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[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter three fernando alonso x fem! driver! reader ( fluff -> angst ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (4.5k words)

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III, PAPER SOLDIER . . . ( Your fourth to seventh years in Formula One, 2015 -> 2018 ) // content warning . . . ( contains non-descriptive smut, Yn is 23 years in the beginning of the chapter and 25 by the end, really fucking long ass chapter )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the 2015 season began, you couldn’t help but feel the absence of Jenson Button. Walking into the McLaren garage without him felt wrong—like something essential had been ripped away. Jenson had been more than a teammate; he was your anchor in a sport that constantly threatened to drown you.

But Fernando Alonso didn’t try to replace Jenson, and somehow, that made things easier. Instead of trying to mimic the camaraderie you’d had with Jenson, Fernando brought his own brand of companionship. He didn’t hover or press; he simply existed, radiating his unique mix of confidence and charisma, until you realized how much you enjoyed having him around.

By the second race of the season, you were surprised to find yourself laughing more than you had in months. Whether it was during strategy meetings or post-race celebrations, Fernando had a way of lightening the mood with his dry humour and his sly, knowing glances.

“You don’t always have to overtake on the outside, you know,” he teased one afternoon, smirking over his coffee. “But I suppose drama is part of your brand.”

“And I suppose being smug is part of yours,” you shot back, grinning.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to hit your stride. On track, you were ruthless and synchronised. “Chaotic villains,” the press called you, and you secretly loved it. You weren’t just teammates; you were a nightmare for the rest of the grid. Fernando’s ability to anticipate your moves was uncanny, and together, you executed overtakes that left even seasoned commentators stunned.

Off the track, things were somehow even better. McLaren’s marketing team, notorious for shoving drivers into cringeworthy advertisements, suddenly had gold on their hands. You and Fernando—two drivers who hated scripted lines and staged smiles—were unexpectedly brilliant together.

The first time they made you film a commercial, you groaned audibly when the director explained the concept. Something about racing through a supermarket with shopping carts full of McLaren-branded products.

“I hate this already,” you muttered under your breath.

Fernando, standing beside you, gave you a sidelong glance. “Tranquila, we’ll make it good.”

And somehow, he did. By the third take, the two of you were hamming it up, racing down aisles, tossing products back and forth, and laughing so hard you almost forgot the cameras were there.

“Did you see her face when I threw the cereal?” Fernando joked afterward, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“I saw your face when it hit the floor and exploded everywhere,” you retorted. “Pure panic.”

From then on, every commercial and promotional shoot turned into a competition to see who could make the other laugh first. Whether it was fake arguments over who got to drive a McLaren P1 in an ad or Fernando trying to convince the camera crew to let him wear sunglasses indoors, you found yourself looking forward to those dreaded filming days.

“Por favor, it’s not about the lighting,” Fernando argued one day, slipping on his sunglasses mid-shoot. “It’s about the vibe.”

“The vibe is you looking like a smug Bond villain,” you quipped, trying to suppress a giggle.

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically, “the director hasn’t stopped me.”

The chemistry between you was undeniable, and it extended beyond work. Post-race dinners, gym sessions, and late-night debriefs all became opportunities for the two of you to poke fun at each other, share stories, and build a bond that felt effortless. You had been so sure that McLaren would feel hollow without Jenson, but with Fernando, it felt alive—different, but in the best way.

“Why do you even put up with me?” you asked him one night after a particularly gruelling race.

Fernando leaned back in his chair, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “Because you make everything more fun,” he said simply. “And because I know, no matter what, you’ve got my back.”

His words lingered, making your chest feel tight in a way you couldn’t quite name. You didn’t know it yet, but Fernando had already carved out a place for himself in your life—one that no one else could fill.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time with Fernando, everything felt different—electric and uncharted. It wasn’t just the post-race champagne that made your head spin; it was him. His presence was commanding yet soft, every movement deliberate, every touch reverent. It wasn’t just the circumstances—a blur of adrenaline and post-race champagne after a double podium—it was him.

It started simply. His hand lingered on your lower back as you laughed about your overtakes, his eyes soft yet unreadable in a way that made your pulse quicken. When you turned toward him, it felt natural, as if every unsaid word between you had been leading to this.

His hands started at your waist, fingers splaying as if he needed to ground himself before pulling you closer. Your breath hitched when his lips found yours—warm, firm, and unyielding yet unhurried. With Jenson, it was always rushed, a blur of need fueled by adrenaline or alcohol. But Fernando . . . Fernando took his time.

When his hand brushed against yours that night, there wasn’t hesitation. His fingers closed around yours, a silent question, and you answered by lacing your own through his. You followed him to his hotel room, and the atmosphere shifted the moment the door clicked shut.

When his hands slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, you shivered. He didn’t tear your clothes off in a frenzy like Jenson often did. Instead, Fernando paused, peeling your top away like unwrapping something fragile. His dark eyes studied you, lingering in a way that made your cheeks burn and your heart race.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the word barely audible, like it was meant for him more than you.

Your breaths mingled as he lowered you onto the bed, his weight settling over you. He kissed you again, slower this time, the stubble on his jaw grazing your skin as his lips travelled to your neck, then your collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate, a silent declaration that this wasn’t just about the act—it was about you.

With Jenson, it was playful, almost careless, both of you seeking a quick fix for the emptiness racing couldn’t fill. But Fernando didn’t let you hide behind that. He demanded you be present, dragging you into the moment with the sheer intensity of his focus.

When his lips found your stomach, you felt your breath catch. He'd knelt before you, his hands steady on your hips, his touch grounding yet reverent. Then he paused, looking up at you, his voice low and steady. 

“¿Puedo?” he asked. can i

The question caught you off guard. Permission. Fernando was asking for permission. He asked for it like it mattered, like you mattered. No one had ever done that before. Jenson never stopped to ask; he assumed, and you never thought to mind. But Fernando’s request made your cheeks flush, a heat spreading across your skin that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with how he treated you. Like you mattered.

You hesitated for a moment, flustered by the simplicity of his question. You nodded, then realized he probably couldn’t see in the dark. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Fernando.”

His lips quirked into a soft smile, a barely-there acknowledgment, before he leaned forward again. His touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to Jenson’s rough, teasing movements. Fernando didn’t just touch; he felt—explored, cherished.

When he finally joined you fully, his body pressed flush against yours, it felt like he was pouring himself into every movement. His hips met yours in a rhythm that wasn’t rushed but deliberate, a steady, consuming pace that left you breathless. He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning them above your head as he leaned down to kiss you, the connection sparking something deep in your chest.

It wasn’t the hurried, animalistic need you’d come to expect with Jenson. Jenson was fun, a rush, a release—but Fernando? Fernando was something entirely different. His touch carried weight, his movements spoke volumes, and his whispered praises in Spanish felt like poetry meant just for you.

When the pleasure crested, it was overwhelming, almost too much. Tears pricked at your eyes as you clung to him, your breaths shaky as he slowed his movements, his forehead pressing against yours. every sensation was heightened. His fingers brushed against yours again, and before you knew it, he was threading them together, holding your hand like it was second nature. You squeezed his hand back, unsure why the simple touch sent a pang through your chest and left you breathless.

It wasn’t just his touch—it was the way he looked at you. His eyes held something you couldn’t quite name, something you don't quite recognizing. It made you feel exposed, stripped down to your core. And when the emotions started to bubble up, you bit your lip to keep them at bay.

But it didn’t work. As his hands soothed over you and his words melted into your skin, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. It wasn’t from sadness or even overwhelm—it was the feelings, the emotions he poured into you, the way he made you feel like the only person in the world in that moment. It consumed you, swallowed you whole, and left you small, tiny.

"Estás llorando," he murmured softly, his voice laced with concern. “Cariño,” His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away the tears as they fell. you're crying

“I . . .” You swallowed hard, trying to find the words. “It’s just . . . It’s a lot. I'm fine.”

His lips quirked into a gentle smile, his hand trailing to your hair, brushing it back tenderly. “It’s supposed to be,” he whispered. “It’s okay to not be okay. I'll be here anyway.”

Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his body pressed to yours, his hands never leaving your skin. He whispered softly in Spanish, words you couldn’t fully understand but felt in your chest. His touch was tender, reverent, as he cleaned you up, smoothing your hair and holding you close.

Jenson never stayed like this. He’d always drift away, detached even in the quiet moments. But Fernando? He stayed. He always stayed. And that, you realized, was what made him different.

“Estás bien?” he asked after a while, his voice soft against your hair.

You nodded against his chest. “I’m fine,” you murmured, even as your voice wavered.

His fingers stilled, and he tilted your chin up gently so he could see your face. “¿Segura? You don’t have to be fine.”

His words unravelled you. For once, you didn’t feel the need to pretend. Tucking your face into the crook of his neck, you let yourself feel small. Let yourself feel cared for. Let yourself feel.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was well past midnight, and the McLaren motorhome was almost eerily quiet. You were sprawled out on one of the sofas, still in your team polo, watching Fernando pace back and forth in front of the whiteboard. He was ranting about tyre degradation, gesturing wildly as if the problem could be solved with enough hand movements.

“You know,” you interrupted, stretching your legs out, “normal people sleep at this hour.”

“Normal people don’t win races,” he shot back without missing a beat, his accent thick and his tone just a little exasperated.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, grinning. “You really think the medium stint was the problem?”

“I know it was,” he said, turning to face you. His expression softened slightly when he saw your teasing smile. “What? You don’t agree?”

“Oh, I agree,” you said, sitting up fully. “I just think it’s cute how worked up you get over it.”

Fernando groaned, but there was no real annoyance behind it. He sat down beside you, pulling the marker cap off with his teeth and twirling the pen between his fingers. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re obsessed,” you countered, leaning your head on the back of the sofa. “But fine. What’s your genius solution?”

For the next hour, he explained his strategy tweaks with the same passion he reserved for the track. And even though you didn’t need convincing, you let him go on, chiming in with questions just to see that fire in his eyes. By the time he was finished, you were half-asleep, but you’d never felt more at ease.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage was buzzing with energy after another podium. Mechanics cheered, the smell of champagne hung in the air, and you were positively glowing. Fernando was beside you, leaning against a stack of tires with his arms crossed, watching you with that familiar amused smirk.

“You really had to squeeze me on Turn 4?” you teased, nudging his shoulder. “I thought we were supposed to be teammates.”

Fernando raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Teammates, yes. Babysitters, no.”

“Oh, come on!” You laughed, swiping at the water bottle he was holding. “I gave you all the space in the world.”

“All the space?” he repeated, tilting his head dramatically. “You practically left me in the gravel.”

Your grin widened. “And yet, here you are. P2. You’re welcome.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. “One day,” he said softly, his voice dipping just enough to make you pause, “you’ll regret not letting me win.”

You leaned in, your smile turning mischievous. “Doubt it.”

And just like that, the moment was gone, replaced by laughter and playful jabs. But later, when you replayed the race in your head, you’d think about the way Fernando’s eyes had softened, just for a second, like he was seeing something in you that you weren’t quite ready to see yourself.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Okay, but why am I the one wearing the ridiculous hat?” you asked, glaring at the oversized cowboy hat the wardrobe team had handed you.

Fernando was already laughing, holding a matching hat in his hands. “Because you lost the coin toss.”

“You cheated,” you accused, crossing your arms.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “How can I cheat at a coin toss?”

“Don’t know, but you did.”

The director waved you both onto set before you could argue further, and the next thing you knew, you were filming an ad for some sponsor neither of you cared about, wearing cowboy hats and pretending to “race” toy cars on a fake racetrack.

Halfway through, Fernando purposely crashed his car into yours, sending it flying off the track. “Oops,” he said innocently, his smirk betraying him.

You burst out laughing, breaking character completely. “Oops? You did that on purpose!”

The director groaned, calling for another take, but neither of you could stop laughing. When the shoot finally wrapped, Fernando walked over, placing his ridiculous hat on your head. “You wore it better,” he said with a grin.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t take it off. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replied, leaning in slightly, “you keep me around.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The race in Canada had been cancelled due to an unexpected snowstorm, and the team was stuck in the hotel for the weekend. You and Fernando were in the lobby, staring out at the swirling snow through the massive glass windows.

