering at the base where her back dipped. She shivered, her breath hitching as your other hand trailed down her side, fingertips grazing her hip before settling between her thighs.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmured roughly as you watched her body respond to your touch.

Her only response was a soft moan, her hands gripping the sheets as your fingers found her wetness. You teased her entrance, sliding two fingers slowly inside, feeling her walls tighten around you as you filled her. Wanda gasped, her head dropping forward as her thighs trembled, trying to adjust to the sensation.

“God, you’re always so tight,” you groaned, curling your fingers slightly to press against her sweet spot. “And so fucking wet for me…”

She whimpered, her hips instinctively rocking back against your hand. You set a slow rhythm, pulling your fingers out before pushing them back in, deeper each time. The sound of her arousal, slick and wet, only made your hand work harder, your body pressed closer, your clit brushing against the soft curve of her buttocks. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky moan. You adjusted slightly, angling your hips so your clit slid more deliberately against her with each thrust of your fingers.

Wanda’s moans grew louder, and with every motion of your hand, you felt her body tense, her back arching against you. She pushed her hips back more insistently, searching for the friction she needed. “Y/N… I’m so close,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling under your hands, her walls fluttering around your fingers.

But you weren’t ready to let her go over that edge yet. You slowed your pace deliberately, still lazily pressing your clit against her slippery skin. “Not yet, baby,” you murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Just hold out a little longer for me…”

A frustrated moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her hips back more aggressively, trying to coax you into giving her the release she craved. But you held your pace, savoring the way her body trembled under your control.

“I want to come,” she whimpered, her hands clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Patience, baby,” you said, dragging your fingers almost completely out of her before easing them back in, slow and deliberate.

The friction of her skin against your clit, her soft gasps, the way she was so pliant beneath you—it was all driving you dangerously close to the edge. But you held back, biting your lip as you drew out the moment, not wanting it to end too quickly.

Your free hand, which had been holding her steadily against you, slid lower, fingers brushing over her swollen clit. The second you started rubbing her there, your own body jolted with need. Your hips snapped forward, rubbing yourself against her shamelessly.

“I’m close,” you ground out, fingers working Wanda’s slick flesh at a fast, demanding pace. “C-Come with me…”

Her body tensed, her walls clenching around your fingers as a broken sob of your name fell from her lips. You didn’t stop, didn’t ease up as your own orgasm hit, your hips grinding harder against her as you rode the waves of pleasure together.

Wanda’s cries blended with your moans, the two of you lost in each other as you shuddered and gasped. Your hand stayed on her clit, guiding her through every aftershock until her body went limp beneath you, her breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to her shoulder as you both came down, your bodies still trembling. “You’re so perfect,” you murmured softly, kissing the damp skin of her neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Wanda let out a soft, tired laugh, her hand reaching back to thread through your hair. You collapsed beside your wife, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. A shaky breath left your lips as you rolled onto your back, exhaustion settling into your bones like a warm, heavy blanket.

Wanda was quick to shift position, sliding over to curl around you. She coaxed you onto your side, gathering you in her arms as though you weighed nothing. 

“Come here,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You sighed contentedly, letting yourself sink into her embrace. It felt so safe—like no matter what happened outside this room, no matter what the world threw your way, you could face anything.

“You love me,” you murmured, already drifting toward sleep. You felt her smile against your skin—amused by this little ritual of yours, saying the other’s love out loud first.

“You love me too,” she whispered back.

Wanda’s fingers moved in slow, soothing patterns across your back—until they stopped. She let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For making you cry earlier. For—”

You cut her off with a soft shake of your head, your arms tightening around her waist. “Just promise me,” you said.

“I promise,” she whispered, her own eyes shining. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

—

It’s twenty-three days later, and Wanda’s promise never came true.

People wandered around in dazed confusion, half of them gone, the other half trying to make sense of what remained. You barely recognized the place. You barely recognized what was left of your team—or even yourself.

You had no idea where the motivation to wake up each morning came from. Maybe it was the faint ember of hope burning inside you, the belief that whatever the stones had done could somehow be undone. That if Thanos had caused this, he could reverse it. You just had to find him. As long as he was out there, there was a chance to bring everyone—and Wanda—back.

It tore at you to see Wanda’s location still pinned on your phone, only to realize it led to the bedroom you had shared in Wakanda. She had left it there that morning, tucked under her pillow on her side of the bed before joining Natasha on the frontlines. It killed you to know her true location was nowhere. And yet, in moments of weakness, you found yourself checking her GPS as if it would somehow change. Old habits die hard—and you couldn’t seem to escape this one no matter how much it amplified the Wanda-shaped hole in your heart. 

This morning, you found yourself at the old Avengers compound. The halls felt cavernous and too quiet. You checked in, as usual, with Natasha, Bruce, Steve—whoever was around. Most folks you ran into had that same thousand-yard stare, the same one that greeted you in the mirror every time you looked.

You spent hours in front of the massive digital map that dwarfed the main operations room, searching for any scrap that might lead you to Thanos. Where’d he gone? How had he disappeared so thoroughly? You chewed on the question day after day, ignoring exhaustion, heartbreak, and even hunger. If there was a lead, you’d chase it. If there was a whisper of information, you’d hunt it down.

Steve approached as you stood at the console, looking weary in a way you had never seen before. He was usually so determined and motivated, but now, for once, he seemed human—no longer everyone’s constant beacon of hope. He rested a hand on your shoulder, a gesture he’d been making with everyone lately. You figured it was his way of reassuring himself that you were still there, after watching the people he cared about turn to nothing but particles in the air.

“You’ve gotta give yourself a break,” he murmured. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

You pulled away gently, shrugging him off. “I can rest after we find him,” you said, voice clipped. You tried to keep the desperation under control, and so far, it was working. 

Steve exhaled, resting his hands on his hips. “We’re working on it,” he said. “As soon as we locate Tony—”

“That’s one of my concerns, actually,” you cut him off, rounding the center table to put distance between you. “We don’t know if he’s even still alive, Steve. It’s been three weeks since—”

Steve’s posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Finding Tony is the top priority,” he said, voice low and taut, like he’d repeated it a hundred times already. “If Banner’s right—if the people we lost can be brought back somehow—anyone we lose now might be gone for good.”

You let out a scoff and almost regretted it immediately, knowing how apathetic it must have sounded. “It’s been three weeks, Steve. If he’s out there, do you honestly believe he’s got enough air, water, or food to survive? We’re gambling on a possibility that shrinks every day.”

“Those are the orders,” Steve fired back, his jaw set. “We focus on finding Tony.”

“Orders?” Your laugh came out harsh. “Whose orders, exactly?”

“Mine,” Steve said, squaring his shoulders. “And I’m not asking.”

You felt your pulse surge. “So that’s it? We chase a ghost ship with no sign of life, no backup plan—while the rest of the universe dangles by a thread?”

Steve’s hand slammed down on the table. “We don’t abandon our own!”

You closed the distance between you, anger flaring. “Don’t talk to me about abandoning anyone! I’m trying to be realistic—”

“That’s enough.” His voice was ice. “You’re out of line.”

“Am I?” You leaned in, practically nose-to-nose. “We all want Tony back, but it’s time we—”

Natasha, who had just arrived, slipped between you. She pressed a firm hand against your chest. “Both of you, stop. We don’t have time for this.”

Steve backed off first, turning away with a muttered oath. You stayed put, adrenaline coursing, hands balled into fists.

Natasha grabbed your arm and steered you out of the room. Once in the hall, she spun you around, eyes blazing. “Hit me.”

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

She dropped into a ready stance. “I said hit me. Clearly you need to let it out.”

You didn’t move. “No.”

She shook her head. “If you don’t acknowledge what you’ve lost, it’s gonna eat you alive.”

“There’s nothing to grieve,” you said evenly, willing yourself to believe your own words with every fiber of your being.  By now, Natasha understood that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t get through to you. She knew Wanda meant the world to you, and you were driven by a personal mission. In her opinion, you were still handling it better than Clint, who had lost his entire family.

“Look, Steve needs you,” she said after a moment. “And I—”

Her sentence was cut short by a sudden commotion from outside. You both froze, exchanged a quick glance, and then ran for the exit. 

People were already gathered on the makeshift runway by the compound’s wide hangar doors. You elbowed your way through the small crowd—Bruce, Rhodey, Steve, and a handful of others—until you reached the front.

And there, at the heart of it all, Carol Danvers was bringing Tony Stark home.

—

It figured that the missing piece to finding Thanos was his own daughter, Nebula.  A snap-like energy signature had been detected across the galaxy just two days earlier, and with the new information she provided, Steve gave the team only a few hours to prepare before setting a course for Planet 0259-S.

If you had been a little apprehensive about the plan to find Thanos, the actual act of locating him—now the biggest hurdle solved—allowed you to fully lean into the expectation that it was only a matter of time before everyone was back, and everything returned to how it was supposed to be. The Avengers had never lost to anyone, not even gods. There was no doubt in your mind that you could all overcome a mere Titan.

So you and the remaining team boarded the modified Benatar—Nebula insisted it was the only ship fast enough to reach the planet in time. You still remembered the moment the engines roared to life, and you caught yourself thinking about Wanda. She would’ve stood at the viewport, eyes wide, taking in the stars with that sense of wonder she always had. But you also reminded yourself that you wouldn’t even be here if Wanda—and trillions of others—hadn’t vanished into dust. 

It was your first trip beyond Earth’s orbit, but it felt like mere minutes before Nebula’s voice crackled through the comms: “Entering the atmosphere now. We’ll touch down in thirty seconds.” Below stretched a battered field of half-dead crops under a sky like stale ash. You and the others fanned out once the ramp lowered—Steve, Banner, Rhodes, Thor, Carol, Natasha, Rocket, and Nebula. Even with the thinning hope in your veins, you still felt a faint thrill of certainty that you’d see that monster face to face and force him to undo this nightmare.

Thanos appeared in your line of sight, sitting on a makeshift stoop in front of a tumbledown shack, his left arm twisted and scarred from the energy of the Gauntlet. He looked worn, as if using the Stones had left him a husk of what he’d been. 

From this point on, it was an ambush—the most ruthless attack Steve had ever sanctioned for the team. You were surprised to see he had it in him. You wanted to strike Thanos yourself, but Natasha held you back, letting the superpowered members and those equipped with advanced suits handle the dirty work. Thor didn’t hesitate to hack off the Titan’s hand, and you actually smiled at Thanos’s screams as you, Natasha, and Steve closed in on the shack.

Rocket rolled over Thanos’s severed hand, the gauntlet still attached. What you all saw next pushed you further into madness:

Every single stone was missing.

Blood had rushed to your head, but you could still hear Steve very calmly inquire where the stones were, despite the ringing that had started in your ears. 

“...after that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation…” Thanos uttered.

“Where are the stones?” Natasha repeated, her patience slipping in a rare moment of unease in front of an enemy.

“Gone,” Thanos uttered. “Reduced to atoms.”

“You used them two days ago!” Banner yelled.

“I destroyed the stones… using the stones.”

Everything turned to static the moment you heard the word destroyed. You’d pinned your hope on the Stones—on using them to bring her back. Now there was nothing. It was like the ground gave out beneath you, your entire center of gravity tilting around one brutal truth: Thanos hadn’t just wiped out half the universe—he’d taken your only way of undoing it.

The blood pounding in your ears muffled the exchanges. You saw Nebula’s lips move. You heard Thanos’ bullshit about realizing too late how he mistreated his own daughter. But it was like you were trapped in an echo chamber, drowning out the present.

Gone. Reduced to atoms.

He’d destroyed the Stones. You would never see Wanda again.

It was over.

You were quick to draw your pistols and fire a shot straight into his eye, but Thor was quicker—his axe already swinging, aimed directly for the head.

There should have been relief, or maybe some triumph in exacting revenge on the monster who’d purged half the universe. But there wasn’t. Only emptiness. The final blow had landed, and it changed nothing. Wanda was still gone, along with the rest.

A sick sense of finality wrapped around you, the suffocating knowledge that the Snap was permanent.

A few seconds later, Natasha laid a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t bother looking at her. You could feel her gaze, searching your face for any sign of composure. She’d find none. Nebula stood at a distance, staring at the father who had never been a father.

Someone—Carol maybe—muttered, “Let’s go.” And so you did. You stumbled away, feet dragging as if the scorched earth itself was holding you back.

It wasn't a victory. Not by a long shot. It was just the end of one more impossible avenue, closing shut.

The crushing grief welled up inside you, too much to contain. Finally, a scream ripped free from your throat, raw and guttural. It didn’t make you feel any better. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

But for a fleeting moment, it was all you could do to keep from drowning.

[niwaart]

Can we please please please have more Victorian era yanderes

Enjoy<3

Bound by Silk and Shadows

#Part1

The heavy oak doors of the Grimoire Library groaned as Jason pushed them open, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax flooding his senses. This place—hidden in the underbelly of Gotham’s aristocratic district—was one of the few sanctuaries where he could breathe without the weight of his scars suffocating him. 

The hood of his tattered cloak was pulled low, casting shadows over the ruined half of his face. He knew what people whispered when they saw him. Monster. Madman. The Joker’s failed experiment. Even among the lower classes, where he now lurked, his presence sent servants scrambling. But here, among the forgotten tomes of magic books and old books , he was just another shadow. 

Or so he thought. 

He hadn’t been paying attention. Too absorbed in tracing the spine of a black-bound grimoire, its title etched in gold: "The Forbidden Arts of Lazarus." His fingers twitched. If only. If only magic could undo what had been done to him...

A soft gasp. The sharp scent of lavender and ink. 

He turned just in time to see her. 

The impact was sudden—her small frame crashing into his chest, the books in her arms tumbling to the floor in a flurry of parchment. His own tome slipped from his grip, landing with a dull thud beside a delicate volume titled "The Ethereal Language of Spells." 

And then worse. 

His hood. 

It fell back, the fabric sliding like a coward’s retreat, exposing him. The jagged, ruined flesh where the Joker’s knife had carved laughter into his skin. The burns. The scars that made children scream. 

His breath hitched. No. No, no, no—

Instinctively, his hand flew up, fingers clawing to drag the hood back into place. He couldn’t bear it. Not another look of horror. Not another....

But then....

She didn’t scream. 

She didn’t even flinch. 

Instead, she knelt, her gloved hands gathering the fallen books with a quiet efficiency. Her dress brushed against the dusty floor, and for a moment, Jason was struck by the absurdity of it. A noblewoman, kneeling in filth. 

