#assassin!fabs

[theerurishipper]

Twitter AU Masterpost

I decided to compile a list of my Twitter posts, and just put in a little summary of what goes on in each so anyone who wants to can find whichever one they want.

Now also on AO3:

Part 1

Damian bullies Bruce and Dick messes with him, Bruce simps for Superman on main and Clark and Damian take on a hater in the replies, Jason wants to be verified and his siblings bully him a little.

Part 2

A fan of Nightwing's gets a picture of him and Robin and Red Robin battle it out in the replies while Flash stirs up shit, Donna posts a picture of Dick and the Fab Five take on a hater, Damian texts Dick about his profile picture, a lucky Gothamite snaps not one but two pictures of Batblob.

Part 3

Nightwing posts a picture and the people of Bludhaven take the time to appreciate him, Red Robin reminisces about kicking Red Hood and Red Hood gets bullied some more, Batman posts a picture of baby Robin!Dick and everyone coos over it, Riddler questions how Batman got his Twitter handle.

Part 4

A warning is issued for Gotham vigilantes about Batman and Catwoman getting busy and Nightwing's trauma about this is addressed, the debate over Batman's sex life is put to rest, Talia issues a clarification and sets the record straight, Gotham discusses Bruce's emo era.

Part 5

Lex hateposts about superheroes and Bruce annihilates him in the replies, there's an investigation into the matter of Luthor's handle, a mysterious troll makes an appearance, Dick questions Clark, Bruce reveals his and Clark's shenanigans from Dick's Robin days, and a hater is given even more power.

Part 6

Lex is salty and Lois and Clark tear him apart, Superman posts a picture and is accused of plagiarism, Nightwing starts a trend, Babs takes issue with her overuse of coffee being questioned.

Part 7

Oracle and Red Hood reveal the story of why Joker is banned from Twitter, the people of Gotham reminisce about an old tradition, Bruce gets roasted by Alfred, Damian has a wholesome interaction.

Part 8

Damian bonds with Dick and gets trolled by Steph, Spoiler finally creates an account, Spoiler poses a question to the people of Gotham, Batman is bullied by his kids and a billionaire.

Part 9

Spoiler gets a present, mistakes have consequences, Red Robin questions Nightwing's decisions, a resident of North Dakota has a life changing experience.

Part 10

Some well-meaning Gothamites stand up for Red Hood and Oracle gives a history lesson, an old face makes a less than triumphant return, the fab five have some fun, a relatable photo of Batman reveals something more and a new player enters the picture.

Part 11

Harley Quinn beats up Joker, Flash is disgusted by Nightwing, Batman's hypocrisy is revealed, Superman has some fun at Batman's expense.

Part 12

Black Canary fondly remembers a better time, Green Arrow confronts Batman, Green Arrow issues an apology, Oliver schemes and plots, a well-kept secret is finally revealed.

Part 13

Arsenal reveals a personal secret, the people discuss some new revelations, the fab five weigh in on Arsenal's problems, Nightwing takes a stand.

Part 14

The Gotham villains share some opinions, Two-Face and Riddler have an argument, Flash finally picks a side, Green Arrow evades responsibility.

Part 15

Some observers share some hot takes, the Superfam witnesses a breakdown, Lois asks Bruce for help, Dick puts an end to the ongoing feud, everyone starts to move on.

Part 16

Deathstroke shares a story of a failed assassination, someone loses their Twitter privileges, the Court of Owls tries to recruit Nightwing, Talon gets more than he bargained for, some very recent history repeats itself.

Part 17

Bruce is a meme, The League has some concerns about their monthly budget, Nightwing's personality confuses everyone who knows him.

Part 18

Bruce's mistakes reveal his most defining character trait, an early present for Superman causes chaos in the present, Superman's reactions to the goings on lead to some pleasant destructive results, Bruce's inability to understand memes is discussed

Part 19

Red Hood shares an embarrassing opinion, Red Robin starts an argument, Superman wins massively, the superhero community can agree on one thing.

Part 20

The villains discuss their least favorite Robin, Nightwing defends his pettiness, Red Hood endures some misplaced blame, Tim explains his masterful plan, Jason finally gets a win.

Part 21

The Court of Owls is humbled, Nightwing's friends face a problem, a culprit is found responsible, Arsenal gets in hot water.

Part 22

One of Bruce's childhood obsessions is revealed, Riddler tries to call out Batman and runs his mouth online, Riddler issues an apology, the Wayne kids' comments about Bruce eccentric habits reveals their own inadequacies.

Part 23

A tweet is posted by a concerning individual, the heroes find a surprising ally, Superman is the victim of a prank, Superman fires back.

[foxsoulcourt]

FRIENDS.

Do yourself a favour + read the notes where @cicerfics + @miri-tiazan expand on this post. If you don't loudly guffaw or similar, check yourself for a pulse.

Mooning over these  two gifsets, and I am once again reminded of the fact that the 00Q UST was so freaking BONKERS in SPECTRE. Absolutely out of control.

And I just…

Can you imagine being.

Like.

A random MI6 employee.

You’re just trying to do your job, man. You just wanna finish debugging that new software system. You’re just trying to write up the transcripts for 003′s last mission. You just need to print up a new set of fake French passports for six or seven of the agents.

And Bond and Q are just out there. Flirting. Bantering. Staring raptly into each other’s eyes. Smoldering at each other. Having hushed, fraught conversations. Yearning™.

And I feel like every day, some poor employee is just like, “…Sorry, but you two are Yearning™ right in front of the snack cupboard and I want my digestives. So let me just scootch past ya real quick. Right. Okay. Carry on with all that intense staring, gents. As you were. 🧍“

[novaursa]

Maegor I Targaryen Masterlist

main list

- No Meek Bride - Maegor meets the princess that his father promised to him, and you are not what he expected. - mild 13+

- Crimson Fate - Maegor takes you as his bride after Ceryse fails to give him an heir. - explicit 18+

- Fire and Blood (NSFW Alphabet) - explicit 18+

Works (niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen) below are listed in chronological order:

- The Gods Are Cruel (and so is he) - Maegor always thought of you. Even when you were convinced he had forgotten you. - explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Fire and Blood - For as long as Maegor could remember, you were denied to him by others. By his own father, by his half-brother, by the gods themselves. They saddled him off with a barren bride and locked you away on Dragonstone. And once Aenys died and Maegor has returned from exile to take the crown, he also takes you, as was his right. But before the wedding could happen, you disappear. You never arrive at the capital with your royal procession. And Maegor tears the realm apart. - mature 16+

- His Fear - In the aftermath of your wedding night Maegor was left more vulnerable than he ever was. - explicit 18+

- Fragile Hope - Maegor learned long ago not to put much hope into legacy, but with you he hoped. - mild 13+

- Ashes of the Faithful - After Faith of the Seven has sent an assassin to kill you, Maegor declares war against the gods. - mature 16+

- Ash and Desire - Maegor asks for your favor during a tourney and injures your brother, yet you couldn't bring yourself to deny him, even then. - it comes before Fire and Blood, but you need to read FaB first to understand this - mature 16+

- My Blood And Bone - There were many times when Maegor tried to win your favor, before they locked you away. And he never forgot their insolence. - it comes before Fire and Blood, but you need to read FaB first to understand this - mature 16+

- Fire's Legacy - A few moons after he came for you, Maegor finally took you as his under eyes of the Old Gods of Valyria. And it didn't take long for you to find yourself with his child. Now it's the time to bring that innocent life into the world of fire and blood, and all you can do is pray it lives. - mature 16+

- Bloodline - Gods see fit that they show once again their favor for his line. - mild 13+

[krispyweiss]

“Beatles ’64” Trailer Debunks Filmmakers’ Claim to Present Beatlemania “Like Never Before”

- Film premieres Nov. 29 on Disney+

The folks behind “Beatles ’64” promise viewers will “experience Beatlemania like never before” when watching the film.

A new trailer seems to debunk that.

To wit:

Here are the Beatles being overwhelmed by America.

“It was like being in the eye of a hurricane,” John Lennon says. “It was happening to us and it was hard to see.”

Here’s young girls freaking out and talking about how wonderful the Beatles and their ’dos are. And here’s an older dude calling them “sick.”

Here are the Beatles cracking wise with reporters.

That’s Paul McCartney linking the Beatles’ arrival to helping Americans recover from the Kennedy assassination.

And there’s the band on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

It’s honestly difficult to resist anything Fab. And this film, directed by David Tedeschi and produced by Martin Scorsese, will surely have its moments. Yet it seems unlikely anyone who’s interested enough in the Beatles to watch “Beatles ’64” after it premieres Nov. 29 on Disney+ will learn anything new, let alone “experience Beatlemania like never before.”

Read Sound Bites’ previous coverage here.

11/14/24

[icy-watch]

Ok, so. The Tournament begins tomorrow.

People are already trying to assassinate the masters of different groups, Zeatrix is probably cranky from not having an actual bed to sleep on, Jay is there, the kids are discussing who killed the Matriarch, and Wyldfyre is crushing on Roby.

Ooo there's a lot.

I want to say the Administrator was the 1 who made the decision to have the Matriarch killed, but they didn't do it themselves. I'm still clueless as to their identity. Jokingly, I'm going to continue to say either Arin's mom or dad.

Zeatrix didn't sent the robots out to kill anyone. She doesn't have the tech or the knowhow. I'm thinking she's going to make it decently far into the Tournament before losing to either Sora or whoever is possessing Jordana.

I completely forgot about Jordie for a moment. Oops. She's totally possessed by 1 of the Fab 5. And she knows that she can reach out to Sora for help bc Sora's the only 1 who would actually help her.

Wyfy really is Kai's kid. I honestly can't wait to see how all of this plays out. I love this goofy girl so much.

And Jay. Ooooh there's a lot to unpack with him being there. I mean, I figured he'd be at the Tournament. But, yeesh. I don't know if he's actually run away or if he's "run away". What if this is all the Administrator's plan for him?

What if he's the 1 who killed the Matriarch on the Administrator's order?

Ooof. Yeah.

Alright, back with another episode tomorrow. So, until then!

[blood-injections]

Found a genius au lost in my notes app okay so get this.

Kobra Kid gets ghosted. Or so everyone thinks. The rest of the Fab Four assume he’s dead because at the scene that’s found, Kobra’s bike is totaled and there’s a ton of blood and they couldn’t find a body, so they come to the conclusion that bli must’ve taken the body or dumped it somewhere and the idea is confirmed as months pass and there’s no sign of a surviving Kobra and no intel from rebels in the city of imprisoned killjoys.

But Kobra wakes up in Battery City, he’s interrogated for information, tortured and drugged, and he loses his memories. But he doesn’t fall under their control, even as they try to make him a soldier, try to get in his mind, it doesn’t work. He knows he hates them and he manages to escape before they take control of him. But his memories are gone, whether because of the mix of physical and emotional trauma or a little too many shocks he doesn’t know, he just knows that Better Living is his enemy. And he has instincts still, combat skills he doesn’t remember learning but that let him escape with his life. He has some flashes of memory after a while, but not enough to piece together who he is.

So he has no clue who he is and he’s stuck in the city and full of rage, so he starts sneaking around and killing every drac or scarecrow he comes across. He becomes obsessed with the idea of revenge for his lost past, of destroying bli from the inside out once he’s seen the state the city is in, the pristine skyscrapers miles from the starving slums, the droids rusting on street corners but still alive, still waiting for a savior that doesn’t exist. He gets his hands on some better weapons and soon there’s whispers of an assassin in battery city.

He survives for months, taking out dracs and even some higher ups, his plan is to work his way up the chain, take out the director herself. But the job is proving more difficult the closer he gets, he’s getting more hurt more often and has a few narrow escapes. Meanwhile his memories have been slowly returning, he knows he was a killjoy, that he had a brother, even that his name is Kobra Kid. He knows a little of his true identity but still can’t really remember other than a few scattered moments of his life, most of them being from when he was younger, he still doesn’t know where he was before he was stuck with bli, he hasn’t left the city because he still doesn’t know where he’d go back to. Besides, he’s actually made a bit of a change with the people he’s taken out, better living is on edge for once and he can still do more because they’ve yet to track him down. He’s been called the viper because of how quickly he strikes and how deadly he is and it’s quite ironic that he was called that before he even remembered that his name was Kobra.

Then he meets a dealer claiming to have pills that are supposed to help with memory loss, something that he’s been looking for but that are rare to come by. The dealer is shady and wants a lot for them but he says they’re straight from the factory and untampered with so Kobra takes the risk, desperate to know more about himself. It takes a couple weeks for them to seemingly start working, for his little flashbacks to start happening more often, to even start remembering whole chunks of his past in his dreams at night. He can actually recall stuff now and the process becomes less sifting through his life one flashback at a time and more like it’s information just coming back to him without him even noticing half the time, it just settles back into its natural place in his mind like it always should have been.

After a couple months, he remembers everything, knows he has to get back to the zones because it’s been almost two years now. He wants to keep going, find the director, but he wants to go home more, let his family know he isn’t dead like they probably think. He’s changed a lot during his time in the city, he’s stronger in some ways, but he has a lot more blood on his hands. Bli blood, so he doesn’t really care, but they’ve bled him too. Injuries he’s sustained means he’s different in some respects, maybe he has a cybernetic part or two. He has scars, some from captivity some from his many fights, many physical but even more unseen. He knows he’s more dangerous, he’s less scared of losing future fights, but he’s terrified of his missing time, fears what he may have missed while he’s been in the city, because what if he gets back home and in the two years he’s been gone his friends have been ghosted, what if he returns home to an empty diner collecting dust?