“Well, this is boring,” you said, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

Fernando smirked, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Only because you have no imagination.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And what’s your brilliant plan, Mr. Imagination?”

Five minutes later, the two of you were outside, bundled up and attempting to build the world’s worst snowman. Fernando had decided it needed to wear a McLaren cap, and you were busy shoving chunks of snow at him every time he turned his back.

“You’re terrible at this,” he said, laughing as he dodged another snowball.

“Better than you!” you shot back, lobbing another one straight at his chest.

The next thing you knew, he was tackling you into a snowbank, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When you finally got back inside, shivering and soaked, the warmth of his hand on your arm lingered longer than it should have.

“Come to my room tonight, hmm,” He whispers in your ear with his sweet sweet and loving smile. You could only smack his chest, flustered out of your body.

“Why should I wait till tonight when I can take you right now?” He countered himself, throwing you over his shoulder and walking to the elevator.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next four years were a golden era for you and Fernando. While the big teams—Mercedes, Ferrari, and Red Bull—scrambled to one-up each other with upgrades and strategy, the two of you were a well-oiled machine. Every weekend was a masterclass in teamwork. You took turns holding off competitors, crafting daring overtakes, and, more often than not, splitting the podium between the two of you.

Fernando was always just behind you—or sometimes ahead—playing the perfect wingman when needed and pushing you to your limits when it mattered most. Together, you broke records. Four Constructors’ Championships in a row. Dozens of wins. But 2017 was different.

That was your year.

The sunset painted the Yas Marina Circuit in hues of orange and pink as you sat in your car, the weight of the championship within reach. Fernando had radioed you a few laps earlier.

“Message from Fernando, Yn; You’ve got this,” Your race engineer tells you, his voice steady, but there was an edge of emotion there, one he couldn’t quite hide. “Just bring it home.”

When you crossed the finish line, the sound of the crowd was deafening, but all you could hear was your own breathing. Heavy. Disbelieving.

“World Champion!” Your race engineer’s voice crackled through the radio. “You’ve done it, Yn! You’re the World Champion! For the second time!”

You let out a sob, laughing through the tears as you brought the car to a stop on the start-finish straight. The adrenaline coursed through you, but it wasn’t until Fernando’s car pulled up beside yours that it really hit you when you both did donuts togther.

He climbed out first, crossing the short distance between your cars with purpose. When you stepped out, he was there, arms wide, pulling you into a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of you.

“Campeona del mundo,” he whispered, his voice thick, breaking with emotion. His helmet was off, and when you pulled back to look at him, you saw tears glistening in his eyes.

“You helped me get here,” you said, clutching his shoulders, your voice trembling with gratitude. “Don’t forget that.”

His smile was small but genuine, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll never forget it,” he said softly. “Not a second of it.”

The crowd roared, the flashes of cameras creating a dizzying strobe effect as the two of you stood there, sharing a moment that belonged to no one else. It was Fernando who finally pulled back, resting a hand on your cheek for a fleeting second before stepping aside to let the rest of the team swarm you, lifting you on their shoulders.

The team party that night was a blur of champagne, confetti, and endless congratulations. Fernando stuck close, a steady presence in the chaos. Every time someone pulled you away to talk or toast, he was there in the corner of your eye, watching with a quiet pride.

At one point, hours into the celebration, you found him sitting on the terrace, a glass of wine in hand, staring out at the skyline.

“Not enjoying the party?” you asked, sliding into the chair beside him.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It’s your night, Yn. I just wanted to take it all in.”

You frowned, studying him. “Fernando, this isn’t just my night. We did this together. Four Constructors’. Four years of podiums. Four years of wins. You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

He turned to you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “It was always going to be you,” he said quietly. “I knew it from the start. You deserved this.”

“Don’t do that,” you said, leaning forward. “Don’t downplay your part in this. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

He smiled again, but there was something bittersweet about it. “Maybe not. But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. All you could do was reach out and take his hand, squeezing it tightly. He didn’t let go.

The rest of the off-season blurred into a whirlwind of press conferences, celebrations, and award ceremonies. Fernando was always by your side, your biggest supporter, but there were moments when his presence felt heavier, like he was carrying a weight he wouldn’t share with you.

“You’re quiet,” you said one evening, after a gala dinner where the two of you had been paraded around like royalty.

He shrugged, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “The next race.”

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but you let it slide. Fernando was like that—guarded, careful. But every so often, you’d catch glimpses of something deeper. The way his hand lingered on your back when he guided you through a crowd. The way his eyes softened when you laughed. The way he’d quietly check in on you after every race, no matter the outcome.

When the official trophy ceremony took place at the FIA Gala, Fernando insisted on standing beside you on the stage.

“You carried me through the season,” you joked as the cameras clicked and the lights flashed.

“Carried you?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You’re lucky I didn’t let you drown in the midfield.”

The banter was easy, the chemistry undeniable, and as the two of you raised the trophy together, it was clear to everyone watching that this partnership wasn’t just about racing. It was something rare, something that went beyond the track. Something neither of you could quite name.

But things don’t last forever. And getting attached is the worst part.

"I'm leaving Formula One by the end of the season," 

You froze. Time seemed to stretch, the words reverberating in your mind like an echo you couldn’t escape. You’d just arrived at the hotel room you were sharing for the week after deciding to spend the summer break together in the Caribbean. The laughter you were sharing died down in seconds and the room fell quiet.

“What?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air. It didn’t make sense, didn’t feel real. You and Fernando were a team, more than that—he was your teammate, your confidant, your partner in all things chaotic, your body, your soul. To think of him leaving the sport, of him leaving you . . . it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

“I’ve decided,” he continued, his gaze dropping to your hands that were now clutching the edge of the coffee table, as if you needed something solid to hold onto. “The time has come. I’m moving on.”

The room around you felt like it was closing in. The summer air, fresh through the open window just moments ago, now felt thick, suffocating. You couldn’t breathe.

“No,” you said, shaking your head as tears welled up in your eyes. “No, you can’t leave me. Not now. Not like this.”

Before you could even think, you were up, stepping forward, hands reaching for him, desperate. You grasped at his arms, pulling him close, burying your face in his chest as you started to sob, the tears coming faster than you could control.

"Please don't go," you whispered, your voice trembling, cracking with the weight of your emotions. “Please. I can’t . . . I can’t do this without you.”

Fernando didn’t move at first, frozen by the force of your plea. He had always been the one with the calm, collected demeanour, the one who could hide his emotions behind that steely exterior. But now, you felt him soften in your arms. He let you pull him closer, his hands coming up to your back, rubbing circles that were meant to comfort but only made the ache in your chest worse.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Yn,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I didn’t want to leave you like this. But I have to do it. It’s time.”

“No,” you repeated, your hands clutching at his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as if you could somehow stop him from leaving. “I won’t let you. I can’t . . . You don’t get to walk away like that. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Fernando’s fingers gently cupped your face, lifting it so he could look into your eyes. His touch was soft, tender, but there was something in his gaze—something that told you he’d already made up his mind. “I know this isn’t easy,” he said softly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “But sometimes we have to let go, Yn. It doesn’t mean I’m leaving you . . . It just means I’m moving forward.”

You shook your head, unable to form a coherent thought through the rush of emotions. “I don’t know how to do this without you. You’re everything to me, Fernando. I—I don’t want you to go.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as if the words pained him. “I know. I don’t want to go either. But you have to understand, Yn . . . There’s more to life than this. More than F1 . . .. I Signed for a seat in WEC.”

“But I need you,” you choked out. “We’re a team. You can’t just leave.”

Fernando sighed, pulling you into his arms once more, holding you tight against him. “You’ve always been my team, Yn,” he said quietly, the emotion thick in his voice. “You always will be. But it’s time for me to find my own path. It’s time for you to find yours, too. You can’t hold on to me forever.”

The reality of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. You wanted to fight, to scream, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you knew he was right. But that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the fear of losing him, the terror of facing a future without him in it.

You pulled away just enough to look up at him, your tears still streaming down your face. “What am I supposed to do without you?” you whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Fernando’s hand gently brushed your hair out of your face, his touch tender. “You’ll be okay,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re strong, Yn. You always have been. I’ll always be here, even if I’m not on the grid. But you need to let me go.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him that you couldn’t live without him, that you didn’t know how to do this without the constant presence of his strength beside you. But the truth was, you could feel his resolve, his certainty, and you knew this was a battle you couldn’t win.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound in the room was the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. And then, Fernando’s hand cupped your face again, this time with more finality, and he whispered the words that made your heart ache even more.

“I’m sorry, Yn. But it’s my time.”

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: Chapter One

Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: You've got narcolepsy and have been visiting the Dreaming daily for years. Then its Lord and King finally return and he doesn't know quite what to think of you.

Warnings: None.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x Narcoleptic!Reader, for you dear @aralezinspace.

Word Count: ~2.6k

Masterlist | Next

You awaken to the familiar yet deteriorating landscape of the Dreaming. For years, your narcolepsy has transported you daily into this realm—a realm that, despite its barrenness and brokenness, has become your sanctuary. The muted grays and browns are beautiful to you, in a special way, but you know that the true majesty of the realm cannot emerge without its master, Dream. A being you've never met and only heard stories of. Yet, despite its decay, you have forged friendships here, finding solace among its inhabitants.

You walk through the desolate meadow, the grass crunching underfoot like dried paper. The sky is a dull, oppressive gray, reflecting the sea of sand and rock that neighbors the palace ruins. Your destination is the Library, a place that has barely managed to retain some semblance of order thanks to Lucienne’s tireless efforts. As you approach the grand, time-worn doors of the library, you feel a pang of sorrow for the state of this once magnificent realm.

“Lucienne?” you call out, your voice echoing through the cavernous hall as you step inside.

From behind a towering stack of books, Lucienne appears, her face lighting up with a weary smile when she sees you. “Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you would pop up. How are you today?”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “It’s hard to see the Dreaming like this. It feels like a part of me is withering along with it and it was already withering to begin with.”

Lucienne nods, her expression somber. “We all feel it. The absence of Lord Morpheus has taken a toll on this realm. But we must hold on to hope. Things may yet change.”

"It's been over a century, Luce," You point out, "I've been visiting for at least a decade and we've never seen hide nor hair of him. What— what if he's not coming back?"

Lucienne sighs softly, closing the book and replacing it on the shelf. "Maybe not," she admits. "But we can't give up...we must continue searching."

All of the residents that remain, a precious few, were adamant that Dream would return. You believed them, you truly did, but what being abandoned their people like this?? Something terrible must have happened, it was the only explanation you can think of. You were staying strong and hopeful for them, after all, the Dreaming was there home. It was only a temporary place for you to wander until you rouse from your episode. As you ponder what you would do next in this dream, the palace creaks and shakes, the sounds of more stone breaking off and falling to the ground greets your ears.

"Perhaps it would be best if you get out of the palace and visit the brothers? Maybe play with Gregory?" Lucienne offers to you, hoping to get you out of the crumbling palace before you decided to were going to spend your time assisting Mervyn.

"But what if Mervyn—" The librarian cuts you off with a stern look over her spectacles. You glance at Lucienne, her stern expression brooking no argument. With a resigned sigh, you turn and head out of the library, feeling the cool air of the Dreaming settle against your skin. The path to Cain and Abel’s house winds through the remnants of what once was a lush garden, now overrun with thorny vines and twisted trees. At least that's what Mervyn had told you.

As you approach the brothers’ abode, you hear a faint rustling sound followed by a series of thuds. Rounding the corner, you find Gregory tangled up in a net of brambles, his wings flapping uselessly as he tries to free himself.

“Gregory!” you exclaim, rushing to his side. His large, expressive eyes brighten when he sees you. Like a giant puppy, he chirps at you and wiggles his body. You chuckle softly as you begin to untangle the brambles from around his wings. “What happened this time?”

Gregory chirps again, his eyes wide with a mix of relief and sheepishness. You carefully work your way through the tangle of brambles, pulling each thorny vine away from his stone skin. The gargoyle’s weight shifts as he tries to help by flapping his wings, but it only makes the process more cumbersome.

“Hold still, Gregory. You’re not making this any easier,” you mutter with a half-smile.

