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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Of Gods and Men (exodus)

Introduction

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

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

- Pairing: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

- Next part: contact

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

Millennia before the reign of the Padishah Emperors, before the Guild navigators learned to bend space, and long before the Bene Gesserit began their breeding program, there was another power, a House whose name was whispered with awe and fear across the stars—House Targaryen of Valyria.

In those ancient days, Valyria was a shining jewel of the universe, a world of towering spires and grand pyramids, whose mighty fleets ruled not one world but twelve. From the skies of Laansarad to the distant colonies of Qohar and Sarnor, their banner—a red three-headed dragon on a field of black—was a symbol of dominion, and their words, "Fire and Blood," were a promise. Their secret to power was not only their advanced technology or their skill in combat, but something far older, something the Imperium would come to call "unnatural." For the Targaryens were bonded to creatures of legend—dragons—whose very existence defied the laws of nature and technology.

But their power, their fire, had not gone unnoticed.

Once they emerged, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, ever-seeking control of bloodlines to further their goals, had long coveted House Targaryen's strength. Yet they could not penetrate the Targaryen bloodline, for the House was immune to the Sisterhood's manipulations. Rumors abounded that the dragons themselves had gifted their riders with an ancient magic that made them resistant to the spice and to the Bene Gesserit’s arts. The Targaryens did not bow, did not mingle their blood with the lesser Houses of the Imperium, and did not submit to the Sisterhood’s schemes. This isolation, this defiance, would be their undoing.

It began as whispers in the shadows of the imperial court of House Corrino, whispers that spoke of Valyria’s growing influence and its potential threat to the Emperor's rule. Fearing the power of House Targaryen and the dragons they commanded, House Corrino, in secret alliance with the Bene Gesserit and several other noble houses, set in motion a betrayal that would forever change the galaxy.

Without warning, the skies of Valyria turned dark as Corrino's fleets descended upon the planet like locusts. Great dreadnoughts unleashed their fury, raining nuclear fire upon the unsuspecting cities. The Targaryens, though powerful, were not prepared for such treachery. The star cities of Valyria, with their grand pyramids and towering spires, were reduced to ash in a matter of hours. Their colonies—once strongholds of the Targaryen vassal Houses—were similarly annihilated in the firestorm.

The Bene Gesserit, cold and calculating, had played their part well. They ensured that no Targaryen blood would escape their reach, confident that the ancient dragonlords were now a cautionary tale, a reminder that even the greatest Houses could fall.

But they were wrong.

In the chaos, a single fleet—a fraction of the once-mighty armada—managed to escape the inferno. Led by Aenar Targaryen, a visionary dragonlord, and his most loyal vassals, the remnants of House Targaryen fled into the void. Their dragons, too, escaped, fleeing with their riders into the unknown. With the enemy forces closing in, Aenar made the hardest decision of his life. He ordered the abandonment of the civilian starships—hundreds of them—that could not jump through space at the speed needed to escape. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children—innocent lives—were sacrificed to buy time for the chosen few. As the slow ships limped away at sub-light speed, doomed to be caught by their pursuers, the core fleet vanished in the blink of an eye, jumping to coordinates no one in the known galaxy had ever seen.

In their flight, they left behind only death and ruin, convincing the Imperium that House Targaryen was no more. The Bene Gesserit believed the bloodline had been wiped out. House Corrino celebrated their victory, confident that their throne was secure.

But the Targaryens were not dead.

As the surviving ships jumped further and further into uncharted space, their surviving dragons roared in defiance. Aenar Targaryen vowed that his House would rise again. The fire that had consumed Valyria would be reborn, and one day, the red three-headed dragon would fly again over the stars.

Their enemies had only bought themselves time.

In the vast, unknown reaches of space, the last of House Targaryen sought a new home, far from the grasp of the Empire, far from the Bene Gesserit’s eyes. In their hearts burned a single truth: fire and blood. It was all they had left.

And it was all they would need.

Far beyond the reach of the known universe, in the vast and uncharted depths of space, the last of House Targaryen drifted. For weeks, their ships had traveled through the void, their destination unknown, their hopes tethered only to the coordinates embedded in their ancient star charts. Aenar Targaryen, now the sole leader of his House, stood at the helm of his flagship, his mind consumed by thoughts of what was lost and what might yet be found.

Then, the scanners caught sight of something—a planet unlike any they had ever seen. Its atmosphere glowed a rich, deep red, the color of blood under an alien sun. Its oceans shimmered like rubies, and its vast jungles, though strange and wild, thrummed with life. The planet seemed to call to them, a beacon of hope in the darkest night.

"This is it," Aenar said, his voice carrying the weight of a prophecy. "We shall call it Albiron."

As the Targaryen ships descended upon the planet's surface, they found a world brimming with untapped potential. The air was thick but breathable, rich with minerals that nourished the vast jungles below. Towering mountains stretched into the sky, their peaks capped with dormant volcanoes. Aenar made his home there, at the highest point, building a grand pyramid into the volcanic chain that would serve as both fortress and palace. Around it, more pyramids soon rose, connected by a complex nexus of pathways above the dark amber forests. Below, cities began to form, hidden by the jungle canopy, shielded from prying eyes.

Albiron was a world of secrecy, and House Targaryen would see to it that their new home remained unknown to the Imperium and its allies.

As they delved deeper into the planet's surface, they made a discovery that would change the course of their history. In the heart of a vast canyon, buried beneath layers of rock and time, they uncovered a crystal unlike any they had seen before. The crystals, translucent with a faint golden hue, pulsed with an energy that seemed almost alive. Aenar named them drakaon, in honor of the dragons that once ruled Valyria, and the power they held was nothing short of revolutionary.

The drakaon crystals, as they soon learned, could be harnessed as a new energy source. They could be used to fuel their ships, making long-distance space travel possible without the reliance on melange—the spice that had kept the Imperium in control of the stars. For the first time in millennia, the Targaryens were free from the constraints of the galaxy’s economy, free from the Guild's stranglehold on space travel. Their technology advanced rapidly, fueled by the power of the drakaon crystals, and soon, the Targaryens had fleets capable of crossing the stars without detection, fleets that no longer needed to bow to the powers of the known universe.

In secret, they thrived. The cities of Albiron grew more complex and advanced, their pyramids rising higher, their pathways extending further across the planet’s vast jungles. Their ships patrolled the unknown regions, mapping uncharted stars and ensuring that no one would find their new home.

But the greatest secret of all lay within the depths of their new world.

Within hidden caverns, deep beneath the volcanoes of Albiron, Aenar and his descendants built vast hatcheries. Here, using knowledge salvaged from the lost archives of Valyria, they revived their ancient bond with dragons. Clutch by clutch, new dragons were born, their eggs glowing with the same fiery life that had once illuminated the skies of Valyria. The first to hatch was a magnificent beast, its scales a deep, molten red, its eyes like twin suns. They named it Vexarion, a harbinger of the new Targaryen age.

As the hatcheries grew, so too did the dragons, each one bonded to a rider, as had been the tradition for millennia. Once more, the Targaryens flew on dragonback, their fire-breathing companions reclaiming the skies of Albiron. They were stronger, fiercer than ever, their lifespans prolonged by the spice, their health enhanced by the crystals, just as their ancestors had once done. The galaxy believed the last dragons had died millennia ago, but here, on this blood-red planet, they lived—and they thrived.

Under Aenar’s leadership, House Targaryen rebuilt its strength. They did not forget their defeat, nor did they forgive it. But they had learned patience. For now, they would remain hidden, waiting, watching, biding their time in the shadows of the Imperium. They would rise again, but not yet. For now, their future lay in the skies above Albiron, in the bond between dragon and rider, in the power of the drakaon crystals that flowed beneath their feet.

Thousands of years had passed since the fall of Valyria, and the known galaxy had all but forgotten the name Targaryen. House Corrino ruled unchallenged, the Bene Gesserit continued their manipulations, and the spice flowed as the lifeblood of the Imperium. The Targaryens, once feared and powerful, were now little more than a cautionary tale—a story told to remind the galaxy of the dangers of defying the throne.

But in the far reaches of space, beyond the gaze of the Emperor, beyond the Sisterhood’s influence, whispers had begun to circulate. Minor Houses in the fringe systems spoke in hushed tones of strange transactions, of peculiar spice shipments that defied the standard flow of commerce. Most notably, a small, unassuming House known as House Vex had begun to quietly sell a specific brand of spice to select, discreet buyers.

The spice itself was nothing extraordinary at first glance—reddish-brown in color, with the same faint glow that all melange possessed. Yet, when examined closely, it held properties that puzzled even the most skilled refiners. It resisted traditional refinement processes, requiring a unique method of rensfuration to unlock its full potency. And it was always purchased by the same anonymous entity, whose representatives never gave names, never left a trace.

Rumors swirled throughout the Imperium. Some said the spice had properties that could extend life far beyond what even melange could achieve. Others whispered that it had been tailored for use in genetic experimentation, perhaps even to create a superhuman race immune to the Bene Gesserit's influence. The most outlandish rumors claimed it was being used to resurrect a forgotten House, one whose bloodline had been immune to the Sisterhood’s powers millennia ago.

At first, the whispers were dismissed. Minor Houses always had their secrets, after all, and House Vex was hardly influential enough to warrant concern. But as more and more shipments of this peculiar spice quietly disappeared into the unknown universe, suspicions began to grow. The Spacing Guild noticed the irregularities in the spice routes, and the Bene Gesserit began to pay attention. Still, no one dared speak openly of it—House Corrino had no interest in encouraging the notion of a long-lost enemy returning from the shadows.

In truth, the rumors were closer to the truth than anyone realized.

Deep within the jungles of Albiron, the Targaryens had mastered the art of spice refinement—not for their own use, but for their dragons. The spice, in its raw form, had always been a valuable tool to extend human life and grant certain enhancements, but the Targaryens had discovered a very specific strain, a rare and potent variant that, when carefully refined, could do far more. It extended not just the lifespan of their dragons but enhanced their vitality, their strength, their fire. The dragons of Albiron, already magnificent creatures of fire and fury, became more resilient, more powerful than they had ever been in Valyria.

This strain of spice could only be harvested under particular conditions, and it required an even more delicate process of rensfuration, one that took years to perfect. The Targaryens had kept this secret for generations, using it only sparingly to ensure their dragons thrived in exile. And to maintain their anonymity, they allowed House Vex—a small House bound to them in loyalty for centuries—to sell a portion of the raw spice to the wider galaxy, hiding the true purpose of the refined strain.

The transactions were always discreet, the buyers carefully selected to ensure that no one could trace the spice back to Albiron. Yet despite all their precautions, the galaxy had begun to take notice. The mystery surrounding the spice—and the shadowy figures who bought it—grew with each passing year.

The Bene Gesserit, ever watchful, sensed a disturbance in the patterns of the Imperium. Though they could not put their finger on it, the Sisterhood had learned to listen for the subtle currents of power that ran through the universe, and something was shifting. The idea that a House immune to their influence could have survived all these years in secret sent a ripple of unease through their ranks. They began to dig deeper, their agents searching for any clue that might lead them to the source of the rumors.

House Corrino, too, grew wary. The spice trade was the lifeblood of the Empire, and any irregularity in its flow could have disastrous consequences. The Emperor’s spies were dispatched to the farthest corners of the galaxy, though none returned with answers.

Still, the rumors persisted. The spice that had no clear origin. The mysterious buyers from beyond known space. The possibility that a forgotten House might yet live.

In the halls of the Imperium, no one spoke openly of House Targaryen. To do so would invite questions that no one wanted to answer. But in the dark corridors of power, in the quiet whispers between those who dealt in secrets, the name began to surface again.

Targaryen.

Fire and blood.

The galaxy had forgotten them, but House Targaryen had never forgotten the galaxy. And as their dragons grew stronger, as their power in exile continued to build, they waited.

For one day, the whispers would no longer be rumors.

And when that day came, the stars themselves would tremble.

The scorching winds of Arrakis blew fiercely through the narrow streets of Arrakeen, carrying with them the dry scent of spice and the whispers of rebellion. The city, usually shrouded in an oppressive silence broken only by the occasional hum of machinery, now thrummed with tension. A crowd had gathered in the heart of the city, their faces hidden beneath hoods and veils to protect against the harsh sun, their voices rising in fervor as they listened to the woman who stood before them, bathed in the blood-red light of the setting sun.

She was known only as the Red Woman, a stranger from a distant corner of the galaxy, draped in flowing crimson robes that shimmered in the heat. Her eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and her voice, rich and commanding, seemed to cut through the dry air like a blade.

“Brothers, sisters,” she called out, her voice echoing through the square. “You have been deceived! For too long, the Bene Gesserit have whispered their lies into the ears of your leaders, guiding the hand of the Empire toward a future of darkness and death. But the Lord of Light has seen their evil, and He has sent me to show you the truth.”

The crowd murmured in agreement, their eyes locked on the Red Woman as she raised her hands, flames seemingly dancing at her fingertips.

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” she intoned, her voice growing louder. “But there is a light coming, a flame that will burn away the lies of the Bene Gesserit. The false messiah they prepare will lead to the deaths of billions! But the Prince That Was Promised, the true savior, will rise and deliver us from their evil.”

The crowd erupted into shouts of agreement, their fists raised toward the sky as the Red Woman’s message of salvation stirred their hearts. But not everyone in Arrakeen was so moved by her words.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, a figure emerged, flanked by a dozen Bene Gesserit acolytes. The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, her face etched with the lines of age and power, strode forward with the grace of a predator. Her sharp blue eyes took in the scene before her, the riotous crowd, the Red Woman at their center, and the burning passion in their eyes. She had seen such passion before, in other corners of the universe, and she knew well the danger it posed.

The Red Woman turned her gaze toward the Bene Gesserit as they approached, her lips curling into a cold smile. “Ah, the serpents come to silence me,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “Do you fear the truth, Mother?”

Mother Mohiam’s expression remained unchanged as she stepped forward, her voice as cold as the sands of Arrakis at night. “You have no place here, woman. You are not of Arrakis, and you bring only chaos to these people. Leave this world, now, or you will face the consequences.”

The Red Woman laughed, the sound high and sharp, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. “I serve only the Lord of Light, not your false Empire or your twisted Sisterhood. You, who claim to see the future, who shape the paths of men to serve your own ends, are the true servants of darkness. You pave the way for a false messiah who will bring nothing but death and destruction to the universe.”

The Bene Gesserit acolytes shifted uneasily behind Mother Mohiam, but she stood firm, her eyes locked on the Red Woman. “You speak of a prophecy you do not understand,” she said. “The future is not for the untrained mind to glimpse. You meddle with forces beyond your comprehension.”

“The future is clear to those who serve the Light,” the Red Woman retorted. “Your Kwisatz Haderach, your so-called savior, will be the harbinger of death. He will lead the universe into a war that will consume entire worlds, killing billions. But the Prince That Was Promised will come, and he will burn away the lies you have sown.”