Then she looked up. 

And God. 

Her eyes... wide, curious, unafraid locked onto his ruined face. Not with pity. Not with disgust. Just… recognition. As if she saw him, not the monster. 

"I’m sorry," she murmured, her voice softer than the rustle of turning pages. "That was my fault." 

Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His pulse roared in his ears. 

She stood, holding out his book—his book, the one that could damn him if anyone knew he was reading about resurrection—and for a heartbeat, he thought she might say something else. Something about his face. About who he was. 

But she didn’t. 

Instead, she simply pressed the book into his hands, her fingers brushing against his gloved ones. A touch. A touch that didn’t recoil. 

Then she turned, her skirts whispering against the floor as she walked away, leaving him standing there like a fool, his heart pounding like a prisoner’s fists against iron bars. 

Jason didn’t remember leaving the library. 

One moment, he was standing there, clutching the damned book like a lifeline. The next, he was outside, the cold Gotham air biting into his exposed scars. His carriage—a plain, unmarked thing meant for servants—waited, the driver eyeing him warily. 

She didn’t know.

That was the only explanation. She couldn’t have known who he was. No noblewoman would have touched him if they knew. No one would look at Jason Todd—the disgraced, the scarred, the unwanted—without fear. 

But then… why had she apologized ? 

Why had her fingers lingered? 

Why—? 

The carriage jolted forward, and Jason realized his hands were shaking. 

Who was she?

A noble. That much was clear. But not one he recognized. Not one who flaunted her status in Gotham’s cutthroat society. A ghost among the aristocracy. A girl who read books on magic and didn’t scream at the sight of him. 

A girl who, for one fleeting moment, made him feel… human. 

His grip on the book tightened. 

He would find her again. 

And next time, he wouldn’t let her walk away. 

[howlingmod]

I never asked anyone like you for a request (beacuse I just never asked for it) but can you do a father figure 007n7 x reader? If you don't mind, I might refrence your work into mine if i ever wanted to because i think it looks nice

[hugs from zyran]

summary - 007n7 + child reader (platonic), also c00lkid is here

misc - So. I may have gotten carried away. this doesn't fit the prompt the best. (MY BAD. genuinely very sorry i was struggling). but i would be more than happy to do follow up or something im really a fan of this reader. lot of fun ideas to be had

-You were a weird kid. You couldn't remember much of where you came from and how you got where you were, couldn't think of anyone you could call your family, couldn't think of anywhere you could call home. With nothing to tie you down, you had to learn how to adapt to your surroundings.

-You learned how to lay low, hiding in plain sight and vanishing into crowds. If people did take notice of you, you knew exactly how to lose them in aisles and busy cities, making sure you got lost in all the action before they could get anywhere near you. You didn't want (or need, thank you very much) anyones help. You heard enough stories to let you know you'd just get tossed in with the rest of the unfortunate to be forgotten until you turned 18, and you'd much rather spend your days seeing the world.

-With all that you picked up from your surroundings, you eventually gained an interest in exploiting. You'd only seenn it yourself a few times, watching some other teens clip through walls to steal a few drinks from a gas station or something equally mundane, but you'd heard enough stories to have you hooked. You'd heard enough tales that people whispered to eachother about, seen the strictly-titled books detailing some of the most infamous that lined the scarcely visited corners of libraries, and you knew what you had to do next.

-It wasn't easy, not by any means, but you made it work. It's not exactly easy to get tutorials on something so looked down upon, especially the more advanced hacks, but you had all the time in the world to explore. Over time, you honed your craft, moving from slamming your hands into walls when it didn't work to effortlessly slipping through them. You just had to keep practicing and time would tell.

-Since it wasn't exactly easy to consistently secure food without any money or alerting others to your orphaned state, you started to implement your newfound skills to your daily routine. Only problem was it just forced you to realize some of the errors in your practice. It came to a head one night when you decided to try your luck with a local pizza place.

By that point, you were starving. It'd been a while since you'd eaten anything and you were exhausted from researching all day. Looking back on it now, that was probably big part of why things didn't go too well that night. You'd come up late, wanting to limit the number of possible witnesses.

There was one employee you'd spotted while cloaked heading out for a smoke break, so you'd have to carry out your attack before they got back. After sneaking around them, you'd looked in through one of the very corners of the windows, spotting one cashier and two customers. Not great conditions but you could make it work, at this rate you had to with how your stomsch was killing you.

Readying your nerves, you'd walked back to what you presumed to be the exterior walls of the kitchen. With another breath, you stepped forward, slipping through them with ease and starting your mental timer before the other employee returned. You had to be quick, analyzing your surroundings the moment you came to, completely unaware your sudden entry wasn't at all hidden from the customers thanks to a large doorway you weren't able to see from the window.

There were a few pizzas that seemed ready to go, though they weren't yet boxed up. You looked around for a stack of cardboard, hastily snatching one up the moment you spotted them and slipping one of the pizzas into it. You'd underestimated the weight of it, watching it slip off the lip of the box and onto the floor with a muted splat. You hissed, biting your lip in embarassment before brushing it off. You only had so much time, you couldn't cry over spilled pizza.

The next one went in fine, much to your hushed delight, and you made your way back out. The moment you passed the walls threshold you stopped. One pizza could last you a day or two but two pizzas could last you even longer. Without a second thought, you set the first box down, turned around, and made your way for another. This time, you didn't pick up on the exchange that started with your arrival.

"Papa! Look!" C00lkid cheered, pointing into the kitchen excitedly.

"Huh?" 007n7 looked where his son was pointing, being met with nothing. It was curious but he couldn't pay attention to it right now, busy with ordering.

You found another two pizzas, carefully inching them over into boxes and stacked them up. While you were at it, you decided to pick up a few sodas, you could use the sugar, you were getting pretty tired out lately. Once you'd carefully arranged your haul, you sized it up. It would be a lot to carry and you weren't too confident in balancing it all as you walked. There had to be some bags around here...

Just as you began to scour around, C00lkid separated from his father, quietly padding over to get a better look into the kitchen. He stood and watched as you dug around, looking in boxes and scrambling through the contents of drawers. Finally, you'd managed to find a stack of plastic bags in one box, temporarily struggling to peel one away from the others before you began to quietly open it up, wincing as it crinkled.

At the same moment you got back to your pile of food and began to put it away, everything came crashing down. The back door began to swing open, the other employee walking in with tired eyes before they caught sight of you, shooting wide open.

"Papa, look! There's a-"

"THIEF!"

You jolted upright, staring back like a deer in headlights before scrambling to get everything into the bag. One can clattered onto the floor, narrowly missing the plastic. They stood in shock while the cashier rounded the corner to see you as well, immediately darting over to try and catch you. Just as their arms tried to cage you in, you clipped through them, just barely keeping your bag with you.

"HACKER?!" The other employee shouted, still in shock.

The commotion had pulled n7 from his daze, drawing him over to his son, if only to make sure he didn't get caught in the crossfire. He wasn't sure what he expected to see when he looked into the kitchen, but he certainly wasn't expecting you. He'd seen you just a few seconds before you managed to get back through the wall, hardly disturbing a thing in your way. He recognized the exact exploit you were using as one of the first ones he'd ever learned. You were a novice for sure but, this young? You were well ahead of where he was at your age.

"Oh, for the love of God," Elliot groaned, staring at the spot you'd been moments prior before hiding his face in his hands.

"Should we like .. call someone?" The other asked, giving him a lost look.

"I don't even care, man."

-For the next few days, n7 couldn't stop thinking about the whole ordeal. Sure, he'd seen plenty of hackers before, of all different times and from all different scenes but .. you stuck with him. You looked so scrawny, so small. Maybe being a parent had made him soft- No, it definitely had, but he couldn't stop thinking about you. He did the same thing but he just did it for fun, you clearly had some need for it. Kids don't just look like that, learn this and steal food for no reason, that wouldn't make sense. You were long gone by the time they got outside, not like he'd expected you to stay around the scene long. C00lkid had helped him look around for a little bit to no avail, you made yourself vanish within seconds.

-It'd rained a few days later and he couldn't help but feel sick. He didn't know your situation but the guilt of just watching you run off was eating him alive. He found himself staring out the window, looking for something that never showed up. That night, he laid awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to every drop hit the roof. The hours crawled by and sleep never found him. He couldn't live like this.

-The next day he'd dropped C00lkid off at school he'd asked Noli to pick him up and watch him till he got back, as he'd be busy with something. Noli had tried to ask him about it but only got a 'I'll tell you later,' in reply. He was too caught up in your case to explain himself right now. He'd tried to look for any reports on similar, recent cases but came up with next to nothing. You'd been keeping your exploiting on the down low for a while now if he had to guess, going off how .. iffy, your pizza heist had gone, that had clearly been your capstone project, an over extension of your abilities.

-You'd been keeping yourself out of trouble then, which was good. However, it gave him one location to go off of, which wasn't as good. Considering you hadn't teleported away, he figured you either A) hadn't learned how to yet, or B) lived in the area. With little else to go off of, he had to hope it was B, as he began his search. He looked into every alley he passed by, reluctantly going down each of them and scouring every corner of them. In a few especially embarrassing examples he'd been caught looking into dumpsters and turning over cardboard boxes, offering up a half-assed excuse about losing something that made most people narrow their eyes and slowly turn away, if only to make distance between him and them.

-He'd continued looking until the sun was just a few hours from the horizon with not a single clue or lead under his belt. Dreadfully, the idea that you were whole cities away began to creep into the forefront of his mind. It was only when he'd stopped into a convenience store for water that he'd gotten a lead.

"Long day?" The cashier asked, eyeing him up suspiciously. He wasn't in the best shape out of breath and distressed by hours of digging through dirty streets and other people's garbage.

"Ah, something like that," he laughed breathlessly, rubbing at his neck. He looked around the store idly, spotting the typical monitor of security cameras hanging up near the ceiling. He'd gazed into it, finding himself in one of the sightlines. Without a second thought, he asked, "Have you had anything get stolen recently?"

"Oh, are you kidding me? Every day some punk comes in here trying their luck, thinking they're a tough guy," they huffed, irritation hardening their voice, "Why? Is that a threat?"

"Oh! No, no, nothing like that! I just ... I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm looking for someone and uh, the only thing I know about them is that they ..."

"Rob innocent people?"

"Borrow things," n7 winced, "Listen, I know that sounds bad but they're just a kid, I'm worried about them. I've got a son of my own and I just can't imagine what I'd do if I saw him in that kind of state doing things like this."

They cooled a little at that, shoulders lowering.

"I know you've probably got every reason not to tell me but I have to try, they deserve a chance, don't they?"

n7 stared at them, watching as they tapped their fingers on the counter and looked everywhere but at him. After a few long moments, they cracked, hunching over with a sigh, "I think I might know who you're talking about. I caught them here a few nights ago, from what I've heard they live somewhere near the park, under the bridge or in that storage shed, I'm not sure. Not my circus, not my monkeys."

n7 lit up at that, perking up instantly, "Oh- Thank you, you don't know how long i've been looking. Really, I can't thank you enough."

"Just get that kid far away from my store, I already deal with enough sticky fingers as is," They grunted in response.

-The moment n7 had paid for his stuff, he was out the door heading towards the park. Honestly, that should've been one of the first places he checked. He didn't have enough time to criticize his past decision, busy searching for a familiar figure.

-The bridge had been completely abandoned, only a few wrappers and empty cans left behind to insicate anyone had ever been there. Anything from your robbery was absent, leaving him to check the storage shed instead. He didn't pay any mind to the hefty padlock on the door, it was more for show than anything, if this really was where you were staying.

-Sure enough, the boxes and soda cans were one of the first things he found inside. There were a few raggedy sheets and a makeshift mattress out of a few others. You'd built up quite the stash of miscellanious belongings. Clearly, you'd been on your own for a bit, but just how long...? The pit in n7's stomach reappeared, deeper with even more guilt.

"Are you stalking me?" The sudden voice had caused him to nearly jump out of his skin, whipping around to see the owner of it. You were standing a few feet behind him, eyeing him up cautiously with a laptop tucked in one arm, the other clenched at your side.

"Wh- No, no I'm not stalking you. I just want to help you is all, it's not safe for you to be alone," He tried, making his voice as small and nonthreatening as possible. With the path you were on and your situation, he hardly expected you to be accomodating. He had to be careful of what he said here, one wrong word and the whole thing would fall apart.

"So you're stalking me."

"No, I'm- That's not," n7 stammered, struggling for the right thing to say. He wasn't exactly an expert in handling delicate situations, he barely even knew what he was doing with C00lkidd half the time.

"Weren't you an exploiter?" You asked, curioisity bleeding into your voice. There it was, that was an opening he could use, right? Find common ground then go from there ...

"Yes, I was. I see you've been learning. You're pretty impressive for a kid," you almost smiled at that, a twitch of the lips that was snatched away in an instant, corrected as soon as you noticed the slip-up.

"You aren't anymore. Why'd you stop?"

"Well, exploiting can hurt a lot of people. I ... I just wasn't proud of who I was, that's why I'm so w-"

You cut him off before he could even try segwaying into your situation, "That's stupid. You learned all that just to throw it away?"

n7 stiffened at that, this was clearly veering down the wrong path, derailing right before his eyes, "It's not throwing it away, it's just that you can't take advantage of people like that."

"Why shouldn't I? Not like they've done anything for me " you hissed, pulling your laptop up over your chest.

Fuck. This was going bad, really bad. You'd already taken a half-step back, you were so close to just running off and starting this whole process again. He got down on a knee, lowering to your height, "Listen, I know people haven't been kind to you and I'm so, so sorry for that. I can help you figure this out, I've got plenty of space and food- I've got a son just like you, actually."

You'd relaxed a little, setting your foot back down on the ground.

He smiled, "Or, if you don't trust me, I'd be happy to help you find someone else. I know there are plenty of people who'd be happy to take you in."

That set you off again. Instantly, any of the consideration you had was replaced with something more active, more aggressive. You clutched your arms around your laptop, hunching over it and grit your teeth, leering up at him, "Like I need your help! I'm not falling for this stupid trap, I'm not just gonna throw this all away! Just leave me alone!"

With that, you spun on your heel and ran through the wall, leaving him to spring up and stumble after you.

"I didn't mean it like that- I'm not gonna turn you in or anything. Just wait!"

He'd only caught you for a few seconds before he blinked, opening his eyes to see nothing. Where you'd been darting off moments ago, you were gone. Did you teleport? He hadn't seen any menu... He stared for a few seconds longer, scanning the horizon. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was around. You'd completely vanished.