It isn’t hard to get out now that he finally knows where he’s going, he stealthily takes out a few ‘crows and steals a motorcycle, then he pushes his fears from his mind, focuses on hope as he rides out to the diner to reunite with his crew after being dead and gone for nearly two years.

[tulipanthousa]

Trump almost got assassinated

im sure ill have more emotions about this once ive got coffee in my body but if the major history events could stop happening for like a Second that would be so fab

[georgeharrisonsmiling]

hi! i like your blog and to me you’re like the #1 lennison person so i want to ask you about your thoughts on “all those years ago”. i always found it interesting that that song is essentially george defending john from the media and his detractors compared to the way more personal “here today” from paul. like, a lot of it isn’t even really about his relationship with john. sorry if it’s strange to send random questions out of the blue i just like discussing this stuff and i always like your takes akdhsjf

I wouldn't consider myself the #1 lennison person but thanks for that 😊.

From my point of view, "All those years ago" was written in direct response to the fact that John was assassinated (which George partially blamed the media for) while "Here today" is Paul focusing on his grief on John's death. Like, if John had died in any other way, "Here today" would likely have the same sentiment but "all those years ago" wouldn't.

George also was very private of his own grief and always switched the focus to the spiritual angle when asked. What little I know so far, it's because of the accounts of people around him. Meanwhile Paul felt the unfair pressure to prove the public how affected he was due the PR disaster of his initial response to the news.

To me "When was fab" is also a tribute to John though a bit more subtle. It even has a reference to one song they sang together "and you really got a hold on me" .

[mocosa-media]

rules: share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

Was tagged by the lovely @fabdante thank you so much my friend. That being said, I will surely be taking liberties on certain published works 😈 due to the fact that one or more will simply have been "remasters" aka updated versions of previous works and may likely have the same starting sentence.

Easier To Run - Devil May Cry, Nero and Vergil family fic || "There was nothing Nero wanted more than to properly belong."

Under The Sun - Assassin's Creed || "He'd never be ashamed of where he was from."

I Only Want to Be With You - MHA, EraserJoke 😔💖 || "He was never particular interesting."

Heaven Is A Place - DmC/Devil May Cry, Kat just wants to be a mama and Nero is a child || "No matter how hard she tries, Kat can never get a clear look of the woman's face."

By Starlight - DmC, Kat and Dante have a soft moment ❤️ || " "You know the feeling you get when you listen to your favorite song?" "

Dark Bloom - DmC, Kat and Dante again my babes || "She rarely gets a full nights' sleep anymore."

Rats - DmC, Kat and Dante... shut up, I'm shy about this one || "Had he known what kind of girl she became behind closed doors, Dante would have gone looking for Kat years ago."

Disarm - DmC - Vergil and child Nero, I like this one a lot || "Vergil was exhausted."

Mind Over Matter - DmC, I just loved Kat and Dante dynamic okay || "He was soft in all the ways it would never matter."

The In-Between Is Mine - AOT, Jean and Marco my babies || " "Did you have friends back home?" "

As you can tell, I may not have a favored fandom. Perhaps.

Besides that, this was really fun to do. Many of these wips are quite old and written when I was at completely different times in my life. Ex. Pre and post certain life experiences, heartaches, blossoming friendships, etc. Some are ultimately still unfinished and hold previous and present writing experience. One I wrote alongside a dear friend as a challenge, others I wrote on a wim while holding certain emotions, and I especially hold those dear.

I felt as though I was looking though an album of my emotions from the past 2-5 years. Thank you Fab!!

I'm not sure who to tag, as I don't want to put anyone on the spot. Therefore, I will leave this open for any of my followers and friends to join in. I can't wait to see what you have written, and hope you will tag me in your post.

Thank you again Fab!!

[flashfuture]

What do you think each fab five titans looks for in a relationship?

Well I suppose you'd have to look at their canon relationships and what they get out of those

Dick's main relationships have been Kori and Babs. Two fellow heroes one a superhero one a vigilante/fellow bat. I think Dick looks for a partner who can back him up in every aspect of his life. Which is why he ended up breaking up with Bea when he got his memories back because he immediately figured it'd be dangerous her (not knowing she's a pirate queen which if fucking awesome). I think Dick strives for someone he doesn't have to hide things from. The same sort of thing he looks for in Titans as a whole a teammate.

Garth's main relationships have been Tula and Dolphin. Two people from his world. Tula was Aquagirl she was there to be his childhood sweetheart and then she died. Dolphin was a gorgeous woman and I kind of got the vibes she and Garth fucked to spite Arthur (or Orin as he was going by then). And then she got pregnant and it spiraled from there. So I think Garth is just looking right now for company. Tula was really his first love and I'm not sure what is going on with them beast work confused me like was tula dead and came back and I've missed it? they were on about stolen moments. Idk but Garth definitely looks for similar people to him. They added he dated Donna for a bit but they were simply too different.

Donna she I think wants some normal. She dated and married a man older than herself had a baby and he died despite Donna being warned it would end badly. I am not even sure really about if Donna is dating anyone now. She had a friends with benefit thing with Roy for a bit but not serious

Roy he had a daughter with an assassin and an incredibly dangerous one who nuked a country in one timeline. Roy is attracted to bad ideas imo

And Wally he looks for Linda Park in a partner

[hughungrybear]

Me while watching Home School Episode 9:

1. So, is Master Dilak a former student who was successfully "re-programmed" (similar to what they did to Hugo, Jingjai, and Run)?

2. Well, Mek and Mork, I got news for you - Dad loves neither of you. He doesn't even love your Mom. Unfortunately, he is just a sh*tty parent with an overall sh*tty personality.

3. Oh, no. If locking the Fab FourTM (Maki, White, Nai, and Tibet) in detention is part of Master Champ's ploy to seed chaos with GEN6, I fear for my babies, Pennhung and Phleng. The rest, I could care less lol.

4. Why do I feel like the Headmaster (played by Cindy) would eventually go against Master Amin? I just can't figure out yet if she will switch sides to support the students or will she be a more nefarious villain? Maybe Master Amin is not as villainous as he seems to be 🤔🤔🤔

5. Mek and Mork asking the right questions: what kind of parents would send their kids to a school with no known curriculum and a million baht-per-term tuition?

6. Pennhung, my child, please also store other food groups. You need more than croissants to last this hellhole 😅

7. Oh gods. Hugo and Jingjai. I share Jean's reaction during the "fight" 😅😅😅 At least, they are still flirty with each other even though we still have no idea whatever the f— Master Amin did to them as punishment for coupling.

8. I might be riding the Fuji hate train, but gods damn. Girl knows how to end a fight lol. Sorry, Jean.

9. Nooooo, Baby Phleng 😭😭😭 Biw, don't make me smack you. <after 10 seconds> Okay, we're good. All too well because I like Pringkhing ever since The Shipper.

10. Nooooo, Baby Pennhung 😭😭😭😭 Mek, I swear, if you hurt Pennhung I WILL SMACK YOU. <after 10 seconds> Oh gods, I AM OFFICIALLY IN LOVE WITH MEK. Solidarity, ftw. Shut up, Master Champ.

11. I'm starting to think Home School is either an unconventional juvenile centre or a freaking school for future assassins (judging by Run's abilities and his morbid past of killing their dad).

12. Sorry, but if the Fab Four had started kneeling before lunch all the way to sun down, how cold is that tea that the Head Master is sipping? Or did somebody replenish the hot tea (and pastries) all through the day? And with all that tea sipping, didn't she feel the need to pee? Just curious lol.

13. I'm dying to know what Master Dilak's deal is. Also, based on MDL, this series has 18 episodes (unless they got it wrong again like in Midnight Museum). So, the class planning their escape next episode is hardly the climax, but I do hope they start revealing the truth about Home School.

On to the next episode then 😊

[cutneteel]

Can someone tell me if screenshotting books is illegal, thanks.

Transcript:

"Brilliant . . . An engrossing book, both fluid and economical.

Page after page you can hear the music; Gould's deft hand makes the book sing. This is music writing at its best. ..

Gould elucidates the mystery of the band that changed the course of Western popular music."

NEARLY TWENTY YEARS IN THE MAKING, Can't Buy Me Love is a masterful work of group biography, cultural history, and musical criticism. That the Beatles were an unprecedented phenomenon is a given. In Can't Buy Me Love, Jonathan Gould seeks to explain why, placing the Fab Four in the broad and tumultuous panorama of their time and place, rooting their story in the social context that girded both their rise and their demise.

Beginning with their adolescence in Liverpool, Gould describes the seminal influences from Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry to The Goon Show and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland that shaped the Beatles both as individuals and as a group. In addition to chronicling their growth as singers, songwriters, and instrumentalists, he highlights the advances in recording technology that made their sound both possible and unique, as well as the developments in television and radio that lent an explosive force to their popular suc-cess. With a musician's ear, Gould sensitively evokes the timeless appeal of the Lennon-McCartney collaboration and their emergence as one of the most creative and significant songwriting teams in history. And he sheds new light on the significance of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band as rock's first concept album, down to its memorable cover art.

Behind the scenes Gould explores the pivotal roles played by manager Brian Epstein and producer George Martin, credits the influence on the Beatles’ music of contemporaries like Bob Dylan, Brian Wilson, and Ravi Shankar, and traces the gradual escalation of the fractious internal rivalries that led to the group's breakup after their final masterpiece, Abbey Road. Most significantly, by chronicling their revolutionary impact on popular culture during the 1960s, Can't Buy Me Love illuminates the Beatle g charismatic phenomenon of international proportions, whose anarchic energy and unexpected import was derived from the historic shifts in fortune that transformed the relationship between Britain and America in the decades after World War II.

From the Beats in America and the Angry Young Men in England to the shadow of the Profumo Affair and JFK's assassination, Gould captures the pulse of a time that made the Beatles possible and even necessary. As seen through the prism of the Beatles and their music, an entire generation's experience comes astonishingly to life. Beautifully writ-ten, consistently insightful, and utterly original, Can't Buy Me Love is a landmark work about the Beatles, Britain, and America.

PROLOGUE

They went to sea in Sieve, they did, in a Sieve they went to sea:

In spite of all their friends could say, on a winter's morn.

on a stormy day.

In a Sieve they went to sea!

Edward Lear, "The Jumblies"

On a gray, blustery Friday afternoon in February 1964, the four young British musicians collectively known as the Beatles arrived on a gleaming Pan American Airways jetliner at Kennedy Airport in New York, where they were met by a crowd of two hundred jostling reporters and photographers and some four thousand fans, mostly teenaged girls, who lined the rooftop observation deck of the airport's International Arrivals Building in a great singing, shrilling mass.

The reporters and photographers were there because, over the preceding three months, news of a phenomenon that had consumed the attention of the British public since the summer before had been drifting across the Atlantic in reports filed by the London bureaus of American newspapers, magazines, and television networks. The British press had coined the term "Beatlemania" to describe the relentless and seemingly hysterical response of that country's teenagers to an indeterminate mixture of musical presence, public personality, and social significance that was projected by this pop group from the port city of Liverpool, whose fresh-faced exuberance and insouciant wit had endeared them to a substantial number of adult Britons as well. Beginning with a smattering of articles in the fall of 1963, early coverage of the Beatles by the American press had been playfully condescending. There were repeated references made to the stereotype of English "eccentricity" and much reliance placed on metaphors of infestation and epidemic: BEATLE BUG BITES BRITAIN read a headline in the show business weekly Variety. The British had gone mad for--of all things-rock'n' roll.

Rock-n'-roll hysteria was considered old news in America in 1964.

Most people thought of it as something that had come and gone in the years since Elvis Presley had burst upon the national consciousness in the spring of 1956. By the early 1960s, the pop-singing teen idol hag become a cliche epitomized by the character of Conrad Birdie in the 1963 Hollywood musical Bye Bye Birdie: a loutish, leering naif, plucked from obscurity briascunically manipulative manager and foisted on needy, worshipful adolescent public. Though nobody had thus far been able to expose the hands that were pulling the strings, the American reporters who were assigned to cover the story took it for granted than “Beatlemania” were noter spectacular example, with an unaccountably British twist, of an established promotional technique by which the hormones of pubescent femininity were milked for money and fame.

Having cleared the formalities of Customs and Immigration, the Beatles and their small entourage were escorted into the terminal's press room and grouped around a podium for an impromptu news conference, Uninitiated as to which of these slim, dark-suited figures was which, reporters directed their questions at the group, whose members seemed to vie with one another to come up with the most flippant or outrageous answer. They began by affirming their professionalism with a bluntness that was startling by the prevailing standards of show-business cant.

“Won't you please sing something?" asked a woman reporter. "No!" said one. "Sorry!" said another. "We need money first!" said a third. And away it went from there: "Are you for real?" they were asked. "Come and have a feel."

"How many of you are bald, that you have to wear those wigs?"