The crowd began to stir again, their fear and anger rising as the Red Woman’s words took hold. Mother Mohiam could feel the pulse of the mob, the heat of their desperation, and knew that if she did not act soon, this riot would spread like wildfire through the streets of Arrakeen.

“You play with fire,” Mother Mohiam said softly, stepping closer to the Red Woman. “And fire will consume you.”

The Red Woman smiled, her eyes gleaming. “The night is dark and full of terrors, Mother. You would do well to remember that.”

With that, the Red Woman raised her hands, and for a brief moment, flames flared at her fingertips once more before she stepped back into the shadows. Her followers, emboldened by her defiance, began to chant, their voices growing louder as they echoed her words.

“The night is dark and full of terrors. The Prince That Was Promised will come.”

Mother Mohiam watched as the Red Woman disappeared into the crowd, her eyes narrowing in thought. She had faced zealots before, had seen the power of faith wielded as a weapon. But this… this was something different. The Red Woman’s words echoed in her mind, unsettling her in a way few things ever had.

As the crowd began to disperse, the tension lingering in the air like the scent of spice after a storm, Mother Mohiam turned to her acolytes.

“Find her,” she said quietly. “Find her and bring her to me. We must know who she truly serves.”

For a moment, she stood in the empty square, the wind stirring the dust around her feet. She looked up at the burning sky, the twin suns casting long shadows across the desert, and a chill ran down her spine despite the heat.

The night is dark and full of terrors, indeed.

And Mother Mohiam knew that the terrors were only beginning.

- A/N: Let's see how well this does before I post another part.

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earlycuntsets · 1 month ago

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image descriptions: "The giant Gerard Way clones vowed to enslave the earth" (gerard way) "trapped wind can be a nightmare" (amy lee) "fall out boy were proud to introduce a stereotypical frenchman to their lineup (fob) "by this point in the evening. the photographer was seeing double" (incubus) "jack white shows off his man boobs (jack white) "amy lee. but wheres her sporran?" (amy lee) "if I close my eyes real tight. I can pretend i'm still in blink 182" (+44) "this one goes out to good people at persil" (AFI)

"Anarchy in the USA. The world's biggest bands lay waste to Los Angeles

KROQ-FM RADIO in Los Angeles is the premier radio station in North America. If a band can get played on KROQ, then it's pretty certain they'll have a big hit on their hands. The station has helped launch the careers of Blink 182, Linkin Park and The Offspring among many others. And every Christmas time, bands return the favour by playing a (fairly) intimate concert for 6,000 fans, with all the proceeds going to charity. Sixteen years ago, when the first 'Acoustic Christmas' took place, the bands actually performed their sets in a stripped down acoustic setting, but slowly, that tradition has given way to full on electric sets that rock the pants off the crowd. And, as usual, Kerrang! was given access all areas to the hottest gig in town…

SATURDAY 5PM Rising emo pin-ups SAOSIN take the stage to a sparse crowd. Hardly anyone Is Inside the venue yet, but they shouldn't be too down-hearted. Linkin Park once played this slot. The following year, they were headlining.

5:30PM It seems unlikely a band with such a full-on rock 'n' roll reputation like WOLFMOTHER would even be awake at 5:30pm, let alone taking the stage. Yet the Aussie lads turn their infectious energy on to churn out new classic rock hits like 'The Joker And The Thief' and 'Woman'. Backstage, singer Andrew Stockdale chats with Hollywood socialite (and daughter of Rod) Kimberly Stewart in the hallway. The big-haired Wolfmother man is also seen drooling over his hero Billy Corgan. Corgan is not performing today - he's just hanging out, taking a much needed break from the new Smashing Pumpkins recording sessions.

6PM After the disappointment that was +44's album 'When Your Heart Stops Beating', the trio's performance tonight is a revelation. Astonishingly, drummer Travis Barker-whose right arm still hasn't fully healed from an injury sustained during the band's September video shoot-plays the entire set with one arm, without missing a beat. It's a jaw-dropping spectacle. Evidently, the band we witnessed playing their debut London gig back in October were only just finding their feet. Two months on, +44 are a sharper, more confident live act, with sparky anthems such as '155' sounding like the greatest songs Blink 182 never wrote. Don't write them off just yet…

7PM 30 SECONDS TO MARS 'Whoa, I can play guitar without even looking!never fail to make an eye-opening entrance. Tonight, the prog-influenced foursome race down the Then singer Jared Leto spends much of signature tune 'The Kill' in the crowd, running up and down the aisles, climbing onto the seats to share his microphone with the fans, and generally betraying the movie star charisma that has won over Scarlett Johansson, Cameron Diaz and Lindsay Lohan, among others. The lucky devil. At the end of the band's set, a flurry of cannons detonate a vast snow storm of white confetti. Magnificent. words and photos: Lisa Johnson

7:40PM FALL OUT BOY "We feel like losers," moans Pete Wentz as FALL OUT BOY take the stage. He's concerned that his band didn't really 'fit' on either night. Sandwiched between 30 Seconds To Mars and My Chemical Romance can be unnerving, but at least the dude got the chance to meet Jared Leto's ex-girlfriend Lindsay Lohan backstage. That's got to count for something. Whatever Wentz' reservations, Fall Out Boy triumph tonight. It's one of the first times they've had the opportunity to air songs from new album 'Infinity On High', and on this evidence, 'This Ain't A Scene It's An Arms Race' is set to replace 'Sugar We're Goin' Down' as FOB's key song. Fun, addictive, and outrageously catchy, the track prompts a massive crowd response, despite most people having never heard it before. The new album will be huge. Later, rumours fly over whether or not Wentz and Lindsay Lohan are an item. From Kerrang!'s vantage point, things certainly seem to be going well for Wentz. Lohan might well be his tonight-providing he can get her out of Foo Fighters' dressing room… [photographed - The venue and grunge legends: Dave Grohl and Billy Corgan]

8:15PM MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE explode onstage with typical flair and venom. the stage is still littered with the confetti from 30 Seconds To Mars' set. Gerard Way encourages the crowd to throw confetti snowballs at him, and a beautiful reverse snow flurry erupts towards the stage. Suddenly one aisles dressed in Santa Claus outfits. giant confetti snowball hits him right in the face. Gerard just laughs, and gives the thrower a congratulatory nod. This encourages a full-on snowball assault, until security intervenes and puts a stop to it. After the band's set, Billy Corgan is ushered into MCR's dressing room. This isn't Gerard's first Corgan encounter-he's never made any secret of his adoration of the Smashing Pumpkins man - but it is the first for the rest of the band. Mikey Way contains his excitement on the outside, but inside, he's overwhelmed. The bands exchange tales from the road, and discuss the perils of onstage missiles (a subject close to MCR's hearts ever since Reading 2006). "The worst is piss," Corgan says.

"Oh, yes, we know!" Gerard, Mikey and Frank chime in unison.

Then they swap piss-throwing stories for 20 minutes. It's a beautiful moment.

9PM Outside the venue, a massive rainstorm is raging. Inside, INCUBUS are performing an amazing set full of hits like 'Nice To Know You.' 'Wish You Were Here' and some songs from their newest release 'Light Grenades'. Singer Brandon Boyd literally falls into the crowd at the end of the set, arms outstretched, like a man giving the performance of his life.

Afterwards, Brandon is sipping wine with his buddies backstage, although bassist Ben Kenney can't join in the Christmas cheer: he's flat out on the couch, laid low by a vicious cold. In the crowded backstage hallways, David Grohl is delighted to run into Billy Corgan. "I had a baby! Want to see some photos?" Grohl asks him, and quickly whips out some pics of baby Violet to show off. Aww.

"We feel like losers." - pete wentz, fall out boy

9:50PM It's been an incredible year for AFI, and they're clearly in celebratory mood as they slay the masses with tracks like 'Miss Murder' and 'Love Like Winter.' Friends Joe Escalante and Dave Quackenbush from The Vandals, along with Jim Lindberg from Pennywise, have come to check out their best buddies' band. It serves as a reminder of just how far AFI have transcended their old school punk roots. Their new material shines through tonight, ditching the skuzzy riffs of old for gleaming hooks, fist-pumping singalongs, and, of course, the ever-more flamboyant overtures of frontman Davey Havok. Always enigmatic, AFI disappear from the site shortly after their set - although later that night we spy drummer Adam Carlson at a Hollywood dive bar, partying under the radar with some friends and who can blame him.

10:40PM The backstage party turns into a ghost town the once FOO FIGHTERS takes the stage. The band, including Foo veteran Pat Smear remain in sit-down acoustic form for the first portion of the nine song set which includes "My Hero" and ends with "Everlong". As Dave Grohl stands to perform "Everlong" the stage silently turns and there the rest of the band reappears with full electric setup. and pounds seamlessly into "All My Life" Tender moments include 'Times Like These,' 'Monkey Wrench', and what Grohl claims is their first ever live performance of 'Darling Nikki', a cover of a startlingly filthy Prince song about a masturbating female nymphomaniac. Ahem. There's no santa suits, no confetti, no dancers. But damn, the Foos own tonight. The 'buzz' acts right now might be the twin emo juggernauts of MCR and Fall Out Boy. But, on this form, Foo Fighters make those newbies look like mere pretenders to the throne. Awesome.

SUNDAY 6:35PM Just prior to ANGELS AND AIRWAVES taking the stage, Kerrang! arranges to introduce Panic! At The Disco to their all-time hero, Tom DeLonge. Since Panic! often cite Blink 182 as inspiring them to start a band in the first place, this promises to be a momentous occasion. The meeting takes place in the crowded hallway backstage, while the Panic! dancers hurriedly prepare for their performance. Tom speaks excitedly to the band, even inviting them to produce a line of shoes and clothing for his Macbeth clothing company. The encounter goes swimmingly, and -as if you couldn't tell from the saucers that replace the eyes of Ryan and Brendon as they chat to their idol - the Panic boys declare themselves 'stoked'. Pleased to be of service, chaps.

7:10PM Once PANIC! AT THE DISCO take the stage, they blow everyone away with their elaborate staging and dancers. The foursome are obliged to strip down their production for the intimate setting, but still, with just a fraction of the mayhem, the performance is topnotch, with the crowd going predictably apeshit for 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies'. Where on earth will they go next?

7:45PM EVANESCENCE's Amy Lee was nearly trampled by the Gnarls Barkley dancers in full elf costumes earlier in the evening (the men behind über- Crazy' were also on the bill today, weirdly enough). hit ' And she seemed unfazed by the numerous dressing room bust-ins that Tom DeLonge made to say hello. In fact, she appeared to be rather amused by his antics. "We don't really fit on this bill," Amy told the captive audience, and thanked the fans graciously for watching, before tearing into a full-blooded version of 'Call Me When You're Sober'. "Most of you probably don't know who we are." Which is being rather modest, since Evanescence have probably sold more records than most of the bands here combined.

8:25PM THE RACONTEURS are enjoying the stateside success of their track 'Steady As She Goes'. And tonight, Jack White is in high spirits. "It's Meg's birthday tonight-it's her 16th!" We think that might be a lie. Backstage, Meg White and Dave Grohl sit down for a lengthy chat about drums. We're sure it was fascinating.

9:45PM THE KILLERS' set is notable for finally laying to rest the supposed 'feud' between them and fellow Vegas natives Panic! At The Disco. Indeed, the Panic! boys make a point of planting themselves in some empty seats, watching The Killers' set with giant smiles on their faces. Well, it is Christmas, after all…

10:40PM FOO FIGHTERS return to play the same set as last night. But it's no less powerful the second time around. "Did you all enjoy The Raconteurs?" Dave Grohl asks the crowd, "Cause I pretty much think they're the best rock band around right now." And with that he launches into 'Skin And Bones' and the crowd explodes into anarchy.

01/2007 kerrang! #1141

#basically my bedroom wall back in the day #its the piss “oh yeah” mcr said in unison #they're doing a show with evanescence next year! i just love her thats all.#amy lee #evanescence #fall out boy #panic at the disco #foo fighters #the killers #my chemical romance #mcr #gerard way #black parade era #mcr scans #kerrang 1131 #01/2007 #scans from mcrhollywood flickr #mcrhollywood #almost acoustic christmas

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flock-of-cassowaries · 12 days ago

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So I’m not endorsing Fight Club - it’s a problematic book with a deeply toxic cultural legacy - but as a queer AFAB millennial who grew up in the sunken place of really wanting to identify with images of traditional masculinity… that shit rocked my world circa 2006.

And it just occurred to me how easily you could map Fight Club’s core plot conceit* onto NBC Hannibal (especially season 1); and that got me thinking about the parallels and differences between these two works.

Spoilers for a 28-year-old movie below the cut.

*the core plot conceit of Fight Club is that the two principal characters - the charismatic and dangerous Tyler Durden, and the story’s unnamed narrator - are in fact one person. The narrator is not aware of this until the final act.

(Also - I’ve added headings, because I know this is very long and rambly, and I feel an appropriate amount of shame about that. )

[How this idea originally occurred to me]

So what originally got me thinking about this is that in NBC Hannibal, Will is always tired, while Hannibal, mysteriously, seems to have at least 40 hours available for crafts and hobbies in every day.

This maps very neatly onto the way time seems to work for Tyler Durden, vs. how it works for the insomnia-plagued narrator.

[Main thesis]

But there’s a lot more similarities than that - most notably, the overall arc of the narrator-Tyler / Will-Hannibal relationship:

1. Both Hannibal Lecter and Tyler Durden breeze into our main character’s lives, and very quickly install themselves at the very centre of it.

2. Both become an object of unacknowledged homoerotic yearning for the main character, before finally being revealed to be extremely dangerous villains who were manipulating the main character all along, and who were instrumental in blowing up the main characters’ lives.

3. Ultimately, in both works, the main character ultimately rejects their “friend” by attempting suicide in a way that will kill both of them (and, in doing so, stops the “friend” from committing further harm).

[Bonus Round]

Other parallels include:

- that Hannibal and Tyler are both exceptionally ostentatious in their mode of dress, in contrast to our comparatively mousey main characters.

- that they both serve to invite the main character to embrace violence (something the narrator in Fight Club does easily, but which Will Graham, to his credit, resists).

- Hannibal’s ritualized sadistic physical torture of Will (in Mizumono, and the again in Dolce / Digestivo) also mirrors the scene in Fight Club where Tyler burns the narrator’s hand.

- Hannibal and Tyler also both enter the main character’s lives at a time when they are struggling with insomnia based on guilt related to their jobs. (Jobs, btw, where both of them have bosses they cannot stand and do not respect.)

[Alana Bloom and Marla Singer]

I also think the Marla Singer / Alana Bloom parallel is interesting.

In both cases, these women are implied to be the only woman who might, possibly be a match for the main character - someone who could possibly understand them enough to form a possibly-healthy relationship.