He looked up at the sky, being met with sunset. The later half of one, too. When had it gotten so late? It'd been noon not too long ago. The sky was tinted with red, absent of any answers. Reluctantly, he turned away, heading back home. He'd have to try something else, maybe he should just call someone, he didn't have time to run around like this with C00lkidd. Speaking of which, how was he doing? He hoped he hadn't been too much trouble for Noli.

-***-

Your bones hurt, or maybe it was your muscles. Something was hurting, that's all you knew. You weren't too worried about it. From the way that shadow had made it out, you had all the time in the world to get better, stronger. The menu in front of you was stacked with new exploits, you'd been scrolling through it with glazed over eyes, each name drawing your interest with all the possibilities.

As you limbs laid heavy on the ground, your hand kept scrolling. You stopped briefly on one, '/fling.' You looked past the menu, finding a nearby log and typing in your best approximation of its ID. The second you hit execute, you watched it go flying, soaring through the sky until it inevitably hit the ground with a distant 'splash.' You smiled, a weak little laugh prying its way out of your scratchy throat. You spared your legs a glance, they looked so strange. Did you always look like this? Had you always had such sharp nails? Is that why everyone looked at you like that?

"Hey! That looks just like my dads!" A voice cried next to you, echoey and distorted. The owner plopped down by your side, leaning into your field of vision with a grin.

"He uses it to teleport us to school!" He beamed, rocking back and forth, "Can you teleport?"

You stared at the small boy out of the corner of your eye, meeting his excited, expectant eyes. Numbly, you shifted your eyes back towards the menu, finding the '/tp' and digging through your mind for a random ID number. Your fingers found the keys before they even registered in your mind, the screen an extension of your arm more than anything. As you hit 'execute,' a soda can fell and tipped over next to your knee.

The boy gasped, snatching the can up giddily, "Awesome! What else can you do?"

You found yourself looking for another command before you could even process his words, scrolling for the next object of interest. 'He looks so strange,' you thought, not too far off from how you looked, though. As he settled in to watch you work, you found you didn't mind either of your appearances.

[bettelaboure]

⊹The Brushstroke of Desire ⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual themes, sensuality, intimate situations, and emotional vulnerability ⊹ Word count: 2 k ⊹ Authors note: usually I prefer smut myself, but dear God, how I giggled like a little girl writing this...

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The first time you noticed him, Seung-Hyun was an island amidst the buzz of the gallery’s opening. While the guests swirled in clusters, exchanging pleasantries and hushed critiques over champagne flutes, he remained apart, alone. His presence was subtle but undeniable. A man who seemed to move through the world as if it bent to his will. A man who had no need to hurry, yet, here he was, pausing in front of your painting with a quiet reverence that made your breath catch. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit, a suit that whispered of wealth, of power, yet there was nothing about him that seemed conceited. No, it was as if his calm, unhurried attention to your work held a deeper meaning—an unspoken invitation to witness something intimate, something only the two of you could share.

The brushstrokes of your piece were a map of your soul. The color choices, deliberate. The shapes, reflections of your inner chaos and quietude. When his gaze finally shifted toward you, it was not the casual glance of a viewer. His eyes were sharp, tracing the arc of your expression, as if reading between the lines of your existence, searching for a truth hidden in plain sight. In that moment, you felt a delicate dance of exhilaration and vulnerability flutter in your chest. Was it possible? Could he—this stranger who was no stranger at all—see what you had poured into the canvas? The raw, unspoken parts of yourself you had laid bare for the world?

There was no small talk. No hollow pleasantries. Just a single question that made your pulse race. “Tell me about this one.” His voice, smooth and deep, lingered in the space between you.

The words spilled from your lips with a kind of honesty you didn’t know you were capable of. You spoke of the emotions that had driven you to paint, the restlessness that had gnawed at you, the nights you had spent lost in a haze of color and shadow. You spoke, but it felt as if he wasn’t listening for the facts, but for the unspoken weight of your experience. And all the while, his gaze remained fixed on you—intense, unwavering, as though he could see inside you, past the surface. As though he was savoring every word you uttered.

It was as if time itself had paused, drawn into the magnetic pull of his attention. When he spoke again, it was with the slow certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. "Dinner?" The invitation was simple, yet his eyes held something more—a promise. One you were unable—or unwilling—to deny.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The atmosphere was soft, intimate, as if the world outside had been temporarily forgotten. Candlelight flickered against the polished wood, casting shadows that danced along his features, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He was a man sculpted by grace, by power, by something deeper that you couldn’t quite place. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you like a cloak, soothing and heady all at once.

Each brush of his fingertips against your knuckles was an unspoken question, a quiet exploration. There was nothing accidental about his touch—every movement deliberate, calculated, designed to unravel you piece by piece. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, a soft pressure that sent heat spiraling up your spine. Your breath caught, the touch innocent, yet charged with an energy that sent your thoughts scattering.

The conversation flowed, weaving between art, life, and the things left unsaid. Seung-Hyun spoke with a depth that made you lean closer, drawn not only to his words but to the way they were delivered—with purpose, with intention. His eyes, always steady, seemed to see more than you were willing to show. There was a slowness to his every gesture, as if he savored the moment before he moved on to the next. Each sip of wine, each lean toward you as you spoke—it was as if he was tasting you, savoring the very essence of your being.

“How did you start painting?” he asked, his voice low and hushed, as though it were a secret shared between you and him alone. His gaze never wavered from your face, studying the way your lips moved, the subtle change in your expression.

You hesitated only for a moment before speaking, the words tumbling out, soft and confessional. “It wasn’t a choice. Not really. I think I’ve always needed to paint. It was my escape when I was younger—a way to channel everything I couldn’t express. But over time… it became more than that. It became the lens through which I see the world.”

He nodded, his expression softening with understanding. “Art,” he said thoughtfully, “is one of the few things that can capture both the chaos and the calm of life. It holds everything—the contradictions we don’t want to face, the truths we don’t want to see.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his insight. There was a quiet intensity in the way he spoke, as though he understood the very marrow of your soul. “You speak as if you’ve felt it,” you remarked, your voice barely a whisper.

“I have.” He leaned back, studying you as though he were memorizing the way your face lit up when you spoke of your passion. “Art is the one thing in this world that remains untouched by power or wealth. It demands honesty. And it’s not just beauty that I seek—I collect art because it forces something real from me. It opens a door to truth that nothing else can.”

The silence between you thickened, pregnant with a tension neither of you acknowledged yet both could feel. Then, after a beat that stretched between you like a taut wire, he added, “And you—your presence, your passion—it’s like you’re a piece of art yourself.”

You felt the words as if they were a physical touch, something that shifted the air around you. A compliment, yes, but something far more intense. Your chest tightened, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“You mean that?” Your voice trembled with the question, the sudden vulnerability of being seen so completely, so intimately, leaving you breathless.

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but there was something deeper there, something that told you that he had already seen more of you than anyone else ever had. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

By the time the night was over, you weren’t sure if you had eaten anything at all. The taste of his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin had rendered everything else distant, irrelevant. When he drove you home, the silence in the car was heavy, charged with an unspoken understanding, a quiet storm brewing between you.

You barely had time to breathe before realizing your phone—your lifeline to the outside world—was left in the passenger seat. You had resigned yourself to retrieving it the next day, but Seung-Hyun was not a man who left things unfinished. The next morning, a soft knock echoed at your door, and when you opened it, there he stood, phone in hand, his presence commanding the space.

But something else—something more—was in the air now.

As you stood there, a whisper of sound broke the silence. Your voice. Soft, needy, breathless.

Seung-Hyun froze, his breath hitching at the sound. His pulse quickened as he stood just beyond the threshold, rooted in place, a witness to the private moment unfolding before him.

He could have walked away. He should have. But the pull, the magnetic force between you, kept him there. Instinct moved him, and he turned the knob, stepping into the space you had unwittingly made for him.

The sight of you, sprawled on the bed, fingers grazing over your own skin, lost in a moment of desire you hadn’t known he would witness, was enough to make his chest tighten. His pulse thudded louder in his ears, a rush of heat flooding his veins.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Your eyes locked, and in them, he saw everything—the vulnerability, the longing, the rawness of the moment. It was an invitation, and he accepted it without hesitation.

With deliberate slowness, he closed the door behind him. His voice, barely a whisper, was thick with something you both felt but refused to name. “Were you thinking of me?”

The confession was already there, written in the flush of your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath. Your body answered before your lips could. The weight of his gaze held you in place as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, measured. He traced the curve of your jaw with a fingertip, and the touch was gentle, reverent, as if he was learning you with each caress.

When he kissed you, it was slow—an unhurried exploration, as if he was savoring the taste of you, imprinting it on his memory. Every second stretched between you, thick with the promise of more. His hands moved with the precision of an artist, memorizing the way your body reacted to his touch. The way you gasped when his lips brushed your inner thighs, the tremor that followed every slow, deliberate caress.

And when he finally took you, it was not rushed. It was deliberate, the way he studied every inch of you, the way he held you as though you were something fragile, something precious. Each movement was a stroke on a canvas of skin, each whisper of his name from your lips a note in a song only the two of you could hear.

When the world outside had faded, and you lay tangled in his arms, the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains, you felt an unfamiliar sense of belonging. Not just to him—but to the moment. To the quiet certainty that this—whatever this was—had changed you both, irrevocably.

And in the stillness, he whispered against your shoulder, the ghost of a smile in his voice. “I came to return your phone.”

You laughed softly, a sound that felt too light, too free for everything that had just passed between you. And in that moment, you knew. This was only the beginning.

[undertheorangetree]

Pomegranate Seeds

Summary- A retelling of the abduction of Persephone.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Hades and Persephone AU. Star-crossed lovers vibes. Uncle/niece incest. Making out. Angst. Fluff. Titty sucking. Handjob. Cunnilingus. Vaginal fingering. Soft smut. Mild praise kink. Mildly OOC Aemond.

Author's Notes- Yeah I was a Percy Jackson/Greek mythology kid, thank you for noticing. I'm still playing incredibly fast and loose with the mythology tho so we're gonna have to make our peace with that. This is a beast btw, it's like 9.6K and you can find the rest on AO3 with the link below :)

divider created by @firefly-graphics

It is moments like these, she thinks, that she loves most.

Alone in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the babbling of the creek as it flows over the rocks. Everything green with the exception of the purple, white, and yellow flowerheads but lush and everbearing and alive, the sun little more than a hazy warm glow, not yet hot enough to be overbearing. It is peaceful here, so much more than she is used to. She had come to an agreement with her step sisters, Baela and Rhaena, that they allow her a few hours on her own in this meadow, undisturbed by anyone else. Though her mother much preferred to that she remain alongside her sisters whenever she is out of sight, she, Baela, and Rhaena had come to an agreement that what her mother didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. And besides, they were never too far away from her. Being water nymphs, they could be by her side in less than a moment if she really needed them, so long as she doe does not stray too far from the river. And she has never been more grateful for it than she is right now.

Stretching her arms high above her head, she stretches out along the grass, enjoying the feeling of every blade of grass, the sweet smell of the blooms wafting on the breeze. Admittedly, this meadow had not been quite so plentiful when they had found it, following along the winding river, but she is the goddess of spring. Flowers bloom at her word and sun shines with her will. It had not been too difficult to turn this meadow into her own personal paradise, away from the chaos often wrought by her mother and brothers and stepfather.

There is a sudden change in the wind that causes her to sit up. Colder than it had been before, something more akin to winter than spring. The ground seems to rumble beneath her, shaking as if the sudden cold has sent it to shiver. Curiously, she turns her head toward the tree line, where the birches and willows keep the meadow shielded from view, only to find a man standing among them. Dressed in all black- breeches, cloak, and the shred of his tunic she can see beneath it- his platinum hair is almost jarring in contrast. He is not a big man, long and lithe, but there is an air to him that feels dangerous, dangerous enough to give her pause. He has not noticed her yet, face turned away, but she can see the long, stern plains of his face from where she sits, looking incredibly serious. That seriousness is only exacerbated by the dark leather eyepatch covering the eye closest to her, a deep red scar carved beneath it.

She does not think she has ever seen anyone here before, not outside of Baela, Rhaena, and herself, and his presence here is almost incongruous. Still, there is an air about him, one that makes it clear that he is a god just as she is, and that alone should make his surprise appearance less shocking.

“Hello.”

The sound of her voice seems to catch him off guard. Quickly, he turns toward her, shoulders tense, but they relax when he takes her in. She cannot imagine that she is intimidating, sitting flat in the grass all alone. “Hello.”

But it is that reminder of the grass that brings her pause. What is this man doing here? Where had he come from? It is not as if this meadow is easy to find, hidden amongst the trees as it is. She feels her brows furrow, head cocking in question. “How did you find this place?”

She had not put a glamour over this meadow, but she did not feel she had too. The forest, though light and airy, was a labyrinth of trees that seemed deterrent enough to keep any unwanted guests away. They were incredibly difficult to find your way through and she had been convinced it would be impossible to try- for God or mortal.

Near impossible, it seemed then.

His eye darts back to the treeline, taking half a step back. “If I am intruding, I can leave.”

“No.” She says it far too quickly and she can see the way his eyebrows raise in response to it, but she can’t find it in her to be ashamed. She is intrigued by this man, more so than she likely should be, and finds she wants to know more. To learn how he came to find this place. “Just because this place is unknown does not mean it is mine alone. You may stay. Beauty like this should be enjoyed.”

“Wise words,” he agrees, coming toward her. He hesitates at the end, torn on whether or not to truly join her, but it seems courtesy wins out as he lowers himself to the ground, joining her amongst the flowers. He looks entirely out of place, black against the blooms, but she says nothing, keeping her observation to herself.

They sit in absolute silence but she does not mind. He sits stiffly, as if uncomfortable, while she continues to take in all that is around her. From here, she can see the way the willows sway with the wind, the white puffy clouds floating by in the soft blue sky.

“I did not mean to,” he says. She looks at him, head tilted once again. “To find this place. It was not my intention. Though I admit I have never seen anything quite like it.”

She smiles, though he could not possibly know that he had complimented her. “It is a rare thing.”

“It feels almost as if it were from a painting,” he adds, looking around the meadow to take it in further.

She joins him in it, finding no shame in admiring her own work. It is a pretty place, though that had always been her intention. Olympus was beautiful in and of itself, but it was stark in that way. Ethereal and otherworldly, but cosmopolitan. Bright white marble, painted statues, stained glass. Everything beautiful, to be sure, but not in the untamed way that she seemed to crave. She preferred the beauty that was found in nature, in heavy branches filled with green leaves, tall grasses and wildflowers and crystalline waters.