"Oh, we're all bald ... and deaf and dumb, too." "How do you account for your success?" "We have a press agent." What started as a press conference rapidly devolved into a parody in which the Beatles, speaking in the droll, hooded accents of their native Liverpool, seemed to gather up the banality of the entire proceeding and toss it back good-naturedly in the faces of the New York press. "What do you think of Beethoven?" "We love him-especially the poems." Through it all, the four of them exuded an almost mysterious sense of solidarity and self-possession. They were their own show, and their own audience. Having attracted the sort of attention for which most people in their line of work would be willing to sell their souls, here they were, cracking dumb jokes for their own amusement, calling attention to the mercenary motives of their visit, and generally acting as if it really didn't matter what the newspapers and television stations reported about them after all.

And what of the thousands of fans who squealed on the roof and raced down the corridors and pressed like love-starved orphans against the doors of the room where this curious rite of transatlantic passage was taking place? By and large, their motivations were more complex, and their intentions more honorable, than those of the New York press. They were there because, for the past month, they had been listening to an incessant crescendo of Beatles songs on the radio and buying unprecedented numbers of Beatles records as fast as the group's American label, Capitol Records, could press them and ship them to stores. On the basis of what they had heard in the tough, bluesy rhythms and tender pop melodies of those songs, they were in thrall to a form of passionate enthusiasm that was, for most of them, unlike anything they had ever experienced before.

In a uniquely American gesture of hospitality, the four Beatles were then individually placed into four black Cadillac limousines and driven into midtown Manhattan. As they rode into the city, they listened with amazement to the sound of their own songs blaring forth wherever they turned on the radio dial, interspersed with the disc jockeys' simultaneous accounts of their trip into the city and their approach to the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South.

The Beatles spent their first weekend in New York holed up behind the imposing faux-Renaissance façade of the Plaza, insulated by a thickening blanket of police, press, and fans. "I don't want to talk to them. I just want to stand here and get images," announced a reporter from The Saturday Evening Post. "I don't want to interview them. I just want their autograph for my managing editor," echoed his colleague from Life. In the public square that adjoined the hotel, a crowd of several hundred teenagers maintained a constant vigil, their eyes riveted on the entrance to the Plaza, their backs pressed against the stonework of the Pulitzer Fountain, a gift to the city from the famous newspaper publisher, its granite basins topped by the statue of Pomona, the Roman goddess of abundance. Periodically the Beatles would reward the attention of these sentries by emerging from the hotel on one pretext or another--a photogenic stroll by the boathouse in Central Park, a visit to local night spots like the nearby Playboy Club, a television rehearsal at the CBS studios on Broadway at 53rd Street. Then, on Sunday evening, February 9, the group performed live on The Ed Sullivan Show, while an estimated 74 million Americans, or 34 percent of the population, watched from the comfort of their homes. According to the Nielsen rating service, this was the largest audience that had ever been recorded for an American television program. Included in the total was an extremely high percentage of the country's 22 million teenagers.

Looking like the world's most nervous substitute teacher as he faced a studio audience of 1,500 fans, the dour, square-shouldered Sullivan-man renowned for the awkwardness of his stage presence-introduced the Beatles at the top of the show. Their appearance was greeted by a sustained screech from the audience that one New York television critic likened to the sound of a subway train rounding a curve in the track.

The Beatles went on to perform three songs. Two of these, "All My Loving" and "Till There Was You," were drawn from an album called Meet the Beatles, which had sold two million copies in the three weeks since its release. The third song, "She Loves You," had been issued as a single in the United States the previous summer and had sold negligibly at the time. That record now stood at number three on the American charts, two positions behind the Beatles' most recent single, "I Want to Hold Your Hand."

By the time of this performance, most of the material on the two albums and five singles the Beatles had released in Britain over the preceding year was familiar to their American fans. The saturational press coverage had helped to familiarize most teenage viewers with the faces and emblematic personality traits of the individual Beatles as well. (For many adult Americans, by contrast, it would take years to learn to tell them apart). What came as a complete revelation to the budding Beatle-maniacs who first saw them on The Ed Sullivan Show was just that: the sight of the group onstage. For the Beatles looked and acted like no performers they had ever seen. The four of them were dressed identically in dark suits, white shirts, and knit ties, the conventionality of which was subverted by the tight fit of their jackets and trousers and the sleek, almost reptilian line of their pointy-toed, Cuban-heeled boots. The band's defining physical feature, however, was the helmetlike profusion of hair that shook and bounced around their faces as they sang, longer and fuller than the hair on any males these kids had ever seen outside of storybook illustrations of the Middle Ages. In addition to the novelty of their physical appearance, another notable feature of the Beatles' performance involved the absence of any obvious leader or focal point. All three of the guitarists not only played but sang, while the two on either side, their guitar necks pointing in opposite directions, shared the lead vocals on the songs. The television cameras reflected this egalitarian arrangement by dividing their attention between shots of the group, shots of its individual members, and shots of the fans in the audience-shriek-ing, shouting, waving their arms, and careening in their seats. At the end of each number, the Beatles acknowledged the bedlam in the studio by performing a courtly, well-synchronized bow. The final chord of "She Loves You" was followed by the reappearance of a relieved-looking Ed Sullivan, who read a brief benedictory telegram from Elvis Presley before inviting his viewers to partake of "a word from Anacin."

The supporting acts on the program that night included the juvenile cast of Oliver!, a hit Broadway musical based on the story of Oliver Twist, and an impressionist named Frank Gorshin, whose routine was based on the then-ludicrous concept of Hollywood stars running for political office. Near the end of the hour-long show, the Beatles returned for two more numbers, "I Saw Her Standing There" and "I Want to Hold Your Hand," the two sides of their current number-one single. The girls in the audience now rewarded themselves for forty minutes of good behavior by completely cutting loose.

The press coverage redoubled on the morning after the broadcast with reviews in all the New York papers and a formal news conference at the Plaza that was likened by Variety to a White House briefing. (Capitol Records later claimed that its nationwide clipping service had collected 13,882 newspaper and magazine articles about the Beatles by the end of their two-week stay.) "How did you propose to your wife?" a reporter asked John Lennon, the acknowledged wit of the group, whose wife Cynthia had accompanied him to New York. "The same as anyone else," said Lennon, clearly irritated by the question. "I want to do it right," the reporter insisted. "You want to do it right?" Lennon responded coldly.

"Then do it with both hands." Asked if they had found "a leading lady" for their upcoming film, the Beatle named George Harrison replied, "We're trying to get the Queen. She sells." "Obviously, these kids don't give a fig about projecting any sort of proper image," a reporter was heard to say.

On Tuesday a snowstorm forced the Beatles to travel by train to Washington, where they were scheduled to play their first live concert in America and attend a reception in their honor at the British embassy.

The concert was held at a sports arena whose centrally located stage required the Beatles to pause after every few songs to physically reorient themselves and their equipment toward another quadrant of the eigh, themschis reaming participants. The embassy reception was attender shousand r the Washington diplomatic corps and marred by an incident by much a scissors-wielding guest and the hair of Ringo Starr. After involving a fastered apology from the wife of the British ambassador, Ringo turned to her hushand and asked, "And what do you do?"

The following day the group returned to New York to play two concerts at Carnegie Hall, where they paid their respects to America's great Serine of classical music by opening their set with Chuck Berry's "Rot Siti Becthoven" to the delight of two thousand fans and those members Wow Yorks political, social, and cultural establishment who had the clout to demand and receive tickets. (I loved it. They were marvelous," said Mrs. Nelson Rockefeller, wife of the governor.)

Next the Beatles flew to Miami Beach, where on Sunday, live from the Napoleon Ballroom of the Deauville Hotel, they performed before another 70 million viewers on The Ed Sullivan Show. (This time Sullivan introduced them as "four of the nicest youngsters we've ever had on the show." Then, after several days of exceedingly well -reported relaxation in the Florida sun, the Beatles flew back to Britain. On American news-stands, their faces filled the covers of Life, Look, and The Saturday Evening Post. On the American record charts, their music occupied the first and second positions for both singles and albums. (The trade journal Billboard later estimated that the Beatles accounted for 60 percent of all the singles sold in the United States during the first three months of 1964.) At London's Heathrow Airport, a crowd of ten thousand British patriots turned out at seven o'clock in the morning to afford their heroes the sort of welcome that General Gordon might have received if Gordon had returned from Khartoum.

FOR ALL THAT came after, the events of February 1964 remain to this day the best-known chapter of their well known story: the Beatles' "conquest" of America, a moment worthy of mention in the most cursory chronicle of the 1960s, preserved for posterity in a set of iconic photographs and grainy black-and-white video images whose familiarity has served, over time, to obscure the sheer strangeness of it all. Until this point, the influence of American and European models on their music and fashion sense notwithstanding, the Beatles' lives and their popular phenomenon had been bordered by the bounds of a British world. The outbreak of Beatlemania in Britain had marked the culmination of nearly seven years of self-improvement and self-promotion on their part, in a career that had progressed through distinct stages of success at the local, regional, and national level. Now this same crazed enthusiasm had leaped the borders of Britain to arrive in New York City, the world capital of mass culture and communications, where a state of full-blown pop hysteria had been achieved in five weeks' time, with most of it occurring before the group had set foot on American soil. In Britain the popularity of the Beatles was widely understood to be an expression of social and cultural forces that had been in motion for many years. In America, like princes in a fairy tale, they seemed to awaken some great, slumbering need.

Though the Beatles seemed utterly new to the millions of young people who first saw them perform on The Ed Sullivan Show in February 1964, two generations of American adolescents had already bestowed a similar form of frenzied adulation on musical heroes of their own, Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. At the first opportunity, both Sinatra and Presley had managed to parlay their initial success as teen idols into extraordinarily lucrative but otherwise conventional show-business careers.

After weathering a celebrated "downfall" in the late 1940s, Sinatra went on to establish himself as the preeminent all-around entertainer of his generation: a best-selling recording artist, a major Hollywood movie star, a top-drawing Las Vegas headliner, and a paragon of middle-aged cool.

(All told, in a career lasting half a century, he released more than seventy albums and starred in more than fifty films.) On a less artistically acclaimed level, Elvis Presley also assimilated eagerly into the world of conventional show business, making his mark as the best-paid B-movie star in the annals of Hollywood. Earning more than a million dollars a picture, Presley from 1960 onward settled into a numbingly remunerative routine that yielded two or three feature films and two or three best-selling soundtrack albums in every fiscal year. Though he, too, would experience a modest downfall and comeback during the second half of the 1960s, by the time of his death in 1977 he had recorded more than forty albums, released nearly a hundred hit singles, and starred in fifteen films.

With the Beatles, there would be no downfalls or comebacks, no scores of singles and albums, no headlining appearances in Las Vegas, no catalog of Hollywood films. With the Beatles, there would be nothing cataloguld properly be described as a "show business career" at all. While that count of their commercial success, artistic influence, and enduring popularity would qualify them as one of the greatest phenomena in the history of mass entertainment, by their own insistence they never consid. oned themselves to be "entertainers" in the accepted sense of the word.

Instend, February 1964 marked not only the climax of a pop craze, but also the beginning of a remarkable metamorphosis.

Over the next six years, drawing on untold reserves of creativity and ambition, the Beatles would play a leading role in revolutionizing the way that popular records were made, the way that popular records were lis. tened to, the nature of popular songwriting, and the role that popular music itself would play in people's lives. They would preside over the transforma-Lion of the music business into the record business, and over the expansion of that business into a branch of the entertainment industry whose international sales and scope would come to rival those of Hollywood.

At the same time, from its frenzied, inchoate beginnings in Britain and the United States, the great upsurge of adolescent fervor that the press called Beatlemania would coalesce into one of the main tributaries of a broad confluence of pop enthusiasm, student activism, and mass bohemianism that would flood the political, social, and cultural landscape of much of the industrialized world during the second half of the 1960s, spinning off whorls and eddies- the women's movement, the gay liberation movement, the environmental movement -in its wake. In a manner that was inconceivable prior to an era when pop stars, film stars, and sports stars began to achieve the sort of fame and exert the sort of influence that had once been reserved for political, military, and religious leaders, the Beatles would serve as prominent symbols, spokesmen, or, as some would have it, avatars of this great international upheaval. Bridging nationalities, classes, and cultures, they became the common property of a generation of young people who idealized them, and then identified powerfully with that idealization of them- -even as the Beatles them-selves, in their music and their public lives, struggled to deflate those idealizations in an effort to retain their own grip on reality. Through it all, they would demonstrate an uncanny ability to be all things to all people while remaining true to themselves.

Nor would their influence wane. For a few years after the Beatles disbanded in 1970, pop critics tended to downplay their importance and compare their music unfavorably with the ruder styles of rock exemplified by their old rivals, the Rolling Stones. But throughout the 1970s, as each of the former Beatles released solo recordings of his own, a flame of hopeful speculation flickered around the possibility that the four of them would one day reunite and reassert the cultural power they had once wielded with such authority, humor, and grace. John Lennon's murder in 1980 put an end to that hope. (It also turned Lennon into an awkwardly sainted figure: an apostle of Peace and Love who bore little resemblance to the sardonic and mercurial Beatle the world had known.)

Still, in the aftermath of that senseless tragedy, with all prospect of a triumphant reunion gone, the Beatles continued to sell vast numbers of their recordings more than a billion at last count. In 2001, thirty years after their demise, a CD reissue of their hit singles sold an unprecedented 13 million copies in the first month of its release. Year after year, decade after decade, young listeners have continued to experience their own personal version of the sense of revelation that first gripped a generation of British and American adolescents in the fall of 1963 and the winter of 1964, while millions of older listeners have continued to experience the Beatles' music as an enriching and benevolent force in their lives. To this day they are widely regarded as the greatest concentration of singing, songwriting, and all-round musical talent that the rock-n'-roll era has produced.

