#Lord Emp

[eepejay]

Some cats and Stormwatch. I like to think this camera is Jenny's, bequeathed to MA.

I legit thought Apollo was gonna be revealed to be a modified kherubim at some point in the WS timeline with the white hair, and sleeping with the Daemonite guy thing.

[wwprice1]

Black and white art from the OG WildC.A.T.S #1. By the legendary duo of Jim Lee and Scott Williams!

[evilhorse]

WildC.A.T.s #11

[wipbigbang]

WIP BIG BANG SIGN-UPS ARE LIVE!

The 2024 round of WIP Big Bang is now open for sign-ups! Any fandom is welcome, as long as the fic is 500 completed so far and will be at least 7,500 words upon its finishing. Signing up is easy: just fill out the form linked below after you read the FAQ and take a look at the schedule.

[xanexcaligula]

[narfin-frood]

your au is absolutely lovely and i was wondering,

where does emperor awesome fit into this?

gona be so real I havent thought about it yet.... if emp awesome was a good guy, would he just be Another king from another part of the galaxy with some kind of rivalry w/lord lackey? i don't know if he has an exact equivalent or foil the way the rest do. it's real easy to just say ohh yeah wander and sylvia are hater and peepers now because their dynamic being so similar is constantly played with in the show.. if anybody's got suggestions for emp awesome, please let me know!

[nonbinarykai]

garmadon is a bad person no matter which form he's in, so it doesn't matter whether resurrected Garmadon is him or not

When he's "good" again he embarasses Lloyd in front of the ninja and a class of kids, calls his son and friends fools behind their backs, continues lying about the Misako letter, chokes a teenage girl to threaten her elderly father, acts butthurt after his lies are discovered and divorce is imminent, chooses to die instead of face the consequences of his actions, lets himself be resurrected evil, and wooo after he comes back? He's an awful monster who attacks his young son, his brother (a baby), and his wife, and then expects to be forgiven because he "helped" a couple times (he was mostly useless in the Oni and Overlord fights)

the venom is an excuse. The Oni Masks are an excuse. The memory loss is an excuse. Everything he did was still his own choice, and he almost always chooses evil because that's who he is. There's a reason his name is Garmadon, his father picked up on his bad vibes even as a baby, who deserves everything that will happen to him

(What Garmadon haters sound like to me)

Hold on I need another minute to comprehend this /nm

While the poll wasn’t really about if garm should be held accountable by the fandom for his actions (he was a bad person either way, it’s just the severity of it that differences emp garm and lord garm imo). It does make me question to what extent is lord garm responsible for his actions? You mentioned that the great dev venom was an excuse. And while your clearly being satirical, I do wonder to what extent it really impacted him and made him evil. (Overlord bullshit not counted fuck that).

There is a interesting comic that goes into this issue, it’s titled “Destiny of doom” and I highly recommend people check it out.

[enchantedchocolatebars]

Hc: Even though Little Pip obeyed and listened to Caleb and the adults of the town (for the most part), he sometimes wanted the roles to be reversed.

He wished to tell others what to do.

It's one of the reasons why Philip wanted to become witch hunter general so badly when he grew up.

He'd be in charge.

A leader!

He would make all the rules and everyone would have to abide by them.

Otherwise, there'd be consequences. >:)

MAJOR consequences. >:D

DEATH!!!! >XD

DUN DUN DUUUUN!!! >XDD

[bobcat-pie]

understandable. you might get put on a list if you research that too hard

i love having ocs with professions i know nothing about its like This is Scientist Sam she works at the Science Factory

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part four)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Aemond is not one who shares those which he thinks belong to him. Including you, as you'll soon find out after an eventful little feast.

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, third and fourth parties (but not really), Aemond is a stubborn and possesive arse, drunk Aegon - huzzah!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

a/n: I can't believe it's been a year since I updated this fiery miniseries! Apologies if I couldn't tag everyone who asked from the previous chapter - taglist is now closed 💙

The necklace is perhaps the most beautiful piece of jewelry you've ever seen.

With an intricate interwoven chain of Valyrian steel, and a sapphire pendant inlaid in a burnt bronze frame that glowed dark green in some lights, the frame displaying carvings that resemble Vhagar's scales.

There is no question to it. Not an inkling of doubt.

This gift is from Aemond.

"You simply found this when you arrived?" you asked your lady-in-waiting, as you pick up the necklace from its velvet casing and study it against the faint firelight in your chambers.

"Yes, my lady," she responds promptly. "Shall I fasten it upon you before you depart for the King's feast?"

Your mind forms almost immediately, resolute in your decision. "No, it will not be of any use to me this night. You may keep it away in my boudoir."

The thought of it around your neck is a pleasant one, to be sure. It is such a thing of beauty, fit to be worn to a royal gathering. But what message might it signal to the others?

What purpose might it serve - especially to Aemond - that you wear something that symbolises him?

All while your companion is Ramsay, with whom you hope to be betrothed.

And while Alys is likely draped upon Aemond's arm. That slimy, bastard witch.

You will not give in, and give him what he wants.

The necklace is far from enough to make up for how he has wronged you, so it stays in your chambers, safely tucked away in its casing, not to be worn until Aemond sets things right.

If he ever will.

Ramsay arrives at your door soon enough, accompanied by two of Aegon's guards. The awe in his gaze as he takes you in is so evident, so pure in its apparent innocence. Unlike Aemond's, who would be undressing you with a single passing look.

Unlike Aemond's, who - despite his trangressions - looks at you like he would burn the entire Seven Kingdoms for your hand.

But he has relinquished your hand when he took that witch to bed.

"You look dashing as ever, my Lord," you curtsy in greeting, as Ramsay kisses your hand. He is clad in a tunic in House Beesbury's yellow and paly black, as you are wearing a gown in your own House's hues.