“Do you know much about art?” she asks to fill the silence.

He seems caught off guard again from her question, but answers it anyway. “Not as much as I would like, but I can appreciate the beauty in something as well as any man. Though do not tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughs. “You needn’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Which periods do you prefer?”

They talk for hours, the conversation unfurling as naturally as a bird’s wing. Art, history, philosophy. There is no subject they do not indulge in. He becomes less awkward with time as he grows more comfortable around her and she almost pulls a laugh from him not once, but twice. It seems quite the feat, for a man as serious as this one seems to be, though she does not let her pride get the better of her. When she asks him how she managed to find her well kept secret, he had simply said that one always finds the best things when you are not looking for them. A non answer, but that was alright. She was sure she could coax the answer from him eventually.

“Forgive me, I never asked you your name,” she says after what must have been hours, half appalled by her lack of manners.

He does not seem to mind, a good natured half smile making its way onto his face. “My friends call me Aemond. You may as well.”

It is not uncommon, for Gods to prefer more earthly names. She is often the same. There is power within a name and for such an innocent encounter, she does not feel the need to have him call her Persephone or Kore or any of those that strike some rumination of power and fear. So she gives him her common name, the one she feels is more true to who she is, and he smiles in response to it, repeating it back to her as if to test it. She likes the way it sounds when he says it, the way each letter seems to roll off him tongue, and somehow hearing him say the word alone is enough to make her flush.

She turns her head to hide it and only then notices that the sun has dipped below the trees, leaving the sky a hazy orange. Her mother will be expecting her home soon and there is no telling how poorly she will react if Rhaena and Baela return home without her. She doesn’t doubt that Rhaenyra will send her great serpent Syrax after her should she be even a moment late.

“I have to go,” she says, unable to keep the apologetic tone from her voice.

Reluctantly, she stands, brushing the dirt from her skirts. His lips had parted at her announcement, but now he ducks his head in an understanding nod. She smiles at him, not truly wanting to go yet, and makes her way toward the creek to call upon her sisters to come and fetch her. She does not make it two steps before he is calling after her.

“Can I see you again?”

She turns back to look at him. The insecurity on his face does not seem to match his features, looking almost out of place there. Still, she finds it entirely endearing and she realizes that she would absolutely like to see him again.

“Yes,” she agrees softly.

“Tomorrow?”

She does not bother to fight the smile itching its way onto her face. “Yes.”

He matches her smile then before standing. He comes forward and takes her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips and placing a chaste kiss there. “Then I shall see you on the morrow, my lady.”

She can do nothing but hope he does not notice how hot her face has become.

“On the morrow.”

Read the rest here

[roseandxanderfics]

“In the Shadows” - Killian Jones x Shy!Reader

Summary: Shy but powerful you learn to trust Killian Jones, slowly discovering that your power and connection to him are not things to fear.

——————

The forest was quiet, the only sounds being the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirp of distant birds. It was the kind of silence that made your heart beat louder in your chest, and in the stillness, you found solace. You sat on a tree branch, cloaked in darkness, the tips of your fingers brushing against the rough bark of the ancient oak. The shadows clung to you like a second skin, as if they were alive, ready to bend to your will. Your power was a strange one, an ability that you barely understood yourself. You could slip in and out of the shadows, bending them around you, becoming one with the darkness.

You weren’t a warrior, never had been. Your heart had always been soft, your mind often racing, overthinking every little detail. You had never been a fighter. In fact, you preferred to hide, to avoid conflict, to remain unseen and unnoticed. And yet, here you were, far from the safety of your quiet home, hidden in a world that didn’t understand people like you—people with abilities that could tear the fabric of the world apart.

It had been months since you’d left your small cottage in the woods, months since you’d found refuge in this new life. You had learned to keep your powers in check, learned to avoid the attention of those who might use them against you. Most of the time, you used your ability to remain unseen, to slip between the cracks of the world. The idea of standing out terrified you. You were content to be a shadow, unseen by all but the few people who needed your help—those who knew to seek you out in the dark.

But then, there was him.

Killian Jones was not like anyone you had ever met. He was brash, confident, and bold—qualities you had always admired from a distance but never thought you could possess. His dark hair and the deep blue of his eyes were always the first thing you noticed, as if they were two beacons of light in the very shadows you clung to. There was an intensity to him, a fierceness that made you nervous but also strangely drawn to him.

You hadn’t meant to meet him, not really. It had been a mistake—your powers had flared when you were trying to hide from a group of bounty hunters, and somehow, you had ended up in his path. And though you had tried to keep your distance, the pull between you and him had been undeniable. He had seen you at your most vulnerable, and instead of fearing you, he had seen your power and stood beside you.

It had been weeks since that day, and though you still feared your abilities, you found yourself growing more and more comfortable around him. Killian had a way of making you feel like you weren’t alone in the world—like your power, the very thing you feared most, could be something beautiful, something useful. And despite the way your heart raced when he looked at you, you found yourself wanting to believe in his words.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the pull of the shadows around you, drawing them closer. The coolness of the dark was a comfort, a reminder that you were in control—even if you weren’t always sure how to be.

“You’re doing it again,” a voice broke through the silence, smooth and steady, like the sound of the sea in the distance.

You flinched, nearly falling off the branch, your powers flickering for a moment before you caught yourself. Your eyes darted to the figure standing below you. Killian. Of course. He had a way of sneaking up on you, even when you were hiding in plain sight.

You could see him now, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, his arms crossed over his chest. The dim light from the setting sun reflected off his dark coat, making his figure seem larger than life. His gaze, as always, was fixed on you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” you muttered, trying to sound more composed than you felt.

“You never do,” he replied with a smirk, though there was a softness to his voice that made you feel a little less anxious. “That’s why you’re so damn good at this. But you can’t hide forever, love.”

You stiffened at his words. Hiding was all you had ever known, and it was easier, safer, than facing the world. Facing him. You didn’t trust yourself around him, didn’t trust your powers enough to let anyone in. What if you hurt him? What if you lost control?

“I’m not hiding,” you replied, your voice a little softer than you intended. “I’m just… observing.”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Observing, huh?” He took a step closer, his boots crunching on the forest floor, and you instinctively shrank back into the shadows, the darkness wrapping around you like a protective blanket. But instead of stopping, he followed you, his presence looming over you. “You don’t need to hide from me, you know.”

His words were gentle, but they carried an undeniable weight. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the wave of nerves that rose in your chest. You didn’t understand why he was so insistent on being near you, why he seemed to seek you out even when you did everything in your power to remain unseen.

“Why are you here?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the shadows thickening around you.

Killian’s expression softened, and he took another step closer. “I’m here because you’re not alone anymore,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m here because I see you, and I don’t want you to hide from me. Not when you’ve got so much power inside you. You’re meant for more than just lurking in the dark.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sank in. He was so sure of you, so certain that you had something to offer. The thought was terrifying, and yet, it made something inside you stir—a small flicker of hope, perhaps. Maybe you weren’t just a shadow after all.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not like you, Killian. I’m… I’m just scared.”

He was silent for a moment, and then, before you could blink, he was beside you, his hand reaching out to gently touch your arm. The contact was warm, grounding. His touch was like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

“You don’t have to be like me,” he said softly. “You just need to be yourself. And if you need me, I’ll be here. Always.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time, you felt the weight of his words settle in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, you could trust him. Maybe, for the first time, you could let someone see you—all of you—and not be afraid.

The shadows were still there, wrapping around you, but now they felt like a part of you, something you could control. And maybe, just maybe, they weren’t as scary as you had once thought.

And as Killian smiled at you, that familiar warmth spreading in your chest, you realized that for the first time in a long time, you weren’t alone in the dark.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 11: There and Back Again (But Seriously, Stop Doing That)

Summary: After a surprise trip to Middle-earth, Y/N returns two weeks later in full Elven couture—and right into a haunted house. Sam and Dean are relieved (okay, Dean mostly), but when Y/N hugs Sam and calls him a lifesaver? Dean’s totally cool about it. Totally. Not jealous at all.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1945

A/N: I judge my writing a lot more than you think. This chapter was a bit of a struggle to write, so please be gentle whilst judging. Thx 🫰🏽

A sudden rush of cool wind and the scent of trees enveloped you, and before you knew it, you stumbled forward onto a forest path. Your heart sank immediately. You knew these trees, these shadows.

"Oh, shit," you whispered helplessly, the door you’d come through now vanished entirely, leaving you stranded in Middle-earth.

You heard a twig snap behind you and your body went rigid. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around, heart hammering in your chest.

Standing just a few feet away, half-hidden by shadow and leaves, stood Aragorn himself, one hand resting firmly on his sword hilt, his piercing gaze locked onto you. Behind him, peering curiously from behind his cloak, were four small figures—hobbits, wide-eyed and wary.

For a tense moment, no one moved. Aragorn assessed you silently, gaze flickering across your clearly out-of-place clothing. The silence stretched uncomfortably, until finally, Merry nudged Pippin with an elbow.

"She doesn't look particularly dangerous," Merry murmured.

Pippin's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Exactly—that's what makes her suspicious."

You resisted the urge to groan aloud. Not the first time you've heard that.

Aragorn cautiously approached, sword at his side, voice guarded. "Who are you? How did you find us?"

You swallowed nervously, raising your hands in a placating gesture. "I’m… definitely lost. So sorry to interrupt your quest. I’ll just—"

You glanced around desperately, realizing with growing dread that you were deep in the wilderness, not a single door in sight.

Samwise tilted his head thoughtfully, studying you. "Strider, I think she's just lost."

Frodo said nothing, eyes lingering uncertainly on your modern attire, confusion plain on his face.

After another tense pause, Aragorn relaxed slightly—though his hand never left the hilt of his sword. "Are you being followed?"

Blinking rapidly, you shook your head. "Uh… no?"

He studied you carefully, expression wary yet thoughtful. "You are not safe alone in these lands. Stay close."

You stared in disbelief. "Wait—seriously?"

Before you could protest further, Pippin’s face broke into a wide grin. "Fantastic! We’ve got ourselves a mysterious traveler!"

You exhaled shakily, realizing you were stuck, at least temporarily. "Great. Just great."

As you fell reluctantly into step with the hobbits, you silently cursed yourself. You couldn't believe you'd managed to jump straight into another doorless dimension—again.

"Dean is gonna kill me," you muttered, following Aragorn deeper into the forest, praying you’d find a way back sooner rather than later.

—

The next few days passed in a surreal blur. You traveled with Aragorn and the hobbits, reluctantly accepting your current predicament. There were no doors—just wilderness, endless walking, and the occasional curious glance from your newfound companions.

Aragorn kept you under constant scrutiny, obviously unsure what to make of you. Sam was initially cautious but quickly warmed up once he realized you posed no threat. Frodo remained polite yet distant, clearly preoccupied with heavier concerns.

Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, embraced your presence wholeheartedly, constantly pestering you with questions.

"So, where exactly is this ‘far away’?" Merry prodded one evening, watching you suspiciously over the fire.

You sighed, picking at the lembas bread in your hand. "You wouldn’t know it. Trust me."

Pippin’s eyes narrowed mischievously. "That sounds terribly suspicious."

You gave them a playful glare. "Good thing I’m harmless, then."

They exchanged dubious glances, clearly unconvinced.

—

Your reluctant adventure took a darker turn upon reaching Weathertop. When the Nazgûl appeared, the reality of the danger became brutally apparent. You watched, heart in your throat, as Aragorn fought off the Ringwraiths and Frodo was injured. It took everything in you not to panic, your hands shaking long after the attack ended.

This was definitely not fun anymore.

—

By the time you arrived in Rivendell, you’d begun to genuinely accept that you were stuck. But stepping into the Elven sanctuary, all your anxiety momentarily faded. The soft golden glow, the serene beauty of waterfalls cascading around you—it felt like a dream.

The elves generously replaced your worn-out hoodie and jeans with flowing garments of delicate silk and intricate embroidery, clothing straight out of fantasy itself. You stood before a mirror, admiring your reflection in awe.

If you had to be stuck in another world, at least you could look good doing it.

—

You stood in the background during the council, watching history unfold right before your eyes. Arguments echoed, alliances formed, and Frodo accepted the burden of the Ring. For a fleeting moment, you considered staying—tempted by adventure and friendship unlike anything you'd known.

But reality settled in sharply. Dean and Sam were still waiting for you—probably worried sick.

You sighed softly, running your fingers gently across the fine elven fabric. "Alright," you murmured quietly. "Back to babysitting duty it is."

With a resigned yet fond smile toward your newfound companions, you turned away and finally stepped through a door, leaving Middle-earth behind.

—

Meanwhile, in the Supernatural World...

To say Sam and Dean were going out of their minds was putting it lightly. At first, they'd stayed rooted at the motel, hoping you’d appear as suddenly as you'd vanished. Days turned into a week, and patience wore thin.

Eventually, Dean, anxiety masked behind irritation, decided enough was enough. "We can't keep waiting here, Sammy. Life goes on. She'd probably chew us out if we just sat here doing nothing."

Sam reluctantly agreed, but couldn’t shake his suspicions. "Before she vanished, she mentioned Lord of the Rings. Dean, I think that's where she ended up."

Dean scoffed dismissively, masking his worry. "Yeah, well, knowing her luck, she's probably having a great time riding horses with pretty elves while we're stuck here losing sleep."

And truthfully—Sam suspected Dean was right.

—

The mansion was dark, air thick with dust and tension. Dean crept forward cautiously, shotgun in hand. Sam moved quietly behind him, flashlight scanning the eerie halls.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Sam muttered.

Dean shot him a pointed look. "Gee, you think? Maybe it's the creepy-ass house, or maybe it's the fact that the damn Ghostfacers are here."

A sudden noise—a soft shuffle from down the hall—had Dean instantly on high alert, gun raised defensively.

At that very moment, you stepped through a nearby door. The cool night air of the haunted Morton House brushed your skin, a stark contrast to the peaceful warmth of Rivendell you'd just left behind. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim surroundings, the sound of creaking wood and distant whispers jolting your senses awake.

A beam of flashlight cut across your vision suddenly, blinding you momentarily.

"Stop right there!" a familiar voice shouted sharply.

Heart hammering, you raised your hands defensively, squinting through the harsh glare. "Woah—wait! It's me!"

There was a pause, then the light dipped slightly. Dean stood frozen, eyes wide in shock, gun lowered slightly but still aimed cautiously in your direction. "Y/N?"