In February 1964, of course, all of this lay in the future. But, from the beginning, there were several attributes that distinguished the Beatles from anything that had happened in popular music before. The first of these was their nationality. Since the term was first coined in the 1920s, the very concept of a superstar had become synonymous with the burgeoning celebrity entertainment culture of the United States, which had colonized the world with its mythos of Broadway, Tin Pan Alley, and Hol-lywood. The Beatles in 1964 were the first unmistakably non- American performers in any mass medium to achieve the status of superstars on an international scale (unlike, say, Charlie Chaplin, who had lived in Hollywood and played a seminally American character on the screen). As the spearhead of a "British Invasion" of the American music scene, the Beatles posed an unprecedented challenge to the hegemony that America had exerted over the world of popular music (and popular entertainment in general) since the syncopated rhythms of ragtime first captured the fancy of Europe on the eve of World War I.

In mounting this challenge to America's domination of the pop world, the Beatles also succeeded in defying all the prevailing stereotypes of what it meant to be British in 1964-stereotypes that, until the recent dissolution of Britain's far-flung empire, had exerted not only influence but a direct form of political and cultural authority over a quarter of the earth's population. "From the start, the very cut of their limbs, the very glint in their eyes, showed that they were ironically detached from the grandeur of the British past," noted the writer Jan Morris at the time.

Youthfulness, stylishness, unpretentiousness, and nonchalance--these were not the qualities the world had come to expect from the familiar and once-intimidating spectacle of Englishmen abroad. Yet by drawing on their origins in the Lancashire seaport of Liverpool, whose polyglot population of ethnic and religious minorities made it the least homoge-neously "English" city in all of England, the Beatles personified an iconoclastic version of their national character that proved to be as compelling to the youth of North America, Europe, Australia, and parts of Asia as it was to their British fans.

Another attribute that distinguished the Beatles from the beginning was their identity as a group: the first such group in the history of mass entertainment to elicit the sort of romantic fascination and identification that defined the power of a star. Like the edge of defiance that Sinatra and Presley brought to their careers, the sense of unity and camaraderie the Beatles projected was rooted in their social origins, and it added an explicitly social dimension to their appeal. Teenagers in particular recognized that, whatever the nature of their professional association, these four young men were indeed a group of friends who had grown up in the same place, shared many of the same experiences, and owed one another the same unspoken loyalty that had bound young men together in groups since time began. From the outset, there was something atavistic about the Beatles' group identity. The most obvious expression of this (apart from their punningly totemic name) was their uniform yet idiosyncratic appearance: the matching clothes and hair that tied them to one another and set them apart from everyone else. Yet the most potent expression of the Beatles' collective nature was ultimately to be found in their music.

For, unlike the vast majority of popular recording artists in 1964, the Beatles were not only singers (three of whom sang lead) but collaborative composers and ensemble instrumentalists who wrote their own material and provided their own accompaniment. This was something very differ ent from the nondescript "vocal groups" and hierarchical "harmony groups" that popular music had known. The Beatles were a vision of self-sufficiency, interdependence, and shared ambition that supplied popular music with the archetype of a "rock group," a model of musical organization that would endure for decades to come.

AS THE FOCUS of so much interest and appreciation over the last forty years, the Beatles have come to represent a bibliographical phenomenon as well as a musical one. The first real book about them, Michael Braun's astute account of Beatlemania titled Love Me Do, appeared in 1964.

Since then they have served as the subject of more than five hundred books, running the full gamut of the publishing arts. These include a glut of memoirs by friends, family, and professional associates; multiple biographies of the individual Beatles; transcriptions of their interviews and treasuries of their quotations; anthologies of newspaper and magazine articles; photograph albums by the dozen; diaries of their day-to-day activities; chronicles of their individual recording sessions, concert tours, and even vacation trips; collections and concordances of their song lyrics; volumes of critical commentary and formal musicological analysis; and scrupulously notated scores of their recorded arrangements. There are Beatle encyclopedias, dictionaries, discographies, and at least two book-length bibliographies devoted to making sense of all the other writing about them. This output is all the more remarkable considering that, prior to the Beatles, not a single significant book had been written on the subject of rock 'n' roll.

Given this great effusion of words, it is interesting to note how few full-scale biographies of the Beatles as a group have been published over the years. The first such effort, written at the peak of their popularity in 1968 by the British journalist Hunter Davies, was an "authorized" biography that enjoyed the cooperation of the Beatles, their families, and their manager, Brian Epstein. The virtues of Davies's book included its unassuming style and its unequaled access to the group. As a biography, its main deficiency was that it ended before the Beatles did, leaving the final years of their association undocumented. Davies's work was also slightly compromised by his need to obtain the Beatles' approval of its contents, which led him to avoid or expunge a certain amount of material that was deemed objectionable. These omissions were amply redressed by the next major biography, Philip Norman's Shout, which was published in 1981, one year after John Lennon's death. A former colleague of Hunter Davies's at the London Sunday Times, Norman filled out the story admirably and carried it through to its end. The tone of his writing was by turns more elegiac and jaded than Davies's, but his approach was essentially the same. Both books relied heavily on extensive (and exclusive) interviews--in Davies's case, with the Beatles and their intimates; in Norman's case, with nearly everyone but the Beatles and their intimates.

More recentlv, in 2005, the American journalist Bob Spitz published a compendious biography of the group that revisited many of Norman's sources (who spoke with both the benefit and detriment of hindsight) and further enlarged the picture by drawing on the huge body of published interviews, memoirs, and more-specialized historical sources that has accumulated over the years. All three of these books have reflected the ethos of feature journalism in seeking to penetrate the public image of these very public figures in an effort to reveal the "inside story" of their lives. Among other things, this meant that Davies, Norman, and Spitz devoted comparatively little attention to the Beatles' music; their records, after all, were known to everyone.

Over the last twenty-five ears the vast bulk of the biographical writing about the Beatles has focused on the individual members of the group and on specialized aspects of their career. To some extent, this tendency toward individualization and specialization has reflected the way the Beatles' collective identity has made them resistant to the standard biographical treatment. Most biographies tell the story of a person's life from beginning to end. A biography of the Beatles, by contrast, is neither the story of a full life nor the story of a person. It is rather the story of a group of young men whose affiliation began in adolescence and effectively ended before any of them had reached the age of thirty. It is a story that defies individualization and, as a result, places more importance on the qualities the four of them shared than on the qualities that made them distinct.

This is a book about the Beatles, Britain, and America in the twenty-five years after World War II. It is drawn from widely diverse sources of information and imagination, and it seeks to combine three main per-spectives-the biographical, the musical, and the historical -in an effort to convey the full import and interplay of the Beatles' lives, art, and times.

The first strand of the story—the biographical—comprises the narrative of their career, beginning with their individual childhoods and their collective adolescence in postwar Liverpool, and ending with their breakup in 1970. It is, by any measure, a remarkable success story, which has been told and retold so often that it has come to resemble a modern folktale. Like a folktale, it has been put to many different uses by its many different narrators. The goal in recounting it here again is to do so as vividly and accurately as possible, clearing away the ephemeral, the apocryphal, and the merelv anecdotal in order to focus on what can truly be known about the lives of four people whose overnight success caused them to pass from obscurity to ubiquity with little transition in between. Here especially, this book benefits from the tremendous amount of material about the Beatles that has been published over the last twenty years. That a great deal of this information is contradictory, implausible, or, in some cases, simply incredible has required that none of it be taken at face value; instead, every assertion has been assessed for its plausibility and its concurrence with other accounts. Particular attention has been paid to the reliability of sources, since the many retellings of the Beatles' story do not lack for unreliable, self-serving, or reflexively revisionist narrators. In keeping with the conventional wisdom of writing about the past, greater weight has been given to primary sources and contemporary accounts than to memoirs and recollections--including those of the Beatles themselves. (As Paul McCartney once remarked, "I keep seeing pictures of myself shaking hands with Mitzi Gaynor [a minor celebrity of the time] and I think, 'I didn't know I met her. It's that vague.")

The second strand of the story centers on the Beatles music. This is an account of their early musical awakenings, idols, and influences, their apprenticeship as singers and accompanists in the clubs of Liverpool and Hamburg, their precocious flowering as songwriters, and their extraordinarily rapid and dynamic evolution as recording artists from 1963 onward. From the Beatles' perspective, this is closest thing to the "inside story" of their lives. For while their fans, the press, and the public may often have wanted to see them as something else or something more, it was always as musicians that the Beatles saw themselves. Music was the passion that linked them to one another and brought them to the attention of the world, and from 1960 to 1970, more than any other activity, music was what they did. This strand of the story also involves the many ways that millions of listeners, including fans, critics, and fellow artists, responded to the Beatles' musie: what people experienced at their live performances and heard in the songs on their records, and how it was her they related this music to their own lives. An added virtue of putting the Beatles music at the center of their story is that the relevant mater. his the eleven albums and twenty-three singles they recorded between 1962 and 1969, containing their definitive performances of 182 original songs- are so readily available to listeners and readers, sounding just as they did at the time.

The third and broadest perspective of this book focuses on what might be termed "the real outside story." This comprises the social and cultural background, the conditions and developments that shaped the lives of the Beatles and determined the part they played in the history of their times. The years of their story coincided with a period of rampant social and cultural change in Britain and America, and throughout the industrialized world. In Britain this transformation began with the election in 1945 of a Labour government committed to dismantling the British Empire, reforming the British class system, and providing for the health and education of the populace through the creation of a socialist "welfare state." It continued during the 1950s with the efforts of Conservative governments to promote the growth of an American-style consumer economy stimulated by the enticements of an American-style consumer culture; and it culminated during the 1960s with the emergence of London as a world capital of pop culture, ruled by an unruly elite of former "war babies" who were bent on taking their country's new climate of expressive freedom to once unimaginable extremes. The Beatles began as creatures of this new social and cultural milieu; they wound up serving as the most prominent symbols of it for people all over the world.

The years of their story also coincided with a technological revolution, paced by advances in the field of electronics, that would transform the nature of everyday life during the second half of the twentieth century as dramatically as the utilization of electricity had transformed the nature of life during the first half of the century. To cite some obvious examples: the passenger jets on which the Beatles traveled to America, the long-playing records they sold in such profusion, and television shows like the one that allowed 74 million people to view them simultaneously from the comfort of their homes-all were freshly minted products of the postwar world. Tape recording, FM radio, and electrified musical instruments-these, too, were recent innovations whose creative potential remained largely unexplored. To a considerable extent, the Beatles' ability to exert a new form of cultural power would turn on their ability to capitalize on these new technologies, and on the consolidation of these new technologies into a new kind of parallel universe, combining information, enter-tainment, and commercial advertising, that ordinary people first began referring to during the early 1960s as "the media."

Finally, the years of the Beatles' story coincided with the historic shift in Anglo-American relations precipitated by World War II, when the leading imperialist nation of the nineteenth century conclusively yielded its power and influence to the leading internationalist nation of the twentieth century. In 1939, Britain still ruled over the greatest sovereign empire the world had ever known, and the British people retained a sense of their country (whatever else they may have thought about it) as the most powerful nation on earth. In 1939 the United States remained a country still preoccupied with its own internal development and its recent efforts to recover from the disastrous social and economic consequences of the Great Depression. Within ten years everything had changed. Now Britain its cities scarred, its wealth depleted, and its vitality sapped by the war was turning its gaze inward as it abdicated its status as a Great Power, while the United States, its economy booming, its confidence bursting, had triumphantly assumed the mantle of world leadership.

This historic reversal of fortune transformed not only the political relationship between the two great English-speaking nations, but the unique cultural relationship between them as well. Throughout the first half of the twentieth century, unimpeded by the need for translation, the dynamic and democratic sensibility of American popular culture had exerted a powerful influence on the imaginative lives of the British peo-ple, with American styles and American products dominating the British market for music and films. The Beatles themselves were a product of this influence, which intensified sharply in the years after World War II.

But the democratization of postwar British society had given rise to a new generation of young people who were no longer content merely to watch and listen, and were now prepared to participate in this popular culture on their own terms. Just as Britain had once bequeathed one of the world's great literary traditions to America, where it became infused with the native genius of writers like Poe and Wharton and Twain, America was now bequeathing one of the world's great musical traditions to Britain, where a tight little band of young Liverpudlians stood ready to infuse that tradition with a native genius of their own.

[novaursa]

Of Gods and Men (horizon)

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

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

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

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

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dreams

- Next part: titans

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

In the depths of the Targaryen base, nestled within the dunes of Arrakis, the whispers of the wind carried the echoes of ancient secrets. The base, hidden beneath the sands, was a network of underground chambers and command rooms, each one filled with the quiet hum of advanced technology and hushed conversations. In one of these chambers, Aelor, Maelor, and Daenys—the Targaryen siblings—gathered around a holographic map of the desert while Stilgar watched them with his ever-cautious eyes.

Stilgar, though still wary of outsiders, had come to trust the Targaryens. They had shown him a respect for the desert and its ways, and Daenys in particular had proven herself an ally with her gifts of water filtration units and resources that had bolstered the Fremen. But even now, he remained cautious, his arms crossed as he listened to the Targaryens discuss their plans for the future of Arrakis and their alliances with House Atreides.