He lets out a low rumble, a sound that almost seems like an apology. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to free him. Gregory stretches his wings wide and gives a joyful hop, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

“Feeling better?” you ask, brushing off your hands.

Gregory nods vigorously, then nuzzles your shoulder with his large head. His granite skin is always surprisingly warm against your own.

You laugh softly and give him a pat. “Come on, let’s find Cain and Abel.”

The two of you make your way toward the brothers’ house, Gregory trailing close behind like an oversized shadow. As you approach, you hear the unmistakable sound of an argument brewing inside. The voices grow louder until you can make out individual words.

“It was mine! You had no right to take it!” Abel’s voice trembles with indignation.

Cain’s reply is sharp and dismissive. “You never appreciate what you have! Someone needs to teach you a lesson!”

You exchange a knowing glance with Gregory and push open the door. Inside, Cain stands over Abel, who is clutching something close to his chest—a small, tattered book by the looks of it. Both brothers freeze when they see you.

“Is everything alright here?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Cain straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. “Just a little brotherly disagreement,” he says coolly.

Abel’s eyes dart between Cain and you before he speaks up in a softer voice. “He took my journal. I was writing in it, and he just—”

“It’s just a book,” Cain interrupts with a wave of his hand. “No need to get all worked up about it.”

You step closer to Abel and gently place a hand on his shoulder. “Abel, would you like to show me what you’ve been writing?”

He hesitates for a moment but then nods slowly, opening the journal to reveal pages filled with neat handwriting and detailed sketches—mostly of Gregory in various playful poses.

“These are wonderful,” you say genuinely, flipping through the pages. “You have real talent and Gregory is a stellar model!”

Abel blushes slightly under the praise while Cain rolls his eyes but doesn't comment further on the topic. Cain then suggests you stay for tea, his tone surprisingly warm. "Why don't you join us for some tea? Abel's been perfecting his recipe."

You nod, sensing the tension ebbing away. "I'd love to."

Abel beams and scurries off to prepare the tea. Gregory settles down near the hearth, his tail curling around his feet like a giant cat. You take a seat at the table, watching as Cain busies himself with setting out cups and saucers.

"So," Cain begins, filling the kettle with water. "What brings you here today?"

"Lucienne thought I needed a break," you say, leaning back in your chair. "She suggested visiting you and Abel."

Cain chuckles. "Smart woman. This place can be a bit... intense."

Abel returns with a tray of biscuits just as Cain sets the kettle on the stove. He places the tray in the center of the table and sits down across from you, his expression shy but hopeful.

"I hope you like them," Abel says quietly. "They're Gregory's new favorite."

You smile and reach for a biscuit, breaking it in half and offering a piece to Gregory. The gargoyle's eyes light up as he delicately takes the treat from your hand, chewing with surprising grace.

"These are delicious, Abel," you say after taking a bite of your own half. The biscuit is buttery and sweet, with just the right amount of crunch.

Abel's face lights up with pride. "Thank you! I've been experimenting with different ingredients."

The kettle whistles, and Cain pours steaming tea into each cup before passing them around. You take a sip, savoring the warm, fragrant brew.

"So," Cain says after a moment of silence, "how have things been with managing your narcolepsy Have your doctors come up with any new treatments?"

You take another sip of tea, letting the warmth spread through you. "It's been challenging," you admit. "They've tried a few new medications, but nothing seems to make a significant difference. I'm still visiting the Dreaming just as often."

Cain nods, his expression thoughtful. "It must be difficult, living between two worlds like that."

"It is," you agree, "but the Dreaming feels like a second home now. Even with its current state, there's something comforting about it."

Abel looks up from his tea, curiosity in his eyes. "Do you ever meet anyone else in your dreams? Other than us, I mean."

You think back to the fleeting faces and shadowy figures you've encountered over the years. "Occasionally. Most of them are just passing through, I think. But there are a few regulars."

Cain raises an eyebrow. "Regulars?"

You nod. "People who seem to visit the Dreaming as often as I do. We don't always interact, but there's a sense of familiarity. Like we’re all taking the same bus to work.”

Gregory nuzzles your arm again, reminding you of his presence. You smile and give him another biscuit piece.

"Maybe they’re like us," Abel muses, stirring his tea absently.

"Maybe," you say, watching Gregory's eyes follow the crumbs that fall from your hand.

Cain leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "Well, if you ever need a break from your other world, you're always welcome here."

"Thank you," you say sincerely.

The room falls into a comfortable silence as you all enjoy your tea and biscuits. The tension that had filled the air earlier has dissipated, replaced by a sense of camaraderie.

After a while, Abel stands up and starts clearing the table. Gregory helps by nudging dishes towards him with his nose.

"You know," Cain says thoughtfully, "I've been working on something in the garden. Would you like to see it?"

Your curiosity piqued, you nod eagerly. "I'd love to."

He leads you outside to a small patch of land behind their house where he’s cultivated a modest garden despite the Dreaming’s decay. It's filled with strange and beautiful plants that seem to shimmer in the dim light.

"It's not much," Cain says modestly, "but it's something to focus on."

"It's wonderful," you say sincerely, admiring the vibrant colors and unusual shapes.

Gregory chirps happily beside you while Abel joins Cain's side with a proud smile on his face.

You find yourself at the crumbling gate, alongside Lucienne, helping her clear away some of the rubble that has fallen from the deteriorating structure. The two of you work in  silence, the only sounds being the crunch of debris underfoot and the occasional groan of the ancient walls. Where was Mervyn? He usually helped out with clean up since he was the custodian and grounds keeper.

As you lift a particularly large piece of stone, a sudden gust of wind blows its way past where you stand, carrying with it an eerie, almost tangible sense of presence. You glance at Lucienne, who has frozen in place, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and hope.

“Lucienne?” you begin to ask, but she’s already moving, dropping the rubble she was holding and rushing towards the source of the disturbance. You follow her gaze and see him—Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams—lying amidst a swirl of sand. His dark form contrasts starkly against the desolation around him. Lucienne reaches him first, her voice trembling with a blend of reverence and concern.

“Lord Morpheus!” she exclaims, kneeling beside him. “Sir! Sir!”

You make it to where Lucienne crouches and Morpheus lays. His form is gaunt, his skin pale as moonlight, but his presence is undeniable. Lucienne's hands hover over him, uncertain whether to touch him or not.

“Is he...?” you start to ask, but Lucienne shakes her head.

“He’s alive,” she says, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and disbelief. “He’s come back.”

You watch as Morpheus’s chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. His eyes remain closed, and his expression is one of exhaustion. You kneel beside Lucienne, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

“What do we do?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. But before Lucienne replies, Morpheus stirs slightly, his eyes fluttering open.

Lucienne gasps softly and leans closer. “Lord Morpheus? Sir?” His eyes focus on her slowly as if waking from a deep sleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is weak but unmistakably his own.

“Lucienne,” he whispers. Tears fill her eyes as she takes his hand gently in hers.

“Welcome back,” she says softly.

Morpheus’s gaze shifts to you briefly, a darkness flickering within his eyes before it disappears. You rise to your feet and step a few steps back, unsure of what to do or say. Morpheus slowly rises to his feet, his eyes scanning his surroundings with a distant look. He finally focuses on Lucienne, then shifts his gaze to you. His expression is unreadable, a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“Who is this?” he asks, his voice carrying an otherworldly echo.

Lucienne glances back at you before answering. “This is one of our regular visitors. They’ve been coming here for the past decade.”

Morpheus studies you intently, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you visit so often?”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “I think we have more pressing concerns at the moment, Lord Morpheus. The Dreaming, she's suffering." Morpheus's eyes bore into you, searching for something unspoken. You hold his gaze, standing your ground even as the weight of his presence presses against you.

"You're right," Morpheus finally concedes, his voice a shadow of its former strength. He had more pressing matters to attend to. He turns to Lucienne. "What has happened here?"

Lucienne hesitates, glancing at you before she begins. "After your disappearance, the Dreaming started to decay. Parts of it have crumbled away entirely."

You nod in agreement, stepping forward. "We’ve been doing our best to maintain it, but without your presence, it’s been difficult."

Morpheus looks around, his expression hardening as he takes in the desolation. He reaches out a hand and brushes his fingers against a nearby fragment of stone, and you see a flicker of energy pulse through him. The stone vibrates slightly, as if responding to his touch.

"It will require time to mend," he mutters, mostly to himself. Then he faces you and Lucienne. "But we will reconstruct." Although he directs his words to Lucienne, his eyes focus on you, filled with hostility. You feel unwelcome.

Date Published: 7/10/24

Last Edit: 7/10/24

Masterlist | Next

[doctorsilverhead]

Great! Can I request a G1 Soundwave x Autobot reader, and the two are like arch-enemies in a way? Reader is a hunter, making them sharp and able to block out Soundwave's mind-reading abilities, having been able to track him down on many occasions. Reader also has minicons, one dog-like minicon to track down prey through scent, one owl-like minicon to have eyes on the sky, and one minicon who specializes in making traps. Reader and Soundwave had clashed many times, but one day, when reader wanted to take a day off with their minis. Reader went to a quiet forest, and ends up encountering Soundwave who also was having a day off. Not having the energy to fight, the two agree on a temporal truce and allow the minis to play with each other. Maybe the two end up sharing funny stories about their kids.

An Unexpected Truce (G1 Soundwave X Autobot Reader)

In the ever-evolving landscape of current events, where the lines between allies and adversaries blur, an unlikely encounter unfolds. Amidst the tranquil embrace of a secluded forest, two formidable forces find themselves on common ground, if only for a fleeting moment.

The Reader, a skilled hunter with a sharp intellect and an uncanny ability to evade Soundwave's mind-reading prowess, has tracked their arch-nemesis down on countless occasions. Accompanied by their loyal minicons – a canine tracker, an avian scout, and a master of traps – the Reader has proven to be a formidable adversary.

Soundwave, a towering figure with a reputation that precedes him, is no stranger to the Reader's relentless pursuit. Their clashes have been the stuff of legends, each encounter leaving an indelible mark on the annals of their ongoing conflict.

However, drained from the constant battles and recognizing a mutual desire for a brief escape from their roles as soldiers, Soundwave and the Autobot reader agreed to a temporary truce.

In a rare moment of understanding, a temporary truce is forged. The minicons, sensing the shift in the air, seize the opportunity to engage in playful antics, their carefree spirits a stark contrast to the weight of their masters' responsibilities.

As the Reader and Soundwave observe their minicons frolicking, a sense of camaraderie begins to take root. Laughter echoes through the trees as they exchange humorous tales of their respective charges, each story a testament to the unique challenges and joys of parenthood, even in the most unconventional of circumstances.

In this fleeting respite, the lines that once divided them blur, and they find solace in the shared experiences that bind them together. The forest becomes a sanctuary, a place where the burdens of their roles can be shed, if only for a brief moment.

Sitting side by side, Soundwave and the Y/N began to exchange stories not of battles and conquests, but of the lighter moments they've experienced with their minicons. Laughter, an uncommon sound on the battlefield, echoed through the forest as tales of mischievous minicons and their antics unfolded. For a brief moment, the forest became a sanctuary where the line between Autobot and Decepticon blurred, replaced by a shared understanding of the bond between a warrior and their companions.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the clearing, the Reader and Soundwave find themselves reluctantly parting ways. Yet, in that moment, they carry with them a newfound understanding – a realization that even in the midst of conflict, there exists a common thread that binds all beings together.

"Maybe you are not much of an ass Megatron says you are." Soundwave said as he gestured it was time for him to go.

[thevampiremarie]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be!  Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

-

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

 When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

[mychlapci]

When Prowl goes to mate with Unicron, he'd need to bond with the Unmaker. Somehow.

Unicron's metal tentacles would just wrap all around him, holding him tightly as he gets lowered to the center of the Earth, where the godspark is. Ans Prowl would be lowered all the way down, past the Unmaker's corona until he's completely engulfed in the dark spark energy.

Prowl could struggle and protest all he wants, but the moment those tentacles pry open his jacks and plug into him, it's game over. He just goes limp as his modesty panels open, blankly deepthroating his soon to be conjunx's appendages as it dribbles mind bending drugs down his intake. Body and mind both falling under the spell of arousal as he starts changing.