You let out a relieved breath, smiling sheepishly. "Hi."

Dean lowered the gun entirely, letting out a heavy sigh, his body visibly relaxing. "Son of a bitch, you scared me half to death."

Behind Dean, Sam quickly appeared, eyes widening as he saw you clearly. "No way," he breathed, a grin spreading across his face. "You're back!"

"Yep," you said, smirking slightly. "And I even brought souvenirs."

Dean eyed your clothing—the elegant Elvish garments you’d acquired in Rivendell—with open curiosity. "You went full nerd, didn't you?"

You shrugged, smiling proudly. "It was the full Middle-earth experience."

Dean rolled his eyes, but the faint grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Sam chuckled, excitement bubbling from him. "We need to talk. I wanna know everything."

"Definitely," you agreed. "But maybe after we get out of the creepy haunted house?"

"Good call," Dean said, his tone casual but clearly relieved as he glanced around warily. "Let's roll."

—

The drive back to the motel was filled with Sam’s endless questions. He leaned forward eagerly, barely pausing to take a breath. "Did you meet Gandalf? Was Legolas as cool as he seemed? How was Rivendell?"

You laughed, relaxing into the familiar comfort of the Impala. "Slow down, Sam. Gandalf was wise, Legolas was...actually even prettier in person, and Rivendell was incredible. Like stepping into a dream."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, visibly irritated as he tightened his grip on the wheel. "Can we maybe save the fantasy talk for later? Like, never?"

Sam ignored him, leaning further forward. "Did you get to meet the hobbits?"

"Oh, Sam, they were the best," you gushed, turning fully toward him. "Frodo was sweet, Merry and Pippin were absolute chaos, and Samwise Gamgee—he kinda reminded me of you."

Sam smiled warmly, clearly touched by the comparison. "Really?"

Dean scoffed loudly. "Alright, alright. Enough nerd bonding. More pressing question—why the hell did you stay gone for so long?"

The playful atmosphere vanished abruptly, replaced by a tense silence. You shifted uneasily, sighing quietly as you leaned back against the seat. "I had to make sure I wasn't gonna spill any more spoilers. I also didn't exactly have any doors handy, and by the time I did, I just... I was afraid I'd give away more than I should."

Dean’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead, expression unreadable. "We wouldn't have pushed you."

"I know," you admitted softly, guilt washing over you. "But I didn’t want to take that risk."

Dean nodded slowly, clearly struggling to suppress his frustration. "Fine. But next time, give us a heads-up or something. You disappearing on us like that…" His voice trailed off, low and tense. "Just don't do it again."

You looked at him, noting the genuine concern beneath his irritation. "I promise."

—

Later that night, freshly showered and wrapped in the comfort of familiar clothes, you emerged from the motel bathroom, finally feeling grounded again. Sam sat on his bed, typing rapidly on his laptop, while Dean lounged with an open newspaper. Both looked up immediately as you entered.

"Feeling human again?" Dean quipped dryly, raising an eyebrow.

"Almost," you smiled, running your fingers through damp hair. "That shower nearly erased two week's worth of hobbit-trail grime."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, I'm just relieved you’re back safe. Dean’s mood was getting unbearable."

Dean shot his brother a glare. "Shut up, Sammy."

You hesitated a moment before finally asking, "My stuff… my phone—did you guys keep it?"

Without missing a beat, Sam reached into his bag, pulling out your phone with a small grin. "Here."

A surge of relief rushed through you, and you closed the distance quickly, wrapping Sam in a tight, grateful hug. "Sam Winchester, you absolute lifesaver."

Sam laughed softly, hugging you back warmly. He glanced up, catching sight of Dean’s dark scowl, and awkwardly began to pull away. You, however, refused to release him just yet, savoring the comfort you'd missed.

Dean cleared his throat loudly. "Alright, break it up."

You ignored him.

Sam pulled away gently, grinning to himself. You simply rolled your eyes at Dean’s annoyed expression.

Meanwhile, Dean was pissed. Not at you. Not at Sam. (Well, maybe a little at Sam.) But mostly at the situation. Because you hugged Sam like he was your long-lost best friend, while Dean—who'd spent days worried out of his mind—didn't even get a damn pat on the shoulder. All he got was to watch Sam bask in your gratitude like some kind of hero.

Lifesaver? Seriously? Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, silently promising revenge.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Ultimate Universe AU idea, what if the heroes or villains had to gather odd artifacts to try and have the power of Chaos, a.k.a. the thing that created everything.

A spear of sharp black rock that Loki collected that can grant the wielder the power to summon anything they want or create portals, previously kept in a relics hall of Asgard...

A ring that grants the user the ability to be hidden, unseen, and unheard, even in plain sight, kept by the Thieves Guild, now worn by Gambit...

A circlet that can offer limitless ideas and potential for any power, locked away by S.H.I.E.L.D., but wanted by The Brotherhood as well as the X-Men and Loki...

A cloak that protects the wielder from any harm, and can turn into anything needed, be it wings or a blanket or a coat, kept hidden by the Sorcerer Supreme...

A jewel that can show you the future, and how to achieve the one you want, hidden in a museum, is being sought after by several villains, as well as the Avengers and X-Men...

And the last artifact, a book containing the secrets of the universe, filled with infinite knowledge, and the secret to life and death and power... No one knows where it is... (Reader has it, it's hidden as their poetry and idea notebook)

If one were to possess all six Artifacts of Chaos, one could reshape the world however they wanted it... Or destroy it and start it anew... But, well, one would have to collect them all to begin with... And not catch the eye of Chaos itself...

@sugar-soda @thewickedweiner What do y'all think? And tell me, do you think Reader truly was killed, or did something else happen... something they'd rather forget...?

[novaursa]

Of Gods and Men (daenys)

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Pairing: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: contact

- Next part: the gift

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Previous part has been fixed.

I am Daenys Targaryen, born of flame and blood, heir to a legacy that stretches across millennia. My House was once the pinnacle of power in the known universe, its dragonlords feared and revered by all. We ruled from Valyria, the greatest civilization the galaxy had ever seen, until the Doom came. The fires of war—nuclear and cruel—swallowed our homeworld and all we had built. Our enemies conspired, believing us destroyed, our legacy reduced to ash and ruin.

But House Targaryen was not so easily extinguished.

In the aftermath, my ancestors did what Targaryens have always done—they adapted. They fled to the furthest reaches of space, to the uncharted corners of the galaxy where the light of the Imperium could not reach. There, we found a new home, a planet of red skies and volcanic peaks, a world where we could rise again. We named it Albiron, and from its molten heart, we rebuilt our civilization.

In the depths of Albiron, we discovered the drakaon crystals, a powerful source of energy that has allowed us to evolve beyond the constraints of the galaxy's fuel economy. The Imperium and the Spacing Guild cling to melange—the spice that gives them control over space travel. But we, the Targaryens, found a way to traverse the stars without reliance on their outdated systems. The crystals not only power our ships but enhance our technology, giving us the strength and independence we needed to survive.

And survive we did.

Our ancestors safeguarded the ancient knowledge of our House. The secrets of forging Valyrian steel, a craft thought lost to time, still live within us. Our swords, forged in dragonfire, remain unbreakable, as sharp as the day they were first drawn. We hold the wisdom of Valyria—its sciences, its alchemy, its weaponry—all hidden away from the prying eyes of the Empire that now rules the stars. The new emperors and their Bene Gesserit servants tried to create their own messiah, to forge a future in their image, but they could not control us.

They do not know what we are capable of.

And now, after millennia in the shadows, we are stirring again. The galaxy has forgotten our name, but the time will come when they will tremble at the sound of it once more.

For fire and blood will always rise from the ashes

The icy wind cuts through your cloak as you press yourself against the jagged cliffside, the snow swirling violently around you. Arctis is unforgiving, a frozen wasteland where the cold bites at your bones, and the endless white stretches far beyond sight. The Harkonnens are still searching, their patrols scouring the frozen plains, desperate to find you. Their ornithopters hum overhead, casting dark shadows against the snow as their engines roar through the storm.

You crouch low, your breath steady, watching as a squad of Harkonnen soldiers trudges through the snow below, their visors scanning the terrain. They’re relentless, but you’ve been trained for this. The cold, the endless hunt—none of it is new to you. The blood of the dragon runs in your veins, and you know how to wait, how to survive.

The satchel at your side holds something precious: an ancient dragon egg, long since turned to stone. It’s a relic of your past, a symbol of your House’s power, though the Harkonnens know nothing of its true worth. To them, it’s a prize, a trophy. They think capturing you and your egg will give them leverage—perhaps even power. But they do not understand what they’re dealing with.

The blizzard rages on, the wind howling like a beast across the frozen plains. You pull the hood of your cloak tighter around your face, your eyes scanning the landscape for any sign of the ornithopters. Their searchlights sweep across the cliffs, but they won’t find you. Not here, not in the storm.

You move silently, your footsteps careful as you navigate the narrow path along the ridge. The Harkonnens are close, but you’ve learned to avoid them, slipping between their patrols like a ghost in the snow. You’ve disrupted their operations, destroyed their mining equipment, and now they’re hunting you—desperate, angry, and foolish.

You crouch behind a snow-covered boulder, listening to the distant hum of their comms. Their voices crackle through the static of the storm, distorted but still clear enough to hear.

“…continue the search… she can’t have gone far…”

You smirk to yourself. Let them come. Let them search. You’ve been evading them for days, and they still have no idea what they’re up against.

Your thoughts flicker back to the hatchery—the ancient underground structure they uncovered in their greed. It had once been a place where dragons were born, a relic of Valyria’s greatness, long forgotten and buried beneath the ice. The dragon eggs within had turned to stone long ago, but the Harkonnens, ignorant as they were, believed they could extract some kind of power from them. They were wrong.

The Harkonnen soldiers below continue their search, unaware of your presence. You wait, patient, watching them pass by. When the last of them disappears over the ridge, you move again, keeping low to the ground, careful not to make a sound.

A distant shout catches your attention, carried by the wind. You freeze, listening. They’re getting closer. The hum of the ornithopters grows louder, their engines cutting through the storm. They’re sweeping the area, desperate to find you before you can strike again.

You tighten your grip on the hilt of your sword, the Valyrian steel cold against your skin. The ancient knowledge of your House flows through you—the blood of dragonlords, the fire that burns even in the coldest of places.

The storm is your ally, masking your movements, your presence. You can feel the Harkonnens growing frustrated, their search becoming more frantic. They think they can capture you, but you are not so easily taken. You were born of fire and blood, and you will not fall to the likes of them.

In the distance, the hum of the ornithopters fades, replaced by the howling wind and the silence of the frozen wasteland. You remain still, your breath steady, waiting for the storm to hide you once more.

The hunt continues, but you are patient.

You always have been.

The storm raged on, swirling the snow into thick, blinding curtains around you. The wind howled, its sharp edges cutting through the air as you huddled beneath an outcropping of jagged rocks. Your breath came slow and steady, your body still despite the cold biting at your skin. You had lived in conditions far worse than this; the ice and snow of Arctis could not force you out of hiding.

The Harkonnens had passed, their search party moving farther into the storm. But you remained cautious, listening for any signs of movement. The winds carried faint voices—not the harsh tones of Harkonnen soldiers, but something else. Low, deliberate, and organized. You pressed yourself deeper into the shadows, straining to hear.

The voices grew clearer as they approached from beyond the ridge. You crept forward, carefully peering out from your hiding spot. Through the swirling snow, you could make out a group of men, moving in two tight formations. They were well-armed, disciplined, their movements efficient and purposeful. It took a moment to recognize them, but soon you realized they were not Harkonnens at all.

These men were from House Atreides.

You observed them quietly, hidden in the shadows. Two distinct groups, both moving with military precision. Though you didn’t know them by name, you could tell from their movements and the way they coordinated their search that these were capable soldiers. Their formation suggested high-level training, and the way they swept the terrain for threats made it clear they were not to be underestimated.

Unbeknownst to you, these were two teams separated from Duke Leto’s main force—led by none other than Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck, two of the Duke’s most trusted men. But here, in the blizzard, they were just another force you had to evade.

You listened closely as the men talked amongst themselves, their voices carried by the wind, though still muffled by the storm.

“The Duke’s with them still now,” one of the men said, his voice barely audible. “Escorted willingly to their camp. There has been no contact since.”

“They didn’t try to stop him? By the sound of his voice Leto sounded determined.” another voice responded.

“No, they welcomed him. These unknown forces—whoever they are—they’re not hostile to us. Not yet, anyway.”

You felt your pulse quicken. Your brother, Aelor, had found them first. Of course he had. He had been scouting the planet for days, and if anyone could make contact with the Atreides without hostility, it was him. He had always been the diplomat, the one to make the first move. But that meant time was running short. The Harkonnens were still searching for you, and now the Atreides were caught up in the middle of it.

You leaned in closer, straining to hear more, but just as you shifted, the snow beneath your foot crunched—too loud in the stillness.

Two of the Atreides soldiers, their instincts honed from years of combat, immediately stiffened. One of them, a man with sharp eyes and a scar down his cheek, turned his head slightly, his hand moving to the hilt of his blade.

“Did you hear that?” he muttered to his companion.

The other man, stockier but just as alert, nodded, his eyes scanning the area. “Something’s out there.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You couldn’t afford to be caught—not now, not before you had a chance to finish what you had started. Without waiting for them to spot you, you pushed yourself up from your hiding place and began to run, your feet light on the snow but fast enough to kick up a trail in the storm.

“Hey!” one of the soldiers shouted, his voice sharp. “Stop!”

You didn’t look back. The wind whipped against your face as you ran, the storm providing just enough cover to keep you from being seen clearly, but you could hear them behind you, their footsteps crunching through the snow, their voices calling after you.

“Stop, damn it!” another voice yelled. “We’re not Harkonnens!”

It didn’t matter. You couldn’t stop now. You had no idea what they would do if they caught you. For all you knew, they might try to turn you over to the Harkonnens in exchange for leverage or an alliance. You couldn’t take that chance.

You ran faster, weaving through the rocks and cliffs, your cloak whipping behind you. The Atreides soldiers were fast—faster than you had anticipated—and they were gaining ground. You could hear their boots thudding against the frozen earth, the clinking of their armor as they chased after you.

“Stop, we’re not your enemy!” one of the voices called again, closer this time.

You pushed yourself harder, but the storm was growing fiercer, the wind tugging at your cloak, pulling you back. The cold bit into your skin, slowing your movements as the snow thickened around you. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see the sharp-eyed soldier closing the distance between you, his hand outstretched.