As they spoke, a Fremen messenger arrived, cloaked in sand-colored robes, his face hidden behind a stillsuit mask. He bowed to Vaegor, the Master of Whispers of House Targaryen, and handed over a sealed message. Vaegor nodded in acknowledgment and, as a gesture of respect, pressed a flask of precious water into the Fremen’s hand as payment. The messenger inclined his head in gratitude before slipping back into the shadows of the desert.

Vaegor turned, the message clasped tightly in his hand, and made his way into the command room where Aelor, Maelor, Daenys, and Stilgar were gathered. The siblings paused their discussion as he entered, his presence a silent signal that new information had arrived.

“A message from House Atreides, my lord,” Vaegor said, holding out the wax-sealed cylinder to Aelor. “It bears the mark of Thufir Hawat.”

Aelor took the message, breaking the seal with a flick of his silver ring. As he scanned its contents, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It seems that the Duke of House Atreides is in need of our assistance,” he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he glanced over at his sister.

You raised an eyebrow at Aelor’s words, a small smirk playing on your lips. “Is that how he put it, Aelor? Asking for our help?” Your tone held a touch of teasing, though there was a glimmer of curiosity in your eyes. You wondered what had driven Leto to reach out in this way, what troubles lurked in the shadows of Arrakeen that he felt he could not handle alone.

Aelor returned your look, a slight shrug in his shoulders. “He’s not one for pleading, but the message is clear. They have uncovered an assassin, yet they suspect there may be more Harkonnen agents lurking in the shadows of the city. The Duke believes our... expertise might be of use.”

Stilgar, who had been listening in silence, shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing. “The Atreides are still strangers to the desert, no matter their good intentions. It is wise of them to seek aid, but it does not change their nature. Their goals and ours may align for now, but the desert remembers, and so do my people.”

You turned your attention to Stilgar, offering him a nod of understanding. “I understand your caution, Stilgar. Trust is not easily given, nor should it be. But I believe Duke Leto has proven his intentions, if not fully, then at least enough to be worth this aid. And if there are Harkonnen remnants lurking within the city, it is in our best interest to see them exposed.”

Aelor looked between you and Stilgar, then nodded decisively. He turned back to Vaegor, who remained a shadowed presence by the door. “Take your best men, Vaegor. Go to Arrakeen and assist the Atreides in rooting out whatever Harkonnen operatives might remain. And ensure that they know we are watching closely.”

Vaegor bowed his head, his expression unreadable. “As you command, my lord. I will leave at once.”

As Vaegor left the room to prepare for the mission, Aelor folded the message and slipped it into a hidden compartment on his belt. He glanced at you one last time, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “It seems, sister, that your Duke has found a way to bring us closer into his fold. But be careful—you know how delicate these matters can be.”

You returned his smile with a faint one of your own, but your thoughts remained focused on the message, on the events unfolding in Arrakeen, and on the man who had sent for your help. There was a tension in the air, a sense that the alliances being forged now would soon be tested by fire and shadow.

“Delicate, yes,” you replied softly, your gaze turning toward the desert beyond, where three dragons circled in the sky like guardians of a forgotten world. “But then again, we have always thrived on the edge of danger.”

The sun was low in the sky as Vaegor arrived at the Atreides stronghold, his Targaryen soldiers in tow. The desert wind whipped around them, carrying with it the scent of sand and spice. Leto Atreides stood with Thufir Hawat at the entrance, watching as the dark-clad figures approached, insignia of House Targaryen emblazoned on their armor.

Vaegor stepped forward, his expression composed, eyes sharp as they took in the stronghold's defenses. Leto inclined his head in greeting, gesturing for Vaegor to follow him inside. “Welcome, Vaegor. Your arrival is timely. We appreciate your assistance in this... delicate matter.”

Vaegor nodded, his gaze flicking over the stronghold's walls and patrolling guards. “My lord, Aelor and Daenys made it clear that House Targaryen has a vested interest in ensuring that Harkonnen agents do not undermine our alliance or your position here. My men are ready to begin the investigation.”

Leto led Vaegor deeper into the stone halls of the stronghold, the heavy doors sealing behind them with a resonant thud. They stopped before a map room, where a holographic projection of Arrakeen and its surrounding desert terrain shimmered above the table. Hawat moved closer, gesturing toward the marked locations where Harkonnen agents had been uncovered.

“We’ve identified the entry points and movements of the assassin we apprehended, but we believe there may be others hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike,” Hawat explained, his tone clipped with efficiency. “Your men will have access to all the information we’ve gathered so far. My own agents will cooperate fully, sharing whatever leads they uncover.”

Vaegor nodded, his expression neutral, but there was a glint in his eyes that spoke of sharpened focus. He glanced at Leto. “I’ll have my soldiers coordinate with yours immediately. If there are any Harkonnen remnants lingering here, we will find them. Rest assured, Duke Leto, the dragons have a keen sense for sniffing out secrets.”

With that, Vaegor turned and strode out of the room, his cloak sweeping behind him like the wings of a shadowed creature, and his men followed closely. As the Targaryen team dispersed into the depths of the stronghold to begin their investigation, Hawat turned to Leto, noting the pensive expression on the Duke’s face.

“My Lord, you seem... troubled,” Hawat ventured cautiously, watching the way Leto’s gaze remained fixed on the map projection. “Are you thinking about the offer you intend to send to Dragonlord Aenys?”

Leto let out a slow breath, his eyes lingering on the flickering image of Arrakeen before he turned to face Hawat fully. “Yes, Thufir, I am. I find myself struggling with how to put my intentions into words. I need to convey how sincere I am, but at the same time, I must tread carefully. Aenys is not a man to be taken lightly, and any misstep could damage the alliance we’ve worked so hard to build.”

Hawat studied the Duke’s face, noting the lines of worry and thoughtfulness that marked it. “You wish to propose a marriage alliance, then,” he said, his tone more of a statement than a question. “Between yourself and Daenys Targaryen. It’s a... bold move, my lord. One that would undoubtedly strengthen ties between House Atreides and House Targaryen.”

Leto nodded slowly, his expression turning inward as he considered the implications of such a proposal. “Yes. It is bold. And it’s also something that feels... like it belongs to me. A decision that is mine to make, after years of playing by the rules set by others—by Jessica, by the Emperor, by the Bene Gesserit.”

His gaze drifted to the courtyard beyond the windows, where he could see Jessica leading Paul through another session of training, her movements precise, her demeanor strict. Leto’s lips tightened into a thin line, his emotions a storm beneath the surface.

Hawat followed his lord’s gaze, understanding the tension that hung between the Duke and his concubine. He knew how Jessica’s loyalties had always been divided between her duty to the Sisterhood and her feelings for Leto. He also knew that this proposal would be a blow to her, one that would widen the rift that had been growing between them since Arctis.

“Lady Jessica will not be pleased,” Hawat remarked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the courtyard. “She has always seen herself as part of your future, even if the Sisterhood’s plans did not allow for a formal union. To offer your hand to Daenys... it will feel like a betrayal to her.”

Leto’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained resolute. “I know, Thufir. But this is the first choice I’ve been able to make in what feels like a lifetime. I have sacrificed enough for political maneuvering and Imperial expectations. If there is a chance to secure the future of my House and find something more—then I will take it.”

Hawat observed his Duke closely, the steel in Leto’s voice telling him that no amount of advice or warning would change the man’s mind. It was clear that Leto had already made his decision—and that the future of House Atreides now lay on a path that intertwined with the dragons.

After a moment, Hawat inclined his head, a gesture of deference and acceptance. “Then I will do what I can to ensure that House Atreides is prepared for whatever comes next, my Lord. I hope... it will be the right choice.”

Leto offered him a faint, wry smile. “As do I, Thufir. As do I.”

They stood together in silence for a few moments longer, both of them watching as Jessica and Paul moved through their training exercises in the courtyard below. But even as they did, Leto’s thoughts drifted toward the desert, to the woman who had arrived with dragons and whose presence had begun to shift the foundations of his world.

Leto Atreides sat in his study, the cool light of the morning sun filtering through the windows, casting shadows over the polished surface of his desk. Before him lay the carefully written proposal, the words chosen with a deliberation that had taken days. The parchment bore the seal of House Atreides, and Leto turned it over in his hands, adjusting his signet ring as he prepared to affix his final mark. His mind swirled with thoughts of how Aenys Targaryen might receive this offer—how the proposal for a marriage alliance would be interpreted and whether it would be seen as sincere or opportunistic.

As he steeled himself to press the seal into the warm wax, the door to his study opened, and Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho entered, their footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet room. Gurney, ever the observant one, couldn’t hide the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Ah, my Lord," Gurney said with a chuckle, “You should’ve seen that Vaegor just now, gliding through these halls like some sort of ghost. Nearly gave me a fright when I turned a corner and found him standing there.”

Duncan grinned, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned casually against the edge of the desk. “He certainly knows how to move unseen. Useful, if a bit unsettling. But more to the point, Leto—what has you so... preoccupied?” He gestured toward the sealed letter on the desk, then glanced at the Duke’s hands, which had been fidgeting with the signet ring—a habit both of them recognized well.

Leto sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he set the ring back in place. “You two know me too well,” he admitted. “I was just finishing a proposal that I intend to send to Aenys Targaryen. A formal request for a marriage alliance between our Houses.”

Gurney’s eyes widened slightly, but the smile that spread across his face was genuine. “A wise move, if you ask me, my Lord. The Targaryen lass has been a good friend to House Atreides, and it would be a pleasure to see her as part of our family.”

Leto glanced between Gurney and Duncan, surprised by the enthusiasm in their responses. “I hadn’t realized that the two of you had grown so... fond of her. It’s not often I hear you speak so highly of someone who isn’t carrying a blade or a baliset.”

Gurney laughed, the sound warm and rich in the stillness of the room. “Aye, well, Daenys gave us a good chase back on that frozen hellhole of a planet, Arctis. Taught us both a fair bit about humility, she did.” He paused, his expression softening as he added more quietly, “But there’s more to it than that. She reminds me of my late sister in some ways—fierce, but with a gentle heart underneath it all. It would be good to have someone close who understands music, someone who might find a friend in these halls.”

Duncan nodded in agreement, his own smile more subdued but no less genuine. “She’s helped House Atreides more than anyone else I know, and she’s done it without expecting praise or reward. And she’d certainly keep you on your toes, Leto. I think that’s a quality you could use more of.”

Leto couldn’t help but chuckle at Duncan’s assessment, though a part of him still wrestled with the nervous energy that buzzed beneath his calm exterior. “She certainly does have a way of... challenging me, doesn’t she? And perhaps that’s what makes this decision feel so different. It’s not just about politics or strategy—it’s about... something more.”

Gurney’s expression turned more serious as he rested a hand on the back of one of the chairs. “Whatever your reasons, my Lord, you should know that you have our support. Daenys Targaryen has earned my respect, and if she’s the one who can stand beside you through what’s to come, then I’d be honored to see her become a part of our House.”

Duncan nodded his agreement, a steady presence beside Gurney, his eyes meeting Leto’s with a knowing look. “You’ve carried the weight of House Atreides for a long time, Leto. If this is the path you want to take, then it’s your choice. Not anyone else’s. And I think it’s about time you made a choice that’s yours.”

Leto felt a warmth spread through his chest, a sense of reassurance that came from the trust he placed in these two men who had stood by his side through wars and uncertainty. He glanced down at the sealed message once more, then nodded to himself, slipping the parchment into a leather pouch marked with the crest of House Atreides.

“Thank you, Gurney, Duncan,” he said quietly, sincerity in his voice. “Your words mean more to me than you know. I’ll send the message to Aenys today—and whatever comes of it, I’ll face it knowing that it’s a path I’ve chosen freely.”

Vaegor Targaryen moved through the Atreides stronghold like a shadow, his footsteps silent against the stone floors. The stronghold’s architecture was sturdy, built to withstand the harsh conditions of Arrakis, but Vaegor’s keen eyes caught the signs of recent repairs, reinforcements, and the lingering paranoia that seeped into every corner. As he moved deeper into the heart of the stronghold, he arrived at the door of Dr. Yueh’s office.

He paused outside the door for a moment, listening to the soft scrape of metal instruments and the shuffling of papers inside. Then, without announcing himself, he pushed the door open and stepped into the sterile space of the medic’s quarters. Dr. Yueh looked up sharply, his hands freezing in the middle of organizing a series of datapads on his desk. His expression, normally controlled, flickered with a flash of discomfort as he recognized his visitor.

“Master Vaegor,” Yueh greeted, his tone overly polite, though his unease was evident in the tightness around his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Vaegor regarded the doctor with his usual cool demeanor, his eyes—dark violet as the depths of space—seeming to pierce through the man before him. He had grown accustomed to the way his presence could unsettle others, but there was something more in the way Yueh’s hands shook ever so slightly as he rearranged the items on his desk, his fingers tapping nervously against the metal surface.