As his brain gets so very slowly and thoroughly reprogrammed, each electrical signal just wipes any attempt at conscious thought out of his cerebral circuitry. Smaller tentacles with needle tips would stab themselves into his lines, bleeding him out and simultaneously replacing his blood with the Unmaker's own.

There is a part inside him that's screaming in agony as he loses himself, but it gets smothered with each surge of pleasure as the new code just flows into his defenseless processor. That's when he starts reciprocating, suckling on that tentacle in his mouth. Larger tentacles penetrate his valve with no resistance, his cervical gate opening upon contact, welcoming all of his master's fluids into his warm forge.

As the tentacles slowly frag him, Prowl becomes more and more enthusiastic in his participation, perception of his past life becoming more and more warped. A slim tentacle comes up to his pressurised spike and coil around it, pumping it until he cums, then resuming almost immediately when he stops spasming, intent on milking all of his transfluid out. When his reserves are dry, a much, much thinner tentacle, not unlike the needle-tipped ones, inserts itself into his spike duct, filling his emptied fluid stores with more dark energon.

Brain almost completely fried from the series of intensifying overloads and ongoing stimulation, he's all but a slave to the Unmaker by that point. Every ounce of resistance and reluctance harbored when he came to Earth in Sentinel's stead erased from his thought processes with core-deep code edits.

He's audibly pleading by the time a pair of hollow-ended tentacles latch onto his exposed tits, draining his stores while more injectors penetrate his pouch linings, the pain barely even registering in the ocean of arousal. More tentacles would encircle the rest of his body, sneaking under his plating, twisting his limbs in their sockets, flooding his internals with more fluids.

Time becomes immaterial when locked into cycles of non-stop orgasms; if anything, he's likely spent cycles suspended in the Unmaker's sparkchamber as the dark god croons sweet praises into his head. His body doesn't get a single moment of reprieve, the tentacles ensure that every single drop of fluids in his frame is replaced with dark energon as they continue to violate him. Over time, Prowl's body gets altered to suit his master's tastes, mechanical limbs fucking the changes into his frame, carving out his new and improved form.

His hips are wider, waist denser, wings longer, tits fuller, legs stronger... processor so, so much faster. And when he's deemed sufficiently prepared, only then does Unicron command Prowl to open his chest, baring his virgin spark to the dark spark before him.

And when that corona opens, the barriers between their spark energies are no more. Like an ocean crashing into a bowl, Unicron's spark energy would flood into Prowl's microscopic ember in an instant, sending him into what feels like an eternity of pleasure as the bond takes. Unmade, and finally claimed in not just body and mind, but also in spark. Severed from Primus without the counterinfluence of the Matrix to buffer the connection. Thus, when Prowl dies, his spark would not return to the Allspark, and would instead become a part of the Unmaker's.

And so, when it is time for him to return to Cybertron, there is only one thing on his mind: his master's bidding, which is the downfall of Cybertronian society. The death of his dearest Brother's children at all cost. How fortunate for Unicron that there is no mech better situated than Prowl to orchestrate such a scheme. no? Sentinel really, really.shouldn't have shirked his duty at all.-🔌

Unicron bimbofied Prowl holy shit… Turned him into an irresistible doll that's going to tear Cybertron apart with his bare hands. and beautiful plump thighs,.

[monstersdownthepath]

Herald of Lissala: Kurshu the Undying

CR 15

Lawful Evil Large Outsider

Adventure Path: Shattered Star: Into the Nightmare Rift, pg. 88-89

"Lissala?" I hear some of you ask in confusion, "who's Lissala? I've never heard of her!" And as I turn from the chalkboard to explain, the unfortunate who asked is teleported before the decrepit and mummified Kurshu to receive a fate worse than any I could bestow: an in-depth history lesson of an empire which survived for thousands of years before being struck down by an apocalypse. I speak, of course, of ancient Thassilon--the very same empire ruled by the archmages known as the Runelords--of which Lissala was the chief deity. When Thassilon was destroyed by Earthfall, so too was Lissala's faith, an organization of millions reduced to a fraction of its glory in mere moments, which inevitably dwindled until basically nothing was left. Lissala was not killed by this event (though many believe she was), but faded into total obscurity on Golarion, leaving behind countless markers upon history and a great many of her divine creations, Kurshu included.

Even in the modern day, there are very few beings in existence who even know about Lissala, let alone worship her, but nevertheless there are some who still fervently hold onto their faith that she may one day return, chief among them Kurshu herself and the Rune Giants who remain slavishly devoted to both Lissala and the dwindling Runelords. Now and then a true Cleric of Lissala will rise up and show actual divine power, but it's a coin flip as to whether they've truly forged a connection with the lost Thassilonian deity or are being deceived by some other entity... and if they ARE, then they have Hell to pay when Kurshu tracks them down to investigate.

Having spent many thousands of years wandering Golarion and the Great Beyond in the hopes of finding traces of Lissala's presence to soothe her (which the book hearbreakingly describes as "similar to a widower smelling his dead wife's clothes in the hopes of sparking a lost memory"), Kurshu has grown to possess a paradoxical resentment for her deity and creator for abandoning her to wallow among the filth and ruin left in the wake of Thassilon's fall. Though she remains devoted, this devotion is described in a way that almost feels like a drug addiction than a true bond, with every part of Kurshu screaming for any sign of her goddess even while she's is painfully aware of how pitiful it's making her and how much she desires to simply stop and find something else. She hates Lissala. She loves Lissala. She resents her, and yet is fully aware she would gladly crawl back into her master's lap if it meant never again feeling the longing she does now. She is pitiful, but she despises the idea of being pitied. Do not bring up how relieved she looks when a Cleric of Lissala shows true promise, or when she finds some artifact or place which resonates with the power of the lost goddess.

While many Heralds possess duties they're expected to perform, Kurshu is a free agent, able to pursue her own goals. These goals continuously revolve around Lissala and Thassilon, but she is free to pursue them with her endless time, pausing only occasionally for a snack break, but we'll get to THAT in a moment. Unlike other Heralds, Kurshu has no goddess to direct her and is free to respond to the summons or prayers of ANY being that invokes her regardless of alignment should see use in it. She is also able to track down anyone wishing to learn more of Thassilon and its rune magic to teach them, and can actually replace the target of a Greater Planar Ally spell being cast by a Lawful Evil-aligned caster if they're not careful in how they word their requests for knowledge. Guarded by her own obscurity, most beings don't know just who or what they're dealing with until it's far too late, and she's seized control of them. But what will she do once she has someone on a leash? Let's find out...

Kurshu has two primary motivations in any encounter: survive first, and locate more Thassalonian lore after. To aid in her survival, she often has a menagerie of Outsiders of varying alignments and strengths at her beck and call, a small army she is prompted to stock with subject hovering between CR 8 and 10 due to her horrific hunger. You see, without Lissala's divine power flowing into her, Kurshu suffers from Divine Separation, an affliction which imposes 1 negative level every day she goes without devouring the corpse of an Outsider (including Native Outsiders; tieflings and aasimar beware!), which often means that--if she's trying to be economical with her livestock--she's encountered with anywhere between 2 and 6 negative levels to sap her otherwise potent skills.

Further confounding the issue is the fact that she refuses to consume Lawful Evil Outsiders on principal (but will if she's desperate), AND that in order to alleviate her hunger, the consumed victim must have at least 8 Hit Dice; she cannot simply feed upon Quasits to stave off her decay, she must at the very least be slaying creatures like Succubi, Choral Angels, and Pelagastr, creatures which can actually fight back against her. Every HD from a consumed Outsider instantly removes an equal number of negative levels, meaning she can "waste" her food by eating Outsiders with too many HD, something she's painfully aware of and which can often cause her to wait a little longer than advisable between feedings, weakening her if her enemies are trying to hunt her down. Similarly, if she knows she's being hunted she may burn through her supply faster than she intends trying to keep herself at full strength, forcing her into a desperate catch-22 as she runs out of minions to slow her adversaries down.

But how does she keep this army of hers in check? Limited Wish. Unlike many monster entries where Limited Wish is simply a blank check, the book goes into a lot of detail about how Kurshu manipulates this powerful spark of divine magic she retains and can use, for free, 3 times a day. She primarily uses it as Charm Monster to snare the minds of her prey, keeping them docile and willing to listen to her for two weeks per casting, weakening them with a Wished up Mind Fog if need be, though she can also save a wish casting by instead heightening her spells with a 3/day Power Surge, a swift action she can invoke to raise the save DC of the next spell she casts by +2.

In case you thought she only had her wishes available, this is far from the truth. She has a LONG list of 3/day spells available to her, including but not limited to Cure Serious Wounds, Hold Person, Stinking Cloud, and Slow, with simple but potent offensive options like Fireball, Lightning Bolt, and the reliable Vampiric Touch. She can counter enemy tricks with Dispel Magic and defend herself or a valuable ally with Displacement, and of course she can use all of these while flying*, leaving her foes to tangle with her ground-bound allies while she rains debuffs, damage, and debilitation upon them.

*NOTE: There's an error in her Archives of Nethys sheet; she's supposed to have a 60ft Fly speed (Good) maneuverability!

The book amusingly notes that her tendency to have a flock of Chaotic Outsiders with her, and her own withered appearance, causes many of her enemies to waste powerful anti-Chaos or anti-Undead spells upon her in the mistaken belief she is also some minion of chaos or undeath, often giving her just enough time to retaliate with a powerful blow of her own. In especially dramatic cases, someone may rush up and hit her with a powerful Cure Wounds or Heal spell in the hopes of ending her, only to watch her HP refill and invite her retaliation.

She's no melee fighter and prefers to keep at a distance for fear of death, but the token melee abilities she has are quite potent: her lashing tail can slam victims for 1d8+2 damage, then Grab and constrict them for 1d8+5 damage each round until they either escape or succumb to whatever spell she prepares to melt their brains with via Limited Wish (such as the crushing, no-save-allowed Geas, a spell that LW allows her to cast as a standard action!). And speaking of brain-melting, I'm sure there's a very select audience reading this that will enjoy knowing the snake woman can also shave 1d4 Intelligence off any creature she strikes with either of her two slam attacks (1d8+5 on their own), allowing her to literally beat someone stupid.

Defensively, Kurshu is a tank to a degree matched by few other casting-focused Heralds. 30 AC, DR 10 that's only bypassed by a magical cold iron weapon, and a decent 26 SR to fizzle most spells being cast by the creatures she's hoping to face. She's also got 30 Resistance to (almost) every element but Force, severely cutting down on any attempt to damage her with elemental power... unless that power is Acid damage, which not only does she have no resistance to, but is the only damage type that shuts off her Regeneration 5, an ability she will take full advantage of by keeping out of reach or even teleporting away to heal up.

Kurshu does not wish to fight to the death, and will use her 3/day Greater Teleport or Plane Shift to escape any encounter that begins to turn against her, and trying to counter that with Dimensional Anchor or similar may see her using Limited Wish to break the effect without risking a dispel check failure... or simply teleport her enemies away instead of herself. "Wait, that's not a spell effect in Pathfinder!" To which I smile and point at the fourth line in Limited Wish: "Produce any other effect whose power level is in line with the above effects, such as a single creature automatically hitting on its next attack or taking a -7 penalty on its next saving throw." The example lines on LM's spell card are merely to show the power level it can manage, its actual effect can be anything that roughly matches a 6th level Wizard or Sorcerer spell in terms of power, which a hostile Dimension Door effect to send multiple people hundreds of feet away falls into. Even if she can't get the full party with it, splitting them enough to let her either pick off one or two key members or simply flee the combat is a good enough use in her eyes.

Having spent millennia avoiding her own death with a fear matched only by mortals, Kurshu has no end to emergency options. As mentioned, she can Greater Teleport or Plane Shift away from conflicts she wants no part of up to 3/day. In addition, she has both Craft Wondrous Item and Scribe Scroll, but can combine them with her unique Spell-Like Crafting, allowing her to use her spell-like abilities to meet the prerequisites when creating magic items, something that would normally prevent her from having three or four Limited Wishes on her belt waiting for her personal supply to run out. The same can be said for her transport spells, or scrolls of Tongues (which she can use at-will), Stinking Cloud, or Slow. Such valuable items also act as potent bribes to make other Lawful creatures more likely to serve her by their own free will, if she doesn't simply wish up a pile of valuables to pay them.