Instead, however, Alana and Marla end up forming relationships with Hannibal and Tyler (respectively).

In both works, this makes the main character despair (even as it is implied that the woman would actually rather be with the main character than with Hannibal / Tyler).

[Bonus Round II - Electric Boogaloo]

Also, on a more superficial level, both Marla and Alana have stunningly pale skin and dark hair (much as both Tyler and Hannibal are sandy blondes who seem larger-than-life in comparison to our dark-haired, ruddy-complexioned protagonist).

I would also like to rapidly recognize:

- the aesthetic similarities in Randall Tier’s death and that of Jared Leto’s character in the film version of Fight Club

- the amusing parallel of both Tyler and Hannibal creatively repurposing dead human tissue, which they then gleefully give to rich people who do not know what they are consuming (Tyler, by making medical-waste human fat into bougie soap; Hannibal, by making murder victims into gourmet meals)

- the way that the “the line between us has begun to blur” theming in Season 3 of Hannibal echoes the “literally the same person” reveal in Fight Club

[Conclusion]

With all this in mind, I think it would be very possible (and potentially quite fun) to plot out a Fight Club AU of Hannibal, wherein there is no Hannibal Lecter. (Might explain why he has such a stupid fucking name. Yeah, I said it. It’s fucking dumb that his name rhymes with “cannibal”. Fight me, Thomas Harris.)

[Appendix - Contrasts]

That said, the differences are also quite notable:

1. Whereas Tyler Durden seduces the narrator in Fight Club with the promise of validation from a male social group, Hannibal Lecter’s pitch to Will is that he recognizes that Will is is unique and special, and appreciated him as such.

2. Tyler Durden is overtly political, positioning himself as outside the system, and explicitly anti-capitalist. Hannibal Lecter, on the other hand, is apolitical, and perfectly comfortable being a member of the ruling class. There is no anti-capitalist motive to his crimes against the rich.

3. In rejecting Tyler, the narrator in Fight Club (especially in the film version) symbolically reclaims his heterosexuality, and is implied to have formed a bond with Marla; whereas Will Graham (literally) embraces Hannibal even as he rejects him, and Alana has long since been clearly shown to have adopted a position of “To hell with these gay idiots”.

4. While imperfect, Will Graham is a lot more sympathetic than the narrator of Fight Club; both because of how vigorously he resists Hannibal (as alluded to above), and in terms of what we see of him before he falls under Hannibal’s spell:

— Will’s guilt stems from an action (shooting Gareth Jacob Hobbs) that most people would consider morally-correct. In Fight Club, on the other hand, the narrator’s guilt stems from condemning strangers to die in order to save his company money.

— The narrator in Fight Club is shown to have been driven by his insomnia to the point of engaging in vampiric support-group grief tourism (which - yikes). By contrast, Will is seen calling Jack Crawford out on the inherently exploitative nature of his “Evil Minds Museum”.

— Whereas the narrator in Fight Club lives a life of hollow consumerist grasping, Will is shown to live a materially-simple life, which he generously shares with a menagerie of abandoned dogs. It is easy to imagine that he would put his dogs’ needs ahead of his own, given that we see him putting time and energy into rescuing and washing Winston, even at the end of a long, exhausting workday.

[Postscript]

I literally typed this whole-ass essay out before I remembered that Edward Norton (who played the narrator in Fight Club) also once played Will Graham (in the 2002 film Red Dragon, which I have not seen, but which I remember Bryan Fuller having credited with giving him the idea to write NBC Hannibal).

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daenystheedreamer · 1 year ago

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Valyrian Pantheon Headcanons

We know the names of 5 of the Valyrian gods and that's it. We don't know anything about the practices or even what those gods were patrons of. Here is my headcanon reconstruction of the pantheon ^_^

I think the Fourteen Flames (the volcanoes) are named for fourteen gods who constitute the main pantheon, similar to the 12 Greek Olympians or the 12 Roman Dei Consentes. There are many minor gods, usually personifications of concepts like seasons/emotions.

I imagine them like Egyptian gods, who are personified sometimes as humans, sometimes as animals, sometimes as animal-headed humanoids. I imagine the main fourteen as dragons, though idk how silly that would look lol.

I think they were also androgynous gods. Why? That's fun. That's so fun. Dragons are theorised to be hermaphroditic/intersex who can change their sex at will, but also are referred to as she-dragons if they are confirmed to lay clutches of eggs. So some of these gods are gods, and some are goddesses, despite being a-gender

Canonical Gods

BALERION: I believe Balerion's name is at least a little inspired by Ba'al, an ancient Semitic god who was very important to the religions of the region (Canaan, Babylon, etc) and features as a false god in the Hebrew bible. I think he's the King of the gods, like Zeus. God of war or fire or conquest or all of the above. Many ancient gods shifted their patronage and powers.

VHAGAR: Consort of Balerion, similar to Hera. Goddess of war/wisdom, similar to Athena. I think this fits a person like Visenya.

MERAXES: Perhaps a concubine of Balerion? Like how Zeus had thousands of lovers. Metis, Leto, Demeter, etcetera. Goddess of love, because Rhaenys seems like a woman who enjoyed love and life. Perhaps also a goddess of marriage?

SYRAX: It's gotta be someone Rhaenyra would think is cool. Perhaps a goddess of the sun/moon? Another war goddess? A queen? Actually, perhaps Syrax is the Hera of the pantheon, while Vhagar is not necessarily virginal like Athena but 'unmarried' so to speak. Goddess of beauty/wealth would also fit Rhaenyra. Goddess of the sun or moon would be fun in opposition to Sunfyre.

BOASH: called 'The Blind God' Mentioned as the god the Lorathi worship, whose religious followers (dissidents of the Valyrian Freehold) founded the city of Lorath. The name doesn't follow the typical Valyrian naming traditions, perhaps he was originally Boax/Boaxes? Would be fun. He's a very esoteric god connected to 'higher truths', the priests are eunuchs and the followers are vegetarian teetotalers and a main tenant is that everyone is equal. They also wear hair shirts which is an old Christian practice. I think he's a version of a Valyrian death god

the BLACK GOAT: Whose followers founded Qohor. I think he's a minor god, perhaps of magic or agriculture even, agricultural deities tend to be very important to common folk. However the goat imagery evokes Satan and Baphomet, so I think a villainous or death deity would be fun.

Non-canonical gods

A lot of the Targ dragons are given names with similar naming style to the canonical god dragons.

VERMITHOR & VERMAX: The naming conventions of Vermax and Vermithor intrigue me... I think one is the name of the God and one is a theophoric name in reference to the god. Perhaps a god of justice, law, order, etc, since they were the dragons of Jaehaerys and Jacaerys and I can see them picking that kind of God.

ARRAX: Lucerys names his dragon this, so I think a coming-of-age god or god of youths would be fun since he, yknow, got eated at 14.

CARAXES: This is Daemon's dragon so I'm saying Caraxes is the Dionysus/Hermes trickster god. Daemon picking the bacchanalian drunk sex god for his dragon is real to me.

MELEYS: Rhaenys TQWNW's dragon. Rhaenys gives off SUCH demeter vibes idk so agricultural god would be fun but idk i don't think she'd pick something like that. Perhaps its based off of Meraxes since Rhaenys is her namesake. Perhaps an oceanic or weather-based god.

MORGHUL: Morghul is simply the word for death in High Valyrian e.g. 'Valar Morghulis', but I like it as a euphemistic name for a God of death. Like his name is so tabboo that you just refer to him as death, or he's just named death in relation to afterlife, like how Hades refers to both the god and the underworld. I think perhaps Boash and the Black Goat are actually interpretations/aspects of the same deity, perhaps a death - morghul - god.

SHRYKOS: Sick name sorry just had to say that. He's Jaehaerys (son of Helaegon)'s dragon. got no clue what he could be a god of cos jaehaerys is a plot device character. I think he's just a cool Valyrian word, like Morghul, since Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are twins. Be fun if they picked life/death dichotomy for their dragons :p

TERRAX: ridden by the pre-doom character Jaenara Belaerys, who flew further south in Sothoryos than anyone else. God(dess) of travel/wisdom/conquest/oceans would be fun since she's a traveller who flew across oceans and sort of exemplifies the Valyrian conquest/adventurer spirit.

TESSARION: Okay the blue queen has to be a goddess of the ocean or the sky<3

TYRAXES: Joffrey's dragon :) I think a god of animals would be cute also cos he sounds like T-rex. I would name my dragon T-rex. Possibly a bastardisation of Terrax though...

URRAX: This is the name of a legendary/fairytale dragon from the story of Serwyn and Daeryssa from the Age of Heroes. By Daeryssa's naming convention and the fact she is mentioned only in AGOT, I think she was perhaps supposed to be a Targaryen before GRRM had established a full history. I think he's just a bastardisation of perhaps a Valyrian god like Arrax.

So my vision of the Valyrian pantheon includes Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes, Syrax, Vermithor, Arrax, Caraxes, Terrax, Tessarion, which is 9 gods

plus Meleys and Tyraxes who I'm not sure if I want to be referring to above gods or just the name of a god entirely, which makes 11

Adding a death god (Boash, Black Goat, Moghul) makes 12,

which leaves another two unnamed for my personal idea of a Valyrian pantheon :)

#old valyria #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf

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eternal-love · 3 months ago

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FAMILY TREE

‘Give myself up to him in offering. Let him make a woman out of me.”

Feyd Rautha x Arya Atreides!OC

Summary: After Lady Jessica betrayed the Bene Gesserit by giving Duke Leto a son, she tried to make amends with the sisterhood by giving them a daughter— Arya. Turns out the sisterhood wasn’t so forgiving afterwards. Still, they went along with the marriage between an Atreides and the Baron’s youngest nephew, Feyd Rautha Harkonnen. Supposedly they would produce the Kwisatz Haderach. But, one can never find family blood and family cycles.

Author’s note: Listen. I haven’t read the books and I’m not too familiar in writing Feyd. Also, I have yet to discover how some things are called in Giedi Prime or Caladan. So pardon me about it.

TW: Incest (They’re literal cousins, but they don’t know), dub-con, abuse, Stockholm syndrome, violence. The time line is a bit messy since I want all characters to be older.

The minute Arya Atreides was born, her destiny and history was set in stone. Differently than her older brother, Paul Atreides, whom was born out of the love and passion between their parents, Arya knew she was born out of duty. She was raised to be the wife of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the Baron’s youngest nephew. He seemed better. At least better than Rabban, most commonly nicknamed ‘The Beast’.

At the age of fourteen, Arya left Caladan, with her heart broken and sad brown eyes. She traded the fresh and green Caladan for a polluted and gray Giedi Prime.

The wedding was nice in all its aspects, the Harkonnen were drowning in riches, but the atmosphere was black and white thanks to the black sun. Even there, she felt as an outsider still. Wearing a loose intricate black and white gown, with a huge headpiece in her hair. None of her family came. Not even for the dinner for the newlyweds.

What she didn’t know was how sadistic Feyd could be. She have had talks with her mother, Lady Jessica, about pleasing men, about how to make them feel desired but Feyd, he was different. You couldn’t tame him. No, it was impossible.

It didn’t take long before Arya got pregnant and had Feyd’s only child— a son. They were supposed to make the Kwisatz Haderach but Feyd did not want to listen to those damn witches, he wanted a son he could train to be just like him. History repeated itself.

Six years later, it was the coming-of-age ceremony of the Na-Baron, Feyd Rautha. Everyone in Giedi Prime was excited that their very own dear Na-Baron was turning of age. And which better way to celebrate than to have a fight in the Gladiator Arena?

Her servants helped her get ready. Over the years, Arya taught them how to do hair, since no one in Giedi Prime had hair but her. At first, Feyd wanted to force her to shave it off but once he ran his hands through that luscious auburn hair— he immediately got her another circle of servants just to care for her hair.

“Damn it.” Arya groaned as the servant pulled her hair. “Don’t you know how to brush hair?”

Arya stayed quiet, holding back a laugh— she forgot that she was the only woman with hair. The servant took a step back after another one shoved her, they continued doing the hairdo.

After a few minutes, the room door opened. It was the son of Feyd and Arya, Rabban. A sweet boy, long white hair, very pale, blue eyes.

“My dearest love.” Arya sensed her boy, but as she turned around, she saw her boy— beaten up and sad. She hurried to hold his face. “What has happened?”

“Father wasn’t there in my training. My trainer laughed, everyone did…” Rabban looked away, feeling ashamed. His father had raised him to be great! Not this weak and pathetic thing.

“You will be as good as your father one day, perhaps even better.” Arya spoke lovingly. Caressing her little boy’s face.

She may have not looked like him, but she loved this boy as if he was herself reincarnated. She pulled him in for a hug. Something rare in Giedi Prime.

“Go get dressed. We’ll have to be in the arena in a moment.” Arya said softly, her lips pressing together as she ran her hand through Rabban’s white hair.

Rabban listened and exited his mother’s bedchamber. Arya turned around and gave the servants a glaring look as they were staring at her like idiots, not doing their job of dressing her. The servants quickly rushed to her and started to undress her.

The next hour, they were already in the balconies of the Gladiator Arena. Arya was wearing an intricate dark green gown, with decorative chains by her collarbones and a hairpiece with a veil. She and Rabban were sat besides the Baron, sitting straight on her chair, her hands on her lap and a stern face, she used the small binoculars— there they were, Bene Gesserit. She could recognize their veils everywhere.

When Feyd entered, the arena roared. As if everyone in Giedi Prime was blood-thirsty. Arya was disconnected from it, but she had already grown used to it anyways. But her ears perked once she heard that the men he would fight— would be the last remaining of the Atreides. Her house.

She didn’t remember the last time she saw her family. The last thing she heard of them was that the Baron murdered her father. That they basically slaughtered House Atreides. That was her home once, but not now. The Baron looked at her with a smirk and she swallowed, her face still stern, her lips moving a little.

The fight was a blood fest, but she wasn’t thirsty for it. She just wanted her husband to know that she was here, that this time she didn’t hide in her chamber with Rabban. After the victorious battle, the celebrations for Feyd started— this time. He was not present during the feast of indulgence.

Arya knew this tactic. She knew so. So she left the feast and went through the castle’s corridors. She was quick enough to find the Bene Gesserit— Lady Margot Fenring.

“I know your plans, good sister.” Arya was quick to catch up to Lady Margot.

“Then you must know why of those plans. Na-Baroness.” Lady Margot stopped, calm as ever.

“My husband is content with our son. We do not wish to follow the crafted plan of you witche—“

“And that’s exactly why I am here, Arya. You’ve been useless to the sisterhood. You’ve brought nothing but anguish. And now you seem to not follow what we’ve been crafting for centuries.” Lady Margot turned around, facing Arya.

“I’ve done my duty here. I married Feyd, I bore him a child.” Arya spoke firmly.

“A son. A waste of time, a waste of cells. A useless child. We need a girl.” Lady Margot spoke coldly.