“Few people do expect me, Doctor,” Vaegor replied, his voice smooth and quiet. He let his gaze sweep over the office, noting the shelves lined with medical supplies, the datapads, and the Imperial insignia subtly displayed among his tools. “I’ve been tasked with ensuring that there are no further threats lurking within this stronghold. A thorough inspection is in order, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yueh forced a strained smile, but there was a twitch in his jaw that betrayed his discomfort. “Yes, of course. Anything to ensure the safety of House Atreides. But I assure you, Master Vaegor, my office has no secrets—just the usual tools of a physician.”

Vaegor hummed softly, his lips curling into a hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The usual tools, yes. But as you know, doctor, things are rarely as simple as they seem.” He stepped closer to the desk, his presence looming over Yueh, who instinctively took a step back.

Vaegor’s fingers brushed over a datapad before picking it up, glancing at the contents. It was filled with medical records—mostly routine reports on the health of Paul Atreides, Duke Leto, and other key figures in the stronghold. But as Vaegor’s gaze swept over the data, he caught the subtle notations and private codes embedded within the text, the kind of information that might hold hidden meanings.

“You seem... thorough, Dr. Yueh,” Vaegor commented, turning the datapad in his hand. He fixed the doctor with a sharp look. “Thoroughness is a good quality in a physician, but it also makes me wonder what you might be... overlooking or hiding.”

Yueh swallowed hard, the sound almost loud in the quiet room. “I-I assure you, Master Vaegor, everything here is above board. My duty is to serve the Duke and his family, to ensure their health and well-being. Nothing more.”

Vaegor set the datapad back down with a soft click, but he didn’t move away. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to cut through the air like a blade. “Everyone has their secrets, doctor. Some more dangerous than others. I trust you would do well to remember where your loyalties lie.”

He held Yueh’s gaze for a moment longer, watching the way the doctor’s face paled slightly, the sweat gathering at his temples. Then, without another word, Vaegor turned and strode out of the office, leaving Yueh standing there, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

As soon as the door closed behind the Master of Whispers, Yueh let out a long, shaky exhale, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. He could feel his heart racing, the panic clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He had faced interrogations before, endured the scrutiny of many eyes, but Vaegor’s presence had been like facing the void itself, a darkness that threatened to swallow him whole.

Yueh clenched his hands into fists, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. He could not afford to let his nerves get the better of him—not now, when the walls seemed to be closing in from all sides. He reminded himself of the Imperial conditioning, of the plan he had been bound to for so long. But even as he tried to calm himself, the echo of Vaegor’s words lingered in his mind, a reminder that the shadows he thought he had mastered might yet turn against him.

And somewhere in the depths of his mind, a whisper of doubt began to grow, threatening the fragile control he had so carefully maintained.

Paul Atreides lay in his bed, the heavy air of Arrakis thick with the scent of spice. It filled his lungs, seeped into his mind, and stirred up the dreams that had become a near-constant presence since his arrival on the desert planet. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but he knew what awaited him on the other side of consciousness—visions that danced on the edge of prophecy, images that blurred the line between reality and illusion.

Tonight, like so many nights before, the dreams came swiftly, pulling him down into their depths. But ever since he had met you, they had taken on a new intensity, becoming sharper, more vivid, as if the presence of the dragons had somehow amplified the currents of time that flowed through him.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he saw you—your pale hair catching the light of distant stars, your lilac eyes glowing with a knowledge that seemed ancient and unknowable. You stood in a landscape of fire, the flames rising around you like a living tapestry, weaving through the air. The heat of the vision seared his mind, and he felt the pull of your presence, as though you were reaching out to him across the void.

He watched you, standing beside Leto, his father. The Duke’s face was lined with worry, the familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he spoke to you, his words lost in the roar of the flames that surrounded them. Paul tried to hear what you were saying, but the fire swallowed the sound, leaving him with only the images—images that shifted like sand in the wind.

And then, you turned toward him, your eyes locking onto his through the blaze. Your lips moved, forming words that he could not hear, but he felt their weight in his chest, as if you were trying to warn him of something. He reached out, his hand trembling in the dream, but as he drew closer, the fire surged, swallowing you up in a wave of red and gold.

Paul gasped, trying to push through the heat, but the flames coiled around him, pulling him down into their depths. He could feel the spice in the air, burning through his veins, twisting the dreams into something deeper, something more terrifying. He saw dragons soaring through the embers, their shadows sweeping across a blazing sky. He saw Leto standing on the edge of a cliff, his face turned toward the distant horizon, as if searching for something that only he could see.

And then there was you again, standing beside his father, your hand resting lightly on Leto’s arm. The dragons circled above you, their roars blending with the crackle of flames. You looked at Paul, your gaze piercing through the smoke and fire, and for a moment, he thought he saw sadness in your eyes.

Suddenly, the scene shifted, and he found himself standing in the ruins of Arrakeen, the city crumbling around him as fire swept through the streets. Buildings collapsed in on themselves, the stone melting beneath the heat, and the screams of the people echoed through the burning air. He turned, desperate to find you or his father, but the visions moved too quickly, slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers.

In the distance, he saw Leto again, but this time, his father’s face was etched with pain, his expression twisted with grief. He held something in his hands—something small and delicate, something that glowed with a faint blue light. But before Paul could make sense of it, the flames rose once more, swallowing the image in a surge of searing heat.

Paul struggled against the visions, against the fire that consumed everything around him. He could feel the spice burning through his thoughts, twisting his perception, turning the dream into something that felt almost real. And through it all, he felt a strange envy—a longing for the clarity that you seemed to possess, the immunity that your bloodline granted against the effects of the spice.

He thought of how the Targaryens could walk through the halls of Arrakis without feeling the constant pull of the melange, how you could navigate the world without the visions that haunted his every step. You had spoken of your dragon dreams, but they seemed different—more like a gift than a curse. For Paul, there was no escape from the future that loomed over him, no way to close his eyes without seeing the flames that threatened to consume them all.

The dream shifted again, and this time he saw you standing alone, your face turned toward a desolate sky. The dragons circled above you, their shadows sweeping across the desert sands. You raised a hand, as if reaching for something beyond the horizon, and for a moment, Paul thought he saw the outline of a figure standing beside you—a shadowed presence that seemed to watch over you both.

And then the flames came again, surging around him, pulling him back into their burning embrace. He fought against the heat, against the images that burned through his mind, but he could not escape their grasp. He felt himself falling, spiraling deeper into the fire, into the dreams that would not let him go.

When he finally woke, his body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. The room around him was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the Arrakeen night beyond the windows. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing, but the echoes of the dream lingered in his mind, refusing to fade.

He could still see the flames, still feel the heat of your gaze as you looked at him through the blaze. 

Paul clenched his fists, trying to make sense of the dream, but the only thing he could hold onto was the feeling that he was running out of time—that the future he had seen in the flames was rushing toward him faster than he could understand.

The sun was low over Arrakeen when Daenys Targaryen descended from her ornithopter onto the landing platform of the Atreides stronghold. The air was filled with the ever-present scent of spice, but she was accustomed to it now, the sharpness of it barely registering as she walked through the gates with a small entourage. In her arms, she carried a sealed case containing the schematics for the hydroponic systems and aqueducts her brother Aelor had promised to the Duke of House Atreides, as well as trade agreements for the Valyrian steel Leto had requested.

The stronghold’s halls were cool and dim, a stark contrast to the searing heat outside, and she moved through them with ease, nodding to the guards who watched her with a mixture of curiosity and respect. When she reached the Duke’s study, the doors opened to reveal Leto, standing by the holo-map of Arrakis, his hands clasped behind his back.

He turned at the sound of her arrival, his expression lighting up with a warmth that spread through the room. “Daenys,” he greeted, stepping forward to meet her, his gaze lingering on her as if he could not quite believe she was there again. “You honor us with your presence, as always.”

You offered him a small smile, inclining your head as you handed over the sealed case. “My brother sends his regards, Duke Leto, and the schematics for the hydroponic systems we discussed. He believes they will help to cultivate more water and food here on Arrakis, using the principles that have served us well on Albiron.”

Leto accepted the case, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment as he took it from you—a touch so fleeting, yet it sent a thrill through him. “Please, call me Leto,” he said softly, a hopeful look in his eyes. “And you have my deepest gratitude, Daenys. Your aid in these matters is... invaluable.”

He gestured for you to join him at a nearby table, where a selection of documents lay spread out, detailing the terms of the trade agreements between their Houses. Leto placed the schematics beside them, but as you took a seat, you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you more than the papers. There was a gentleness in his expression, a warmth that he did not bother to hide.

As the two of you discussed the details of the trade deal—the Valyrian steel for Caladan’s infrastructure, the military supplies, and the exotic fish that House Targaryen had come to appreciate—Leto found himself gravitating closer, allowing small gestures to slip into the conversation. A touch to your arm as he made a point, a lingering glance that spoke of affection beyond the politics of their arrangement. And he noticed, with a mixture of hope and nervousness, that you did not shy away from these gestures. In fact, at times, you even reciprocated, offering him a smile that seemed to linger just a little longer, or a comment that was warmer than mere formality.

As the conversation drew to a close, Leto cleared his throat, gathering his courage before speaking again. “Daenys, I know that you have many responsibilities here on Arrakis—and with your House’s efforts in the desert—but I was wondering if you might... consider staying here in Arrakeen for a few days. Not as a matter of duty, but simply... to see more of what our city has to offer. Perhaps we could... share more about our Houses, our histories. It would be an honor to have your company outside of these discussions.”

He watched your expression carefully, his heart fluttering in his chest as he tried to gauge your response. He knew that he was treading a fine line, offering more than just hospitality, hinting at a desire for connection that went beyond the formalities of an alliance. Yet he could not help but hope that you might accept, that you might see in him the same possibilities that he had come to see in you.

You tilted your head slightly, considering his words, and then a small smile curved your lips, one that seemed to reach your lilac eyes. “I think... that sounds like a welcome distraction, Leto. I would be... happy to see more of your city and to learn more about the history of House Atreides.”

Leto felt a rush of warmth flood through him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to smile fully, a genuine expression that softened the lines of worry that had long marked his face. “You honor me with your acceptance, Daenys,” he said, and there was a sincerity in his voice that he did not try to hide.

The sun hung high over Arrakeen, casting its warm rays over the sandstone streets and the sprawling city below. But inside one of the private courtyards of the Atreides stronghold, a cool breeze carried the scent of desert flowers, offering a small respite from the heat. Leto Atreides sat on a stone bench, his expression relaxed for the first time in weeks as he listened to Daenys Targaryen speak, their voices mingling with the rustling leaves of the ornamental trees surrounding them.

They had spent the morning together, walking through Arrakeen, with Leto sharing tales of his House’s history—how they had come to Caladan, their struggles and victories, and the legacy they hoped to preserve on Arrakis. There was a lightness in his voice that hadn’t been there before, a hopeful lilt that hinted at the promise of something new.

“You know,” Leto said, turning to you with a soft smile, “I never thought I’d find myself speaking so openly about these things. Caladan feels like a world apart from this place, and yet, with you... it feels like the distance doesn’t matter as much.”

You returned his smile, your lilac eyes glinting with a warmth that matched his. “There is always a part of home that stays with you, Leto,” you replied, your voice carrying the echo of distant stars. “Even in exile, we found ways to keep Valyria alive. Our stories, our traditions... They were all we had when the Imperium believed we were gone.”

Leto watched you with rapt attention, as if each word you spoke was a piece of a puzzle that he longed to understand. He leaned in closer, the edges of his cloak brushing against the stone beneath him, and he caught the scent of the desert spice mingling with the soft perfume you wore. “And what was it like, in that exile?” he asked, his voice low, carrying the genuine curiosity he felt. “To build something from nothing, to know that the Imperium would have you forgotten?”

You looked out over the courtyard, a distant expression crossing your features as memories surfaced. “It was... difficult, but there was a kind of freedom in it too. We knew we were beyond their reach, that we could shape our future in a way that no longer relied on Imperial favor. But there were sacrifices—lives lost, homes we would never see again.”

Before you could continue, the sound of footsteps on the stone pathway made both of you turn. Jessica, dressed in the dark robes of her Bene Gesserit station, stood in the doorway of the courtyard, her expression tight as she looked between you and Leto. There was a tension in her posture, an edge in her eyes that spoke of disapproval.

“Duke Leto,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, “I hope I am not interrupting. But there are matters that require your attention.”

Leto’s relaxed demeanor shifted, a shadow of disappointment crossing his face as he glanced at you, realizing that your time together was ending sooner than he had hoped. He forced a polite smile as he nodded to Jessica. “Of course, Jessica. I’ll attend to it shortly.”

You stood gracefully, knowing well enough the tension that hung in the air. “It seems our conversation will have to wait for another time, Leto,” you said, offering him a gentle smile before turning to leave.

But as you moved past Jessica, her hand shot out, catching your arm. Her grip was firm, and though her expression remained outwardly calm, there was a steel in her eyes that left little room for misinterpretation. “Stay away from Paul,” she said, her tone as sharp as the desert wind. “He is not meant for the games you play, Targaryen.”

You met her gaze evenly, your expression unreadable as you pulled your arm free, but you offered a curt nod, acknowledging her warning. Without another word, you turned and continued down the pathway, your footsteps fading into the stone corridors beyond.

As you disappeared around the corner, Jessica turned back to Leto, a mixture of frustration and something deeper twisting in her chest. “You encourage her presence here, Leto,” she said, her voice low, barely restrained. “You know what this could mean for Paul, for all of us.”