Kurshu can be a frightening and powerful foe, even moreso than most other Heralds due to the lack of divine restriction she operates under. She does not need to be invited into a situation by Lissala's worshipers, she can simply show up of her own free will with a small army of fiends, monitors, and celestials at her beck and call, and now everyone simply has to deal with her presence and whatever nonsense her ensorcelled "allies" are getting up to. Why is she here? That's probably the true mystery of the adventure, and solving it brings the party one step closer to making her leave without provoking her potentially apocalyptic wrath.

You can read more about her here.

[tanoraqui]

I think the way I'd do the Oath of Fëanor in D&D would be modeled on a Paladin Oath except that the 3 or 4 elements of it now replace your subclass elements no matter WHAT class you are. You're not a Wild Magic sorcerer anymore; you're a sorcerer Oath-bound to seek the Silmarils, and if necessary kill anyone who gets in your way. You aren't a Battle Master fighter anymore; you're a fighter Oath-bound to seek the Silmarils, and if necessary kill anyone who gets in your way.

Also, if you want to cast a healing spell - any healing spell, as any class of spellcaster or by using a scroll - you first have to made a WIsdom saving throw vs your own spell save DC (Charisma if you don't have one) in order to reconnect with the part of yourself that isn't just a weapon forged in the conflagration of rage, grief and vengeance.

Elements would be something like,

1 - Oath-Bound: You can spend 10 minutes in meditation in order to sense the general direction of the Silmarils. You can sense the directions of all three of them at once. You may do this accidentally if your mind drifts for long enough; you often wake from sleep or reverie thinking about them.

Also 1 - Enduring Fire: When you go down to 0 HP no you don't, you go down to 1 HP instead. You can do this once per Long Rest. You do not have a choice as to whether or not this happens.

2 - Lighting Sparks, Fanning Flames: You have Expertise on any Persuasion or Intimidation checks relating to the Oath.

3 - Kinslayer: When in direct pursuit of a Silmaril - eg, it's within 120ft of you and you know it - you have Advantage on all attack rolls and make a critical hit on a 19 or 20.

4 - Spirit of Fire: When you roll a natural 20 or a natural 1, the nearest flammable object within 120ft of you which is not worn or carried by another creature catches fire, just kind of for ambiance. It will not go out until put out.

Also 4 - Forsaken: You are resistant to magical damage by any caster or creature classifiable as "divine." You serve something worse, now.

[twilightarc-gm]

MDZS Headcanon #4:

I think I share (again) this similar headcanon to @travalerray and @sun-lava and maybe a few others on the server...

That Suibian is actually an old blade that had already been well-cultivated by a prior master.

And of course I like to think Wei Wuxian just never knew this fact, because Jiang Fengmian couldn't let it be known he gave his ward a special sword or else his wife would see it as more favoritism. This also explains the overly plain hilt and scabbard, to oversell it as a new blade.

There's a couple of reasons why I think this headcanon works, and why canon doesn't explicitly disprove it:

1) How Suibian can seal itself when no other swords we know of seem to be able to do the same (Suihua and Shanghua both allow other users and Shanghua was a well known enough blade to be entered into a famous sword catalog). That it's considered such a rare event for it to happen.

Also that Suibian seems to be able to recognize a soul, which is different from a spiritual system, which is what the golden core would be a part of. Suibian recognizes Wei Wuxian within Mo Xuanyu's body—that has an entirely new spiritual system capable of solidifying a new golden core if Wei Wuxian worked for it.

I can’t believe it really sealed itself off. I just had to be the one to experience this kind of one-in-a-million event.

-

This sword was Suibian. This was Wei Wuxian’s sword. It had been taken by the Jin Clan of Lanling after the Siege of the Burial Mounds as a trophy for their collection. No one had ever been able to unsheathe it after that, since it had long since sealed itself of its own accord.

-

“I also heard that while no one could draw the sword, you [Jiang Cheng] were able to do so. How very curious, indeed. The sword was already sealed when it entered my collection thirteen years ago. Absolutely no one could draw it aside from the Yiling Patriarch himself…”

This fits with Jiang Fengmian's wish to take good care of Wei Ying as well as add to the golden heroic air of xianxia hero teen Wei Ying that a special sword became his.

Sentience that can recognize souls/masters across space and time is usually a very high level thing for spiritual tools for the genre—like Zidian recognizing a hierarchy of masters and obeying commands while at great distances from the master that commanded it. Yet if Suibian were new, it'd only been cultivated for 2-4 years at max and it'd be even more farfetched to believe it capable of Zidian's level of sentience. Like, Wei Wuxian is genuinely surprised it sealed itself...

Corollary Headcanon: This also means that piece of Wei Wuxian's original soul is attached to Jiang Cheng's gifted golden core.

2) The name of the sword is written on the hilt instead of the blade. Fuxue's was as well, so this seems to be common practice in this universe. But! The hilt is a part that can be replaced and equipped to a reused blade.

It follows then that Jiang Fengmian would let Wei Wuxian 'name' the sword if he's playing it off as a newly forged one. You notice some of the wording is funny here like Wei Wuxian says that "when Jiang-shushu was bestowing the sword upon me" only then does Wei Wuxian say 'whatever' and then the sword "came out of the kiln, that would be the word on [the hilt]". Obviously, this can't be taken too literally because hilts are attached after the blade is forged. Also use of the word kiln instead of forge implies casting metal which is a whole other thing. To me it sounds like a process Wei Wuxian wasn't involved in, and didn't see it all be put together.

Within the engravings upon the hilt were the carvings of two ancient characters, and what they spelled was the word “Suibian.” Wei Wuxian considerately explained, “You don’t have to say anything. I know. You must be wondering why I gave it that name? Everyone asks if there’s a special meaning to it. To be honest, though, there isn’t. It’s just that when Jiang-shushu was bestowing the sword upon me, he asked me what I wanted to call it. I thought of over twenty names at the time and wasn’t happy with any of them, so I thought, why don’t I let Jiang-shushu give it a name instead? So I responded with ‘whatever’! Who would’ve figured that when the sword was forged and came out of the kiln, that would be the word on it? Jiang-shushu said, ‘Since that’s the case, let the sword be called Suibian.’ It’s not actually such a bad name, don’t you think?”

Corollary Headcanon: The blade was Cangse-sanren's, hence it's snowy color (her name means 'hidden color' or 'colorless', you can play with the imagery considering it's a white blade) and vibes with how/why the sword was so utterly loyal. Jiang Fengmian found it when trying to back track to find Wei Ying. Again, the reason he never mentions this is the same reason in canon that he never mentions Cangse to Wei Ying—he just doesn't want to talk about it.

[todorokis-girl]

Between Shadows and Light - Kakashi x Reader (Pt 2)

I'm trying something new, and I am feeling nostalgic. Do tell me how I'm doing?

This is a slow walk, I want to savor it.

part 1 part 3

In the aftermath of the Uchiha massacre, Y/N finds herself grappling with loss, duty, and an unexpected connection with Kakashi Hatake. As she cares for Sasuke and navigates her feelings for the enigmatic Copy Ninja, their bond deepens amidst missions, village gossip, and unresolved emotions. But with Sasuke’s protectiveness and Itachi’s shadow looming over them, can Y/N truly find love and normalcy, or is her heart forever tied to the past?

masterlist

The night settled over the village like a thick, velvety blanket, muffling the sounds of daily life until only the occasional whisper of the wind remained. Y/N sat cross-legged on the porch of her home, her gaze fixed on the sky. Stars blinked down at her, their cold light a stark contrast to the warmth of the lantern that flickered beside her.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, sighing softly. The day had been long, the missions draining, but the quiet of the evening offered little reprieve. Her thoughts were restless, pulled in too many directions. Sasuke’s growing independence filled her with pride, but the gap left by his determination to forge his own path felt wider each day. And then there was Kakashi—a presence in her life that seemed to defy explanation.

The crunch of gravel underfoot drew her attention, breaking through her thoughts. She tensed instinctively, hand brushing the kunai at her side, until a familiar voice called out.

“Relax, Y/N. It’s just me.”

Kakashi stepped into the lantern’s glow, his silhouette tall and slightly hunched as if carrying the weight of the day’s battles. His mask and slouched posture were as familiar as her own reflection, and yet something about seeing him here, at her home, sent a ripple through her chest.

“Don’t you ever make noise?” she teased, her voice steadier than she felt.

“I would have, but I didn’t want to interrupt you staring dramatically at the stars.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile. “What are you doing here?”

Kakashi leaned against the railing, his gaze shifting to the lantern. “I could ask you the same. Long day?”

She nodded, resting her chin on her knees. “Long life.”

He hummed in agreement, the sound low and thoughtful. “Mind some company?”

For a moment, she hesitated. Her home was her sanctuary, her retreat from the world, but Kakashi had a way of slipping past her defenses without even trying. She gestured toward the empty space beside her.

“Suit yourself.”

He settled beside her with a quiet sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him. The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

“You don’t have to keep checking on me, you know,” she said after a while, her voice softer now.

“I’m not checking on you,” he replied, turning his head to look at her. His visible eye was warm, the usual lazy indifference replaced by something quieter, deeper. “I just… like being here.”

Her chest tightened at his words, and she dropped her gaze to the lantern’s flame, its flicker mirrored in her dark eyes.

“You always say things like that so casually,” she muttered, her tone caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

“It’s not casual,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looked at him then, really looked. There was something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that sent her heart racing. Kakashi was a master of masks, both literal and figurative, but in that moment, she could see him. The man beneath the aloof demeanor. The man who had suffered as much loss as she had, who carried his own ghosts but never let them weigh him down when it came to others.

“Kakashi…” Her voice faltered, the name hanging in the air between them.

“I know,” he said, cutting her off gently. “You don’t have to say it. But I needed to.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time in years, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. But instead of retreating into herself, she held his gaze, searching for something—anything—that could guide her through the storm of emotions churning inside her.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted, the words trembling on her lips.

“I’m not asking you to be,” he said simply. “I’m just… here. For you.”

The sincerity in his tone broke something inside her, and she closed her eyes against the sting of tears. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to lean on someone else, to believe that she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

When she opened her eyes, Kakashi was still watching her, his gaze steady and unwavering. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his gloved hand. He didn’t pull away.

The contact was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone, that even in the darkest moments, there were people willing to stand beside her.

The lantern flickered again, casting their shadows against the wall, two figures sitting side by side, finding solace in each other; with Kakashi by her side, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she could learn to live again.

The sunlight filtered softly through the thin curtains of Y/N’s home, illuminating the small kitchen where she set down a plate of rice and eggs. Across from her, Sasuke sat stiffly, his arms crossed as he stared at the steaming food. He was thirteen now, and though his frame was still wiry with youth, the lines of his jaw and the fire in his eyes hinted at the man he was determined to become.

“You’re up early,” she said, sliding a cup of tea toward him.

“You’re not,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

She rolled her eyes, sipping her tea. It was an old exchange, one that had started years ago when Sasuke was just a child trying to mask his worry whenever she returned late from missions.

Sasuke’s gaze drifted to her face, his expression hard with a faint softness in a way he rarely allowed anyone else to see. “You should rest more,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“I’ll rest when you do,” she shot back, arching a brow.

For a moment, the heaviness that often hung between them lifted. But it wasn’t long before it crept back, subtle but present.

“I saw Kakashi leaving last night,” Sasuke said, his voice carefully even.

Y/N glanced at him over the rim of her cup, unsurprised by the observation. “He stopped by. It wasn’t anything serious.”

Sasuke studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “He’s around a lot these days.”

“Is that a problem?” she asked, setting her cup down.

Sasuke shrugged, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “He’s around a lot.”

“I thought you liked him,” she said, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms.

“I tolerate him,” Sasuke corrected. “He’s not as annoying as Naruto.”

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Well, that’s high praise.”

After a moment of silence, y/n noticed the only thing he'd had so far was a couple sips of tea "You’re not eating again," her tone light but carrying an edge of exasperation. She crossed her arms and tilted her head at him.

"I’m not hungry," he muttered, his voice laced with irritation.