“Stop!” he commanded, his voice firm. “We’re with House Atreides—stop!”

Panic flared in your chest, but you couldn’t let it control you. You needed a way out, but the storm was growing too intense, the landscape blurring before your eyes. You stumbled slightly as the ground beneath you dipped, but you caught yourself, forcing your legs to keep moving.

But the Atreides soldiers were relentless, their pursuit unwavering. If you didn’t find a way to lose them soon, they would catch you. And then everything—your mission, your House’s survival—could be compromised.

In the distance, you could hear the faint hum of more ornithopters, but whether they were Harkonnen or Atreides, you couldn’t tell. The storm masked everything now, the world narrowing down to the sound of your breath, the crunch of snow beneath your feet, and the pounding of your heart.

You had to escape. You had to find a way to evade them.

Because if they caught you, the consequences would be far worse than just being another prisoner.

Gurney Halleck’s boots pounded through the snow, his breath clouding in the icy air as he and Duncan Idaho sprinted after the fleeing figure. The storm was growing worse, and the swirling winds tugged at their cloaks, but Gurney’s focus was razor-sharp. Whoever this person was—Harkonnen, rebel, or some other unknown—they had to catch them before the Harkonnens did.

Ahead of them, through the thick snow, the figure moved swiftly, almost too fast for the conditions. Gurney could make out only a vague silhouette through the storm, darting between the jagged rocks and heading straight for the frozen lake that stretched out beyond the ridge.

Duncan glanced over at Gurney as they ran, his sharp eyes narrowing as the unmistakable sound of Harkonnen ornithopters roared overhead. Their black, beetle-like forms cut through the sky, their engines loud even over the howling wind.

“Harkonnens!” Duncan shouted over the noise. “I’ll deal with them—keep after the runner!”

Gurney nodded without breaking stride, his focus narrowing on the figure disappearing over the edge of the ridge. “Go!” he shouted back. “I’ll get him!”

With a final glance, Duncan peeled away, motioning to the rest of the Atreides soldiers to follow him. They fanned out, preparing to engage the Harkonnen forces as the ornithopters swept in low, their blasters lighting up the snowy landscape.

Gurney, now alone in pursuit, gritted his teeth and pressed on, his legs burning with effort as he crested the ridge and saw the frozen lake below. The figure was already halfway across, their feet moving swiftly but carefully over the ice.

Gurney’s instincts screamed at him to be cautious—crossing a frozen lake in the middle of a storm was dangerous—but he had no choice. The person was fast, but Gurney had tracked many runners in his time, and he wasn’t about to let this one escape. Whoever they were, they had answers he needed.

His boots hit the ice, and immediately he felt the treacherous surface beneath him. Every step had to be calculated, the slick ice making it difficult to gain speed. But Gurney was relentless, his eyes fixed on the figure ahead.

They were nearing the far edge of the lake, and Gurney knew he had to close the distance before they reached cover. With a burst of speed, he lunged forward, his feet sliding slightly on the ice as he tackled the figure to the ground.

The two of them hit the frozen surface with a thud, the impact jarring but controlled. Gurney quickly pinned the runner down, his strong hands gripping their arms and forcing them into submission. He expected a struggle, but what caught him off guard was the sudden stillness beneath him.

The figure twisted beneath his grasp, but not with the strength of a hardened soldier. Gurney blinked in surprise as he looked down at the person he had just caught—and found himself staring into the face of a young woman. You.

Her face was striking, though it was partially hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. She had pale blonde hair, almost silver in the dim light, and her eyes—unusual lilac eyes—narrowed at him with fierce defiance. There was something otherworldly about her appearance, something that startled Gurney more than the fact that she wasn’t a man, as he had first assumed.

“Who—?” Gurney began, but before he could finish, the woman twisted again, trying to free herself. Her movements were quick, but Gurney held her down, his instincts now on high alert.

She wasn’t Harkonnen—of that he was sure. No Harkonnen would move like this, or have those eyes. But who was she?

Before he could ask, a blaster shot echoed across the lake, and Gurney instinctively glanced up. The storm was still raging, but through the snow, he could see Duncan and the Atreides soldiers engaging the Harkonnen forces near the edge of the lake. Ornithopters circled overhead, firing down into the snow, but the Atreides were holding their ground.

Another sound—this one closer—pulled Gurney’s attention back to the woman. She had stopped struggling, but her eyes were fixed on something behind him. Gurney turned his head just in time to see another squad of Harkonnen soldiers emerging from the storm, their weapons aimed directly at them.

“Damn it,” Gurney muttered under his breath.

Without wasting a second, Gurney hauled the woman to her feet, his grip firm but not cruel. “Come on,” he said urgently, his eyes flicking to the advancing Harkonnens. “We need to move, now!”

She hesitated for a moment, her violet eyes darting between Gurney and the soldiers. But when she saw the Harkonnen forces closing in, she seemed to understand the danger and nodded.

Gurney tightened his hold on her arm and pulled her toward the far edge of the lake. They had to reach cover before the Harkonnens caught up—or worse, before the ice gave way beneath them.

The icy wind slashes at your face as your captor drags you across the frozen lake, his grip firm, unwavering. You twist your arm, trying to pull free, but the man doesn’t loosen his hold. His face—grizzled, hardened—remains focused on the danger ahead, but you know he’s underestimated what’s coming.

“Let me go,” you say sharply, your voice cutting through the storm as you glance back at the advancing Harkonnen forces. They’re closing in fast, their dark shapes moving with deadly precision across the ice.

The Atreides soldier barely acknowledges you, his grip tightening as he pulls you along. “Not a chance,” he mutters, his voice gruff.

You grit your teeth, frustration boiling inside you. He doesn’t understand the danger—not fully. The Harkonnens aren’t just after him or his men. They’re after you. And they’re not going to stop until they have you, no matter who stands in their way.

“You need to let me go,” you repeat, more urgently this time, your breath visible in the freezing air. “You can’t fight them while dragging me along. Let me go, and we’ll have a chance to survive.”

He doesn’t slow down, his eyes scanning the horizon, but you can see his jaw tighten. He knows you’re right. The Harkonnens are gaining momentum, their boots pounding on the ice, the sounds of their shouts growing louder.

As the blizzard intensifies, you can make out the rough bark of one of the Harkonnen officers through the storm. “Keep the girl alive! She must stay alive!”

You tense at the words, but your captor’s steps falter for just a moment, his head snapping toward you. He knows now—they want you alive. For a moment, he hesitates, his grip loosening just enough for you to jerk your arm free.

Before he can grab you again, you turn to face him, your lilac eyes flashing with intensity. “Let me fight, or we’ll both die.”

He studies you for a split second, his instincts warring with his sense of duty. But as the Harkonnens close in, their weapons raised, he makes a decision.

“Fine,” he growls, finally releasing you. “But stay close.”

You smirk despite the cold, the tension in your body finally easing as your muscles loosen, ready to move. This soldier doesn’t know what you’re capable of—but he’s about to learn.

The first Harkonnen squad reaches you, their weapons drawn, their faces twisted with a cruel determination. One of them rushes toward you, his blaster raised, but you move faster than he can react. Your hands find the hilt of your hidden Valyrian steel blade, and in one swift motion, you unsheathe it, the metal gleaming in the pale light of the storm.

With a speed and grace born from years of training, you dodge his first strike, your body moving fluidly as if in a dance. Your sword hums through the air, cutting through the cold like a whisper. Before the Harkonnen can fire, your blade is at his throat, and in a single, decisive motion, he falls.

Your captor—the Atreides soldier—watches you, stunned. He’s seen warriors before, but nothing like this. Your movements are unlike anything he’s witnessed—swift, lethal, and otherworldly. You hear his breath catch as he engages the Harkonnen beside you, barely keeping up with the chaos that’s unfolding around him.

The rest of the Harkonnens press forward, but you’re already a step ahead, moving like a shadow on the ice. Another soldier charges, his weapon raised, but you sidestep him with ease, your blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. His body crumples to the ground before he even realizes he’s lost.

The storm howls around you, the snow swirling in thick, blinding waves, but the battle is sharp, focused. You fight like the blood of the dragon runs through your veins—fast, furious, and unstoppable. The ice beneath your feet holds, but you can feel the tension in the air, the weight of the conflict hanging like a blade ready to fall.

Beside you, the Atreides soldier fights fiercely, but you can sense his astonishment. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected you. The Harkonnen forces are brutal, unrelenting, but you fight as if every strike has been calculated a hundred times before it happens. You are the storm, and the Harkonnens are nothing but kindling in your path.

A Harkonnen lieutenant rushes forward, his face twisted with rage. “Take her alive!” he roars. But before he can reach you, you spin, your sword flashing in the storm’s light as it cuts through the air, meeting his weapon with a sharp clash. The force of your strike sends him stumbling backward, his face a mask of shock.

You don’t give him a second chance. Your blade is at his throat in an instant, and with one final strike, he falls, his body hitting the ice with a dull thud.

The sounds of blaster fire and plasma rifles echo in the distance as the Atreides forces engage the Harkonnens, but here, on this frozen lake, you stand victorious over the bodies of those who had dared to hunt you.

Your captor—still catching his breath—turns to you, his eyes wide, his disbelief clear. “Who the hell are you?”

You sheath your blade, the cold wind whipping at your cloak as you step closer. Your lilac eyes meet his, unblinking.

“I am Daenys Targaryen,” you say calmly, your voice carrying over the storm. “And you were right to let me go.”

Before he can respond, another group of Harkonnen soldiers emerges from the storm, and this time, they don’t hesitate. They charge forward with renewed fury, their weapons raised, their intent clear.

Without a word, the Atreides soldier grabs your arm, pulling you toward cover as the next wave of battle begins.

The blizzard whipped violently around you and your captor, the snow swirling in a thick veil of white as the cold air bit at your skin. You could hear the Harkonnen soldiers shouting, their voices growing closer. They were relentless, but you were ready—your sword still slick with the blood of those who had tried to capture you. You glanced at the Atreides soldier next to you, his breath heavy as he clutched his rifle, scanning the horizon for more threats.

Then, through the storm, you heard a voice—a sharp, commanding one, calling out through the chaos.

"Gurney!" the voice called, rough but strong, cutting through the howling winds. "You there? Gurney!"

The man next to you—Gurney, apparently—responded immediately, his tone urgent. "Duncan! We’re pinned down! The Harkonnens have us locked here on the ice with the girl!"

At the word girl, you scoffed, barely able to contain your irritation. You were no mere girl; you were Daenys Targaryen, the blood of Valyria running through your veins. You had fought and survived where others would have perished. Being reduced to nothing more than a ‘girl’ felt like an insult—one you’d gladly repay once this was over.

But Gurney’s use of the word didn’t seem to faze the man on the other end of the comms—Duncan—at least not at first. You could hear a brief moment of hesitation in his voice as he processed what Gurney had said.

"Wait—what?" Duncan’s voice faltered for a heartbeat. "A girl? Out here?"

The disbelief in his tone was palpable, as though the very idea of a young woman being out in the middle of this frozen wasteland was beyond reason. You clenched your jaw, the irritation bubbling up inside you again. But before you could say anything, Duncan quickly recovered, his voice sharp and focused once more.

"Doesn’t matter," Duncan continued, his voice steely and decisive. "Both of you need to keep moving. I’m sending you coordinates now—regroup there. We’ll cover you. But don’t stop, Gurney, do you hear me?"

Gurney nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on the advancing Harkonnens. "Copy that," he responded, his voice clipped. "We’ll make a break for it."

Gurney’s grip on your arm tightened, and he pulled you back slightly, his face set in concentration as he surveyed the chaotic battlefield ahead. The Harkonnen forces were relentless, pushing forward through the storm, their blasters firing indiscriminately as they closed in on your position. The ornithopters circled above, their harsh lights cutting through the snow.

You could hear more of Duncan’s voice in the distance, directing his own men to lay down cover fire, but it wasn’t enough. The Harkonnens were too close.

“We need to move,” Gurney muttered, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Now.”

He glanced at you, his eyes hard and calculating. He didn’t know who you truly were—he only knew that you were important enough for the Harkonnens to want you alive. For now, that was enough for him.

“Keep up,” Gurney ordered as he turned toward the coordinates Duncan had sent. Without another word, he took off across the ice, moving swiftly despite the uneven ground.

You followed close behind, your movements fluid and precise. Every instinct told you to fight, to turn and face the Harkonnens who hunted you—but you knew there would be a time for that later. Right now, the priority was survival.

As you and Gurney ran, the sounds of battle raged all around you—blaster fire, the roar of engines, and the shouts of men locked in combat. You could feel the ice beneath your feet shifting slightly, creaking under the weight of the violence above it, but you kept moving.

"Stay low!" Gurney barked as he ducked behind a large chunk of ice, pulling you down beside him. Plasma shots zipped overhead, lighting up the storm with flashes of red and blue.

You could hear Duncan’s voice again, this time over Gurney’s comm. “We’ve got them distracted—keep moving, Gurney! Head for the ridge. I’ll meet you there with reinforcements.”

Gurney gave a terse nod, not wasting time with words. He glanced over at you, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes—perhaps respect, or maybe just acknowledgment that you weren’t the helpless ‘girl’ he had assumed. Either way, you were both in this together now, and you had no intention of slowing him down.

As Gurney prepared to move again, you looked back over your shoulder. The Harkonnens were relentless, pressing forward, their eyes locked on you. You could hear them shouting to one another, their orders clear: "Take her alive!"

But they didn’t know who they were dealing with. You were no mere prize to be captured. You were fire, you were blood, and the day of reckoning would come soon enough.

“Ready?” Gurney asked, his voice low.

You nodded, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword. "Lead the way."

With a quick signal, Gurney rose from cover, pulling you with him as you both sprinted toward the ridge. The storm raged on, the ice creaking beneath your feet, but you moved with purpose, knowing that Duncan and his men were waiting.

The Harkonnens would not have you today.

The ridge came into view through the swirling storm, and you and Gurney pushed through the biting wind, your breath visible in the freezing air. Ahead, the forms of more Atreides soldiers emerged, and you could see Duncan Idaho standing at the front, his hand signaling his men to hold position. As you and Gurney neared, Duncan waved his men forward, laying down cover fire to drive the Harkonnens away. Their retreating shouts echoed through the blizzard, and soon the battlefield quieted, leaving only the howl of the wind.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Duncan signaled to his men again, his voice sharp. “Surround her!”