Leto’s expression hardened, and he stood up, his gaze following the direction where you had left. He took a deep breath, the weight of unspoken words heavy between them. “That's enough, Jessica,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I know the risks, but I also know that our House must change if we are to survive here.”

Jessica watched him, unsure how to respond, the conflict in her eyes plain to see. But before she could press further, Leto turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him as he left the courtyard, leaving Jessica alone in the quiet space.

She let out a long, weary sigh, her gaze drifting to the shadows where Vaegor and his men moved through the halls, their presence an unsettling reminder of how little control she had over the events unfolding around her. The way they seemed to glide through the darkness, their eyes ever watchful, sent a chill through her. It was a presence she could not manipulate, could not predict—and that fact unnerved her more than anything.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the weight of fear settle there, a fear that she could not fully name. And as she stood alone in the courtyard, the shadows of dragons and prophecy swirling around her, she wondered if the fate that she and her Sisterhood had so carefully crafted was beginning to slip through her fingers.

You moved through the stone corridors of the Atreides stronghold, your mind still turning over the conversation with Leto and the sudden interruption by Jessica. The air inside the halls was cool, but the memory of the animosity in the courtyard clung to you like the lingering warmth of Arrakeen’s sun. As you rounded a corner, you nearly collided with Paul, who seemed to have been waiting, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"Daenys," he greeted, a hint of urgency in his voice as he caught your attention. “I was looking for you. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

You arched an eyebrow, remembering Jessica’s warning just moments before. But you kept your expression calm, your curiosity piqued. “And what might that be, Paul?” you asked, inclining your head slightly, inviting him to walk with you.

Paul fell into step beside you, his hands fidgeting slightly at his sides as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s about the Red Faith,” he said after a moment, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid the very walls might be listening. “They’ve started to spread across Arrakis. I’ve seen their symbols in the city, heard their prayers in the alleys. The priests and priestesses—they seem to know things that no one else does.”

You nodded slowly, your thoughts turning to the Red Faith and its mysterious presence. It had been a topic of concern among Leto’s advisors, a whispered worry among the Fremen and the Sisterhood, but one that had little to do with the politics of House Targaryen. “The Red Faith is not ours, Paul,” you replied, keeping your voice even as you spoke. “But they seem to see something in my people—in our past. Perhaps it is because we come from a place that is as foreign to them as it is to you.”

Paul glanced at you, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Where do they come from?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned closer. “What place could birth a faith like this?”

You hesitated for a moment, choosing your words carefully. “They come from a planet that lies in a part of the unknown universe where there are no stars, only the darkness of space,” you said, your gaze turning to the windows that looked out over the city. “They believe that in that darkness, there is a light—a flame that will one day burn away the shadows.”

Paul fell silent, his thoughts turning inward as he processed your words. “Is there any truth to what they say?” he asked finally, his voice low, as if he feared the answer. “To the miracles they claim, the visions they spread?”

You looked at him, your expression thoughtful. “I have seen many things, Paul—on both sides of the universe. Miracles, omens, and wonders that defy the explanations of reason. If there is truth in their words, then we should all tread carefully. Faith can be as powerful as swords in the right hands.”

Paul nodded slowly, absorbing your words, but his gaze remained fixed on you, as if searching for something deeper. “In my dreams, I see them too,” he confessed, his voice taking on a distant quality. “I see the priests, the flames, and... you. I see you standing in the fire, guiding me toward—”

But you raised a hand, stopping him gently. “Paul, I think it would be wise not to share too much of your dreams with me. You know as well as I do that Jessica—your mother—would not want you speaking of such things with me.”

Paul’s expression hardened slightly, a flicker of defiance crossing his face. “I don’t care what she wants, Daenys. She doesn’t understand what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling. And she doesn’t understand you.”

There was a moment of silence as his words hung in the air between you, charged with a tension that neither of you could easily dispel. You studied him, seeing the conflict in his gaze, the battle between the weight of his mother’s expectations and the mysteries that seemed to call to him from the edges of his dreams. And you realized that whatever path lay ahead, Paul would not be easily swayed from it—not by Jessica, not by the Bene Gesserit, and perhaps not even by you.

But even as you held his gaze, you felt the echo of Jessica’s warning lingering in your mind, a reminder of the dangers that surrounded Paul and the forces that sought to shape him. And you knew that this moment, this conversation, was but a small part of a larger game, one that stretched far beyond the walls of Arrakeen.

You offered Paul a small, enigmatic smile, your tone softening. “Be careful, Paul. There are shadows in the desert—and in the dreams—that are not always what they seem.”

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, his resolve unbroken. “I will,” he said. “And maybe... one day, we’ll see what the dreams truly mean.”

You inclined your head, acknowledging his words, and then turned to leave, feeling the weight of his gaze lingering on your back as you walked away into the shadows of the stronghold, your mind filled with thoughts of visions, fire, and the secrets that burned at the heart of Arrakis.

The evening air of Arrakeen was cooler than usual, a rare breeze slipping through the stronghold as Leto Atreides sat with Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat in one of the more private observation rooms. The room was low lit, the glow of data-screens creating the only source of light as they pored over the reports gathered by Vaegor and his men. The Targaryen Master of Whispers and his agents had been thorough, combing through the corners of the city and uncovering more remnants of Harkonnen sabotage, their findings meticulously cataloged and organized. Yet even with the progress, there was a lingering unease in the air, a wariness that none of them could quite shake.

Hawat leaned forward, his eyes scanning the latest report as he spoke. “Vaegor’s team has found traces of communication relays that the Harkonnens used to mask their movements in the city. It seems they had help from... within.” He paused, glancing at Leto. “I’ll continue to look into it. But for now, it seems we are dealing with multiple layers of deception.”

Leto nodded, though his mind seemed elsewhere, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table. Gurney, ever watchful, noticed the distant look in the Duke’s eyes and exchanged a knowing glance with Hawat. It wasn’t the first time they had seen Leto like this—distracted, thoughtful, as if wrestling with something beyond the tactical complexities of their current situation.

Finally, Leto broke the silence, his voice more casual than the weighty reports they’d been discussing. “Tell me, Hawat, Gurney—what do you think Dragonlord Aenys drinks?”

The question caught them both off guard, and Gurney couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at Hawat. “Well, my Lord, if spiced red wine has no effect on the Targaryens, I’d wager he’s not the kind to settle for anything ordinary.”

Hawat’s lips twitched into the slightest smile, his usually serious demeanor softening. “Indeed. Perhaps something exotic, something they’ve kept hidden away on Albiron for centuries. Some kind of spirit that the Imperium hasn’t even heard of. Or perhaps... just water from one of their sacred springs, untouched by any additives.”

Gurney nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Or maybe he’s got a taste for firewater that could burn a hole through your insides. I hear their dragons like the heat, so why not the Dragonlord himself?”

Hawat’s amusement deepened, but there was a glint in his eye as he turned his attention back to Leto, who had been listening to their speculations with a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But I must ask, Duke, what brought this particular question to mind? It’s not often that you concern yourself with Targaryen drinking habits.”

Leto’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful frown. He looked down at the documents on the table, the proposal he had sent to Aenys weighing heavily on his mind. “Because, Hawat, if Aenys decides to visit Arrakis in response to the offer I sent... I would rather know what to serve him than risk offending him further. If he arrives in good spirits, I’ll need something fitting for the occasion. And if he comes here... less than pleased, then I’d rather have something that might soften his mood.”

Gurney raised an eyebrow, the amusement in his expression shifting to interest. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re worried about how he might respond to the proposal.” He glanced at Hawat, who nodded in understanding. “You know, my Lord, you could just ask his daughter—she might give you a hint as to what her father prefers.”

Leto sighed, his hand reaching up to adjust the signet ring on his finger. “It’s not that simple, Gurney. I don’t even know how to tell her about the offer I sent to her father. It’s... delicate, and I fear that if I mention it, I might say the wrong thing.”

Hawat leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. “You know, Leto, you’ve faced armies and scheming barons without hesitation. Don’t let this proposal become something you fear. Daenys respects you. If you’re honest with her, she might surprise you.”

Leto glanced at Hawat, then at Gurney, and he allowed himself a small, wry smile. “Perhaps you’re right, Hawat. Perhaps I’m overthinking this. But if Aenys does come, and if he is displeased, I’d rather have a bottle of something on hand that won’t worsen the situation.”

Gurney chuckled again, raising an imaginary glass in a mock toast. “To drinks, diplomacy, and whatever else might come our way, my Lord. We’ll make sure Arrakis is prepared for all kinds of guests, dragonlords included.”

Leto’s smile lingered, and he nodded, a sense of resolve settling over him as they turned their attention back to the reports.

...

The night was deep over Arrakeen, the moons casting a silver glow across the desert city. Within the Atreides stronghold, you sat in the quiet of your private chambers, a space granted to you by Duke Leto during your stay. The room was simply furnished, but there was a comfort in the way the stone walls insulated it from the heat of the day, creating a quiet haven amid the events swirling through the stronghold.

A soft knock on the door drew your attention, and you rose to open it, finding Vaegor standing on the threshold. His expression was as grim as ever, the shadows of the corridor playing across the sharp angles of his face. Without a word, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him before handing over a sealed folder.

“My Lady, this is the latest report,” he said quietly, his tone flat but with a faint edge of urgency that you recognized well. “There are... developments that you need to see.”

You took the folder, breaking the seal and unfolding the pages inside. As you scanned the contents, a frown deepened on your face. The words blurred for a moment before crystallizing, each new line adding to the weight in your chest. “Are you sure about this?” you asked, lifting your gaze to meet Vaegor’s eyes. “This is not something we can afford to get wrong.”

Vaegor’s expression remained impassive, but there was a hardness in his gaze that spoke of certainty. “Almost, Daenys. There are... whispers, things I’ve picked up that point to something larger. The Emperor’s Sardaukar and Harkonnen troops—they are moving. They’ve been seen loading onto Baron’s starships. Their destination seems to be Arrakis.”

Your breath caught for a moment, and a cold dread settled in the pit of your stomach. “And you haven’t informed the Duke?” you asked, forcing your voice to remain steady. “He needs to know if Shaddam IV is planning to strike at House Atreides.”

Vaegor shook his head, his expression unyielding. “Not yet. Not until I am absolutely certain. If I tell him now, it may alert the wrong people—and that brings me to another issue.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I believe there is a mole within the Atreides ranks. Someone has been leaking information to the Harkonnens.”

The implications hung heavy in the air between you, the shadows in the room seeming to thicken with the weight of his words. You clenched your hands around the papers, struggling to keep your emotions in check. “Then this news is even more dangerous than I thought,” you said, your voice tight with the effort of control. “Send word to Aelor and Maelor at the base. They need to know what might be coming.”

Vaegor gave a curt nod, his face impassive but his eyes sharp with the intensity of the situation. “As you command, cousin. I’ll have the message transmitted immediately.” He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, casting one last look over his shoulder. “Be careful, Daenys. If the Emperor truly intends to make his move, we may not have much time.”

You watched him go, his footsteps fading into the halls beyond, leaving you alone with the heavy knowledge of what his report implied. You paced back to the small window, staring out over the city, the distant lights of Arrakeen flickering like stars against the darkness. The desert winds whispered against the stone, and for a moment, the world outside seemed as still as the depths of space.

The choice before you loomed like a shadow—to tell Leto of the threat immediately, or to wait until Vaegor could confirm his suspicions. A warning given too soon might expose them both to danger, but a warning given too late could doom House Atreides and everyone within it.

Your thoughts turned to Leto, to the warmth in his eyes when he spoke to you, to the hope that had begun to bloom in your chest when you thought of the future you might share. But this was not about feelings—it was about survival, about strategy, and about choosing the right moment to act.

Would he understand if you held back, waiting for certainty? Or would he see it as a betrayal when he learned how long you had known?

You closed your eyes, taking a slow breath to steady yourself, and tried to quiet the conflicting emotions that warred within you. For now, all you could do was wait and hope that Vaegor’s whispers would soon give way to truth. And as the shadows lengthened across the city, you wondered whether time was on your side—or if it was slipping away faster than either of you could grasp.

...

The Atreides stronghold stood against the desert night, its stone walls cool in the evening breeze as the last rays of sunlight faded into darkness. Within its halls, Leto Atreides waited, standing in the doorway of the library, a room filled with the quiet presence of ancient books and tomes—some of the few treasures he had brought from Caladan. The room smelled of aged parchment and leather bindings, a scent that reminded him of home, far from the dangers and secrets of Arrakis.

Tonight, though, he was not alone in the quiet sanctum of his family’s history. He had invited you to join him, hoping to share a piece of the Atreides past—and perhaps find a few moments of peace amidst the gathering storm. As you entered the library, Leto turned to greet you, a warm smile breaking the serious lines of his face.

“Daenys,” he said, gesturing to a nearby table where several volumes lay open, their pages yellowed with age. “I thought you might enjoy seeing some of House Atreides’ history, the kind of stories that aren’t written down in the Imperial records. These books... they’re a part of who we are, and I wanted to share them with you.”

You glanced over the tomes, curiosity glinting in your lilac eyes as you ran a hand over the embossed cover of one of the volumes. “You honor me with this, Leto. I’ve always been fascinated by the stories of other Houses, especially those with a history as rich as yours.”

Leto’s smile softened, and he gestured for you to join him at the table, where the two of you settled into a comfortable silence, paging through the books and sharing stories of the past. He told you of Caladan’s storms, of the sea that roared against the cliffs of his ancestral home, and of the responsibilities that came with the Atreides name. In turn, you spoke of Albiron, of the legends and lore that had shaped the Targaryen exile, and of the struggles your family had endured to build a new life in the shadows.

For a time, it was easy to forget the politics, the threats, and the danger that loomed over them. There, in the quiet sanctuary of the library, it felt as though the two of you were simply people, sharing your stories and your dreams.

After a while, Leto leaned back, his gaze settling on you with a mixture of fondness and curiosity. “I’m glad that Paul has found a companion in you, despite what Jessica might say,” he admitted, a note of sadness in his voice. “He never had many friends growing up—none that could truly understand him. Not with the way Jessica trained him, and with Hawat always nearby.”

You studied Leto’s expression, seeing the worry that lurked beneath his words, the father’s concern that he carried alongside the weight of his duties. “He is a remarkable young man, Leto,” you replied gently. “I think he sees more than even he realizes. And... perhaps that’s why he seeks out my company. He sees something of himself in me.”

Leto nodded, his gaze turning back to the books for a moment, but you could see the warmth that lingered in his eyes. When he looked at you again, there was a softness there that you had rarely seen, a look that spoke of something deeper, something he had tried to keep hidden.

“I’m grateful for your presence here, Daenys,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’ve brought a... a light into these halls, into my life, that I didn’t know I was missing.”

You felt your heart tighten at his words, a warmth spreading through you, and before you could think, you reached out to touch his hand, your fingers brushing against his. Leto responded, covering your hand with his own, his grip gentle yet firm, as if afraid to let go.

The moment seemed to stretch between you, filled with unspoken words and longing that had been building since Arctis. And then, almost without realizing it, Leto leaned closer, his eyes searching yours for a sign, for permission. You didn’t move away, and he took it as a sign of acceptance. His lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss, a touch that was filled with all the questions and hopes he had not dared to voice.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to lose yourself in the warmth of the kiss, in the way his hand cradled your cheek, in the feeling of possibility that bloomed between you. But then, just as quickly, you broke the kiss, pulling back as the reality of your situation crashed down around you.

Leto blinked, his brow furrowing in concern as he searched your face, trying to understand what had gone wrong. “Daenys, what is it? What’s wrong?”

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, knowing that there was no turning back now. “There’s something you need to know, Leto,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, the weight of the truth heavy on your tongue.

...

The library fell into a tense, almost unnatural silence as Leto looked at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern. The warmth of the moment between you dissipated, replaced by the gravity of your words, the urgency of what you had come to reveal. He searched your face, trying to find some sign that you were not serious, but the earnestness in your eyes left no room for doubt.

“You’re telling me that... the Emperor and Harkonnen forces might be en route to Arrakis?” Leto’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but the edge of shock in it was unmistakable. He took a step back, his mind clearly racing as he tried to process what this meant, the implications of such a betrayal.

You nodded, holding his gaze, your own expression steady despite the turmoil swirling inside you. “Yes, Leto. Vaegor has intercepted whispers, information that suggests Shaddam IV and Harkonnen troops are preparing to move against you. He believes they’ve been using Baron Harkonnen’s starships to mask their movements.”

Leto’s hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he turned away, staring into the shadows of the library as if seeking clarity there. The weight of your words settled over him like a stone, pressing down on his shoulders, but he did not let himself crumble under it. He took a breath, steadying himself before he turned back to you, his gaze sharper, more focused. “And you’re certain of this?”

You shook your head, your voice remaining low and urgent. “Vaegor isn’t entirely certain yet, which is why he hasn’t brought it to you directly. But the risk is too great, and I couldn’t wait any longer. If they find out he knows before he has proof, before he makes his move, we’re all in danger. You needed to know, to be ready in case this assault happens sooner than expected.”

Leto remained still, absorbing your words, and for a long moment, it seemed as though the world had shrunk to the space between the two of you, the silence heavy with the unspoken fears that hung between you. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into the abyss of what might come.

“I knew the Emperor and the Harkonnens would try to make their move eventually,” Leto said finally, his voice rough with barely concealed anger. “But I thought we’d have more time. That they’d at least be more subtle about it.”

You could see the pain in his eyes, the realization that Arrakis was more vulnerable than he had ever imagined. And beneath that, there was something else—betrayal, the feeling that one of his own people might be working against him, selling out his House and his family to their enemies.

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” he asked, his tone hardening as he forced himself to focus on the immediate threat. “Who is leaking information to the Harkonnens?”

You hesitated, the weight of your cousin’s suspicions pressing down on you. “No, not yet. Vaegor is trying to pinpoint the source, but he hasn’t found enough to act. It could be anyone—someone who sees an opportunity, or someone who’s been bribed or threatened into doing their bidding. We need more time to figure it out.”

Leto’s jaw tightened, and he paced the length of the library, his mind clearly racing through the possibilities, the suspects. But he paused, turning back to you with a look of determination. “I trust your judgment, Daenys. And I trust Vaegor’s. We’ll prepare for whatever assault is coming, and we’ll find this traitor before they can do any more damage. But this... this changes everything.”

You met his gaze, seeing the resolve that burned there despite the fear that lurked in the shadows of his expression. “I wish I could give you more than just a warning, Leto,” you said softly, your voice tinged with a note of regret. “But you deserve to know the truth, even if it’s not what you wanted to hear.”

Leto moved closer, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder, his touch both reassuring and grateful. “You did the right thing, Daenys. Whatever happens, I’d rather face this danger with my eyes open than be blindsided. And I’m... I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

You allowed yourself a small nod, but inside, the fear remained, gnawing at the edges of your mind. The danger felt closer than ever, and you couldn’t help but wonder if the shadow of the Emperor’s forces and the Harkonnens was already creeping toward Arrakis, preparing to strike.

And as you stood there, side by side with Leto in the stillness of the library, you both knew that the balance of power was shifting, and that the alliance between your Houses would be tested in ways neither of you could yet imagine.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Tuesday, January 23

DAWN: What's that? WILLOW: What? I didn't- DAWN: Uh ... I'm getting out of here. WILLOW: Aw, Dawnie, don't. It was probably a cat or something like that – Oh, it's okay, he's not real. DAWN: Seems real! Very! Real! DEMON: You summoned me, witch. WILLOW: I, I didn't- DEMON: Did. You raised hell with your magicks.

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[sequestering]

Helloooo💙 for the fic ask:

✈

💀(take it as a compliment - because i went to a local game and the refs were hot and i thought of you)

👀

💋

thank you 💕 these are such fun ones!

💀 if you had to write an alternate ending to [take it as a compliment] how would you end it?

refs are so underrated!! the angry tension, the enemies to lovers, the forbidden romance of it all. so glad to have infected you with ref brain worms <3

so 'take it as a compliment' was only ever going to end one way, i.e. with some variation on a very sappy happy ending. that said, i did consider ending it on a kind of outside pov epilogue. i decided against it in the end, but i do still have several thousand words of tk trying to figure out why sid no longer refs their games while claude trolls him relentlessly. i might post it as a follow-up some day but for now a small section--

Travis begins with Google because where else.

They've got a red-eye back to Philadelphia, and he's still banned from the card table for "cheating" so it's not like he's got anything better to do. He pays the extortionate $20 for in-flight wi-fi and settles in for some research.

Sidney Crosby is still alive and still an active NHL officiator, which means Travis can rule out a few of his more wild theories. He didn't actually think Claude would hire an assassin or something, but if there was anyone who would, G's got the exact right kind of don't-give-a-shit energy.

Travis isn't wrong, though. A bit of time on the NHLOA website shows that Crosby hasn't officiated a Flyers game since the previous season. Given that he's based in Pittsburgh, it's unusual.

Reddit agrees with him. Or at least, a few Redditors in a random thread from last month have made the same observation. Weird, they call it. Travis reads through a few of their explanations with mild interest.

It's Gritty. suggests an account named JD1812, which Travis thinks is unlikely. It had taken him a few years of snooping, but he did once catch sight of the guy in the Gritty suit taking a smoke break. He's definitely just a balding dude, not, like, some eldritch monster.

Possibly a personal conflict of interest. If he started dating a player's sister or something they wouldn't let him ref those games, suggests another account. It's such a hilariously bizarre idea that TK has to laugh. He can't even begin to imagine anyone dating humourless, sour-faced Sidney Crosby.

There are a few more proposals. Reddit user TrueNorthStrong69 thinks that Crosby was taken off for bias, but that's also laughable; the NHL's never taken a ref off for being biased in its whole hundred-year history, it's not going to start by taking pity on the Flyers.

Travis reaches the end of the thread none the wiser. Really though, it's not like fucking Reddit was going to have the answer.

He closes the tab and shuts off his phone. Further up the plane, he can see the top of Claude's ginger head over one of the headrests. Travis narrows his eyes and glares. Fuck Claude and his secrets, he's going to figure this one out.

👀 what’s a fic written by someone else that you REALLY wish you wrote yourself?

hmmm i don't tend to think of fic as something i wish i wrote because if i did write it, it'd probably be very different. let's see...

i stumbled across confidence man by blaahaj recently which completely blew me away. i have a long fawning comment in my drafts that i need to actually post - the author has such a knack for nuanced, interesting but still very hockey-bro characterisation; it's gorgeously written; and the romantic italian (lmao) setting is catnip to me. the reason i mention it though is that the premise is genius, and as someone who's been playing around forever with a million different variations on a sports media guy/player au, i was very struck by how perfectly the author slotted the lead (in this case m tkachuk) into his sports media au role. it's hard to get aus right like that, but when you do mwah it can make for such a fab twist on the established character dynamic.

really though there are so many fics and authors i could mention here. this is such a fantastically talented fandom and i so often read a fic and come away thinking 'oh wow the writer did x so well, i really want to try that out myself.'

💋do you have any guilty pleasure ships that you really want to write for but are scared to?

not really! i don't think i've ever felt particularly guilty about liking a ship. there are a ton of ships i'd like to write for at some point in the future, but really the main hindrance to my writing is just time 😭

(✈ i will leave for the next ask....)

[gnomey22]

The Realms of the Fey

As in, the two renditions of the Realm of the Fey arc within Failtopia. I have opinions on them.

In Season 1, it lives up to pretty much exactly what you'd expect from the worst area of the game. The Fab Fairies are great, and Rose is a likeable character (until her corruption arc, but that doesn't happen until later). That's about all this arc has going for it. The team dynamic is literally just "Stop quarrelling with the damn flower -> stop dating the damn flower -> the damn flower -> Joker, who barely exists." and it's really difficult to get invested in. Rose just being some normal bitch who got in way over her head in an identity theft scheme and not knowing what to do about it is a very fun idea for a character, and although it could've been expanded upon further, her descent into believing in her own power too much is quite interesting, even if it kind of destroys her general likeableness. Pirahnyawn is the resident healer, but he doesn't give two shits about the party he's stuck with for the foreseeable future, so he intentionally does a terrible job, fights with Failboat constantly, and has a very flimsy relationship with Rose. He's a fairly well-written character, but he's a complete asshole, and it's hard to buy him having any genuine friendships across the team. Unlike Erica, he never grows out of his distaste, because he never had any hope in working together like she did. Joker isn't even a character, he's a one-off joke that had to be kept around until the end of the series without doing anything, and I hate that for him, he deserved better. This arc has some good writing, but it's hard to get into when all of the characters are 1: terrible people or 2: even a character.

In Season 2, this arc blows my expectations out of the water and becomes my favourite of the six! (By which I mean, both Greenhornes, both Neksdors, and both Realms of the Fey.) Bo is a direct parallel to Rose, but her character goes down a wholly different path with the "cautiously hiding her true self behind the Princess class" gimmick, and the ghost-assassin thing adds a whole new layer that makes for great interactions with the actually-already-likeable protagonist! Chat is literally just a self-insert for the live chat of all things, but their drive to make every situation more fun and interesting, while having zero boundaries or self-awareness of how they come across, makes them an actually compelling character, and their constant support of Bo is what leads her down a better path than Rose, who only had Pirahnyawn for support, and he never really showed his care for her that much. Chat, in complete contrast, shows it too much, although through dangerous means, while Bo struggles to show anything about herself. Chat's idolisation of her prompts her to open up, just slightly, and their friendship allows her a safety net in case her other attempts at friendship go wrong. Ironically, she actually feels safer because of Chat's influence. Her and Mar trying their best to keep Chat under control while sustaining their weird needs makes for an actually entertaining trio dynamic, and that's not even talking about Bill. His drive to help anyone and anything with the limited resources he has, taking every situation with a brighter perspective while still remaining relatively calm and reasonable, is great at making him stick out from the rest of the team (something he's all too used to, a driving factor in why he tries so hard to bring everyone closer together), but plays very well off of the other members when they do interact with him. Joker, meanwhile, has zero defining character traits to speak of, and never feels involved with the rest of the team's constant bickering. Admittedly, the Fab Faires are worse than Season 1, but Mar learning to deal with their horrifying faces, despite his instinct to cast judgement due to his past, is nice to see.

I'm tempted to label this an analysis, but it's really not, these are just sleep-deprived ramblings because I don't think I've been posting enough on this site. My point is, Pirahnyawn is a bad person, and the second Realm of the Fey arc needs so much more appreciation.