She didn’t buy it. "You’re going to need your strength, you know. Training on an empty stomach isn’t exactly smart."

Sasuke’s gaze flicked up to hers, sharp and stubborn. "I’m fine. I don’t need you fussing over me."

Y/N sighed, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. "Fussing? Is that what this is?" She gestured to the plate. "Sasuke, I’m trying to make sure you don’t collapse in the middle of whatever grueling regimen you’ve set for yourself today."

"I won’t collapse," he shot back. "I’m not weak."

She flinched at his words but masked it quickly. This wasn’t the first time he’d equated concern with weakness, and she doubted it would be the last. His resolve to avenge their clan had grown sharper over the years, and though she admired his determination, it left little room for softness.

"I never said you were," she replied evenly.

His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, the kitchen was silent save for the faint rustle of the wind outside. Then, without a word, Sasuke reached for the chopsticks and began eating, though his movements were slow and reluctant.

Y/N’s gaze softened as she watched him. He still carried the pain of that night like a wound that refused to heal, and no matter how much she tried to be there for him, there were some things she couldn’t take away.

And he didn’t know the truth.

Her mind drifted to Itachi, the memory of his tear-streaked face as he knelt before her on that blood-soaked night. His whispered confession, his plea for her to protect Sasuke, had become the foundation of her every decision since then.

But Sasuke hated him. Blinded by rage and grief, he saw only the brother who had slaughtered their family—not the one who had sacrificed everything to save them and the village.

"I’ll be heading out soon," Sasuke said suddenly, breaking her reverie.

"Another training session with Kakashi?" she asked, keeping her tone casual.

He nodded, pushing his empty plate aside.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. "You know, he’s been impressed with your progress. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell."

Sasuke shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes.

As he stood and moved toward the door, Y/N’s voice stopped him.

"Sasuke," she said softly.

He paused, glancing back at her.

"You’re not alone, you know," she said, her eyes meeting his. "You never have to be."

He didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint nod, he stepped outside, letting the door close behind him.

The day passed in a blur of errands and brief conversations with fellow shinobi. Y/N was no stranger to the stares and whispers that followed her through the village. The Uchiha name carried a weight that hadn’t diminished over the years, and her association with Kakashi only fueled the rumors.

"Did you see Y/N and Kakashi yesterday? Together again."

"They’re always together lately. Think there’s something going on?"

"I heard she’s the reason he’s so good with the Sharingan. Makes sense, doesn’t it?"

Y/N kept her head high as she walked through the market, ignoring the murmurs. She’d grown used to the speculation, but that didn’t mean it didn’t bother her.

"Y/N!"

The cheerful voice of Kurenai Yuhi broke through her thoughts. The kunoichi waved as she approached, her crimson eyes warm and friendly. "Running errands?"

"Something like that," Y/N replied with a small smile.

Kurenai fell into step beside her, her gaze studying Y/N thoughtfully. "You’ve been the talk of the village lately, you know."

Y/N raised a brow. "What else is new?"

Kurenai chuckled. "Fair enough. But the Kakashi thing… it’s not helping, you know."

"There’s no ‘thing,’" Y/N said firmly, though her cheeks warmed slightly.

"Right," Kurenai teased. "And I suppose the way he looks at you is just... friendly concern?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart skipped a beat at the comment. "He’s a colleague. A friend, at most."

"Uh-huh," Kurenai said, clearly unconvinced.

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind them.

"Y/N."

They turned to see Kakashi approaching, his usual lazy demeanor in place. He gave Kurenai a polite nod before focusing on Y/N.

"Walk with me?" he asked.

Kurenai shot Y/N a knowing look before excusing herself, leaving the two of them alone.

Y/N sighed, falling into step beside Kakashi. "You know you’re not helping the rumors, right?"

He glanced at her, his visible eye crinkling with amusement. "Rumors don’t bother me."

"Well, they bother me," she muttered.

Kakashi’s tone softened. "If it’s really a problem, I can keep my distance."

Y/N stopped walking, turning to face him. "That’s not what I meant."

He looked at her, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged.

"Good," he said simply.

Y/N shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you put up with me," he replied, his voice laced with warmth.

She didn’t respond, but as they continued walking, she couldn’t ignore the steady presence of Kakashi at her side—or the way her heart seemed to ache with a mix of confusion and longing.

It was only a matter of time before the lines between them blurred further, but for now, she chose to focus on the path ahead, one step at a time.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Close Shave

[A/N: What up homies, it’s me, ya girl, steadily adding to my Honorable Men-tions while my husbands watch me like 👀 bitch?

This fic is inspired by the scene & song from Skyfall- I hope you like it :) Feedback is always appreciated, as well as requests for fics or new characters to explore!]

007 glides silently through the doorway, a jungle cat on the prowl for his next meal. He eases the door shut with a soft click, then moves stealthily down the hall in search of his target. A single lamp illuminates the modest London flat casting wicked shadows on the walls surrounding a small feminine figure. He creeps forward, ready to pounce, the next phase of his plan already formulating in his brain.

“Hello, James,” you murmur, not even sparing him a glance as you casually flip to the next page of your novel.

His warm chuckle caresses your skin like a lover’s gentle touch, his honeyed voice stoking the fire in your belly spurred to life by his mere presence. “How is it that I can sneak up on assassins but not a museum curator?”

Your mouth turns up in a smile and you offer your cheek in greeting, scrunching your nose at the feeling of coarse stubble against your skin. “I can smell the cologne I bought you for Christmas from a mile away.“

“Hm.”

“And I may have pestered Q into telling me when you’d be home.”

“Pestered?”

Folding your legs under your body, you swivel to meet his steely blue gaze with a grin. “Bullied,” you concede. “Only so I didn’t almost accidentally kill you with a fireplace poker.”

“Again.”

You wag your book in his face with a raised eyebrow. “That’s what you get for breaking and entering at four in the bloody morning with no prior warning!”

He grunts in concession before easily lifting you off the couch, only to take your seat and tuck you against his body. You hum in delight at the prospect of having him home, however short lived his visit may be, placing your book aside before nuzzling into his chest and pressing kisses to the underside of his strong jaw. Scraping your nails along his cheek, you muse, “You need to shave.”

He gives you an indignant look, carding his fingers through your hair. “Some women happen to like a beard, you know.”

“Then go break into one of their homes,” you fire back, letting your teeth graze along the path forged previously by your lips.

He lets out a throaty laugh that dissolves into a soft moan as you work your way over his jaw to press your lips to his. You share a few innocent pecks before your longing takes over, and you shift to straddle his lap as James’ tongue slips past your willfully parted lips. His fingers work their way under your shirt, trailing along your ribcage before settling on your hips with a gentle squeeze. You release a contented sigh into his mouth, all of the tension leaving your body and allowing you to relax against him.

Running your nose over the sharp planes of his jaw, you murmur, “Let me. Please?”

“Let you what?” He nibbles at the spot just south of your ear and you gasp, rocking against him and feeling him growing hard beneath you in response. Static fills your mind as your senses are overwhelmed by everything that is James, but you press on valiantly. “Help you shave.”

Calloused digits knead the soft skin of your thighs as he hums, contemplating. “Is this another attempt on my life? Replacing the poker with a razor?”

“James!” you admonish, laughing before growing serious as your fingers dance across his handsome features. “You know that my expertise lies in handling art delicately. What kind of curator would I be if I allowed any harm to come to my favorite exhibit?”

He turns his head to press a kiss to each of your palms, then meets your gaze with a cheeky grin. “That’s all I am to you, hm? A specimen to be ogled?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you retort with a roll of your eyes. Climbing off his lap and taking his hand to lead him to the master bathroom, you tack on, “You conveniently double as a bodyguard.”

You slide the cushioned seat from your vanity over to the sink and tap it twice with a coy smile. James settles into his spot obediently while you hunt through the cabinets for his straight razor and shaving cream, placing them on the counter before moving to stand behind him. You study your reflections in the mirror as you run your fingers through his hair, your body growing warm at the sight of him subtly shifting his hips when you tug on the short strands. You walk your fingers down his neck and over his broad shoulders, kneading the taut muscles along the way to the apex of his dress shirt. “May I?”

He opens his eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror, ocean blue eclipsed by a sea of inky black. “Always, my love.” His voice has dropped to a low growl that sends a thrum through you. Deft fingers hastily unbutton his shirt with the promise of exploring his body after too many days and nights spent apart. You tug the fabric off and toss it aside, kissing his neck while your hands glide along his muscular chest. “Darling,” he rumbles out through a laugh to get your attention, and you look up to find several marks blooming across his previously unadulterated skin. With a bashful smile, you respond, “I just can’t help myself around you.”

Rounding the chair to squeeze yourself into the space between his legs and the counter, you lower yourself to your knees. He watches your every move with rapt fascination, his breathing picking up ever so subtly when you reach forward to release him from the confines of his fitted slacks. You tug his pants and underwear off before delicately trailing your fingers over his length, marveling at the weight in your hand and how responsive he is to your touch. Peeking up at him from beneath your lashes, you lean in and swipe your tongue over the head, a needy whine escaping your lips at the taste of him. “Darling,” he calls out again, now with an edge to his voice, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with forced restraint. He threads his fingers through your hair and gives a gentle tug, guiding you forward once more. You wrap your lips around him in earnest, gliding down his length while one hand comes up to massage his balls, the other resting on his lower abdomen. With each swirl of your tongue and pull of your lips, the toned muscle beneath your fingertips ripples and liquid heat pools between your aching thighs.

Replacing your mouth with your hand, you look up at James with nothing short of utter devotion in your misty eyes. “I missed you so much, my love,” you rasp out, an involuntary shudder racing down your spine when his fingertips brush over the apple of your cheek.

Tucking his hand under your chin, he directs you to stand and pulls you close for a tender kiss. You continue twisting your wrist along his length as his tongue slides against yours, a sharp gasp punching out of you when he unceremoniously rips your underwear off and runs his middle finger along your slit, the useless lace now pooled on the floor.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he rumbles lowly, slipping his finger inside you and groaning in appreciation at how greedily you clench around him, “you really did miss me, hm?”

“More-” You whimper into his mouth when he adds a second finger, and then a third, lovingly preparing you for his thick cock. “More than I can even describe.”

He draws his fingers out, caressing your sensitive walls as he does so, before replacing your hand with his own at the base of his cock. The obscene sound of your spit and slick gliding along his length as he draws his hand over himself has you clenching around nothing, a desperate whine of “James,” falling past your pouting lips. He soothes you with sweet words, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth while his free hand comes up to your hip to guide you down onto him. You cry out at the exquisite stretch, nails digging into his shoulders as you circle your hips to sheathe him inside of you as deeply as possible.

Tucking your face into his neck to pepper his glistening skin with kisses, you beg, “Don’t move. Just let me feel you.”

He hums in concession, gently tugging your oversized sleep shirt off before running his fingers along the column of your spine. The tingling sensation has you rolling your hips against him, moaning when the movement presses the head of his cock against just the right spot.

“Now, darling,” he mumbles against your hair, his large hand possessively cradling the back of your neck, “I do believe we came in here to accomplish something.”

“Can’t remember,” you sigh out. “Too full.”

His ensuing chuckle warms you from the inside out, and you gasp when he leans forward to reach the countertop, shifting his position inside you. He presses something cold into your hand, and you blearily open your eyes to find his razor glinting at you in the muted bathroom light.

With a sigh, you relent, “Fine,” but his firm grip on your hips stops you from rising. “But then how will I-” Your line of questioning comes to an abrupt halt when you spot the smirk playing on his sinful lips. “Oh.”

“Go ahead, love,” he croons, inclining his head toward the shaving cream while his hands come to settle on the globes of your ass. You gather some of the foam between your fingertips, then trace two delicate lines on his cheek in the shape of a heart. Glancing at your work in the mirror, he questions, “How can you be so damn adorable while full of my cock?”

You answer him with only a wink, then get to work coating his stubble with the shaving foam. Once he’s sufficiently lathered up, you ease the blade out and plant your non-dominant hand firmly on his shoulder. “Don’t move, James,” you instruct softly.

He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, smiling at the way your tongue peeks out between your lips in concentration, and murmurs, “I won’t.”

You run the blade down James’ face in precise, delicate strokes, mewling in delight every time you stretch to rinse the razor off and he pulses inside of you. Several minutes into your ministrations, he arches his hips against yours with a ragged sigh, moving impossibly deeper as he cranes his neck to look in the mirror. “Halfway there. Doing well, sweetheart.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode,” you attempt a laugh, but it morphs into a strangled moan.

“That would certainly be less than optimal.” He runs his index finger down the side of your neck as you take your next swipe of the blade, your breath hitching when he wraps his hand around your throat and adds the smallest bit of pressure.

The razor stills on his cheek, momentarily forgotten, and you shiver in delight. “What are you doing?”

“Focus on the task at hand,” he chides softly, and you obediently return your attention to the remainder of his beard even as his other hand comes up to massage one of your breasts. You clench around him reflexively, and the hand on your throat squeezes in kind.

“James,” you growl out, this time purposefully flexing your walls around his throbbing cock. He answers your show of defiance with one of his own, both hands tightening their grip and eliciting a whine from you.

“Tit for tat, darling,” he mutters softly, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a wicked smile.

With every movement, every precise flick of your wrist, every droplet of water running down your arm and dripping onto your thigh, your walls squeeze around James’ cock and his fingers press deeper into your skin, and your vision starts going blurry around the edges with need. Finally, mercifully, your lover sits before you clean shaven once again, and you smile proudly at your work.

Nuzzling your nose against his, you sigh at the idea of having to separate yourself from him. “I forgot a towel.”

“Top cabinet?”

“Mhm.”

Tucking his hands underneath your thighs, James stands and settles you on the counter, still sheathed in your warmth. He pulls back to open the cabinet and collect a towel, and you keen at the loss of the fullness until he slots himself back between your thighs.

“Christ,” you hiss, digging your nails into his biceps and arching your back.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs smoothly in response, hiding his smirk behind the cloth as he pats his face dry. You lock your ankles together behind his back, shifting closer and trying to entice him to move. “This is turning downright torturous.”

Dropping the towel on the counter, he shifts his attention back to you and lovingly squeezes the pillow of your thigh. “I always take care of you, don’t I?”

“Sooner rather than later would be preferred in this instance, Bond,” you sass back.

“Patience is a virtue,” he hums with an infuriating calmness to his voice even as he draws his hips back and drags his cock along your sensitive walls.

“I wouldn’t- oh god- consider what we’re doing to be entirely virtuous,” you answer through a moan, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in an attempt to quiet the noises spilling out of your mouth.

“Darling girl,” he tuts softly when he recognizes you’re trying to muffle your cries, fingers ghosting over your cheek before he grips your face and his hips pick up speed. The pressure has you releasing your lip from beneath your teeth, your mouth falling open and allowing wanton moans to escape. James tucks his other hand behind your knee, tugging you closer and letting him sink deeper with each stroke. He smiles down at you when you call out his name and rake your nails down his back, cooing, “That’s it, love. Let me hear you.”

Ever obedient, you moan unabashedly, your cries competing with the sinful sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the marble bathroom. “James! Oh god, James,” you keen, clawing at his shoulders for purchase as your consciousness threatens to leave you, “I can’t- I’m going to-”

He hungrily mouths at your skin, soft pants falling past his lips between kisses as he makes his way up the curve of your throat. Moving his hand to grip the back of your neck, he draws you close to his body and grits out, “Cum for me, my darling.”

You feel your body shudder with the force of your orgasm washing over you, every nerve alight and buzzing as the sound of James’ beautiful moans fill your ears. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out, your eyes rolling back when you feel the warmth of his release painting your walls. Holding your waist firmly, he presses his hips against yours as his cock twitches inside you, claiming your body completely.

“Good girl,” he pants in your ear, and you whimper at the praise.

“Yours,” you sigh out, completely spent. You turn your head to dot lazy kisses along his cheek, your lips curling upward at the feeling of his freshly smooth skin.

He notes your self-satisfied smile and chuckles warmly against the shell of your ear. “Pleased?”

“Mhm,” you respond sleepily, nuzzling his face and emitting a sound dangerously close to that of a purr.

“I’m glad,” he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. “Shower?”

“Can’t,” you mumble. Swinging your legs, you clarify, “Jelly.”

“Bath, then.”

James guides your arms around his neck and you latch on obediently as he lifts your sore body off the countertop. He slips out of you when he hitches you higher up in his arms, and you mumble out a protest despite the aching between your legs.

“What, darling, haven’t had enough?”

Fighting sleep, you tighten your hold on him and nip at his ear. “Never.”

“Naughty thing,” he chides playfully, landing a light pat on your ass before setting you on the edge of the tub.

“You know,” you begin, trailing your fingers along his back while he adjusts the water temperature, “it’s your fault for being so utterly irresistible.”

He grumbles out an undoubtedly unamused response under his breath before climbing into the tub and beckoning you to join him. Carefully maneuvering your shaky legs, you settle back against James, resting your head in the crook of his neck and sighing as the warm water caresses your sore muscles.

“Wet your hair for me.” You stifle a yawn, barely opening your eyes to fix James with a quizzical look. Always a man on a mission, he holds your gaze, unrelenting. “Humor me, darling, will you?”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, you grip the sides of the tub and scoot your body forward until you can lower your hair below the waterline. After a thorough soak, you sit up and nestle yourself back between his legs, closing your eyes once more.

You hear the telltale snap of a bottle being uncapped, and then James’ expert fingers are massaging your scalp as the scent of vanilla and honeysuckle pervades your senses. You let out a hum of pure content, thoroughly enjoying being pampered by your love.

“I can’t explain,” he peppers your shoulders with delicate kisses between words as he works his fingers through your hair, “just how much I missed you.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” you sigh, responding to the pressure of his fingertips by tilting your head to grant him better access.

His silky smooth voice settles like a warm blanket on your skin as he runs his nose along your neck, and you shiver in delight. “You are absolutely exquisite.” He splays one hand possessively across your belly, the other dancing over the curve of your hip. “Divine.” Moving to grip your chin, he turns your face towards him and you feel his warm breath mingling with your own. “My own personal masterpiece.”

Drawing a trail of water down the column of your throat, between the valley of your breasts, and lower still to the apex of your thighs, he eases your folds apart once more and sheathes himself inside of you. Your mouth drops open wordlessly and he takes the opportunity to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

“You took such good care of me, my love,” he murmurs, delicately threading his fingers through the soapy strands of your hair as his hips press up against yours. “Now let me take care of you.”

[grillpartshub-blog]

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[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Oh, hello!

It’s time to replace my original pinned post with a more permanent choice, so here’s the quick, updated scoop on what you can expect here:

I love all things Tolkien and looking at, thinking about, and talking about those things. So I will absolutely reblog your fan art of Thranduil draped across his throne in that sultry pose or like your fic about how Tuor came to love Voronwë as a brother on their long journey to Gondolin. But in my heart, I’ve always been a Rohan kind of girl. That’s where you’re going to find my interest most often drawn, and it’s what I write about almost exclusively (with the very occasional tangent into Haldir-related content, which I understand is totally inconsistent, but the heart wants what the heart wants!).

So, if you could talk about the Eorlingas for hours on end, if Éomer is the Middle Earth king of your dreams, if you find yourself unreasonably attached to minor characters like Háma and Elfhelm or have tons of opinions about how amazing Théodred is, if you’re personally invested in Karl Urban’s dimples …maybe we should be friends! And if you like those things, then maybe you’d get something out of my fics. Or not. Either way is fine!

Those fics are now collected in one place below, which I’ll try to keep updated. I make no claim that they are fine works of literature, but they make me happy and that’s their primary purpose. While they’re all consistent with each other and exist in my unified headcanon, they tend to be one shots based on some particular thing I was interested in–a specific plot point, an unanswered question, a desire to see a certain character grow/develop a certain way. Anyway, you get the idea. So thanks for being here, click through to the master list (such as it is) and FORTH EORLINGAS!

Rohan: (stories in rough in-universe chronological order)

Éomer-focused:

TFW Siblings Prompt: Éowyn is frustrated by Éomer’s attempt to protect her from Wormtongue.

Turning Points: Éomer is back from the war of the ring with a changed worldview and an intention to get married. Includes the first look at the character who becomes his wife.

A Vigilant Eye: A marital scene between Éomer and his wife, Mereliss, focused on Éomer’s stubborn need to never admit weakness. This is as spicy as any of my fics get, which is to say…only very mildly spicy.

A Need of the Soul: Éomer is teaching Faramir how to speak Rohirric as a surprise for Éowyn. Cute brotherly bonding moments, remembrances of Boromir and Théodred and lots of horse talk.

TFW Parent-Child Prompt: Éomer becomes a father for the first time and has lots of feelings about it.

TFW Extended Family Prompt: Éomer’s father in law, Elfhelm, realizes what he means to Éomer in light of the many losses Éomer has already experienced.

Nowhere Else: A look back at how Éomer met his wife, told from both sides of the meeting. Includes a look at several other sweet moments from over their years together.

Théodred and Éomer art by Valeria Salo

Théodred-focused:

TFW Cut Ties Prompt: Traces the unshakable bond forged by shared grief between Théodred and Éomer, enduring all the way to Théodred’s literal last words.

What Do We Say: Théodred and little Éowyn have a heart to heart when she starts tormenting the women who are potential brides for him.

Landlocked: Théodred gives teen Éowyn some life advice on a rare trip to the sea. (Rohan Secret Santa 2024 ficlet)

Into the Breach: My most comprehensive look at Théodred the person and his backstory, told in the few days leading up to his death. It's more or less my answer to the question of what Théodred was doing in/around major canon events from LOTR. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Ties That Bind: A look at how Wormtongue’s manipulation of Théoden affected the larger royal family, as seen through Éomer’s experience when Théoden had him jailed. Théodred's fiancee is a key element of this fic, so I'm putting it with the other Théodred stories though he's not directly in it.

A Life Interrupted: Éomer reckoning with the death of Théodred. My original story with details of Théodred's life and my HC for him.

Háma-focused:

Háma art by @ rinthecap

Those Worth Fighting For: Family fluff of Háma being a sweet dad to his little girl while shielding her from the reality of the increasing danger posed by Isengard.

TFW Freeform Prompt: Háma and his wife struggle with how to protect their children from the increasing likelihood of war.

Hewn and Sewn: Háma’s experiences both living and dying as a soldier.

Not This Time: The discovery of Háma’s body after the battle of Helm’s Deep has major consequences.

Other Rohirrim:

TFW Ancestors Prompt: Théoden’s father, Thengel, returns from exile against his will to take up the throne in Rohan.

Unwary: The story of the deaths of Théodwyn and Éomund, the parents of Éomer and Éowyn.

Untitled intro piece about Guthláf: A short musing on what it means to Guthláf to be Théoden’s banner bearer.

Where Now the Horse and the Rider: The love story of Guthláf and Wídfara, trying to hold it together as the world falls apart around them. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8.

Untitled ficlet on Elfhild: A short intro to Théodred’s mother, who had a premonition she wasn’t going to survive his birth.

Lórien:

Three Weeks on the Nimrodel: Haldir meets his perfect match while posted for 3 weeks with a substitute marchwarden who understands and appreciates his natural reserve.

The Guardian: Haldir finds a lost and scared little human girl while on patrol in Lórien. Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Epilogue.

[udretlnea]

The Divine City: Some Slices of Life

Part 1 \ Part 2 \ Part 3 (here) \ Part 4

It wasn’t my fault. So no, you can’t blame me. I didn’t know anything and thus didn’t know what to expect. It hadn't even been an hour when there came a loud crash where I organized the swords to realize something was wrong. Very wrong.

Oh no, here it comes- the blacksmith apprentice mentally braced himself.

“Andre! Git over here!” A thick, deep voice yelled from several rooms over.

The teen opened his mouth. “Yes sir!”

He stepped quickly into the front desk of the store. To his left were several silver swords lying on the ground. Andre wasted no time picking them up carefully and replaced them on the shelves. With a polite bow, he retreated to the forge as quickly as he entered.

The apprentice sat back in front of the anvil. His gaze leveled at the furnace as he watched with observant eyes. Currently, his job was to maintain the fire and make sure it wouldn’t go out. Andre silently reminisced while observing the flames. 

“Come here boy,” Master Hugh beckoned him over to the furnace. A young Andre grimaced as the temperature increased when he stepped closer. The kid pulled out a chair and leaned forward to watch.

Master Hugh picked up a pair of tongs. With dexterity that contrasted with his bulky, towering form he picked up a white hot rectangular piece of metal and placed it on the anvil. He got to hammering immediately. It got flatter with every swing until it was practically flat as paper.

Then, the blacksmith picked it up again and dunked it in a bucket of water. Steam hissed as the metal was cooled almost immediately. After several seconds, Hugh inserted it back into the furnace. The process repeated itself several times over until it produced a sharp blade piece for a sword.

Master Hugh picked up an empty grip and laid it out. He carefully inserted it into a slot and proudly held it in the light.

Andre sighed. That memory was one of many that he cherished. A part of him thought it was childish, but it couldn’t deny that that was what gave him a reason to get out of bed every morning.

He wordlessly got up to pump more air into the fire to prevent it from going out. Andrew was about to sit down when he heard footsteps approaching.

Master Hugh’s wide body took up the whole door frame. Light brown eyes zeroed in on the apprentice. 

“Andre. I need to go meet a potential client over by the commerce district,” said the stocky man. He walked around the teen to hang his apron on the wall before grabbing a plain brown cloak. “I need you to watch the store for a while.”

“You want me to…man the store?” He repeated with wide eyes.

“Aye. And don’t worry about customers because the lunch rush has ended. I imagine people will be busy preparing for Volksfest and all that. But still, try not to mess it up like ya did with the sword display, eh?” The blacksmith smirked.

Andre distantly felt his ears grow red. In lieu of a response he simply nodded. Without another word, Master Hugh walked out of the room. The distant sound of a door opening and closing told Andre he was now alone.

Andre let himself forget about maintaining the furnace. He went to his room where he examined his appearance. Using his fingers to comb his short black hair back, he did his best to look appropriate. At least, as appropriate as a teenager in an apron and plain clothes could in a highly respectable shop.

Still, managing the store shouldn’t be terribly difficult. I’ve seen Master Hugh do it enough times that it’s practically embedded in memory! He thought as he went to the counter with a chair in hand. 

Andre rested his hands on both cheeks as he stared out the window. Behind the glass, scores of people were walking past. He absentmindedly began counting the number of people who were merchants or civilians as if determined to make some kind of mental record.

The count had gone up to 201 civilians and 99 merchants when the door opened. 

Andre automatically put on a smile and recited a line almost robotically. “Welcome! Feel free to browse our wares. Claymores are in the back by the way.”

The customer that entered was a young lady - probably a teenager judging from her looks - with blonde hair and red eyes. She wore a simple green dress under a plain tan coat. Not exactly what Andre would call “loaded with money,” but he wasn’t complaining. 

She blinked at him as if registering who just greeted her. Andre saw confusion in her eyes before it settled on acceptance. He sat up straight when she made her way to him.

“Do you have any knives?” the girl asked, crossing her arms with what Andre thought was a guarded expression.

What kind of ominous sounding question is that? He thought bemusedly. Andre nodded. “Yeah!”

He pointed to a shelf in the far corner where they usually kept the more general supplies.

The girl nodded as thanks. She came back with a single knife, then fished out a small pouch of Mora. “Thank you for having these in stock. This was literally the the third place I stopped at. I can’t believe that no other shops here sell-”

She paused as if she suddenly realized she was talking out loud. “Er, anyway. I appreciate the good service here.”

Andre thought she was embarrassed since she sputtered that out quickly. The girl turned and left as quickly as she entered. 

The apprentice made a mental note of the vent before returning to idle mode. Hours passed into the evening and Andre just switched the sign’s shop to closed when he heard the back door open. Heavy footsteps made their way to the front.

“Welcome back Master-” Andre turned to see his teacher covered head to toe in…white powder? “Uh…did everything go okay?”

The man simply grunted in response. He disappeared into the hallway.

///////////////

A/N: Andre...Andre. He's definitely one of the simpler characters I've ever written. Dude wants to follow in his master's footsteps. I'm 110% sure that point was made, but it's pleasing enough to me.

Last one before stuff hits the fan and things can really get going. I can't wait to shake things up!

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"Sir": Hm. Apart from the drawing lacing texture I'd say this chapter was a success.

P-34: Indeed. And Andre seems like a reliable fellow.

"Sir": The thing about blacksmiths is that you can rely on them to make a good weapon. Usually.

P-34: Speaking of, did ya see what happened with Hugh back there?

"Sir": Bro, how can I not? I can't believe we got that on camera!

P-34: I know-huh? Keyboard clicking That's...odd.

"Sir": What's wrong?

P-34: I'm getting readings. From the vault? But it's been dormant for years...

"Sir": I'll go check it out. Stay here and keep monitoring for energy signatures. Hopefully it's just a false alarm.

[acornminiatureslog]

Hounds of Terra Lore Overview

Ok, I've been trying to get more of this stuff written down, so here's a crack at that. This is just bullet points and timelines, though I am trying to improve my writing skills enough to throw together a short story down the line.

The Hounds of Terra are a successor chapter of the Brazen Claws, established as part of the 23rd founding in late M37. They were granted the world of Euros IV on the furthest reaches of the eastern fringe as a chapter homeworld. The intent with their founding was to secure the region and allow for the withdrawal of other imperial forces. The Quintand Gamma subsector the world resides in was key in keeping more easily secured worlds supplied, even if the subsector itself was not good for much more than raw resources.

A lieutenant of the Brazen Claws serving within the deathwatch, Devros Avidon, was selected to be the chapter's first Chapter Master, as the High Lords desired a seasoned commander to be appointed so far from terra. Besides Avidon, a handful of squads who survived the Brazen Claw's assault on the Eye of Terror but believed their chapter destroyed were directed by the administratum to the newfound chapter. Undetected in these veterans, the taint of the warp had twisted the fine details of their geneseed.

Over the next few decades, the chapter's apothecaries were more and more confounded by the decline of the chapter's geneseed. Eventually discerning the cause, the chapter command fiercely debated what was to be done. The chaplaincy eventually won out, arguing that as no marines had turned to chaos, this was merely another test the chapter must endure, pushing themselves as far as they can bear in service to Him on Terra.

The apothecarium and forges of the tech marines together forged the new path for the chapter's aspirants. The mutations had destroyed the function of the Sus-an Membrane and Omophagea, as well as put the Betcher's Gland and Larraman's Organ into an overactive state. In addition, the geneseed was no longer receptive to the standard pool of aspirants, the apothecarium finding that women were more receptive to the chapter's geneseed than men. Among more mundane medical complications, his made it so each aspirant would have to endure their throat being burned out from inside before they could be fitted with corrective augmetics. Any aspirant deemed to not have endured as they should is denied augmetics, forced to succumb to their injuries.

This means that the entirety of the modern chapter is equipped with augmetic vocoders where their voice boxes once were, with the standard rite of passage for an aspirant elevated to full marine is to allow them a few days and the aid of a tech marine to customize their vocoder's sound. As a result, the common euphemism for promotion out of the scout company within the Hounds of Terra is for one to "earn their voice."

As a marine of the Hounds of Terra weathers multiple campaigns, they develop a network of scar tissue from nearly any wound. Over time, this will impede the marine's motion, requiring amputation and replacement with augmetics. By the time a marine is granted the rank of Veteran, they are likely to have replaced two or more limbs.

In the lead up to the great rift, the Hounds of Terra lost their homeworld, driving the chapter to the stars. As the eye of terror spread and darkened the light of the astronomicon, the Hounds crossed paths with the remnants of another Iron Hands successor, the Twilight Hawks. The Hawks had fallen prey to the predations of chaos, losing most of their chapter and their fortress monastery to a slaaneshi uprising.

Given the unprecedented circumstances, the Twilight Hawk's first captain, Tetys, agreed to have the remnants of his chapter be integrated into the Hounds of Terra, benefiting from the Hound's resources, while the Hounds were able to stabilize their chapter's geneseed with the careful introduction of what reserves the Hawks had.

The acquisition of primaris modification further improved the stock o the chapter, although it also caused a crisis within the chapter's ranks. An argument started by lieutenant Duskova escalated into a shipboard engagement, resulting in the self destruction of the strike cruiser Adamant Shield.

At present, the chapter is doing what it can to support the imperial forces out in the eastern fringe, whilst also seeking the means to refit the chapter flagship into a vessel truly worthy to hold the title of fortress monastery.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

OC Masterlist

OCS CARRD // OCS SPREADSHEET

Band of Brothers

Valerie Harmon - Once a bright-eyed university student, fascinated by all things art history, Valerie's life in France is thrown into chaos by the Nazi invasion, severing her from her family back in Vermont. A chance encounter with an Easy Company Captain reignites previously forgotten hopes of ever seeing home again, but even this is not without its trials.

Camille Whitney - Following the death of her youngest brother on the Western Front, Camille puts her nurse training to use and accompanies Easy Company on their journey through Europe. Utterly family-oriented, she finds new brothers in the men around her, but none could replace the one she has lost.

Faye Warren - An aspiring journalist, driven by the legacy of her father, Faye finds frustration in her line of work, constrained by the expectations thrust upon female writers. In a last act of desperation, she chases a story all the way from London to Nazi-occupied France, hoping to find an opportunity amongst the men of Easy Company.

The Pacific

Anna March - After her family is rocked by horrendous tragedy, Anna finds herself permanently changed by the time her childhood friend, Eugene Sledge, returns from war. Both irrevocably scarred by the events of the last few years, they must come to terms with the new people before them whilst still struggling with old, long buried feelings.

SAS: Rogue Heroes

Diana Fayed - Adopted out of poverty by an infamous army general, Diana’s whole life has revolved around proving her worth and becoming the soldier her father believes she can be. Overlooked and dismissed by her superiors, she finally finds a place among the unruly ranks of the newly formed L Detachment, a group that will prove to be her biggest challenge yet.

Carmen Harry - Raised by her grandmother in South London, Carmen has found life to be stacked against her from a young age. However, using her own keen intelligence to drive her, she secures a position working for MI5 when war breaks out, travelling to Cairo as part of Security Intelligence Middle East. With unseen threats around every corner, Carmen must fight in the face of terrible loss to keep those relying on her alive.

Jonah Harry - Carmen's twin brother, Jonah is both her twinned soul and her polar opposite all at once. When a childhood of failed education and unruly recklessness drove him towards the military, he found himself becoming the perfect recruit for the newly founded SAS, a regiment his sister had indirectly helped to conceive. But when a terrible accident takes Jonah's life, his memory continues to forever change the lives of those around him.

Masters of The Air

Abbotts' Angels - Flying their bomber 'The Seraphim', the ten members of the Angels crew couldn't be more different from one another if they tried. But when war brings them together, they will forge a bond so strong that not even the destruction wreaked by conflict could tear them apart.

Frances 'Frankie' Bevan - A qualified aircraft mechanic and member of the WAAF, Frankie has spent her entire youth fascinated by all things mechanical. Her latest posting at Thorpe Abbotts promises to be no different from her previous jobs at first, but the 100th Bomb Group are nothing like the RAF pilots she's used to, and Frankie's about to learn that the pain of war will find you no matter where you are.

Georgina 'George' Aarons - Frankie's best friend and a telegraph operator at Thorpe Abbotts, George's budding romance with the pilot Curtis Biddick was only ever going to end in tragedy.

Susie Lamb - A Captain and driver in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, Susie has a reputation for being perhaps the most disliked woman in all of Thorpe Abbotts. However, as the sixth of eight children from a near-impoverished family, it becomes alarmingly clear that the answers to her present lay in her past, and she's not quite the woman everyone thinks she is.

Gwen Dastrup - Chicago native and daughter to Danish immigrants, Gwen's dreams of becoming a published historian are dashed by the breakout of war, and she volunteers with the Red Cross, becoming a clubmobile girl at Thorpe Abbotts. But when she catches the attention of John Brady and RAF Captain Michael Fenton, she is torn between choosing the man she loves and the easiest route to achieving the career she's always aspired to.