If not the necklace from Aemond, branding you as his, why not something of Beesbury? It would anger Aemond so, but you are feeling petulant. Why can't you take a jab at him after what he had done?

"And what a lovely sash you wear," you say, observing his attire. "Mayhaps I might display this on my person? Have it as a sort of attachment upon my skirts? I would be proud to have everyone at the feast know that we have come together."

"Of course! I would be honoured, my lady." He immediately relinquishes it, handing it to your lady-in-waiting, who then fastens it around your waist. The colour is striking in contrast. The piece of cloth surely will not go unnoticed.

You make your way through the Red Keep, your arm entwined with Ramsay's. Sounds of the revelry make themselves heard as you near Aegon's private dining hall.

As the guards open the doors, you hear your names announced. Almost all the attendees are already sat around the table. Aegon and his host of sycophants, particularly Lord Reyne and Lord Estermont. Helaena and her lady companions. Tyland Lannister and his betrothed. Even Ser Criston Cole, who has never been one to partake in merrymaking, usually standing guard in the corner. There are some others whose names escape you, as you find your seats - among the last ones which remain empty, right next to Aemond and Alys.

"Welcome, dear lovely guests, welcome!" Aegon walks over to you, already on his fifth or sixth goblet of firewine. "Please find your seats, have a drink - or seven drinks, preferably, and... oh! Isn't that something, my lady? Beesbury yellow?" Not giving mind to any boundaries, he toys with the sash tied around your waist.

Aemond twists around in his seat, catching sight of you for the first time.

His pupil dilates considerably, with a single glance at your face, then down to your décolletage... where the necklace is nought to be seen.

What he sees, raking over your figure, is that sickening shade of bright yellow. That Beesbury sash tainting the beauty of your gown.

Tainting the woman who is rightfully his.

His hand instinctively goes to the scabbard in his belt, though his sword remains in his chambers. It matters not, he can just as easily demand one from the Kingsguard.

Because the rat who calls himself Ramsay has surrendered any desire to stay alive.

"So... you here," Aegon guides you to your seat, with his arm loosely draped around your waist. "And you right there," he adds to Ramsay.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think the seating arrangement is accidental. But you know Aegon - he surely planned it to be Ramsay, you, Aemond and Alys beside each other.

Aemond openly stares at you as you settle down to his left.

"My Prince," Ramsay greets from your other side, "Lady Alys."

"Oh, it's just Alys, m'lord," she clarifies, unabashed. "I am no Lady. I am simply here at the behest of my dear Aemond."

"Prince Aemond is fortunate to have you as his companion, Alys," you smile sweetly, concealing any ire you might have. "As I am fortunate to have Lord Beesbury by my side."

Alys nods, raising her cup to you. To anyone, it's an innocent enough gesture, but you see her up close, and you see into the depths of the witch's gaze. She knows about you and Aemond, of course she does.

The attention of your companions are diverted, and Aemond wastes no time in leaning closer to you. He grips your thigh underneath the table, away from any prying eyes.

"My love," he purrs, "you never fail to take my breath away. Although I never thought you would sully yourself by wearing that. I trust you received my gift?"

You cross your legs so that his hand falls off, but it doesn't faze him. He simply finds purchase yet again, this time digging harder into your flesh. So warm, it almost feels as if your skirts do nothing to prevent his encroaching touch.

"Hmm, don't test me, now," he warns, lips curling back in annoyance. His tone is so deep you feel the heat pooling in your core.

"I could say the same to you," you counter. "Do not lay a hand on me, my prince. Especially not in the presence of my betrothed." You push his hand away, and he relents for the moment, reaching for his goblet and downing its contents in one angry swig.

"And by betrothed, you must mean that you have reconsidered my proposal and agree to be wed to me, your only love," he says, daring you to challenge him.

"You are mistaken, Aemond," you respond coolly. "I do appreciate the necklace. It is a marvel, indeed. But there is a reason why I don something of Lord Ramsay's instead of it. I am not yours. I feared the message it would send were I to wear the necklace to this feast."

"What message, my love? The truth? That you are mine and mine alone?"

"That is finished - "

"If you value Lord Beesbury's life by any small measure, you would not speak to me of such vile ideas. He will not have you, lest he wishes his head to no longer rest upon his shoulders."

"Resorting to threats now, are we?" you spit venomously. "You will not harm him. Or I swear to you on my mother's memory that I will never speak with you again."

That shuts him up. He exhales deeply, weighing your words, studying your expression. He wants to fight back and to call your bluff, but it is no use. His gaze is drawn down to your lips, and he moves closer just an inch, his own lips parted in longing and torment.

"Well, it seems we may have more cause for celebration!" Aegon bellows from the head of the table, with a grinning Ramsay standing by his side. You tear your attention away from Aemond, but he lingers on you, until his brother calls out for him. "Aemond! You must have known about this, dear brother, as I understand you and the lady have always been close."

The guests share glances, already assuming what the news might be, but none of them say a word for fear of their Prince Aemond.

"Iderēbagon aōha udra sȳrī, lēkia." Choose your words wisely, brother, Aemond warns him. The mood of the entire room shifts, as it inevitably does whenever Aemond speaks.

"Oh come now, none of that!" Aegon groans, drunk and unamused. Nothing will bring his spirits down, not even his far more intimidating younger brother. "These are happy news. Something about a successful betrothal, I hear?" he declares, nudging Ramsay to make the announcement.

Ramsay locks eyes with you, and you manage to give a stiff smile, aware of the simmering rage of the one seated beside you.

"Allow me," Aemond stands, raising his cup to the entire table.

"Even better," Aegon shrugs, "you have always been excellent at dinner proclamations, lēkia." Brother, he addresses Aemond, his own Valyrian disjointed and careless.

Aegon sits back down and raises his cup. A confused but still smiling Ramsay returns to sit next to you.