“My Rabban is the only child we’ll have. I do not wish to be a puppet in the sisterhood’s plans.” Arya said firmly as she held her head up high.

“You are not a Bene Gesserit. Look at you, not knowing how to use your powers. Powers you inherited from the greatest— our Reverend mother. And yet here you are. Weak.”

Arya rushed to find Feyd afterwards, she wouldn’t let this witch find him first and when she found him wandering around too, she took a deep breath and approached him.

“My darling…” Feyd called Arya.

“You are not in your feast. I worry for you, my love.” Arya spoke softly, reaching for her husband’s arm.

“I do not wish to be part of a spectacle. Not today, at least.”

“The spectacle was the one you out at the gladiator arena.”

“Watch how you talk to me, woman.” Feyd clenched his fist.

Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes before walking closer to him. “That fight it was a insult to me, to my house, to your son, to my blood—”

“Traitor blood, you say— my darling.” Feyd looked at Arya with his ever-menacing look in his eyes.

“Our son would’ve desired respect be shown to his blood.” Arya said, looking up at Feyd. He only smirked.

“Our son or you— Arya Atreides.”

Arya stared at Feyd, tears pricking her eyes. Feyd would often try to mock/insult her by calling her by her birth name. Atreides were considered traitors, disgusting, a dishonorable house— tow which it was slaughtered. But Arya, she would never be able to escape her very own blood.

“You out of all people, should not forget who you are. An outsider among us natives, my darling. It’s because of me that you have a place here. It’s because of me that you weren’t slaughtered too.” Feyd caressed Arya’s cheek, roughly yet gently.

That night, Feyd took Arya, one, two, three, four, five times before he actually grew exhausted. Arya stared at the ceiling. What if she were in Paul’s shoes? She would’ve end up dead but she would have been happy with her parents, not stuck in some foreign planet.

‘But this would all be worth if’ she thought to herself. She would find something for this to be worth it. For all these sacrifices to we worth something.

Perhaps killing the Baron would make it all worth it, if anything— she despised that fat man more than anything. The Baron was very jealous of her, because she took all of Feyd’s precious attention, because she was now Feyd’s motivation, because every kill, every execution, every battle— everything was for her. Not for him no more.

There is a reason why Feyd and Arya talked in whispers when they got near one of the Baron’s slaves.

A slave would say anything he heard if it meant getting their lives spared for one more day.

But Feyd had one goal in mind: be a Baron. He wasn’t a dirty Atreides or a weak Corrino, he was a Harkonnen— he was going to act the Harkonnen way.

Author’s note: This is kinda like an introduction, I hope to update frequently but because I’m in Uni, I’ll probably take long periods. Thank you for reading and I REALLY Appreciate comments! Love y’all!

#dune part 2 #austin butler #austinbutler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #feyd rautha fanfic #feyd rautha imagine #feyd rautha #feyd x oc #spotify #fanfic #fan fiction #house harkonnen #house atreides

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apollosgiftofprophecy · 1 year ago

Note

the pjo tv show is making me have thoughts about hephaestus & apollo’s dynamic, as well as apollo & ares dynamic — so i was wondering if you had any hcs for either duo or both !!

GREAT MINDS THINK ALIKE

I do for sure have some Thoughts on Apollo & Ares so I shall start there.

Apollo & Ares

Favorite Son and Least Favorite Son.

After Apollo was born, we all know he went on a mission to avenge his mom. That included killing Python, but I also headcanon this preteen storming up to Ares and demanding a fight for his mom's honor.

This was brought on because in the mythos, Ares actually chased Leto around and drove her from place to place, never letting her rest for long.

Obviously, Apollo isn't too keen on this and demands a duel.

Ares takes one look at this kid and goes you know what? I like his spunk. I'm keeping him. and lo and behold Apollo gets distracted by Ares showing him how to properly grip a sword's blade.

Also fun fact! In Ancient Greece, fathers raised their sons and mothers the daughters. Fathers would teach their sons how to swim and write, so this gets interesting once you put ToA's context with it.

In all honesty, I don't think Zeus was too involved in Apollo's growth. He was still there, of course! Enough to have a hold on him and. well. manipulate/gaslight him/abuse him.

However heartbreaking it would be to think about Zeus teaching Apollo these things (my heart. my poor sobbing heart.), I would also find it heartwarming if Ares did that instead.

Or Poseidon. But I personally think he taught Apollo how to ride horses. Let Ares have his thing :3

Because wouldn't it make sense that if Zeus couldn't find the time teach Apollo, then that responsibility would fall to the eldest son?

Jump to the giant twins now.

Apollo helps Ares recover. That is all.

THEY WERE ON THE SAME SIDE IN THE TROJAN WAR !!!!!!

Okay so. Diomedes tried to stab Apollo a few times when he was rescuing Aeneus, and Apollo CANONICALLY tells Ares about it - and lo and behold, Ares gets into a fight with Diomedes (and gets shish-kabobbed).

SO I CONCLUDE-

Apollo: Diomedes tried to stab me :(

Ares: WHAT.

Apollo: Yeah three times.

Ares: WHY.

Apollo: Aphrodite's kid? Aeneus? I was saving his ass after Diomedes stabbed Aphrodite.

Ares: THAT BITCH.

Apollo: But don't worry I took care of it-

Ares, picking up his spear and sword: HE SHALL TREMBLE BEFORE MY FURY. NOT EVEN HIS ARMOR WILL MARK HIS GRAVE WHEN I FINISH WITH HIM. HE SHALL CHOKE ON THE BLOOD HE HAS SPILT AND I SHALL LAUGH AS HIS CORPSE DECAYS. HE WILL RUE THE DAY HE HARMED EITHER OF YOU-

Apollo: he didn't touch me tho-

Ares: BUT HE TRIED!

Ares, snapping his cape: I shall take my leave. Got a bastard to stab. rides down and fights beside Hector. gets stabbed by Diomedes.

Ares, clutching his stomach: ...this didn't go as planned.

Apollo, patching it up after Zeus yelled at Ares: you don't say?

anyway. Apollo & Ares would also watch battlefields and Ares would basically be like "right. this is how to properly disembowel your enemies!" gruesomely decapitates some poor mortal. "See? Easy!"

also they would sing!!! war hymns and other things. Ares can dance too btw :3

also when Aphrodite and Apollo were polyculing with Adonis, Ares was doublely jealous because Adonis is 1) taking the attention of his girlfriend and 2) banging his favorite brother

Ares also cautioned Apollo about drawing too much attention to himself, especially Zeus's.

Too bad Apollo didn't quite take it to heart...

I think Ares already knows Apollo is being abused by Zeus. He knows the signs. He knows what's happening...because it happened to him first.

He would drop hints. Which...weren't very subtle, and kinda freaked Apollo out a bit because ohmygodsdoesheknow-?

And when Revolution time came around? You bet Ares sensed it coming from a mile away.

And perhaps he did...hmm...like with the master bolt theft...ooo gonna have to marinate that for a bit. see what i can cook up there. or if any of you have theories shoot them at me!

back to the thing. Once Ares catches wind It's A Go...he's gonna be on Apollo's side. Because godsdammit he's sick of Zeus and his horrible parenting a good war would give him a clean slate.

...Even if he has to put up with both Hera and Athena.

Apollo & Hephaestus

okay so. I haven't thought much about them because they are elusive for me BUT-

The show gave me a THOUGHT!

"Some of us don't like being that way either."

HEPHAESTUS DOESN'T LIKE THE SYSTEM. HE DOESN'T! HE HATES GOING ALONG WITH IT!

MY FIRST THOUGHT WHEN I HEARD THOSE WORDS?

APOLLO

he doesn't want to be part of it either. but he buried it inside himself. but post toa...he doesn't want to do that anymore.

and I think Apollo does like Hephaestus! I remember there was a moment where Apollo mentions being in his study or something and missing the entire 40s or whatever staring at Hephaestus's Newton's Cradle.

why was apollo in there. and did hephaestus let him in there?

BECAUSE HEPHAESTUS IS A PRIVATE GUY RIGHT? WHAT'S APOLLO DOING IN A PRIVATE ROOM OF HIS?

...unless he invited him in :D

I need to do a lil' more digging on Hephaestus and Apollo but I hope this was all interesting :3

feel free to add on readers!

#the oracle speaks #anon ask #the trials of apollo #apollo #ares #hephaestus #pjo apollo #pjo ares #pjo hephaestus #trials of apollo #riordanverse headcanons

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her-satanic-wiles · 3 months ago

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Kinktober Day 13 - Pregnancy

Sister Imperator x Reader

After realising just what Nihil was, Sister Imperator leaves the Ministry to go to a small Abbey down on the southern coast of France where she meets you, and she’s very pregnant.

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 11k.

Reading Time: 47 min.

Warnings: cunnilingus, mentions of cheating, pregnancy kink,

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @hauntedharmonic-ghoulishhaunter @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sister-of-sin-claudia @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

Author’s note: Hi, all!

This turned out a lot more different (and longer) than I intended… but here we are. I kind of got a bit lost in this story and as I didn’t want to come back to it later, I thought I might as well begin and end it here. Oh… and wasn’t actually a great deal of pregnancy kink in the end. Please enjoy!

🔞 MDNI 🔞

Recommended listening: Love In The Dark - Adele.

The sea breeze was sharp but welcoming as Sister Imperator stepped off the train, her coat whipping around her in the biting wind of the southern French coast. It was a relief to stretch her legs after the gruelling, seemingly endless journey—a 6 a.m. start, boarding the early train from Rome Termini before dawn. The carriage had been old, with stiff wooden seats that groaned with every twist and turn as it crawled through the Italian countryside. Noisy and jarring, it had offered little in the way of comfort, but at least it had granted her solitude—a gift she had come to cherish now more than ever. Her journey had been punctuated by stops in Genoa, then Nice, each transfer a reminder of how far she was running, how deeply she needed to disappear. After two more trains, she finally arrived in Cassis, a town so small and quiet it felt like a dream. Compared to the suffocating halls of the Ministry, with its endless scheming and heavy shadows, this town was as foreign as it was liberating. She wasn’t sure if it would save her or bury her alive.

The cliffs rose in the distance, ominous and beautiful, their jagged edges mirroring the raw, torn feeling in her chest. The abbey, secluded and hidden, waited for her just a short walk away. The sea breeze tugged at her, its cold fingers brushing her skin like a cruel reminder of everything she was trying to leave behind. As her feet touched the platform, she felt the weight of her decisions. She was here now—there was no going back. And yet, even with the fresh air on her face and the calm that Cassis promised, doubt gnawed at her.

The twenty-hour journey had been both a blessing and a curse. In the silence of the train cars, she had been forced to relive it all. The agony of seeing the only man she had ever cared for, ever loved, buried between the thighs of another woman—another Sister of Sin, no less. The image of him, eyes dark with lust, thrusting into her, taking what was once hers, had played like a sick loop in her mind. She could still hear the Sister’s moans, wanton and triumphant, as she rode Nihil with the same wild abandon Imperator had once possessed. Once, she and Nihil had been like that—hungry for one another, insatiable in their lust and power. But that time had passed. Now, she was hardened, and he was nothing more than a stranger. The man who had once made her feel alive, like the centre of the universe, was now a vile reminder of her greatest mistake.

But it wasn’t only heartbreak that festered within her. No, it was rage. Pure, seething rage. The kind that simmered just beneath the surface, spreading like poison through her veins. He would never have her again. She would make sure of it.

Her hand drifted to the small, yet undeniable swell of her belly. Nihil’s child. The truth gnawed at her, twisting inside her as fiercely as the crashing waves below the cliffs. But she forced herself to push it down. She was here for a reason. To rebuild. To forget. And above all, to protect the secret she now carried. Her child would be the key. A weapon, even. No one could know the truth. There were already three legitimate sons bearing Nihil’s name, each one a pawn in the Ministry’s game, each one vying for the power they were promised. The cardinals surrounding Nihil—those treacherous, sycophantic men—plotted and schemed, already choosing their favourite son to inherit the Satanic throne.

A fourth child, another heir, would upset everything. And with her, it was even more dangerous. She had always been a threat in their eyes—too clever, too calculating. Too much like them. If her child were to live, to survive the ruthless power games that defined the Ministry, they would be hunted. The cardinals knew her well enough to fear what she could do, and they feared even more what her child might become. Another bastard, perhaps. But hers would be different. Hers would have true power, and she would make sure of it.

Let the cardinals keep their favourite sons and their political games. Let them play their petty power struggles. None of them would see her coming. Not until it was too late.

Satan forbid a woman should ever have true control in the Ministry. That was what they feared. But Sister Imperator had no intention of fading into the shadows—not after everything that had been taken from her. She would bide her time, just as she always had. She would survive, as she had always done. And then, when the time was right—when they had all grown complacent and arrogant—she would strike. Her child—his child—would ascend. They would take everything those pompous, self-satisfied men held dear, and she would watch with satisfaction as their carefully constructed world crumbled around them.

Revenge would be sweet. But it would require patience. The anger within her was enough to fuel her for years, if necessary. Let them scheme. Let them smirk in their dimly lit rooms, thinking they had won. She would let them believe it, for now. She had endured worse. She had been forged in fire long before they had tried to burn her.

Nihil. That man - that bastard. He would pay for what he had done. For everything. One way or another, she would make sure of it.

With a final, determined step, she began her walk towards the abbey. The wind howled behind her, but she didn’t flinch. The storm inside her was far stronger.

Her suitcase was small but weighed her down with every step, its worn leather handle digging into her palm. It was a pitiful thing, containing only the bare essentials—clothes, a few keepsakes, and the documents she needed to disappear—but it felt as though it carried the weight of the entire Ministry within it. Every step towards the abbey felt heavier than the last, as though the memories of what she had left behind were clinging to her, dragging her through the dusty streets of Cassis.

She hadn’t brought much with her. There was no need for the trappings of her old life—nothing to remind her of the man she had loved, the man who had broken her in ways she hadn’t understood until it was too late. It was as though, by shedding the layers of her past, she could escape the grip Nihil still had on her. Yet, the weight wasn’t just in her suitcase. It was in her heart. In the sharp sting of betrayal that stabbed with every breath.

She came to the Abbaye des Ombres Infernales (abbey of the Infernal Shadows) to have the baby, like a Catholic teenager sent away to keep the family from shame. This place was meant to be a refuge, a sanctuary hidden from the prying eyes of the Ministry and the cardinals who would see her child as an affront to their power. Here, she would be free from the judgments of men who deemed her too dangerous, too ambitious. Yet, as she stepped onto the grounds, a sense of foreboding settled in her gut, a reminder that secrets have a way of creeping out from the shadows.

The abbey loomed majestically against the sky, its silhouette stark and imposing against the backdrop of the darkening clouds. Built from ancient stones that had weathered centuries of storms and whispers, the abbey exuded a sense of timelessness. The gothic architecture, with its pointed arches and intricate carvings, drew the eye upward, while its tall, narrow windows seemed to gaze down with a watchful presence, framing glimpses of the turbulent sea beyond.