Immediately, several Atreides soldiers moved in, forming a tight circle around you. You could feel the irritation rising within you, your muscles tensing as their weapons remained trained on you. You clenched your jaw, biting back a retort, but the annoyance was clear in your eyes.

Duncan stepped forward, his gaze sharp and assessing as he took in your appearance. You noticed the way his eyes lingered on your sword, your stance—he was calculating, sizing you up, but you stood firm, refusing to let him see any sign of discomfort.

Nearby, Gurney moved closer to Duncan, and the two of them began speaking in low voices. You strained to hear, knowing they were discussing you, but the howling wind muffled most of their conversation.

“What’s her story?” Duncan asked, glancing briefly in your direction before focusing on Gurney. His voice was calm but edged with curiosity.

Gurney, his face still stern from the intensity of the chase, spoke quietly. “She calls herself Daenys Targaryen.”

Duncan’s reaction was immediate, his eyes narrowing as he glanced back at you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Targaryen?” he repeated in a hushed tone. “That’s impossible.”

“I thought the same,” Gurney muttered, his voice low and cautious. “But we’ve seen many impossible things on this planet.”

Duncan’s expression remained skeptical, but you could tell he wasn’t about to dismiss the claim out of hand. He took a deep breath, then stepped closer to you, his eyes searching your face for answers. There was a heaviness in the air, the kind that came with the weight of secrets and the unknown.

“What are you carrying?” Duncan asked, his voice calm but demanding, as he gestured toward the satchel at your side.

You stiffened at the question, your hand instinctively tightening on the strap of the satchel. “That’s none of your business,” you said coldly, your voice firm despite the storm swirling around you.

Duncan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could respond, one of the Atreides soldiers acted swiftly, stepping forward and snatching the satchel from your grasp. You spun toward him, ready to fight, but two other soldiers quickly closed in, blocking your path and preventing you from reaching the man who had taken it.

“Give that back!” you snapped, anger flashing in your eyes as you took a step forward.

Duncan opened the satchel carefully, his expression curious but guarded. His brow furrowed as he reached inside and pulled out the heavy, smooth object—the petrified dragon egg. He held it in his hands, examining it with a look of confusion and mild disbelief.

“It’s a rock,” Duncan said, shaking his head slightly as he turned it over in his hands. He glanced up at you, his expression puzzled. “The Harkonnens are chasing you… for this?”

Before you could respond, Gurney stepped closer, his eyes widening slightly as he saw what Duncan was holding. His tone was urgent, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice. “Duncan, that’s not just a rock.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “What is it, then?”

Gurney took a breath, his eyes locking onto the egg in Duncan’s hands. “It’s a dragon egg.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. For a moment, the world seemed to still, even as the storm raged around you. Duncan’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief, his eyes flicking from the egg to you.

“A dragon egg?” Duncan repeated, incredulous. “That’s… impossible.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but laced with a warning. “There are many things in this universe that you don’t understand.”

Duncan stared at you, clearly trying to process the implications. He glanced down at the egg again, turning it over in his hands, as if expecting it to reveal more of its secrets. “The Harkonnens wouldn’t go to this much trouble for a stone,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But if what Gurney says is true…”

“It is true,” you interrupted, your voice steady. “That egg is more valuable than anything the Harkonnens could hope to steal. But it doesn’t belong to them—or to you.”

Duncan looked back at you, his expression unreadable. He still didn’t fully trust you, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes now, a recognition of the significance of what he was holding.

“Why are the Harkonnens so desperate to capture you?” Duncan asked, his tone softer now, but no less intense. “What’s your connection to this… dragon egg?”

You met his gaze, your lilac eyes unwavering. “Because they know,” you said, your voice steady despite the cold biting at your skin. “They know that House Targaryen is more than just a myth. And they will do anything to claim what is ours.”

Duncan glanced at Gurney, who gave a slight nod, as if to confirm the gravity of your words. The storm continued to howl around you, but now the weight of the moment pressed down on everyone standing there.

The Atreides had stumbled into something far greater than they could have imagined.

And for the first time, Duncan Idaho realized that their fight with the Harkonnens was about to take a turn none of them could have predicted.

Duke Leto Atreides sat quietly in the meeting room, his hands resting under his chin as he tried to process the gravity of what Aelor Targaryen had just revealed. The room was still, save for the faint hum of the advanced technology that surrounded them, but inside Leto’s mind, a storm was brewing. He had heard impossible things in his life—tales of lost Houses, ancient enemies, and forgotten powers—but this was something else entirely.

Aelor had told him in no uncertain terms who he was and who his people were. House Targaryen, the long-lost, feared enemy of the Imperium, had not perished. They had merely retreated into the shadows, rebuilding their strength, and now… now, the Atreides had aided them.

This could mean disaster for his House. If the Imperium learned that the Atreides had sided with the most feared enemy of the past, it could be seen as treason. And yet, there was something in Aelor’s calm, confident demeanor that made Leto pause. Something that told him this was not just another power struggle. This was about survival—about the future.

Beside him, Thufir Hawat stood, his arms crossed, his ever-sharp mind cataloging and analyzing every detail of the conversation. Leto knew that Hawat was already formulating plans, strategies, contingencies. That was his gift—his curse. The Mentat could see possibilities where others saw only chaos.

Leto exhaled slowly, his eyes still focused on the table before him. The weight of the decision ahead pressed heavily on his shoulders.

“I understand what you’ve said, Aelor,” Leto finally spoke, his voice calm, but edged with caution. “But you must know what this means for House Atreides. If the Imperium learns that we’ve aided your people—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Duke Leto,” Aelor interrupted gently. “You merely defended yourselves. The Harkonnens were the aggressors here, as they always are. The Imperium does not need to know what they do not see.”

Leto’s eyes flicked up to meet Aelor’s, searching for any trace of deception. But Aelor’s face was calm, his expression almost serene, as though he held all the pieces to a puzzle that no one else could solve.

Before Leto could respond, the door to the room slid open, and Kellor stepped inside. His expression was strained, but there was an urgency in his eyes that caught Leto’s attention immediately.

“Duke Leto,” Kellor said, “Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck are trying to establish communications with us. They’ve encountered something… unexpected.”

Aelor, who had remained composed, suddenly straightened, his violet eyes sharpening with interest. Leto glanced at Hawat, who gave a slight nod, his calculating mind already considering the possible scenarios.

“Patch them through,” Leto ordered, standing from his seat. His eyes flicked to Aelor, and he gestured for him to join. “We’ll find out what this is about.”

Moments later, the room was filled with the crackle of the comm system coming to life. Duncan’s voice, steady but with a hint of tension, echoed through the room.

“My Lord, we’ve secured the area,” Duncan began. “The Harkonnens have retreated for now, but there’s something else you need to know.”

Leto exchanged a quick glance with Hawat before answering. “Go on, Duncan.”

There was a brief pause before Duncan spoke again. “We’ve… captured someone. A young woman. She says her name is Daenys. Daenys Targaryen.”

At that, Aelor’s calm demeanor shifted instantly. His eyes widened, and he stepped closer to the comm system, his voice filled with sudden urgency. “I wish to speak with my sister.”

Leto, sensing the importance of the moment, didn’t hesitate. “Duncan, Gurney, Daenys’ brother is here. He wishes to speak with her. Patch her through.”

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by the sound of static as the comm system adjusted. Then, a new voice came through, heated, full of frustration and defiance.

“Aelor!” you said, your voice sharp, cutting through the distance like a blade. “What the hell are you doing?”

Aelor’s reaction was instant, the tension in his shoulders releasing slightly as he heard your voice. His response came swiftly, spoken in the fluid, melodic language of High Valyrian.

“Lykirys, jorrāelagon, līragon issa kesīr. Nykēla ñuha hāedar naejot ivestragīr.” 

Leto and Hawat exchanged a quick glance, both of them recognizing the ancient language but unable to understand its meaning. Leto’s mind, however, was elsewhere—focused not on the words, but on the sound of your voice. It was sharp, yes, but there was a melodic quality to it, a tone that stood out even in the midst of the moment.

Aelor spoke again, his voice softening slightly as he continued to address you in High Valyrian. For a brief moment, the storm of emotions seemed to calm between you both.

After a few moments of conversation, Aelor turned back to Leto, his expression more composed now. “I need to retrieve my sister, Duke Leto,” he said, his voice firm. “She is of great importance to our House.”

Leto nodded, the decision already made. “Duncan, Gurney—send me your coordinates. We will come to you.”

Duncan’s voice came through again, clear and direct. “Understood, my Lord. Coordinates incoming.”

Leto took a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The impossible had become reality. House Targaryen was not only alive—it was standing before him, and the choices he made now would shape the future of House Atreides, for better or worse.

“Let’s move,” Leto said quietly to Aelor and Hawat. “We have a lot to discuss.”

The sky above the frozen plains of Arctis was a swirling gray, but through the storm, two banners flew proudly in the icy wind. A red hawk in flight on green and black, the proud sigil of House Atreides, stood side by side with a red three-headed dragon on black, the ancient and feared symbol of House Targaryen. The two House banners, both powerful in their own right, flapped together in the cold air as the transports descended toward the meeting coordinates.

Leto Atreides sat in the lead transport, his mind racing as they neared their destination. Beside him, Thufir Hawat sat in contemplative silence, his Mentat mind already running through countless calculations. Aelor Targaryen, seated across from them, was composed, though the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his concern for his sister.

As soon as the transport landed with a soft thud on the snow-covered ground, the doors slid open. The cold wind rushed in, but before anyone could react, Aelor was already on his feet, stepping out into the snow with purpose. The Atreides soldiers followed suit, along with Leto, Hawat, and Sergeant Kellor.

Aelor spotted his sister immediately, her figure standing tall in the distance, surrounded by Atreides soldiers. Without hesitation, he rushed toward her, his cloak billowing in the wind as he moved across the snow with surprising speed.

You saw him approaching and, despite the tension of the situation, allowed yourself a brief moment of relief. Aelor reached you and without a word, he embraced you tightly, his arms wrapping around you in a gesture of both protection and reassurance.

“Lykirys, jorrāelagon,” Aelor whispered in High Valyrian as he held you, his voice soft, meant only for your ears. You had been through so much, and yet here he was, just as you had known he would be.

When Aelor finally stepped back, there was a flash of warmth in his violet eyes as he looked you over, ensuring you were unharmed. He then gently took your hand and turned to lead you toward the gathered Atreides men.

As you approached the Atreides soldiers, Duke Leto, Hawat, and Sergeant Kellor stood in quiet observation, taking in the scene before them. Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck were still standing near the transports, their faces reflecting a mixture of surprise and wariness at the unfolding events.

Aelor led you to stand before the Duke, who was visibly taken aback the moment his eyes landed on you. Though he recovered quickly, the brief flicker of surprise in his expression didn’t go unnoticed by Hawat. The Mentat’s sharp eyes caught the Duke’s subtle reaction—his gaze lingering a fraction longer than usual on your face, perhaps noting your striking resemblance to your brother, or perhaps something else entirely. Hawat filed the observation away in the recesses of his mind, a detail to be discussed later.

Leto, however, was quick to compose himself. He offered you a respectful nod, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke, his voice steady. “Lady Daenys, it is an honor to meet you, though I wish it were under less perilous circumstances.”

You met Leto’s gaze, your posture regal despite the harsh conditions. “Duke Leto,” you acknowledged, your voice firm but respectful. “The peril is far from over. I fear the Harkonnens will not stop at their defeat here.”

Leto nodded thoughtfully. “That’s precisely why we need to discuss the situation further. The Harkonnens won’t let this go. We’ll need a plan to contain them.”

Aelor glanced at you, then back to Leto. “My sister is right. The Harkonnens have learned of the underground structures beneath this planet. If they know about this place, they’ll soon search for more. Every world we’ve known that contains these structures will draw their attention.”

At that, Leto frowned slightly. The gravity of the situation was clear—this was no isolated conflict. The Harkonnens were after something much larger than just control of Arctis.

Thufir Hawat, standing beside Leto, broke his silence, his sharp eyes locking onto you for a moment before addressing the group. “We must assume that the Harkonnens will use any information they’ve gathered here to pursue your House further. If they know of the structures, they won’t stop until they’ve uncovered whatever they believe to be of value.”

Sergeant Kellor, ever the practical soldier, crossed his arms, his gaze shifting between Aelor and you. “What exactly are these underground structures? What do the Harkonnens think they’ll find?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Aelor, and for a moment, there was a silent conversation between you—an unspoken understanding. You had both known this day would come, but it didn’t make it any easier to explain.

“These structures,” you began, your voice measured, “are remnants of our ancient civilization. Some of them were once hatcheries, places where our dragons were born. Though the dragons themselves are long gone from there, the Harkonnens believe they can extract something of value from what remains.”

Leto’s gaze hardened as the weight of your words settled in. “The Harkonnens believe they can use your history to gain power.”

Aelor nodded. “They will stop at nothing to claim what they think gains them leverage.”

Hawat’s mind worked quickly, processing the implications. “Then we need to ensure that they never get that chance.”

Leto met Aelor’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. Whatever else was happening here, the Harkonnens were a common enemy, and for now, that was enough to unite their Houses.

“We’ll work together,” Leto said, his tone decisive. “We’ll put a stop to the Harkonnens, but we need more information. We need to know the full extent of their plans.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but insistent. “I can help you with that. I know what they’re after. And I know how to stop them.”

Leto studied you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, before nodding. “Then let’s begin.”

...

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the cruel and ambitious heir to House Harkonnen, stood at the center of the command room, his back to his men, staring down at a tactical map of Arctis. His fingers clenched into fists, his knuckles white with barely contained rage.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the low hum of machinery and the distant howl of the blizzard. Feyd's men, hardened and ruthless as they were, stood rigid, afraid to speak but knowing they couldn’t stay silent for long. They had failed—again—and there would be consequences.

Finally, one of the soldiers, braver or perhaps more foolish than the rest, cleared his throat and spoke, his voice shaky. "My Lord, the girl… she managed to escape. The storm provided cover, and our forces were scattered. We—we lost her in the confusion."

Feyd turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the man who had dared to speak. His face was a mask of barely controlled anger, his lips curling into a sneer. "She escaped?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "One girl… against an entire Harkonnen strike force, and she escaped?"

The soldier swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "Yes, my Lord. The storm—"

"The storm?!" Feyd exploded, slamming his fist onto the table, sending the holographic projection flickering. His voice echoed through the tent, and every man within it recoiled at the sudden outburst. "The storm is no excuse for incompetence! She’s a single target, and you let her slip through your fingers like sand!"