Ramsay hurriedly tells you, "I was hoping to share the news myself, my lady, but - "

"Do I not have your attention, Lord Beesbury?" Aemond interrupts.

"O-of course, you do, my prince," Ramsay stammers, reaching for his cup with shaky fingers. You take notice and place your hand atop his to provide comfort.

Someone else takes notice, unfortunately.

"A toast," Aemond voices clearly, and a hush falls over the room, "to a new betrothal."

"Hear, hear," Aegon responds, taking a sip of firewine and waving for the others to do the same.

But Aemond is not finished just yet. "We are not often afforded the privilege to marry for love, and that is what makes this union so exceptional."

You stiffen in your seat, dreading the next words that you know will come out of his mouth. For you know him so well. You know Aemond's design.

"It is an honour to take my love to be my wife," he raises his cup as he gestures to you, and you swear you could hear a pin drop in the deafening silence that ensued. "She is already the keeper of my heart, so the ceremony will only be a formality. But I shall take her as mine in every way that I can. In front of the old gods and the new."

You are unable to drop Aemond's gaze, unable to see the look of betrayal Ramsay is giving you.

"Hear, hear," Ser Criston offers, in an attempt to cut through the tension.

Aegon releases a fit of laughter, prompting his fawners to follow suit.

"Seven hells!" he exclaims. "More wine, more wine for all!"

Aemond rushes to you, pulling you out of your chair, not paying mind to anything or anyone else.

"Come with me," he commands, his fingers tight around your wrist.

You feel powerless as you let him herd you away from the table and out of the hall.

"Oh, would you look at them!" Aegon practically squeals, and calls after you, "It is customary for the bedding to be after the wedding, you two! But then again, who fucking cares?"

taglist: @immyowndefender @bellameshipper @aemondswifeisme @bash1018 @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstoms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @youtoldalie @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @whitejuliana1204 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @ananas26t @iloveallmyboys @carriellie @summerposie @verycollectivecreator @toodlesxcuddles @brie-annwyl @dc-marvel-girl96 @bellstwd @bibli0thecary @happinessinthebeing @magnificentsapphiresoul @rorawinters @targaryen-madness @hanula18 @rhaenattargaryen @an0ther-us3r @sugurubabe @theshatteredideal @let-love-bleeds-red @s-we-e-t-t-ea @mydemimonde @the-intjs-dark-academic @heavenly1927 @anehkael @minttea07 @barnes70stark @cheneyq

[wwprice1]

Wildc.a.t.s finale covers by Jay Anacleto and Stephen Segovia!

[evilhorse]

Greetings, brother Grifter.

(WildC.A.T.s #11)

[mokulule]

The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - Part 16

First | Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Fandom: DP x DC Summary:

Danny is just trying to build a portal home, becoming a thief was just an unfortunate side effect of that goal. Now if only this vigilante family would just leave him alone. Especially Red Hood - the semi retired crime lord whose ghost-like presence keeps drawing Danny to him.

Part 16:

Jason carefully kept his writing legible as he wrote down the heating instructions. Considering Ghost seemed to be living off granola bars he was not taking any chances. 

There were signs Ghost had returned a few times. The bag and calibrator was gone of course, and the sandwiches were disappearing. It wasn’t good enough. Ghost needed more than sandwiches, it was better than living solely on granola bars, but it was not enough. He needed something more energy dense - hence the meat and vegetable stew and the mashed potatoes he’d made, packed in portions for easy reheating. But he had to make sure it was easy, he didn’t want to risk it being too bothersome and him not eating any. 

Slowly, deliberately he put the pen down so he didn’t break it and laid his hands down flat on the kitchen island. Jason was in control, not the pits. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting the seconds… 

…seven… eight…

Carefully he pushed the voice away that insisted he just lay a trap instead of all this tip-toeing around. It would be all too easy, Tim had found out how to short-circuit his powers. It hadn’t lasted more than an hour or two, but really there was no reason they couldn’t just attach some sort of device to him and repeat the small EMP charge every hour - it would be easy.

It would be horrible.

It was not how Jason wanted to go about it. Fucking Pits. Fucking intrusive thoughts. He hung his head taking deep breaths. He just wanted a little bit of peace of mind, was that too much to ask?

A half-choked gasp sounded behind him and he spun around wide-eyed. There, across the living room section of the open plan apartment was Ghost halfway through the far wall. His eyes were wide and looked as shocked as Jason felt. 

Jason didn’t dare breathe as he slowly raised his empty hands. One wrong move and he could ruin everything. He swallowed dryly and ever so slowly he stepped to the side around the kitchen island and backwards, away from Ghost, deeper into the kitchen, cornering himself, leaving all exits free - even if Ghost didn’t technically need any. Ghost followed his movements warily only moving his head, his body completely frozen, still only halfway through the wall. 

Jason’s back hit the cupboards. It was as far as he could remove himself. It was all he could do. The ball was in Ghost’s court. 

Please don’t run.

Jason didn’t think he could handle that one more time. 

Oo o oO

Danny kept his eyes locked on the currently helmet-less not ghost. His heart rabbited in his chest and his whole body felt coiled like a spring, torn between running or going forward. He was terrified, but he also yearned-

Danny had become complacent. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he cursed himself for it now. He’d just moved thoughtlessly through the wall and his ghost sense had only had time to warn him when his eyes could do just as well. The barely there mist had fizzled uselessly out of his mouth when he gasped. 

Helmet moved carefully away from Danny, as far away as he could in the kitchen. His hands were raised as if in surrender. He looked as harmless as a six foot tank could, which to be fair, it wasn’t the size of the man, that scared Danny. No, it was the fact that his entire body screamed trap. Danny was not keen on a repeat of his powers being gone, and the risk, the knowledge of it, it threatened to tear apart his painstakingly assembled composure. 

Red Helmet might have taken him away from the other vigilantes, but he was still one of them. Danny just could not let himself trust him and it hurt, deeper than his still fucked up ribs. It hurt just to keep his core in a chokehold to stop it from calling to him. Never mind the near irresistable longing; Danny wanted so badly to go to him. 

Danny couldn’t let himself. 

Yet it was Helmet, not Danny, cornered right now. Caught in the act of something at the kitchen island. There was a small piece of paper on the island and Danny was curious. 

And there were also still so many unanswered questions. How could he hear Danny but not respond? What was that thing about the anger he’d mentioned? Why had he given Danny back his backpack and the spectral calibrator? The calibrator in particular, because that one strictly speaking didn’t belong to Danny. Why was he stocking up food in an apartment he clearly didn’t live in? For Danny?

All were questions he couldn’t get answers to by running away. 

Danny just had to keep his instincts on a tight leash. 

Watching warily for any sudden movements, Danny slowly phased the rest of the way into the apartment. His beat up sneakers barely made a sound as he touched down on the wooden floors, but still Danny flinched. 

Their eyes met and both held their breath.

Helmet looked away first. In fact he pointedly looked anywhere but at Danny now, seemed very intent on studying the counter now picking at non-existent dirt. 

Somehow him not looking made it easier to walk closer and he carefully did. There was a whole kitchen island between them - that had to be enough for Danny’s paranoia. 

He now stood where Helmet had stood when he came through the wall, he could pick up the paper. 

It was heating instructions - for him.

His resolve crumbled and the paper crinkled as he clutched it like his life depended on it. Such a little detail. Not just the food left here, but instructions. When was the last time anyone had cared like this?

“Why-” His voice broke and tears prickled at his eyes. He cleared his throat and swallowed before trying again. “Why are you doing this?”

He looked from Danny to the note in his hand, seemed to mentally discard something, before admitting quietly, “I know what starving is like.” 

Danny balked. “I eat.”

“I took a backpack full of protein bars off you.”

Danny grimaced. Just eating the sandwiches left for him here had been a vast improvement. So what if he didn’t eat well, he ate enough to survive. The fact that Danny could cling to existence through force of will was something he didn’t want to examine - his human half was still alive that had to be what mattered. 

“So this anger thing,” Danny forcefully changed the subject like a bull bursting into a China shop, “tell me about it.”

Helmet tensed and that in turn made Danny tense. He might have overstepped. The moment was long and drawn out as Danny waited for the other shoe to drop. Slowly, Helmet let out a long sigh and forcefully relaxed his body. It didn’t put Danny entirely at ease, but it helped.

“There’s not much to tell,” he faked at nonchalance but there was something tightly leashed in his voice. 

Danny didn’t buy it for one second. “Try again.”

There was a grimace and it looked almost like there was some sort of internal fight going on, until eventually he spoke. 

“I got exposed to some nasty shit, ever since then I’ve had anger issues. I only realized once they were gone how pervasive they were.”

He looked away.

“I have hurt people - killed people - I thought they deserved it, but I’m not so sure anymore, not for all of them.” And there was pain there, in his voice, in his face, this was a hard thing to admit, not just to himself, but out loud to someone else. 

Danny’s heart ached for him. The silence stretched between them and Danny prompted gently, hesitantly, because he didn’t understand this part himself: “And I make it better?”

“For about two days, give or take.” There was an affected casualness in the tone, but Danny noticed the way his hands clenched into tight fists. It had been about two weeks since Danny had last been in a room with the man. Two weeks since Danny had had any physical contact. He harshly clamped down the projection of longing before it could escape his grasp. 

It was, Danny realized, no wonder that Helmet had chased him so vehemently. He could not only hear Danny’s call for him, but he had something of his own he struggled with. Something that Danny could apparently do something about, or rather his core song, if Danny was putting the pieces together right.  

But Helmet wasn’t chasing now. It must have been two torturous weeks.

“You have found a way to nullify my powers, why not just use that?”

Helmet’s jaw clenched. “It’s not exactly nice.”

“Didn’t stop you two weeks ago.”

“I had nothing to do with that!” He snarled taking a step forward eyes glowing ectoplasmic green.

Danny took a step back at once cautious and intrigued. Not a ghost, but definitely something. 

It looked like it took great effort, but he stepped back, plastered himself back against the cupboard and his eyes were blue again. Softly, he whispered “I only ever wanted answers.”

He wanted help. Danny’s breath caught. He was asking Danny for help, even if it wasn’t in those specific words. Danny looked down at the handwritten note in his hand. Helmet hadn’t planned for meeting today. He’d been just as shocked as Danny. He’d written him instructions with no guarantee Danny would ever help him, despite struggling with this anger. 

Danny did not owe him anything, Danny was not beholden to anyone in this dimension, but he was asking for help.

Danny hesitantly stepped around the counter. 

Mentally he countered each argument for why this was stupid. 

He took a step forward. There was no trap. Danny chose to believe him when he said he didn’t want to use whatever device that had been on him. 

Danny took another step forward, and step after step until he was right in front of him. Danny didn’t look up to see whatever expression may be on his face, it was easier like this standing face to chest. And it was a nice chest, wearing a red henley worn soft and fuzzy through countless washes. It was easy to take the last step into his space and lean his forehead forward to rest against him. 

It was harder to let go of the tight ball he’d pulled his emotions into. 

“Can I?” Helmet asked, arms hovering slightly away from him. 

“Yeah,” Danny replied hoarsely, and then arms settled around him hesitantly, warm, human - not tight or trapping him, it was considerate but not what Danny needed. A wounded sound left his chest and he pressed closer. He clenched his eyes shut but still tears ran wet tracks down his cheeks as he finally gave in - let go. 

His core was a cacophony of grief warring with happiness. Melancholy and joy twisting and churning neither one really winning. Danny was so tired and worn he couldn’t focus on what he should feel. All this and maybe he couldn’t even help him? 

If he couldn’t get the happiness going what use was he?

But then the arms tightened around him and it was a proper hug. He was being held. There was a hand in his hair tugging him into the crook of Helmet’s neck, as he bent slightly over to surround him. Danny’s forehead against the crook of his neck, skin again skin. A warm body. A fast heartbeat in his ears. 

He was not alone. 

His core thrummed with the knowledge. 

Danny lost time. 

It was terrifying. It could have five minutes or an hour that they stood there for all Danny knew. He had been so lost in the warmth of human contact and the content song of his core. 

A shiver of fear went up his spine and he tensed.

Last time he had fallen asleep. That, he could at least understand. He’d been extremely exhausted after everything that happened. But this was different. Danny didn’t even know if he would have noticed Helmet moving him - he hadn’t; they still stood in the exact same spot. 

He made to draw away and for one heart-stopping fraction of a second, Danny thought Helmet wouldn’t let him go. But that was uncharitable, he had to give Helmet time to even realize what he was doing. Just cause Danny’s brain was running a mile a minute, and a second seemed like an eternity, didn’t mean it was to anyone else - and Helmet did let him slide out of his arms. Danny looked up, eyes just a bit wide. He was trying to stay calm, he was. He didn’t know how to interpret Helmet’s expression. His eyes met Danny’s, his brows were doing something, his mouth was a line downturned at the corners. His arms were raised, drawn back just slightly after Danny slipped away.

Danny took another step back.

Helmet didn’t move. Danny realized suddenly what the expression was; he looked sad.

Danny’s core pulsed painfully, and his breath stuttered. He wanted to go back to that embrace, he wanted to stay and forget everything else. 

It was all he could do not to run, because those feelings were terrifying in and of themselves. He turned and he carefully walked to the far wall. He stopped there, clenched his trembling hands. His eyes trailed an uneven line on the white wallpaper. 

This wasn’t just about him.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said, loud enough he was sure Helmet could hear him. Then he couldn’t hold back anymore and he threw himself through the wall. His heart raced in his chest all the way back to his lair. 

It went against every cautious bone in his body to reveal he’d be somewhere at a specific time, even such a vague promise as the day after tomorrow. It was as much as he could get himself to do.

It wasn’t just about him. 

-

Alright and that's probably it for the rapid updates, this part mostly needed edits to fit better with what actually ended up happening in the earlier parts and I hadn't written the ending, I wasn't sure I'd get the time today, but I did so, tadaa!

Things are going better! It's not all misery anymore.

Danny wasn't quite this terrified early in the story, but then he felt relatively safe in his ability to get out of situations. Having his powers knocked out, really brought up a boatload of trauma. It's just also really making him out of sorts to be that at odds with his core.

I hope it makes sense.

[kteezy997]

The Heart of a Bene Gesserit-Part Three//Paul Atreides

Warnings: cursing, spice slavery, prostitution innuendo

You didn't really want to see Paul. You still felt so raw after last night. It wasn't even his fault; it was your feelings that got hurt when you realized that you'd never have a real chance with Paul. He’d never see you in a romantic light.

Once you got ready for the day, you decided to go out for a walk around the grounds, to clear your head and get some air. You didn’t opt for a still suit, as you didn’t plan on traveling far or long.

The morning was warm and bright, but not uncomfortably so, as it was still early in the day. The sun was not yet too high. You had made your way around to the spice silo crates where some workers were emptying the crops. You watched the grouping of men, and something caught your eye. The closer you looked, you noticed that it was a bald head. Harkonnen.

It had to be a Harkonnen. No one on Arrakis had such pale, smooth skin like that. You saw the man's eyes and you knew exactly who it was. A near final Kwizatz Haderach: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Why was he a slave working for Paul?

"Miss," a servant approached you, and you turned to them.

"Yes?"

"You really should not be out in the sun this time of day."

You looked over at the silos, nodding toward the working men, "It is still early. And besides, the slaves are out here."

"As a special companion of the Emperor, he would wish that you'd stay safely indoors." the servant pointed out, trying to urge you back into the House.

"I think the Emperor should put his worries elsewhere."

"Very well, ma'am. But if you wish to stay out longer, I'd recommend changing into a stillsuit, to keep your body cool and hydrated." the servant gave you a polite nod, then left.

You looked on, remembering your singular visit to Giedi Prime years ago, seeing Feyd-Rautha dominate his opponents in the Harkonnen Arena. The Bene Gesserit found him to be quite impressive, not only in his strength and fighting skills, but also in his superior intelligence. Feyd was almost everything that Paul was. A very valuable and useful tool in human form. Why was he now reduced to a simple slave?

......

After the midday meal, you approached a rather tired looking Paul. You said his name as you walked up to him. You needed to ask him about Feyd. Paul looked at you, and his tired eyes faded into a brighter expression that lit up his handsome face. You tried to not think too much about the effect you had had on him. You felt no need to read into it.

"I want to ask you about one of the slave workers you have in your possession, my lord." you said.

Paul frowned at you, as if he could never guess the things you were about to say, "Very well. Let us retire to the council room to talk about this.”

He led the way to the meeting room in which you had spent some time with him and his men, listening to them invent work for themselves. Really, you thought he needed more women on his council, to actually help resolve issues of the Imperium.

"Sit down, y/n. What would you like to know about the slaves?" he asked, sitting down and gesturing for you to do the same next to him at the table.

"Well, I became intrigued by one of them in particular. And I'm not going to play around about this, Paul. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is alive and he is among your slaves, isn't he?"

Paul sat back in his seat, a strange quiver of a smile on his mouth, "Nothing gets passed you Bene Gesserit, does it?"

You gave him a serious look.

He let out a small sigh, "Yes, Feyd-Rautha is where any lasting Harkonnen should be."

"He had nothing to do with what happened to your father."

"But he is a Harkonnen! He deserves to be where he is. He's lucky he's not dead and buried in the sand with the Baron."

You scoffed, "Feyd is a psychopath, that is true. But he is far too valuable a human being to just be your slave."

“He is not just my slave. He works for the Empire, you yourself expressed that you only want what is best for the Empire.”

“Yes, but Feyd deserves a more honorable position. He’s an intelligent man, a good leader. He was able to bring spice production back to full capacity after his idiot brother fumbled the job. You could use someone like Feyd-Rautha in your corner. Hell, he should be on your council, advising you, helping you.”

“I would never take advice from a man whose family had my father killed! He would have never attained control of Arrakis if it weren’t for me.” Paul shouted, his voice littered with an angry growl.

You sat still in your chair, gripping the armrest, you knew he was right. Rabban could not stand up to Muad’Dib and the Fremen, nonetheless, this issue was not about Rabban, but his younger brother. “Someone of Feyd-Rautha’s superior breeding deserves to have a more productive job.”

“Are you suggesting spice production is unimportant? It is only the most vital substance in the universe, without it, you wouldn’t have been able to come to Arrakis, y/n.”

You shook your head, becoming aggravated with him and his condescending tone, “Do not patronize me, Paul Atreides. You know what I mean. You should use Feyd-Rautha to your advantage, that is all I am saying. Think about it.”

“Perhaps you would like to use him to your advantage.”

Now you were mad, “Whatever do you mean?”

“You were sent here to secure the Kwizatz Haderach bloodline. But you’ve been unsuccessful thus far, so why not try out a runner up: my cousin, the final Harkonnen.”

You sighed, your anger subsided and you were left with the disappointment that he still had no trust in you. “That is not my intention. You should know by now that I am here for you, I am trying to fulfill my duties as your councilwoman.”

Paul raised his brows, rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair, held his chin in palm and looked at you in the eyes, “Oh? So you’ve decided to take my job offer? You’ll stay here, on Arrakis?”

“I hope to. As long as you stop being an ass.” You stood up, pushed your chair back under the table. “Good day, my lord.” you said, turning on your feet and exiting the council room, without bowing before the Emperor.

…….

Paul sat for a moment more after y/n left, then he called a servant to retrieve Gurney Halleck.

“Gurney.” he greeted his old master, who now served as one of his right hand men.

“My lord.” Gurney answered, nodding.

“Appoint one of the servants to keep a close watch on y/n. I’d like to know what she is doing, and whom she may be speaking to.”

……

That evening, after dinner was over and the sun was set, you quietly made your way to the slave quarters. You were met with the slave master, who looked you up and down, like he couldn’t place you.

“Haven’t seen you down in these parts, woman.” he said, holding his strong stance.

“My name is y/n, friend and councilwoman of Muad’Dib. I’ve come to ask if I can speak with one of the slaves here.” you kept your poise and confidence in check. I must not fear.

The tall man before you gave a simple nod, “Hmm. Do you know the slave’s name?”

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.”

You were then led to a sort of outside recreational area for the prisoners. There were tables and chairs under a roof to provide some shade.

“Wait here. And don’t worry, he’ll like the looks you. He won’t have any desire to kill you.” the slave master said, giving you a small dose of assurance.

But you were Bene Gesserit, you did not need to be assured. You could take care of yourself. It did not matter how intimidating or dangerous an opponent may be, you could always come out on top with the proper training.

After only a couple of minutes, you heard his voice first: hoarse in his throat, but with chilling low tones. “A visitor, for little ol’ me?”

You looked straight ahead, seeing his tall, muscular figure making its way toward you. He was just as you remembered, his face and head free of hair, but still as strikingly handsome as his Atreides cousin.

“Well, you are beautiful. You’d be a nice gift, but there’s no way you are a working woman. Also, no sign of the Ibad blue eyes, so you’re not the Atreides’ Fremen woman.” Feyd was speaking as he looked you over, getting his senses about you.

You felt a slight thorn in your side as he insinuated that you could be Chani.

He then looked in your eyes, squinting, “You’re Bene Gesserit?”

“You are sharp, Feyd-Rautha.” you replied.

He smirked, but did not show his black teeth. He gazed at you as if he wanted to devour you, then and there. “Hm. Now, why were you looking for me, my darling?"

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake

[moodymisty]

I would like to throw Sanguinius into the “wants to hunt down his beloved to satiate his latent predatory instincts” arena (especially since he doesn’t indulge them nearly as often as Leman & Lion do, he needs to cut loose 🥴)

But ALSO… Horus wants to be so sugar daddy coded. He wants to actually have kids so not like your typical sugar daddy but he wants to provide for his beloved he wants to drown you in luxury and gifts. It gets him harder than tungsten carbide when he sees you looking dolled up to accompany him somewhere and he knows he bought every single thing you’re wearing (probably down to the underwear cuz we been knew he nasty like that lol). He didn’t just want to raise kids he wanted to occupy that perfect paternal figure archetype as a provider (because he has daddy issues that he “copes” with by trying to one-up Emps XD) and part of the perfect image of his future would probably include a spouse he would spoil and treasure like nobody’s business. This man lives for the constant adoration he gets so of course he wants to hear it from you. The thank yous and bashful looks as he hands you ANOTHER priceless piece of jewelry, mewling and moaning as he’s balls deep in you that you don’t NEED another fur shawl and how people will gossip. Let them talk, let every ear on Terra know the warmaster can and will provide only the finest of the fine things in this whole galaxy for you. Cuz that gets him off too XD

ALKJDFLJSDFLJSKDFOW4ITREHDFNB AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

-----------

"Oh thank you! Warmaster Horus gifted it to me."

You've found yourself saying those words a lot lately, tumbling out of your mouth even before you realize you're saying them.

The dress you wore with sleeves billowing over your wrists, with a train that dusts across the floor is a gift from him, along with the jewelry you wore; The heels you have on are from Horus, custom made from the hide of an animal sourced from a recently annexed planet.

The lingerie you wear under your dress is from him as well- a bra, garter belt, panties and stockings all matching and delicate with lace and silk.

Horus had loved that gift of his in particular, shown in how gentle he was in assisting you while putting it on. And taking it off, now a moments later.

"It sounds like the primarch has quite the warchest, if he's lavishing you with so many gifts." You smile nervously, trying to laugh it off.

You know that despite the relatively simple nature of the comment, that it's implications are less so. There has been gossip going around, talking about Lupercal's spoiled little princess, his brat, and he's been on a manhunt to find the sources of all this talk.

He hasn't told you what he's going to do when he finds out who is nattering insults, which worries you more than a little.

"I keep telling him to stop, that he has thousands of men to feed, but he doesn't really listen."

They smile at you while you try and shrug off their comment, polite and insincere, but amicable enough. At least your response got them away from Horus' gifts.

It's a bit difficult to fend of prying questions about the Warmaster when he isn't around, as many lords and ladies are eager to know anything any everything that could give them a head up. They are all quite interested in the primarchs and their legions goings on, but Horus in particular is of much interest.

Only when you return to Horus' private Terran chambers can you breath, feeling the ache in your feet after so long in heels.

You're taking pins out of your hair when Horus returns, watching you put the pins in a little container before turning to him. He's in his casual war, a massive pelt draped over his shoulder ending right where the start of his baggy brown trousers begin.

"I apologize for missing you, I wish I could've gone but the Mournival had some urgent questions they needed answered." He glances over you, see how you've begun to get ready to settle down. "I hope it went well in my absence, at least." You nod.

"It did, don't worry."

He lets out a soft 'good' in response, but he's already getting down on his knee and pulling something from his trousers.

"I do have something for you. I was going to give it to you before we left, but I suppose I can gift it to you now as an apology for leaving you alone."

You watch as he opens a small box for you, and the shine instantly catches you attention.

They're earrings; Small, delicate and feature a beautiful teal gem as the centerpiece. Horus chuckles.

"You should put them on. I would help but, my hands are not suited for such tiny details."

You can't resist the urge to smile back as you take your current pair out, swapping them for Horus' new ones. He watches with interest the entire time, even as you glance in the large vanity mirror to see them.

"They're perfect Horus, thank you."

You lean forward to wrap your arms around his neck and give him a kiss to the cheek, your lipstick leaving a mark on his tanned skin.

"You always get me so much though, are you sure it's ok?" Horus laughs, a deep chesty laugh as he puts a hand on the small of your back and pulls you closer.

"Ok? Whatever do you mean?" You purse your lips.

"I just don't want you lavish me in all these things when you might be able to use that income for more important things." Horus lets out a softer, quieter laugh, kissing your forehead.

"My love, don't you worry about those things. I have them all handled." His other hand comes up to rest on your jawline, cradling it in his massive palm.

"I only wish to make sure you don't want for a single, solitary thing. If you want something, it is yours. I will make sure of it."

You smile at him, gentle and sweet. You love Horus so much, the feeling is palpable. You wish he wouldn't give you so much however, the gossip is becoming unmanageable. Each time you mention it however

Horus always shrugs it off, saying that they can gossip all they want- It only shows off just how well he takes care of you.

"Do you mind helping me with the buttons on the back of my dress? The handmaid helped me earlier but I think they're off cleaning."

Horus nods and gestures for you to turn around, unfastening the buttons at the nape of your neck. While they're small they aren't as small as the earrings, so he's able to manage the delicate task somewhat easily.

Farther down the trail of buttons eventually the shoulders slide off of you, and the dress pools at your feet.

"You wore it again today,"

Horus says while he looks over your back, and there's an unmistakable look in his eyes at the sight of his gifted lingerie. You turn around, unable to help the way you cross your arms across your stomach.

"It matched the dress, so I thought i would."

His hand drifts over your right thigh, up over the lace top of your stocking, before drifting up and over your hip. He leans inward to press his lips to your collarbone, before lowering to your sternum.

"I should get you another."

You stutter and try to decline his suddenly exclamation as his hands drift upwards, threatening to push your bra up over your breasts.

"Horus, I don't need another, please-"

He hums, and you can feel the vibration go through your chest.

"If you're going to wear it under your dresses then you need multiple, of course."

He's not going to budge on this, and his distractions of kissing your skin are working masterfully. A whimper leaves your throat as one of his hands slides to gently cradle your bottom, and his lips push up your skin to nip at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"Then... Could you do it in silver? ...I miss the silver of your Luna Wolves regalia."

Horus chuckles, but unlike the one earlier that was so sweet, this one has far more rumble, deeper in his throat.

"Consider it done, my love."

[mothiir]

yknow what??? fuck it. im not even gonna turn on anon. IM NOT EVEN GONNA DO IT!! because at this point you'd clock my ass a nautical mile off for who it is just bc im gonna ask for exactly what you caught me for on anon LAST TIME.

SO,,,, haha,,,, heyyyy mothiiiiir,,,, pllllleeeasse more nasty ass rabbit/emp headcanonnns OR writing or anything,, you always cook and im one starving ass loser.

thank you ily and your writing once again ok ok ok BYEEE

cw: angst, not what you intended but this got me thinking about the emperor and then uh. we got this. not set in the little rabbit verse, which will soon become obvious. playing loose with the canon timelines because i don’t know exactly how the burning of monarchia went down.

—

—

Monarchia burns — and three days later, Guilliman and his sons make planet fall.

—

It takes a great deal to surprise a Primarch, and yet here Guilliman is, blinking at the charred rubble of your former capital, struggling to find words.

“Say that again,” he says, at length. You sit up from your prostrated position, lifting your head just enough to address his shins rather than the ground.

“There is no penance great enough for the crime we have committed against the Emperor and the Imperium,” you say, your voice soft, but ringing clear. “There is no punishment that we do not deserve for such blatant defiance of the Imperial Truth. I can state that we were misled — which is true — and that we were ignorant, but that is no excuse. All I can say is that when I discovered that my Lord Husband was acting in defiance of the Emperor’s wishes, I acted as swiftly as I could to remedy it.”

It makes even less sense the second time around. The once-glorious city is wreathed in flames; the sun blotted out by a miasma of smoke. The same story is repeated across the entire planet. A revolution almost overnight — temples torn down, idols cast into the sea, believers put to the sword. The few Word Bearers that remained had died at their posts; they had slaughtered thousands of their kinsman, but died all the same. Bears torn down by hounds.

“You did this,” he says. You shake your head minutely. Your hair — once a glorious braid almost to your waist, always ornamented with some fancy that Lorgar had gifted you — has been chopped into an unkempt bob around your shoulders. Guilliman vaguely remembers a tale amongst Lorgar’s adopted people: of a queen who had lost a great battle, and shorn her locks in penance.

“No my lord. I did nothing. My people acted against the rot in our ranks. They carved it out.”

“Millions have died.”

“It is no great loss that those who would espouse the evils of theology perish,” you say, your voice as flat and featureless as a windless sea. “All I ask is that those that remain…”

For a moment, emotion returns to your voice, colouring it.

“All I ask is that some of them be spared. Please.”

You lift your face for the first time since his arrival. Your lips are lined with blood, shadows hung beneath eyes sunk deep into their sockets. In the space of three days, you seem to have aged decades — from a fresh-faced woman in the bloom of youth, to a crone who has seen the ending of all that she loves.

—

The seas do not boil. The sky does not burn. Another battle is brought to a shuddering, decisive end as the Ultramarines join on the side of your rebels — no, you cannot think of them as such. They are not rebels; they are vindicated. They are fighting for the truth, for what is right and good. They are crusaders.

You — you are not a crusader. You are not sure what to call yourself. Lorgar called you a goddess; a title that always disquieted you, but you accepted it, for his eyes shone so when he looked at you, and he made love to you as though you were the only thing that mattered. Now, you have lost count of the number of men and women who have died for referring to you as such.

You are not a widow either. Your husband lives, though you do not know where he is. Once, Lorgar pressed his hand to your chest and felt the thrum of your heart against his palm and said that no matter where you went there was a golden cord that bound your heart to his; that no void nor fire could split asunder what was joined in love.

You dream that you wind a golden chain around your hands, pull it taut, and bite until your teeth chip, until your tongue bleeds, until it frays into dust on your lips.

—

When you meet the Emperor, you press your forehead to the cinder-warm flagstones that used to be a marketplace, and you wait for death. You know, in a distant dreamy sort of way, that you should be afraid, but you are not. You accepted your death what seems like a lifetime ago — in reality, it is less than four days since you gave the order to start burning the temples.

The irony of it all. People answered your call to arms, to not-so-holy war, because you are Lorgar’s bride, because you are the woman once called goddess. And what did you do with the power that he gave you? You ordered that his greatest works be destroyed.

But what else could you have done?

Colchis is your home. And in his arrogance — in his endless childish arrogance — Lorgar would have let it burn to ash rather than do as he had been bid. Did he truly believe his father a god? If so, why would he not obey his commandments as soon as they were given?

Thinking this way hurts you — not only because it stirs anger like a wounded animal in your breast, but because it throws into stark relief how Lorgar’s mind contained chasms and corners you never saw. How even though you gave yourself to him as completely as a woman can, he always kept parts of himself hidden from you — but you will not waste time delving into that labyrinth. His beliefs are inconsequential. Only the facts matter. Lorgar worshipped his father as a god. Lorgar was told to stop. Lorgar did not.

You visited the day of judgement upon Colchis before the Emperor got the chance, betting everything on a single desperate gesture. You do not regret it, though you will dream of the dying wails of your people until the end of your days. If you had not acted, all would have died. Now, maybe — just maybe — some may live.

“The girl acted in the best interests of her people,” the Emperor says, and it is only then that you realise precisely what was happening: he was rifling around in your head, subtly enough that you could not see the intrusion; mistaking his exploration for an ill-timed moment of navel-gazing. All at once, pain rushes into your knees and thighs, knife-like cramps. How long have you been kneeling there?

Then, inexplicably, a wash of frustration: girl, he calls you. Girl. You are staring down your third decade of life — nothing for one such as him, of course, but really.

Girl. You carved out your still-warm heart and laid it on a flaming altar and he refers to you as girl.

“Stand,” he says, and you obey, fighting the hysterical urge to snort with laughter — you’re exhausted, swooning, and starting to feel the after-effects of the universe’s most powerful psyker reading your thoughts. Blood drips down your chin. “I am satisfied with the efforts of your loyal Imperial citizens against the primitive cultists.”

“Thank you my lord,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground — thus missing entirely the swift, puzzled look Guilliman gives you, for ‘I am satisfied’ is more praise than the Emperor normally gives anyone.

(And perhaps it is just a trick of the light, or the wild shadows cast by the afterglow of battle, but Guilliman swears that just for a moment his father smiles.)

“Heracles,” says the Emperor, addressing one of the gigantic golden sentinels standing to attention beside him. “You will escort her aboard the Bucephalus. We will speak further when I have dealt with my son.”

The golden sentinel inclines her head, and you try your best to stay upright, your legs shaky as a newborn colt. You do not think of what the Emperor will do to Lorgar; you cannot.

“It goes without saying,” says the Emperor, almost as an afterthought. “But your marriage to him is annulled.”

Eight years. Your life; your heart; that golden cord. What love has joined together, none may tear asunder - except that is not true, was never true.

“Yes my lord,” you say.