Gargoyles perched upon the edges of the roof, their grotesque forms both menacing and captivating, appearing as sentinels guarding the secrets held within. Ivy and wild vines clung to the stones, creeping up the walls like nature’s embrace, softening the harsh lines of the structure while also hinting at its long history.

As Imperator approached, the heavy wooden doors came into view, adorned with ironwork that hinted at both beauty and danger. They were slightly ajar, creaking softly as the sea breeze swept through the entrance, inviting yet foreboding. The courtyard beyond was a tangle of crumbling statues and overgrown gardens, remnants of a once-proud sanctuary now surrendered to time. Weeds intertwined with the stone paths, their wild growth echoing the chaos within Imperator’s heart.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and damp earth, mingling with the faint, lingering fragrance of incense. The distant crash of waves below resonated like a heartbeat, a constant reminder of the tumultuous world just beyond the abbey’s walls. Here, on the edge of the cliffs, the abbey stood defiant against the elements, a sanctuary steeped in mystery and shadow—a place where Imperator hoped to find refuge and reclaim her strength amidst the storm brewing within her.

As Sister Imperator stepped inside the Abbaye des Ombres Infernales, she was enveloped by a hushed silence that seemed to wrap around her like a shroud. The air was cool and thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the faint aroma of damp stone. Flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows along the walls, illuminating the rich, textured surfaces while leaving dark corners untouched, whispering secrets from ages past.

The entryway was adorned with tall, arched ceilings that soared above her, each curve and angle a testament to the skill of the artisans who had crafted this sanctuary. As she moved deeper into the abbey, her footsteps echoed softly on the polished stone floor, a rhythmic reminder of her solitary journey. The dimness seemed to press against her, a tangible weight that both comforted and unsettled her.

To her left, a narrow corridor led to the chapel, its heavy wooden doors slightly ajar. The soft glow of candlelight seeped through the cracks, inviting her closer. Intrigued, she stepped into the chapel, where the atmosphere shifted, becoming almost sacred. The altar stood at the far end, draped in dark fabrics that absorbed the light, while a multitude of candles flickered in reverence, their flames swaying as if in prayer. Stained glass windows adorned the walls, casting fragmented rainbows onto the stone floor, each shard of colour telling a story of faith and longing.

The chapel felt alive, filled with the echoes of prayers whispered in desperation and hope. Sister Imperator paused, allowing the silence to envelop her, grounding her amid the turmoil of her thoughts. Here, in this sacred space, she could almost imagine the weight of the world lifting from her shoulders.

Continuing her exploration, she found herself in the living quarters. Simple yet functional, the room featured a small bed draped with heavy blankets, a wooden writing desk facing the window, and a chair that seemed to invite quiet reflection. The window framed a breathtaking view of the sea, its restless waves crashing against the cliffs—a constant reminder of the turmoil that lay beyond the abbey’s walls.

As she sat at the desk, she traced her fingers over the rough surface, feeling the history embedded in the wood. The walls were bare, save for a few religious icons and symbols that seemed to watch her with solemn eyes. They were silent witnesses to her struggles, her hopes, and her fears.

She pushed her way into the chapel, fighting with the door and her suitcase. “Bonjour,” she called out, breathless from her hike. Her voice echoed back to her off the chapel walls, but as she studied the room, she found no one was in there save a statue of the Dark Lord Himself. At least He was a sight for sore eyes.

She pushed her way into the chapel, fighting with the door and her suitcase. “Bonjour,” she called out, breathless from her hike. Her voice echoed back to her off the chapel walls, but as she studied the room, she found no one was there save a statue of the Dark Lord Himself. At least He was a sight for sore eyes…

Just as she stepped further inside, the soft sound of footsteps approached from behind. Imperator turned to see a woman emerging from the shadows, her silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the stained glass. The woman wore a simple habit, the fabric dark and modest, yet there was an air of grace about her.

“Bonjour,” the woman said, her voice smooth and melodic, tinged with a gentle warmth. “Je suis Sœur Élodie, la gardienne de l’abbaye.”

Sœur Élodie, the guardian of the abbey.

Sister Imperator took a moment to collect herself, feeling the weight of her journey in her bones. “I’m Sister Imperator,” she replied, her French laced with a slight American accent. “I’ve come to stay.”

Élodie nodded, her expression curious yet kind. “Nous vous accueillons. It is rare to have visitors here,” she said, glancing at the statue of the Dark Lord, then back at Sister Imperator. Hearing the accent, she switched to English. “You must be weary after your travels. The abbey can be a place of peace… or reflection, depending on what you seek.”

“Both, I suppose,” Sister Imperator replied, her eyes scanning the chapel once more. “I need to think… to find some clarity.”

Élodie’s gaze softened, understanding the weight behind her words. “Come,” she gestured towards a nearby bench, inviting her to sit. “Let us talk. There is much to share, and the shadows here hold many stories.”

As Imperator settled onto the worn wooden bench, she felt the heaviness of her journey begin to lift slightly, replaced by the promise of companionship and the hope of what lay ahead.

Sister Imperator settled onto the worn wooden bench, her suitcase resting heavily beside her, a reminder of the past she was desperate to leave behind. She glanced at Élodie, who regarded her with a gentle yet piercing curiosity that made her instinctively pull her shoulders back.

“Merci,” Sister Imperator said, acknowledging the invitation but keeping her distance, wary of the warmth radiating from Élodie. “I appreciate the welcome, but I’d rather keep to myself.”

Sœur Élodie nodded, her expression unwavering. “Je comprends. Many who come here seek solitude. But sometimes, sharing a burden can lighten the heart, no? What brings you to the Abbaye des Ombres Infernales?”

Imperator hesitated, weighing her words carefully. “A need for… discretion. And a chance to escape.” She kept her voice steady, revealing as little as possible, even as Élodie’s gaze bore into her.

“Discretion?” Sœur Élodie repeated, her brow furrowing slightly. “We all have our reasons. It is a place of refuge, yes, but the walls here have ears.”

Sister Imperator’s heart raced at the implication. “I’m not here to share my story,” she replied, her tone sharper than intended. “I seek only to be left alone.”

“Ah, mais pourquoi?” Sœur Élodie leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “You do not have to face your demons alone. The shadows can be heavy, and it is easy to feel lost within them.”

Imperator narrowed her eyes, feeling the walls around her heart solidify further. “And what makes you think I have demons to face?”

Élodie offered a small, knowing smile. “Everyone does. It is what makes us human. We cannot escape them, but we can learn to carry them.”

“I didn’t come here for a lesson on humanity,” Sister Imperator shot back, her defensiveness rising. “I’m not looking for your understanding or compassion.”

“D’accord,” Sœur Élodie replied, her voice calm and soothing, unfazed by Imperator’s harshness. “But I am here, should you choose to speak. Sometimes, it is the simplest act of sharing a moment that can lead to understanding. Perhaps you carry more than just your suitcase.”

Sister Imperator’s grip on her suitcase tightened, her knuckles whitening. Siser Élodie’s words struck a chord deep within her, stirring a storm of emotions she had fought to keep at bay. “I’m not ready for that,” she admitted, her voice dropping. “Not yet.”

“C’est bien,” Élodie said softly. “Take your time. Just know that this place can be more than a hiding spot. It can be a home, if you let it.”

Imperator looked away, her eyes tracing the intricate designs of the stained glass windows. The flickering candlelight played tricks on her vision, casting shadows that felt familiar, yet foreign. “I don’t belong anywhere,” she murmured, more to herself than to Élodie.

“You do belong here, in this moment,” Sœur Élodie reassured her, her voice like a warm embrace. “Even the darkest night will pass, and a new dawn will break. You are not alone, Sœur Imperator.”

Imperator glanced at Élodie, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. All she found was the gentle resolve of someone who understood the burden of secrets. “Thank you,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I need to think. To figure out what comes next.”

“Of course,” Sœur Élodie replied, rising from the bench with a graceful nod. “I will be nearby if you need anything. Just remember, the shadows here can be both friends and foes.”

Élodie stood and clapped her hands, the sound echoing off the chapel walls. “Come, come. I shall take you to the abbess. She will help you more than I can. Then, I will… what do you say? ‘Get out of your hair.’”

Sister Imperator regarded Élodie with a mixture of curiosity and reluctance. “The abbess? I didn’t come here for guidance,” she replied, her tone firm, though she couldn’t quite suppress the flicker of intrigue at the mention of the abbess.

Élodie laughed softly. “Maybe you did not come for guidance, but you certainly need a room. And, we need to know you are here for your meals, non?” She held out her hand. “Come. The abbess won’t bite, unless you ask her to, of course.”

Imperator hesitated, her instincts screaming to keep her distance, to maintain the barriers she had built around herself. Yet, there was something about Sœur Élodie’s easy confidence that stirred a reluctant curiosity within her. Perhaps it was the way the light fell on the other woman’s features, casting soft shadows that hinted at the kindness lurking just beneath the surface.

“What if I refuse?” she asked, a challenge masked as a question.

Élodie shrugged, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then you may remain here, alone, and I will have to bring you meals in secret like a wayward child. But I assure you, the abbess is not like the cardinals you may be used to. She is wise and will not judge you, I promise.”

The mention of the cardinals sent a shiver down Sister Imperator’s spine. The machinations of men cloaked in authority were nothing she cared to relive. But the idea of solitude in this unfamiliar place also filled her with unease. Perhaps she needed to engage with someone who knew this sanctuary better than she did.

With a reluctant sigh, she took Élodie’s hand. “Lead the way,” she said, her voice lacking the defiance she usually wore like armor.

“Voilà!” Sœur Élodie exclaimed, a bright smile illuminating her features. “This way, then.”

They stepped out of the chapel into the cool air, and Imperator felt a rush of trepidation mingled with anticipation. The abbey loomed ahead, a structure both foreboding and inviting. As they walked, Élodie began to speak animatedly about the abbey’s history, her voice punctuating the silence of the cloisters with snippets of laughter and anecdotes.

“…and the last abbess was a formidable woman, a true force of nature! They say she could silence a room with just a glance. But she was kind, always offering wisdom with her sharp tongue.” Élodie glanced sideways at Imperator, gauging her reaction. “You may find her quite… enlightening.”

“Or terrifying,” Sister Imperator replied dryly, her heart racing with both excitement and dread.

Élodie chuckled again, the sound warm and infectious. “Perhaps a bit of both! But you will see, she has a way of drawing out what lies hidden within. The abbess has an eye for understanding the unspoken truths.”

Imperator’s stomach tightened at the prospect. “And what makes you think I have anything worth revealing?” she asked, her guard slipping back into place.

“Everyone has a story, Sœur Imperator,” Sœur Élodie said, her tone growing more serious. “It is simply a matter of whether you are ready to share it. But you will find that the abbess is skilled in the art of listening.”

As they approached the heavy wooden door of the abbess’s chambers, Imperator felt a rush of uncertainty. What would she reveal? Would the abbess see through her carefully constructed facade?

Before she could voice her concerns, Élodie knocked lightly on the door. “Abbesse,” she called, her voice bright, “I have someone for you.”

“Entrez,” came a voice from within, rich and warm, imbued with authority.

With a deep breath, Imperator stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever awaited her inside, she was determined to face it head-on—just as she had always done.

Months passed, and the bitter winds of winter gave way to the softer chill of spring, but the cold in Sister Imperator’s heart remained untouched. 1968 turned into 1969, and though the routines of the Abbaye des Ombres Infernales were now familiar, they offered little comfort. The quietness of the abbey, once soothing, now felt suffocating. She moved through the days with a practiced grace, settling into her new life among the nuns and acolytes, but the bitterness gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the betrayal she couldn’t forget.

Her body changed with the pregnancy, the curve of her belly growing more pronounced with each passing week. She caught sight of herself in the old, cracked mirror in her small room and felt a wave of conflicting emotions crash over her. Nihil’s child. The very thought still filled her with a toxic mixture of rage and sorrow. How had it come to this? How had she, once one of the most powerful women in the Ministry, ended up hiding in an abbey on the edge of the world, carrying the child of the man who had broken her heart?

The other sisters treated her kindly enough, but they kept their distance, sensing the storm that brewed behind her carefully guarded eyes. Even Sœur Élodie, with her light-hearted nature and occasional attempts to draw Imperator out of her shell, seemed to know when to leave her alone. There were days when Imperator would spend hours walking the cliffs, staring out at the crashing waves below, trying to drown out the haunting images of Nihil with that other Sister of Sin, their passion a cruel echo of what she had once shared with him.

The abbess, however, was a different story. Abbesse Margaux was a woman of few words, but her presence was commanding, her gaze sharp and all-seeing. She never pried, never asked questions that Sister Imperator wasn’t ready to answer, but she was always there, quietly watching, waiting for the moment when Imperator would be ready to speak.

And though Imperator resisted, there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—where she wondered if the abbess saw more than she let on. There were times when the abbess would catch her eye, a knowing glint in her gaze that made Imperator’s skin crawl with the sensation of being seen, truly seen, in a way she hadn’t been in years.

But she was far from trusting anyone here. The betrayal that had brought her to this place was still too raw, too painful. She couldn’t allow herself to open up, to show her vulnerability. Not again. The Ministry had taught her that lesson well—trust no one. The scars of those days ran deep, and even in the sanctuary of the abbey, she clung to her bitterness like a shield.

As the days turned into months, Sister Imperator found herself counting down the weeks until the baby’s arrival. Her plan was simple—give birth, recover, and then leave. Disappear, just as she had always intended. The Ministry, Nihil, the cardinals—they would never find her. She would make sure of it. And once she was gone, she would raise the child on her own terms, far from the poisonous influence of the Satanic throne and its political games.

But the bitterness lingered, an ever-present ache that clouded her thoughts. No matter how far she ran, no matter how deeply she buried herself in the solitude of the abbey, she couldn’t escape the betrayal. It was there in every quiet moment, in every whispered prayer, in the silence of the nights when the wind howled through the corridors. And it festered, like a wound that refused to heal.

She would never forgive Nihil. Not for what he had done to her. Not for what he had taken from her. And though the baby stirred inside her, a constant reminder of what she carried, her heart remained cold. She was alone in this. She had always been alone. And perhaps, that was how it was meant to be.

Sister Imperator may have settled into her new life, but the past was a shadow that followed her wherever she went. And deep down, she knew that no matter how far she ran, it would catch up with her eventually.

In all that time, she met you—someone else who had escaped the Ministry and sought solace with the Sisters of the Infernal Shadows. You had come to the abbey not out of guilt or shame, but as a rebellion against the life you once led. The Ministry had its grip on you too, though in different ways, and now you both found yourselves among the flickering candles and cold stone walls, seeking sanctuary in the unlikeliest of places.

Your paths crossed in the chapel one afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the stained glass, casting colourful patterns on the floor. Sister Imperator was lost in thought, staring at the statue of the Dark Lord, her expression distant and guarded. You approached her quietly, the soft rustle of your robe barely breaking the stillness.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you ventured, nodding toward the statue, though your gaze was fixed on her. “He is always watching over us, I suppose.”

She turned to you, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, studying your face with suspicion. “Is that what you believe? That He cares?” Her tone was sharp, a defensive barrier she instinctively put up against anyone who dared to breach her solitude.

You held her gaze, unflinching. “I think it’s a matter of perspective. We’ve all come here for a reason. Perhaps He offers us more than we know.”

Her expression softened just a fraction, curiosity igniting a spark behind her guarded facade. “And what reason brought you here?”

You hesitated, the weight of your past heavy on your shoulders. “I was running from Nihil, too. I had to escape his grasp, his control. And all the women he could get pregnant. I thought I could find some peace among the Sisters.”

Imperator froze, surprised that you somehow knew her backstory.

“Relax,” you told her, “you’re not the only one he’s fucked and fucked over.”

Sister Imperator’s posture stiffened at your words, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of shock and defensiveness. “You don’t know anything about me,” she retorted, her voice low but taut, as if bracing for a fight.

“Maybe not everything,” you replied, taking a step closer, your voice steady and calm. “But I know enough to understand the weight you carry. Nihil leaves a trail of broken hearts and lives in his wake.”

Her expression hardened again, a flicker of anger igniting within her. “You presume to know my pain, yet you have no idea of the depths of my suffering. He took everything from me.”

“Did he?” you pressed gently, wanting her to see that you shared this bond, however tenuous it might be. “Or did you give it willingly? The Ministry, the power struggles—it’s all a game, and we were both players. The difference is that we’ve chosen to walk away.”

She regarded you with a mixture of frustration and intrigue, as if caught in a web of conflicting emotions. “Walking away doesn’t erase what’s happened. I still carry the scars.”

“Scars can be a reminder of battles fought and survived, not just wounds left to fester,” you countered, refusing to back down. “You’re here now. This is your chance to reshape your life, to find your own path.”

Sister Imperator’s gaze shifted to the stained glass, the sunlight illuminating her features in a soft glow. “And what if I don’t know how?”

“Then we figure it out together.” Your words hung in the air, thick with the weight of possibility. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here, and the Sisters are here. We can build something new, something powerful.”

Her walls began to crumble ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of hope piercing through her hardened exterior. “And what makes you think I can trust you?”

You shrugged, a small, genuine smile breaking through your seriousness. “Trust takes time, but I won’t betray you. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned. To feel used.”

Her expression softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m tired of running.”

“Then stop running,” you urged, stepping even closer, closing the distance between you. “Stay. Fight with me. For what you want, for what you deserve.”

Sister Imperator studied you for a long moment, the storm within her shifting. “What if I fail?”

“Then we rise together,” you replied firmly. “We learn. We adapt. But I won’t let you fall alone. We’ll be stronger together.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with unspoken promises and shared burdens. Finally, she sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing just a touch. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Nothing worth having ever is,” you admitted. “But I believe in you. I see strength beneath that guarded exterior. Let’s unearth it together.”

Her lips curved into a tentative smile, the first sign of warmth you had witnessed from her since your arrival. “Perhaps I’ll consider it.”

“Good,” you said, returning her smile. “That’s all I ask.”

As you both stood together in the dim chapel, the shadows and light mingling, an unspoken bond began to form, a flicker of connection in a place where darkness had once reigned. In that moment, it felt as if you could both step away from the chains that had bound you, reclaiming your lives amid the flickering candles and whispered prayers of the abbey. Together, you would face whatever came next.

Somehow, some way, you got Sister Imperator to open up about what had happened. It began with simple conversations in the chapel, your voices mingling with the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. At first, she was reluctant, her words laced with bitterness and guardedness, but gradually the floodgates began to crack.

You learned about her relationship with Nihil—how it had started as a whirlwind of passion and power, two souls entwined in a dance that felt unstoppable at first. But as she shared her story, you could hear the fractures in her voice, the way her heart had been shattered by betrayal.

“He was everything to me,” she had confessed one afternoon, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But now… now he feels like a ghost. A terrible, haunting memory.”

You listened, offering support without judgment, and she began to understand that it was safe to lay her burdens down. The more she spoke, the lighter her heart seemed to grow, even if just a fraction. And in those moments of vulnerability, a spark began to light between the two of you.

It was subtle at first—shared laughter over mundane tasks, stolen glances that lingered a moment too long. You’d catch her watching you when she thought you weren’t looking, her expression a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something that hinted at the possibility of connection.

One evening, as twilight descended upon the abbey, you found yourselves side by side on a stone bench outside, wrapped in the comforting chill of the night air. The stars twinkled overhead, and the moon bathed the world in a silvery glow. The peacefulness of the moment enveloped you both, and it felt like a reprieve from the turmoil of your pasts.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, not wanting to break the fragile spell of intimacy that hung between you.

She hesitated, her gaze focused on the moonlight dancing across the cobblestones. “About how different my life is now. I was so consumed by anger and pain… but here, it feels like I can breathe again.”

You nodded, sensing the vulnerability in her words. “And what do you want to do with that breath?”

She turned to look at you, her expression shifting. “I want to reclaim what’s mine—my power, my choices. And perhaps… maybe even find a little joy along the way.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken emotions. Your heart raced as you felt the weight of her gaze, the intensity in her eyes igniting something within you. “You deserve that,” you said softly, reaching out to place your hand over hers. “And I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she seemed to lean into your touch, her fingers curling around yours. “What if I let you in, and I end up getting hurt again?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” you promised, your heart pounding. “You’re not alone anymore. I won’t let you fall. Not this time.”

Sister Imperator’s lips curved into a tentative smile, a flicker of warmth breaking through her hardened exterior. In that moment, the distance between you shrank, and the spark ignited into something more—a fragile yet undeniable connection, built on shared pain and hope for a better future.

As the night deepened around you, the air thick with unsaid words and the electric tension between you, Sister Imperator shifted slightly closer. The warmth of her body radiated against the chill of the evening, and your heart raced as you dared to maintain your gaze locked on hers.

“Do you really mean what you said?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper, almost lost in the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. “That you won’t let me fall?”

You nodded, your breath hitching in your throat. “Absolutely. I promise.”

Her eyes softened, and for the first time, the walls she had built around her heart seemed to crack just enough for vulnerability to seep through. “Then maybe… maybe it’s time I stop running.”

With a courageous breath, she closed the gap between you, her gaze flicking to your lips, and in that instant, the world around you faded away. It felt as if time had come to a standstill—the moon hung low, casting a gentle glow over the two of you, the abbey looming in the background, silent and watchful.

And then, with a sweetness that took you both by surprise, she leaned in. Her lips brushed against yours softly, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of this new territory. A thrill coursed through you, a warmth spreading from your fingertips to the core of your being, igniting a fire you had thought long extinguished.

The kiss deepened, and you found yourselves enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and tenderness. Her lips moved against yours with a hesitant urgency, each touch a promise, each breath a quiet confession of everything you had both fought to suppress. The weight of her pain, her past, and your own seemed to melt away in that moment, replaced by an overwhelming sense of connection that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

As you pulled away, your foreheads resting against one another, you could see the vulnerability reflected in her dark eyes, a mixture of surprise and a burgeoning hope. “Wow,” she breathed, a soft laugh escaping her lips, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Yeah,” you replied, your own breath slightly ragged. “Wow.”

The moment hung between you, pregnant with possibilities and the unspoken truths that lay ahead. In that kiss, you had shared more than just a fleeting connection; you had exchanged pieces of your souls, two fractured hearts finding solace in one another.

“He didn’t deserve you, you know,” you told her, matter-of-factly.

“Don’t talk about him,” she replied, “not now.”

Imperator leaned forward and captured you in another kiss, this one more passionate than the first.

The intensity of her kiss deepened, each brush of her lips igniting a fire within you that spread like wildfire. You could feel the world around you fade into obscurity as the warmth of her body pressed against yours, enveloping you both in a cocoon of desire.

Her hands found their way to your waist, fingers digging in slightly as if to pull you closer, grounding herself in this moment. The urgency in her kiss spoke volumes, a silent declaration that despite everything—despite the past, the betrayal, and the burdens each of you carried—this connection was something worth pursuing.

As she leaned into you, her body arching, you caught a glimpse of vulnerability behind her intensity. There was an undercurrent of desperation in the way she kissed you, an aching need that seemed to spill over from her heart into yours. In that moment, you wanted to assure her that she was safe, that you would protect her, both from the ghosts of her past and the unknowns of the future.

With a shiver of anticipation, she responded to you, her lips crashing against yours with renewed fervour. As the kiss deepened, her hands roamed from your waist to your back, fingers splaying against your skin, pulling you closer still. You could feel the heat radiating from her, the unmistakable tension rising between you, and it sent a rush of excitement through your veins.

In a moment of daring, you let your hands wander down to her abdomen, resting gently against the small curve of her belly. It felt like a gesture both intimate and daring, a spark of something primal and deeply intimate. The thought slipped into your mind—a wild fantasy, perhaps—but you couldn’t help but wonder how different things might have been if the circumstances were different.

The thought danced just on the edge of your consciousness, a tantalising whisper that hinted at what could be. The idea of her carrying a child—your child—sent a bolt of heat coursing through you. “What if…?” you started, breathless, but the words hung in the air, unfinished and heavy with implications.

Sister Imperator froze for a moment, the intensity of your touch drawing her focus away from the kiss. “What if what?” she asked, her breath catching, curiosity mixed with something deeper—a yearning perhaps?

You met her gaze, the weight of your shared desires pressing in on you. “What if we let go of the past?” you whispered, letting your hand linger on her belly for a heartbeat longer. “What if we opened ourselves up to the future?”

Her eyes darkened, filled with a mix of longing and apprehension. “You think it’s that easy?” she replied, though her voice lacked the bite it had held moments earlier.

“It can be,” you urged, your voice low and insistent. “If we choose to take that leap together.”

The tension in the air crackled like electricity, and as you leaned in to kiss her again, you could feel her responding to the unspoken promises that lay between you. It was a kiss that spoke of hope, of possibilities yet to come.

As you pulled away, breathless and charged with an energy that felt almost tangible, you caught the flicker of something new in her eyes—an ember of trust beginning to glow amid the ashes of her past. With each kiss, each gentle caress, the barriers she had built were slowly crumbling, allowing you both to step into uncharted territory.

You gently helped Sister Imperator off the bench, your fingers brushing against her waist as you led her away from the chapel, leaving behind the quiet sanctuary of shadows and stained glass. The dim light of the abbey guided your steps, a soft glow illuminating the path ahead as you made your way toward your room.

The air was thick with unspoken words, a tension simmering just beneath the surface. With each step, you could feel her pulse quickening beside you, and a thrill of anticipation surged through your veins. The walls of the abbey seemed to close in, wrapping you both in a cocoon of secrecy, a place where the world outside couldn’t intrude on the moment you were about to share.

As you reached your door, you hesitated for a heartbeat, casting a glance back at her. “Are you sure about this?” you asked, your voice a low murmur. The last thing you wanted was to push her into something she wasn’t ready for, but the desire burning between you felt undeniable.

She met your gaze, her eyes dark and inviting, a flicker of determination igniting within. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispered, her voice steady yet laced with a hint of vulnerability.

With a nod, you opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for her as she crossed the threshold. The room was modest, a simple bed covered in crisp white linens, a small desk in the corner, and a window that overlooked the sprawling cliffs. Yet, in that moment, it felt like a sanctuary—a space where you could explore the depths of your connection without the weight of the outside world pressing down on you.

Once inside, you closed the door softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You turned to her, your heart racing as you took in the sight of her. She stood there, silhouetted by the dim light, her expression a mix of longing and anticipation.

You stepped closer, the space between you shrinking, charged with electric energy. “I want to be here for you,” you said, your voice low and earnest. “I want to help you find peace.”

“Peace?” she echoed, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Is that what you think this is?”

“It can be,” you replied, taking another step toward her, your hands reaching out to cradle her face gently. “If we let it.”

As your fingers brushed against her skin, you could feel the warmth radiating from her, a heat that ignited your desire all over again. Her breath caught in her throat, and you could see the way her body responded to your touch—how the tension in her shoulders eased, how her lips parted slightly as if inviting you in.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in, capturing her lips with yours in a soft, lingering kiss. This time, it was different—deeper, more intimate, as if the world outside had completely faded away. The kiss tasted of promises unspoken, of a future that hung delicately in the balance.

Sister Imperator melted against you, her body pressing into yours as you deepened the kiss. It was a dance of exploration, a tentative yet fervent exchange that ignited every nerve ending within you. As you pulled her closer, you felt her hands weaving through your hair, pulling you in as if trying to erase the distance that had kept you apart for so long.

You took a step back, your heart racing as you regarded her. The soft light in the room danced across her features, highlighting the delicate curves of her body. A warmth flooded through you, an overwhelming desire to draw her closer, to peel away the layers that separated you.

“Let me,” you whispered, your voice low and inviting. You reached for the buttons of her robe, your fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. Slowly, you began to unfasten them, revealing the fabric that clung to her skin beneath. With each button you released, you felt the weight of your shared tension rising, the air thick with unspoken longing.

As you pushed the robe aside, your breath hitched at the sight of her. The fabric fell to the floor, pooling at her feet like the remnants of her past. There she stood, clad in a simple chemise that hugged her body, accentuating her curves in the soft glow of the room. You took a moment to admire her, your eyes tracing the lines of her figure, the way the delicate fabric clung to her.

With a sense of reverence, you reached out, fingertips grazing her waist as you brushed your lips against the hem of her chemise. “May I?” you murmured, seeking permission as your gaze locked onto hers, silently asking if she was ready to unveil the rest of herself to you.

She nodded, a breathless whisper escaping her lips. With careful deliberation, you began to pull the chemise over her head, your fingers gliding along her skin as the fabric slipped away. As it fell to the floor, you felt your breath catch at the sight before you.

Her body was beautiful, a testament to the life growing within her. The swell of her belly was captivating, the curves soft and inviting. The way her skin glowed in the dim light, the subtle rise and fall of her breath, ignited a fire deep within you. You couldn’t help but marvel at how incredibly attractive she was, a vision of beauty and strength.

“Holy shit, you’re stunning,” you breathed, your voice filled with awe. Your hands traveled over the gentle curve of her belly, feeling the warmth radiate from her skin. “This—” you gestured toward her form, “—is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She looked down at herself, a mixture of pride and vulnerability washing over her. “You really think so?” she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty, but you could see the flicker of joy in her eyes.

“Absolutely,” you replied, your hands now resting possessively on her hips. “You’re a goddess. The way your body carries this life—it’s incredible. I want to worship every part of you.”

As you spoke, your fingers traced the delicate lines of her waist, savoring the softness of her skin. You leaned closer, your lips brushing against her stomach, planting gentle kisses along the curve. The intimacy of the moment was electrifying, and you could feel her shiver beneath your touch, her breath hitching as you explored the contours of her body.

You wanted to make her feel cherished, to revel in the beauty of what was unfolding between you. Each kiss, each caress was filled with a tender reverence for her, the life she carried, and the undeniable connection that drew you together.

You gently guided her to the bed, your hands cradling her as you laid her down on the soft linens. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in this sacred space. Her skin glowed in the dim light, and the sight of her—vulnerable and inviting—made your heart race with a mix of desire and tenderness.

You leaned over her, your body hovering just above hers, as you caught her gaze, a silent promise lingering in the air between you. “Just relax,” you whispered, brushing your fingers lightly along her jawline before trailing down to her collarbone, savouring the warmth of her skin beneath your touch.

As you explored her body with your lips, you felt an overwhelming urge to taste her, to discover every hidden pleasure she held. You began with her neck, kissing a delicate line from her collarbone to just beneath her ear. The soft gasps that escaped her lips spurred you on, a symphony of encouragement that filled you with confidence.

You moved lower, your kisses trailing down her body, taking your time to savour every inch of her skin. Your hands found their way to her belly, cradling the gentle curve as you pressed your lips against it, feeling the warmth and life within her. It was a profound connection—one that made you feel as though you were worshipping her, every kiss a devotion to her beauty and strength.

When you finally reached her core, you paused for a moment, looking up at her with a mixture of desire and reverence. Her cheeks were flushed, her breaths quickening as she anticipated what was to come. You couldn’t help but smirk at the effect you had on her, the way her body responded to your touch.

With slow, deliberate movements, you parted her thighs, revealing the glistening warmth that awaited you. You leaned in closer, your breath brushing against her sensitive skin, eliciting a shiver from her. You took your time, letting your tongue tease her, exploring her with a tantalising slowness that made her writhe beneath you.

Each taste of her was intoxicating, and you could feel the electric energy coursing through your veins. The way she arched her back, the little moans escaping her lips, pushed you deeper into a trance of pleasure and longing. You wanted to give her everything, to take her to the heights of ecstasy while enjoying the soft, sweet taste of her.

As you continued, your hands roamed over her curves, feeling the way her body responded to your every touch. The connection between you deepened, each kiss and lick a testament to the bond you were forging, the intimacy growing stronger with every moment. You lost yourself in her, in the way she surrendered to pleasure, in the way her body seemed to hum with desire as you tasted her, savouring every second.

You continued your exploration, fully aware of how sensitive her body had become due to the pregnancy. Every touch, every kiss seemed to spark a heightened awareness within her. The swell of her belly was more than just a physical manifestation of life; it was a source of incredible sensitivity, and you could feel the way it reacted to your ministrations.

As your lips trailed along her skin, you noticed how even the lightest brush of your fingertips sent ripples of sensation coursing through her. You kissed along the delicate curve of her belly, and she gasped softly, the sound a sweet melody that encouraged you to linger longer. You could feel the warmth radiating from her, the life within her thrumming with energy, heightening every sensation and amplifying her pleasure.

With each kiss, you felt the tightness of her skin, soft and tender, as though it had become more attuned to every sensation. You could see her breathing quicken, her eyes fluttering shut as you moved lower, your lips brushing against the fabric of her chemise before you pulled it aside to fully reveal her body.

As you tasted her, you noticed that even the most innocent of touches sent waves of pleasure through her. Her thighs quivered under your hands, and when your fingers danced along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, she gasped, arching her back as if to draw you closer. You took your time, relishing the way her body responded to every kiss, every flick of your tongue, the soft whimpers escaping her lips revealing just how intensely she felt everything.

You could feel how her nipples had grown more sensitive, too, the delicate peaks begging for attention. You made your way up her body, kissing along her sides and up to her breasts, lavishing attention on the soft curves that felt so inviting. Each caress drew out a gasp or a shudder, her body arching toward you as if it craved your touch, your mouth, everything you had to offer.

You could see her vulnerability shining through, how the pregnancy had made her more open to pleasure, and it both thrilled and captivated you. As you explored her body, your hands glided over her skin, taking in the softness, the way she seemed to bloom under your touch, reveling in the sensations that coursed through her.

“Is this alright?” you asked softly, your breath hot against her skin, wanting to ensure she felt safe in this moment of intimacy.

“More,” she breathed, her voice thick with desire, her body eagerly responding as if the intensity of her pregnancy had unlocked a new realm of sensation.

You obeyed, diving back into your ministrations, your tongue flicking against her most sensitive spots. You could feel the energy build between you, and you knew that this connection was far more than just physical; it was a bond that transcended the moments you spent together, a mingling of bodies and souls that felt sacred and powerful. Every brush of your lips, every flick of your tongue, only deepened the intimacy, forging a path of pleasure that would take her to new heights.

As you lavished attention on her, you could feel the pulsing heat of desire radiating from Sister Imperator. Every gasp, every shudder that escaped her lips fueled your own longing, and you lost yourself in the rhythm of her body. Her sensitive skin was electric beneath your touch, igniting a fire within you that demanded to be sated.

You pulled back for a moment, your eyes locking onto hers, searching for consent and reassurance. The way her dark eyes glimmered with need was all the encouragement you needed. You dove back in, your mouth exploring the swell of her belly once more, kissing a trail down toward her thighs. The weight of her pregnancy made her look both delicate and incredibly alluring, each curve accentuated, every inch of her body a testament to the life she carried.

You continued your descent, trailing kisses along the soft skin of her thighs, relishing the way she quivered beneath you. Her legs parted instinctively, welcoming you closer. You could sense how acutely aware she was of every sensation, the way her body responded to you was intoxicating. The closer you got to her core, the more she writhed, her breath hitching in anticipation.

With a gentle touch, you caressed her sensitive folds, marveling at how warm and responsive she felt. The slightest pressure sent ripples of pleasure through her, and you could hear the breathy gasps escaping her lips, urging you on. You took your time, relishing the way her body reacted to your every movement. Your fingers played with her, exploring the slickness of her arousal, and her body writhed in response, each wave of pleasure causing her to tighten around you.

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice laced with desperation, “I need more.”

Your heart raced at her plea, and you obliged, your tongue teasing her in slow, deliberate strokes. You felt her back arch in response, her hands finding their way to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she pulled you closer. Each flick of your tongue drew forth a moan, and you felt a swell of pride at being able to bring her such pleasure, especially in her state of heightened sensitivity.

You worked in tandem, your fingers joining your mouth, moving with practiced grace, coaxing her closer to the edge. Her body was a symphony of sensations, each note building toward a crescendo, and you wanted nothing more than to guide her through it. As your movements quickened, you could feel her thighs trembling, the tension in her body escalating with each passing moment.

“Almost there,” you murmured against her, the vibrations sending delicious shivers through her.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice a pleading whisper. The urgency in her tone pushed you further, the primal need for release palpable in the air around you.

Your fingers danced faster, your mouth working in a fervent rhythm, and you felt her body begin to clench around you, the build-up of pleasure cresting like a wave. The moans that fell from her lips were intoxicating, the sound driving you to continue, to push her higher. You watched her face, a mix of ecstasy and concentration as she surrendered to the sensations coursing through her.

“Let go,” you urged softly, your eyes locked onto hers as you felt her tighten around you.

With a final cry, Sister Imperator broke, her body quaking under the weight of her release. Waves of pleasure rippled through her, and you held her close, feeling the way she pulsed around your fingers, the warmth of her body enveloping you as you guided her through the aftershocks.

As she came down from the high, her breathing slowed, and she met your gaze, her eyes softening with affection and gratitude. In that moment, you both knew you had crossed a threshold together—one that intertwined your fates even deeper.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breathy and tender. “That was… incredible.”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You deserve it. All of it.”

As Sister Imperator came down from her high, her breath steadying, she looked at you with newfound hunger in her eyes. The warmth of her gaze ignited something deep within you, a shared desire that had been building between you both. Without breaking eye contact, she moved her hands to your waist, guiding you closer until you hovered above her, feeling the heat radiating from her body.

“Now it’s my turn,” she murmured, her voice low and sultry, sending shivers down your spine. She expertly wrapped her fingers around your thighs, pulling you down onto her waiting hand. You gasped as her fingers found your most sensitive spots, teasing you with a light touch that sent electric jolts through your body.

You instinctively began to move, riding her fingers as they worked in tandem with your own need. Her touch was firm yet gentle, every stroke coaxing you closer to the edge. You found your rhythm, the desire swelling within you as you moved against her, lost in the sensations she created. The tension coiled tightly in your core, every roll of your hips pushing you further into the blissful abyss.

“Just like that,” she encouraged, her voice thick with lust. “Let me feel you.”

You leaned into her, allowing her fingers to explore your body as you succumbed to the pleasure. The way she played with you was exquisite—her fingers expertly curling, drawing out soft moans that echoed in the room. You found yourself increasingly captivated by her touch, the warmth of her skin against yours igniting a fire within you.

With each thrust of your hips, you felt the pleasure build in waves, the sensation growing more intense as you became lost in the moment. Sister Imperator’s eyes never left yours, their dark depths filled with a mix of desire and admiration. You could sense how the pregnancy heightened her sensitivity; her fingers trembled slightly as they worked to bring you closer to the brink.

The world outside faded, and all that mattered was the rhythm you created together. With each motion, you could feel her heart racing beneath your touch, the connection between you deepening as you surrendered to the bliss. You reveled in the intimacy of the moment, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in her presence.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” she breathed, her voice thick with lust. “I want to see you lose yourself.”

Her words sent a thrill through you, igniting a primal urge to please her. You quickened your pace, the heat between you rising to a fever pitch. You could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, the pleasure building to an exquisite climax. Each glide of her fingers brought you closer, a soft reminder of her desire and the intimacy you were sharing.

“Please,” you gasped, your voice tinged with desperation. “I’m so close.”

“Then let go for me,” she urged, her fingers dancing expertly against you, guiding you to the edge. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

With her words echoing in your mind, you surrendered to the waves of pleasure crashing over you. The sensations swirled around you like a tempest, every nerve ending alive and pulsing with desire. You let go, riding her fingers as the ecstasy consumed you, the world falling away until all that remained was the bliss of your release. You cried out, the sound filling the room, as every sensation burst like fireworks behind your eyelids, a beautiful culmination of your desire and connection.

As you came down from the high, you collapsed onto her, your breath mingling in the space between you. Your heart raced as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you, a lingering reminder of the intensity you had just shared. In that moment, you felt truly alive, woven together by the strands of passion and intimacy that had blossomed in the sanctuary of the abbey.

Sister Imperator wrapped her arms around you, drawing you closer as if she wanted to absorb every ounce of warmth from your body. Her fingers gently stroked your hair, a tender gesture that contrasted with the rawness of what had just transpired. You could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong against your cheek, a comforting reminder that you were no longer alone.

“Are you alright?” she whispered, her voice soft and laced with concern, as if she were afraid that the moment had been too much.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the overwhelming emotions swirling within you. The connection between you felt deeper now, a bond forged in vulnerability and shared pleasure. You looked up to meet her gaze, and in that moment, you saw not just a lover but a partner who understood the pain and the joy that life had to offer.

“More than alright,” you replied, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I never imagined it could be like that.”

A playful glint sparked in her eyes, her confidence returning as she brushed a thumb over your cheek. “I can show you more, if you’d like.”

The spring of 1969 unfolded with a beauty that felt almost cruel in its brightness. Flowers burst into bloom outside the Abbaye des Ombres Infernales, the world alive with the vibrancy of life and the promise of new beginnings. Yet within the sanctuary of the abbey’s walls, a tempest brewed in Sister Imperator’s heart, a tumultuous blend of joy and sorrow that weighed heavily upon her.

The day of her delivery dawned bright and clear, but even the sun seemed to shine with a bittersweet glow. You stood by her side, a constant presence, holding her hand through every wave of pain and pleasure that coursed through her. The chapel, once a place of quiet contemplation, had transformed into a sacred space of labor and birth. Soft candlelight flickered, casting gentle shadows on the walls, while the scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the rawness of her emotions.

Imperator was a vision of strength and vulnerability as she laboured, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Each contraction drew her deeper into herself, and you watched as she fought through the pain, her face a tapestry of determination and resolve. The midwives, Sisters who had dedicated their lives to the care of others, moved around her with quiet confidence, offering words of encouragement and support.

“Breathe, Sœur,” one of them urged gently, her voice soothing as she wiped the sweat from Imperator’s brow. “You are strong. Just a little longer.”

With every push, you felt the weight of her struggle, the urgency of the moment hanging thick in the air. The joy of bringing new life into the world was underscored by the knowledge that this was only the beginning of an impending separation. You could see it in the way she clenched her jaw, the flicker of fear in her eyes as she considered the path ahead.

Finally, with a cry that echoed off the stone walls, the first baby emerged into the world, the midwives catching him with reverent hands. You held your breath, your heart racing as they laid him upon her chest, the warmth of his tiny body a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her. Imperator’s expression shifted from pain to pure, unfiltered joy as she gazed down at her son, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “He’s perfect.”

But as you watched the tenderness bloom in her gaze, your heart ached with the weight of what was to come. This moment of beauty was laced with an undercurrent of sadness, a poignant reminder that she would soon have to choose. The second baby followed shortly after, a squalling bundle of life that brought fresh waves of elation and despair. As they placed him in her arms, Imperator’s heart swelled, yet a shadow lingered behind her smile.

The days that followed were a delicate dance between joy and sorrow. Each moment spent cradling her sons felt like a stolen treasure, every coo and gurgle a reminder of the life she was building. You stayed close, offering your love and support, cherishing the fleeting hours spent together. Each smile she gave you was a balm for your heart, but the knowledge of her plans loomed like a spectre, darkening even the brightest moments.

As the boys grew, they filled the abbey with laughter and life, the echoes of their joy mingling with the solemnity of the surroundings. You watched Sister Imperator transform in front of your eyes, the fierce warrior you had come to admire softening into a nurturing mother. It was both beautiful and painful; every laugh, every milestone felt like a countdown to her departure.

On the last night before she would leave, you found her sitting in the small nursery, her gaze lost in thought as she watched her sons sleep. The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a silvery glow over the room, illuminating the contours of her face, revealing the sadness etched there.

“___,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if I’m making the wrong choice?”

You stepped into the room, your heart aching at the sight of her, the woman who had brought such light into your life now consumed by doubt. “You’re doing what you believe is best for them, Imperator. But… it doesn’t have to be this way.”

She turned to you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I wanted to keep them here, to raise them away from the Ministry’s grasp. But I cannot stay. I have my duty. I can’t abandon my brothers or the mission.”

“But at what cost?” you implored, stepping closer, desperate to bridge the chasm between you. “You’re leaving a part of yourself behind, and what if they need you? What if you need them?”

“I will always need them,” she replied, her voice breaking. “But my plans—”

“Your plans can change,” you interrupted, the intensity of your emotions spilling forth. “You have the power to decide your own path. We could be a family here. You don’t have to go back to Rome.”

The silence that followed was deafening, a chasm filled with unspoken truths. Her gaze fell back to the sleeping boys, her heart torn between two worlds. You could see the internal battle waging within her, the weight of her choices pressing down like an anchor.

She breathed your name, a mixture of longing and sorrow. “I can’t bear to leave them, yet I can’t let them be pawns in a game that could destroy them. I must take one with me. He will be safe under my care, but…” Her voice trailed off, thick with unshed tears.

You reached for her, your hand brushing against hers. “And what of the other? What will you do without him?”

“I can’t lose them both,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But I must play my part. I must return to Rome, and when they are two, I’ll come back for one.”

Each word she spoke felt like a dagger to your heart, a stark reminder of the reality you both faced. The anguish of separation loomed over you like a dark cloud, threatening to engulf the fragile happiness you had built together.

“I wish things were different,” you whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks as you sank to your knees beside her. “I wish we could stay like this, together, as a family.”

Sister Imperator leaned down, her forehead resting against yours, sharing in the weight of your sorrow. “So do I. So do I.”

The finality of her decision hung heavy in the air, an unshakeable reality that neither of you could change. As the moon cast its silvery glow over the nursery, you both held onto each other, cherishing the love you had forged amidst the chaos. In that moment, you knew that the bond you shared would never truly fade, even as the distance threatened to tear you apart.

As dawn broke, painting the world in hues of gold, Sister Imperator prepared for her departure. The boys cooed softly in their crib, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the hearts of their mother and the woman who loved her. You stood beside her, your heart breaking as she held her sons, cradling them close, memorising every curve of their tiny bodies.

“I’ll come back for you,” she whispered, a promise laced with pain as she kissed their foreheads, sealing her love into their very beings. “I’ll return for one of you. You’ll never be alone. I’ll carry you in my heart.”

The moment felt suspended in time, an eternity captured in the embrace of a mother. But as she turned away, the weight of her choice settled upon you, and you knew that the love you shared would become both a beacon and a burden, a reminder of what could have been.

And as she walked away, taking a piece of your heart with her, you felt the ache of longing seep deep into your soul—a silent vow to hold onto the memory of the love you had shared, even as she forged a path that would lead her away from you, and towards an uncertain future.

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jeannereames · 6 months ago

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Hephaestion seems to have a big fanbase. How did it develop? I ask this because not much is known about Hephaestion historically. How did this interest in Hephaestion grow despite lack of enough information? Has Oliver Stone's "Alexander" contributed to it?

Hephaistion's Fanbase

He does have a fanbase, which I discovered by accident. It well predates Stone’s Alexander, although the movie certainly enlarged it. I suspect much has to do with Mary Renault, at least at root. Even Oliver Stone’s film is an homage to her. I hope I’ve shed a little light on his career as well, but freely admit she started it, even if I didn’t come to my interest through her. I may be one of the few, at least among people my age.

I wrote a little about his fanbase in my article “The Cult of Hephaistion,” published several years after the film. If the bulk of the article is about Hephaistion’s military career, the opening discusses his public-facing reputation, and I got to use “fangirl” in an academic article. LOL.

As the chapter explains, I discovered his fanbase after I completed my dissertation in (late) 1998. While still at Penn State (e.g., before mid-2000), I began to receive email and even a few snailmail letters asking for a copy of it.

Let me point out something: nobody, much, reads a dissertation. It’s a niche market if there ever was one; in the normal run of things, only other scholars and grad students read dissertations. God alone knows how people found out I’d written mine on Hephaistion, but within a year, word had spread and I was getting requests for it. To say I was floored would be an understatement. And it wasn’t just one or two. For a little while, I was getting queries every few months.

(PLEASE do not go buy a copy! I’m working on a major revision, and large chunks of the dissertation are already in print as articles anyway [HERE on academic.edu]. The dissertation is no longer up-to-date and parts are simply wrong. I did the best I could at the time, but now have 25 more years of academic work under my belt and a whole lot of very good material has been published since that I’m consulting for the book.)

Anyway, what struck me was the truly international nature of the interest, even before the Stone flick. Many requests came from Anglophone countries, but not all. Yet—as I discuss in the book chapter mentioned above—they did share one common characteristic: over 80% came from women. 2/3rds of the rest were from gay or bisexual men. From my chapter (you can download it to read further):

What struck me most about Hephaestion’s fans is that they compose subsets of society who have traditionally occupied disempowered social positions: women, and gay or bisexual men. If I were to say, “Hephaestion has fans,” the instinctive reaction to that pronouncement is rather different than if I were to specify, “Hephaestion has female and gay fans.” The clarification transforms him from Alexander’s right-hand man and chiliarch into a romantic hero—a Brad Pitt of the ancient world. (Or a Jared Leto, as the case may be.) All of which says perhaps more about our unconscious assumptions and automatic ordering of value than about the fans themselves. Enthusiasm for Hephaestion seems to be suspect and uncomfortably suggestive of motivations emotional and romantic. Yet is any intense interest ever devoid of emotional content? Perhaps the biggest fans of all are those of us who have devoted our careers to the study of Alexander, his court, Macedon, and related topics. Certainly no one goes into academics purely for the financial compensation.

I DELETED THE POLL. Going to redo it with a better list of options.

#Hephaistion #Hephaestion #Alexander the Great #Oliver Stone's Alexander #Hephaistion's fans #Classics #Alexander the movie #alexander the making of a god #ancient history #ancient Macedonia #ancient Greece #asks #tagamemnon #poll about Hephaistion #alexander x hephaestion #historical fiction #Mary Renault

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misterbardman · 11 months ago

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The ending for trials of Apollo could have been so much longer. Like, I like it but just imagine Apollo waking up back on Olympus like in the canon, but instead of going out to the meeting he just stays in his room, a bit longer than he should’ve. Maybe he would’ve heard the other gods talking about him again, maybe someone like Artemis or even Hera would’ve gone to see why he hadn’t left yet.

In truth, he just doesn’t want to deal with his family. He’s seen how mortal families should be like, in Sally Jackson’s home, at Camp Half-Blood, with Coach Hedge, with Piper. Yet he also saw how they could be, like with Nero. Apollo knows who his family more represents and it’s not Sally Jackson.

Can’t really fault him for the oracles being taken, how was he supposed to deal with that between being stuck on Delos then fighting alongside the other Olympian’s at the end of Blood of Olympus? I seriously doubt he knew what the prophecy would entail, and that it would even affect him in the future, especially since Hera hastened the prophecy of the seven.

Literally, the only thing Apollo did wrong was give Octavian his blessings because of the praise. Which is really not seen enough in Trials of Apollo, which could’ve been so interesting to read how his progeny had played a role in a war that could’ve been prevented.

If Apollo is being blamed for the prophecy solely, like why? Was it because it was a prophecy that foretold the possible end of them? He could’ve been punished during the Last Olympian then, or prior to that. Was it the oracles because he wasn’t even given a chance to face Python as a god, since he was stuck on Delos. I think it was more of causing the war between the demigods, how he told Octavian he had his blessings and to go along with it. It’s been a bit since I reread HoO so I could be completely missing the point. Regardless, it was his fault, and his punishment. The punishment is made worst since he’s the only one who got punished. Not Hera for her actions during the war, nope, just him.

We are also sorely missing Apollo seeing Leto again, would’ve loved to see that.

This is why I headcanon that after TOA he just splits part of his essence so he’s typically at CHB or Camp Jupiter because at least there he knows he’s part of the family. I also just really love the idea of Artemis having her Hunters while Apollo watches over the remaining demigods kind of like an older brother.

#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo hoo toa #trials of apollo #pjo #toa #lester papadopoulos

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ominoose · 1 year ago

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Top 5 Oscar characters most likely to be yanderes? 👀

Ooooh here we go. In no particular order:

• Blue Jones

He's possessive as hell, relationships for him will be part of his status and control is notoriously a big part of who he is. Blue wants to know where you're going, now long you'll be there, what you're wearing, etc. Sometimes he might not let you leave, not for a particular reason, just to exercise control.

Blue picks what you wear too, treating you like his perfect doll. Since you'll live in the Lennox club you'll have his guards eyes on you constantly, so anything you do will be reported back to him. You live in the palm of his hands, and he'll lord that over you, letting you know he paid for that pretty dress and the roof over your head, if it weren't for him you'd be on the streets. Hell even use his customers as proof that no other man will treat you as well as he does since he technically doesn't bend you over a table without at least a warning.

• Steven Grant

Steven could end up a yandere without even realising. He has no real relationship experience, through Marc, Jake and his parents he doesn't even have any examples of what an average, healthy, stable relationship looks like. All he knows is Marc's deep but repressed feelings, so when it comes to his own love he's got so much pent up but doesn't want to repress it, he wants to show it. Steven will read all the romance novels, not knowing it's not reflective of real relationships, and take his que from those.

Expect him to be over bearing, smothering you in love, hugs, constant affirmations, accidentally objectifying you. He's absolutely obsessed with having someone love him and having someone to love. If you ever try to leave? You're talking nonsense, you loved him before, you cant stop now, hes not going to risk losing you. Will definitely get frantic and do something he regrets in a panic, like chaining you to a wall. That won't make him unchain you though, in fact it's probably for the better, you can trust him to take care of you.

• Nathan Bateman

Another man who loves having control, but instead of Blue being more sly about it, teasing you with the open Club that's actually a prison, Nathan has you completely isolated. This makes it much more easy to completely brainwash you.

I fully believe Nathan would make you dependent on him, leaving you locked in a room when you misbehave. He's the only other human you have, completely cut off from everyone else, it'll be easy to make you cling to him.

When you act out he makes an android version of you and dotes on it in front of you, especially when you're locked in clear, glass room. Nathan will show the android more care and affection than he shows you until you're sobbing and begging to get back into his good graces.

• Leto Atreides

I was hesitant to put him here but in my mind it could happen in a few specific scenarios. Being the Duke of an entire planet, the Emperor of the Universes favourite guy but also his enemy, throw in the trauma of his first wife killing his first born in a jealous fit and also his mother figure killing his dad for the same reason, Leto has gotta have some issues. That's a lot of pressure and relationship drama.

House Atreides have honour, a trait Leto likes to represent, but that isn't without flaws. This can lead to, as we see when he gets KO'd in Arrakis, being blinded by determination, blinding by pride.

If you were his favourite concubine or wife, in a period of high political stress, like during Arrakis, if things get rough I can see him snapping. He'll hold it in, trying to remain the figure of calm reason and all it'll take is one Harkkonnen threat towards you or you taking initiative and making a meeting with political heads to aid Leto, then he snaps. You'll be kept strictly in a private wing because you're his and he cannot lose you, will not lose you to the threats plaguing House Atreides from every shadow. Leto loves passionately, deeply and values loyalty and he will know that's his weakness. You're his heart, so he'll keep you locked away from the outside.

• Shimmer!Kane

I lean towards the theory that clone Kane is more primal and caveman like, he has only base human instincts when he's fresh out the Shimmer. This means he will have base instincts towards a partner.

All he has in him is a feeling of connection towards you and the concept of "partner". To him that just means you are his. Since his emotional understanding is very limited, this just manifests as him being possessive, not recognising boundaries.

I'm not much for a breeding kink, but he will breed you, that's just his understanding of humans and might even be programmed into him from the Shimmer. He might even coddle you, taking over any labour you're doing whether that be putting jars on the top shelf or carrying something upstairs. You'll likely end up feeling like a human pet for him to study and possess.

I know William Tell or Jake Lockley or Basil Stitt would've been popular choices but personally, if I was to be truly honest, I can't see it in canon (although I love it Fanon wise).

For William, I think hed too self loathing. He can barely make himself be in a normal, loving relationship and doesn't allow himself the pleasure of sleeping on a normal bed. If William dated someone and suddenly felt himself becoming possessive, controlling or any real overly strong emotion that wasn't pure love he would bolt. William knows what he is capable of and hates it.

For Basil, I think he's just too... pathetic. I don't think he has it in him to be controlling, he's too submissive. He might try, but you'd shout or tell him off and he'd buckle. He'd just sit and cry if you did something to upset him or left. Might spam you or stalk your socials but that's it.

For Jake, I think he'd check out if his emotions ever got that intense. I don't see Jake allowing himself a relationship while he's still keeping to himself from Steven and Marc, but if he was open I still see him being wary. In a scenario where he does have a partner and feels himself becoming too obsessive or controlling he would ghost and never come back. His commitment is to the body and by extension Khonshu, for your own safety and his head mates he'd split.

#omiwrites #leto atreides #steven grant #blue jones #nathan bateman #kane annihilation #william tell #basil stitt #Jake lockley

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chubbygrape · 3 months ago

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In my very unserious read of the Dionysiaca so take this very 'unseriously' as well but Semele is hysterical to me in the first volume

After she reached Godhood my notes literally changed from 'this is so beautiful :')" to "OMG HER AGAIN??" - like my girl is insufferable.

It will be a random scene, not involving Semele even as a background character, yet she'll still somehow appear screaming from the heavens (COMPLETELY unprovoked) how all other women of Zeus are inferior to her (like girl?), as well as their sons are inferior to her son, managing also to offend said sons in the process (Hermes heard it the worse if you ask me lol) This happens at least 3 times...

If you're reading this you don't need me to say this, but just in case, friendly reminder said women of Zeus are the likes of HERA and Leto, while the sons literally Apollo, Hermes and Ares... (pretty sure Hephaestus caught a stray as well somewhere in there) With how fragile the egos of Gods are i am shocked we didn't get like 4 books extra detailing every God haunting Semele for sport after the nonsense she spewed every other page hah

But also poor Dionysos? lolol

Imagine you're just born (just barely mind you) and youre trying to get through life and got big shoes to fill in, meanwhile your mother is already setting you up for failure by openly declaring you're better than and positioning you against all your ESTABLISHED OLYMPIAN HALF-BROTHERS

It's giving 'mum you're embarrassing me'

Anyways love the books xx

#dionysos #dionysus #semele #greek gods #greek mythology #dionysiaca

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Of Gods and Men (daenys)

- Pairing: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

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

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: contact

- Next part: the gift

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

- A/N: Previous part has been fixed.

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

But House Targaryen was not so easily extinguished.

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

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

And survive we did.

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

They do not know what we are capable of.

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

For fire and blood will always rise from the ashes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt continues, but you are patient.

You always have been.

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

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

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

These men were from House Atreides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn it,” Gurney muttered under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” Gurney asked, his voice low.

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

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

The Harkonnens would not have you today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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