He began to pace, his hands flexing and unflexing as his mind raced, the fury building with each step. "And now… not only has the girl escaped, but the Atreides are here. They’ve joined forces with the Targaryens." His voice dripped with venom at the mention of House Atreides, his family’s ancient enemies.

One of his lieutenants, a man with a scar running down his face, stepped forward cautiously, trying to keep his voice calm in the face of Feyd’s wrath. "My Lord, the Atreides forces have bolstered the Targaryens’ position. They outnumber us now, and our operation is compromised. If we continue this conflict, it will draw the gaze of the Emperor… and the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood."

Feyd stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he looked at the lieutenant. "The Emperor? The Sisterhood? And do you think I care about their gaze?"

The lieutenant opened his mouth to respond, but Feyd cut him off, his voice colder than before. "You think they don’t already know? You think they aren’t watching? We are all pawns in their game, but make no mistake, I will not be humiliated by Atreides dogs and Targaryen ghosts!"

His words hung in the air, the weight of his threat clear to everyone in the room. Feyd had no intention of retreating, no intention of admitting defeat. His hatred for House Atreides ran deep, and the very idea of their forces allying with the Targaryens had ignited a fury that could not be easily quelled.

The tent fell into a heavy silence, the soldiers exchanging uneasy glances. They knew better than to argue with their commander when he was like this. No one wanted to be the one to deliver more bad news—or face the consequences of his wrath.

After what felt like an eternity, another soldier, younger and clearly less experienced, nervously cleared his throat. "My Lord," he ventured carefully, "what… what should we do about the Targaryen girl?"

For a moment, the tent was silent again, but this time it was different. Feyd stopped pacing, his expression shifting from anger to something more sinister—something almost amused. A slow, twisted smile spread across his face, and he chuckled darkly.

"Oh, don’t worry about her," he said softly, his voice dripping with malice. "I’ll catch her. She can’t run forever."

He turned back to the map, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light as he traced the coordinates of their last known position. "Daenys Targaryen may have escaped for now, but she’s made a fatal mistake. She’s shown us just how far she’s willing to run. And when we catch her… well, I’ll make sure she regrets every step she took."

His men remained silent, their unease palpable. Feyd’s mood had shifted, but it hadn’t improved. The promise of what was to come for Daenys Targaryen and her allies was not one of mercy.

Feyd turned back to his men, his tone hardening again. "We’ll regroup and press on. This failure—your failure—will be delivered personally to the Baron." He smiled coldly at the thought of his uncle, knowing the consequences for his men would be severe.

"But until then," he added, his voice dangerously soft, "we hunt. And when we find the girl, we’ll make sure the Atreides and the Targaryens learn that no one crosses House Harkonnen and lives to tell the tale."

The soldiers nodded in grim silence, knowing there was no room for argument. The hunt would continue, and this time, there would be no escape.

Feyd’s eyes gleamed with the cold fire of vengeance as he turned back to the map. He had no intention of letting this go. House Targaryen, House Atreides—they would all pay. And it would start with you, Daenys.

[fushitoru]

sneak peek of bridgerton!nanami :3

tw: not edited, not all of this will make the final cut. posting this just for pooks who are curious as to what this series will look like (roughly)

The hooded figure walks through the streets of London, shaded by both the weathered buildings and the murk of night.The ancient stone edifices, worn by time and weather, cast long shadows beneath the pale gaze of the moon, which alone dared to illuminate the sky.  Yet, with unwavering certainty, the figure moved. With a purpose. 

To any onlooker, discerning the figure's build would have been an impossible task. Indeed, should any be so bold as to observe, they would perceive nothing more than the methodical rhythm of their footfalls. For this hooded figure was not merely hidden by the night; they were a master of stealth, a virtuoso of ambition.

They get closer and closer to the streets with lines and lines of presses and bookshops before finally stepping into one. The jingle of the bell rings as they open the door, cutting the silence like a knife to butter. The press boy looks up languidly from his desk, lazed back even if the hooded figure is tense, as if scared to get discovered. 

The figure uses their hand to get the hood out of their eyes, to reveal their face and level the boy with a firm stare. You brush your hair back and rummage through your cloak to get the draft out of your pocket You toss it onto the desk, your voice adopting the clipped tone of a forced French accent, as you make an attempt at a scowl. “My lady has a fresh edition for you. See that it is prepared for dawn next week. We shall tolerate no delays, unlike the last time. Do I make myself plain?”

At once, the boy shot to his feet, stiffening at the sight of Lady Whistledown’s errand runner. The mere mention of that name had a way of stirring the press into action. Her words, the most profitable the press had ever published, had lifted the establishment—and the boy’s own family—from the very brink of ruin. Lady Whistledown’s business was the press’s lifeblood, and as such, the boy offered a tip of his hat. “Whatever Lady Whistledown requires.”

Satisfied, you lift your chin, already turning to retreat into the night. Three blocks south, one north, where the footman awaits. Slip in from the rear entrance, climb the stairs in silence—especially near Naoya’s floor—and at last, embrace the comfort of your bed.

For heaven forbid that anyone in the Zen’in household should ever learn of this affair.

…

Nanami Kento was a man of method, clean-cut and sharp as a newly whetted blade. There is a formula for everything, and Kento will have it figured out as the situation deems it.

Yet even the most precise systems were not without flaw, for he found himself silently cursing whatever God governed such things. The cruel design of his personal formula now demanded that he sit up well past midnight, slaving over endless documents concerning his estates, and some infernal matter involving the mines his dukedom held in the Americas. For if there was one thing Nanami Kento loathed above all else, it was working late into the night, long after a sensible bedtime.

It’s not the least of his problems, no. No, indeed, a greater torment awaited him in the drawing room over tea each morning—a daily trial set by his dear, relentless mother.

"My darling Kento, when shall I be graced with the pleasure of a daughter-in-law?"

The question, as constant as the ticking of a clock, prompted Kento to reach for a cloth, which he draped over his eyes in an attempt to stave off the inevitable headache that brewed with her words. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his legs, his tired frame aching with fatigue, and ran a hand through his hair as a soft sigh escaped him.

The age-old question, indeed. Before, it was easier to not feel rushed in finding a wife, for his trio of friends were all bachelors. But as soon as his mother got wind that his infamous rake of a friend Gojo got married—to a now Lady Gojo—he could only count the days before his mother went to the extreme, perhaps even hiring a band of kidnappers to haul him to the nearest chapel for a hasty wedding.

Perhaps there was indeed something Kento hated more than working late. It was being rushed.

Not that Kento had any disdain for the institution of marriage itself. Far from it. It was a fine and noble thing, love and matrimony. He would never deny the pleasures and stability it offered. No, it was the manner in which he was expected to marry. His mind drifted to the endless parade of eligible ladies he had met at balls, soirees, and tea parties. They were all pleasant enough, some even kind, but none had ever managed to intrigue him, none had done anything to stand out. The same conversations, the same rehearsed smiles. Every introduction followed the same pattern: languages spoken, instruments played, the latest embroidery project or song learned.

He could already picture it—another ball, another young lady offering the same colection of accomplishments as the last. It was all so dreadfully repetitive. They rarely discussed ideas or had opinions of their own, and when they did, they were inevitably interrupted by their eager mothers, who hovered nearby, eyes gleaming at the thought of his title and fortune. The moment any conversation strayed beyond pleasantries, there was always a well-timed intrusion, as if the mothers feared their daughters might accidentally reveal too much of their true selves.

He wanted something more.

Marriage, in Kento's eyes, ought to be built on love, on mutual understanding and respect. He longed for a partner who would challenge him intellectually, who would bring something new to his life. But instead, he was presented with the same tired formula—a woman who played the pianoforte, spoke French, and blushed prettily when asked about her embroidery. It was all so... predictable.

Another sigh escaped him, this one deeper, more resigned. He shifted in his chair, folding the cloth over his eyes, and let his mind drift toward the inevitable dinner tomorrow, where his mother would no doubt regale him with yet another list of eligible young ladies.

"My dearest Kento," she would say, her voice sweet as ever, "Lady Brentwood’s daughter is a delightful young woman. A touch excitable, perhaps, but from a good family, and her dowry—oh, her dowry, my dear, would be the envy of the ton."

Nanami could almost hear the words already. He had heard similar speeches before, all delivered with that same fervent enthusiasm, as though his mother were speaking of a prized mare, rather than a potential life partner.

What was worse, as soon as the mothers caught wind of his presence at any event, they nearly salivated at the chance to secure a duke for their daughters. The constant interruptions, the fawning over his title, it all grated on him. The daughters rarely had the opportunity to finish a thought before their mothers swooped in, ensuring that their prospects remained intact.

It was no wonder Kento had grown weary of the entire process.

He let out a low groan, rubbing his temples. Perhaps love was too much to ask for in his station. Yet, despite the pressure, he could not bring himself to compromise. He wanted a marriage that meant something—a bond of intellect and heart, not just convenience.

"Kento," he muttered to himself, "you are truly doomed."

sorry for starving you guys on bridgerton!gojo content haha this is a sneak peak for reparations. anyways lemme get back to the grind. if you ever want to track my progress, i keep my wips page updated :)

also thank you to the influx of bridgerton!gojo asks. they really motivate me to write. appreciate u all <3

oh and final note: will not publish this series until we're close to the end of bridgerton!gojo, i CANNOT do two series at a time

[helsaweenfun]

Helsaween 2024

Icon was a collaboration by @nap-hime & @magentacravat

Boo! Did you scream? Be afraid, be very afraid!

Last year, the Helsa server on Discord (👻https://discord.gg/BXy3yfff👻) arranged a 4 prompts & free days event, and we’re so delighted to announce our return to host it again this October 2024.

We hope you guys are bursting with spooky spirit!

Our (not-a-cult) group are opening our arms to welcome fellow Helsa lovers to participate in a month-long Helsaween event!

Don't be afraid to let creativity and inspiration creep in! Create fanfiction, fanart, comics, edits, mood boards, videos, headcanons, poems, essays, cosplay, anything you fancy!

🎃🎃🎃

EVENTS 

Week 1 (1-7 October) — Illusion

What is real and what isn't? Was it all a lie or is there still something to uncover? The line between truth and fantasy often blurs, and perceptions can shift, leaving you to wonder if anything is ever what it seems.

Week 2 (8-14 October) — Deadly Dynamic

The stakes are high and the outcome is uncertain, will this couple conquer together or be each other's undoing?

Week 3 (15-21 October) — Myth

Pssst! Heard the legend? Something lurks in the woods — a haunting, spirits, or something otherworldly. Dangerous? Thrilling? Life-changing? It’s up to you to decide, that is, if you believe in the myth.

Week 4 (22-28 October) — Disguise

Whether you're hiding in plain sight or playing a part, anyone can appear as something they’re not. Masks, cloaks, hidden identities; who's behind them and what secrets lie beneath?

Free days (29-31 October) — Free space / Repost

🎃🎃🎃

The examples above are merely ideas. Feel free to use your own interpretations of the prompts.

🎃🎃🎃

When posting your work, please:  

1. Tag @helsaweenfun

2. Tag #Helsaween 2024 and #Helsaween2024 and #Helsaween

3. Tag the Week(s) your work is inspired by (i.e. #Week One / #Week 1 / #WeekOne / #Week1), along with other appropriate tagging (fandom, characters, ship, spoilers, NSFW and content warnings).

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask :) Have fun and Happy Halloween!

[zeromyerszx1]

🩸 Welcome to Crimson Falls 🩸

An 18+ Urban Fantasy Roleplay Server for Original Characters & Writers

Deep in the mist-drenched forests of Oregon lies a city cloaked in illusion—Crimson Falls, where the veil between worlds is thin, and magic bleeds into the streets beneath your feet. What began as a forgotten mining town has become a haven for the strange, the lost, the powerful, and the damned. Vampires walk beside witches, creatures of folklore masquerade as professors and baristas, and the hum of ancient magic pulses beneath every cobblestone.

Protected by the Crimson Shroud—an enchantment born from blood and regret—the city is a beacon for supernatural beings from every corner of the world. But even illusions wear thin. And once you see what's hiding in plain sight… there's no going back.

🌙 Crimson Falls is:

An urban fantasy roleplay set in a modern, culturally rich city filled with dark magic, long-forgotten pacts, and hidden truths.

Open to original characters only — build your own mythos, your own mystery.

A collaborative space where writers over 18 can explore mature themes and layered storytelling in a supportive, inclusive community.

🖋️ Whether you write centuries-old vampires, curious scholars dabbling in forbidden runes, or reluctant monsters just trying to live a normal life—there’s a place for your story in Crimson Falls.

💬 Server Features:

Lore-rich environment with a detailed history & setting

LGBTQIA+ friendly, drama-free, writer-focused space

Separate NSFW channels for mature content (with rules in place)

Trigger warnings & content boundaries respected

Active staff & community-led plotting encouraged

University, night markets, tech industries, forest shrines, old-money vampires, coffee shop witches—you name it

📜 Rules in Brief:

18+ only

No god-modding or character puppeting

Consent is everything

Keep NSFW content in designated areas

Respect boundaries, staff, and each other

✨ Ready to write your story in a city that remembers more than it lets on?

[circeyoru]

I think I’m gonna try drawing Readers demon form at least a concept of it, any outfit inspo?(like from google I need a concept)

Go to MASTERLIST for the works.

I'll assume it's for {Unwanted Soul}, check out the demon design description at the end of this request.

If it's outfit inspiration, there are a few I had in mind. I'll descript it, otherwise you can see the pictures I searched for (after I read your request).

Outfit: Something semi-formal. You like wearing something between fancy and causal. (you actually love people in formal clothes)

Key point on things that hang off of you, like a scarf with a long tail or a belt that ties the coat

You MUST have a book holster on your hip on the opposite side of your dominant hand. Functions like those things that put a gun or sword to your hip

Now this detail can be hidden or in plain sight. The quill that's your weapon (I described it before that it's in the inner pocket of your coat, but it can be in your hair or a decorative feather on your person until you need to use it)

*If you think of yourself as the type, maybe something to cover your hands so you can hide weapons or secret write something (like longer sleeves or baggy coat or even a cloak)

I'm more interested to see your interpretations and imaginations, but feel free to draw in these outfits below. Please @ me if you guys got them!! You can DM or send it to my inbox if you're shy. (the first one is the book holster)

[muralikesgames]

A unique item effect, hidden in plain sight

It would seem not all cloaks and capes item descriptions are just for show. Pioneer's Cape actually has a feature related to its text.

Higher quality Youtube video: