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thelightsandtheroses · 6 months ago

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everywhere, everything | jm x female reader [au]

Summary: In recent months, the bar your family has owned for generations has changed. Now it can't keep a bouncer beyond one shift, attracts the 'wrong' crowd, and is an albatross around you and your cousin's neck. Your cousin's latest hire, Joel Miller, seems like he might just survive the shift and as time passes, you can't help but want to know him more. AKA the Bouncer!Joel fic Word Count: 8.2k Warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of canon typical violence, RoadHouseBouncer!Joel AU, no outbreak, no specified age but reader has a cousin and inferred (not detailed) family deaths in the past, flirting, smut (p in v), Joel Miller is his chaotic self, mentions of death of a child (canon), many scenes set in a bar and mentions of alcohol or drinking, your standard lolabee flangst and introspection, reader mentions music, singing and playing guitar. Notes: So much appreciation for encouraging me to write this fic goes to @trulybetty for listening toand supporting my ideas and @rhoorl. Watching the new Road House movie at the same time as starting TLOU games led to this idea I couldn't let go of. Fic title isfrom the Noah Kahan song of the same name.

It’s starting to weigh on you.

You see it in your cousin more though; the weariness in her eyes as the local gangs come in and inevitably cause trouble. Both of you know where it comes from, the reasons behind it, why it’s so much worse for your roadhouse than anywhere else in the town.

Most days, you want to leave and sell up. Sometimes a fight is too much, it isn’t worth the cost, there’s too high a loss, too tiresome a battle. Everything your cousin possesses is tied up in the bar though. It’s not that simple for her and you won’t walk away from your family. You can’t.

The two of you cannot be the ones who let decades of your family’s legacy just wash away to nothing.

That was why your cousin had started with the bouncers in the first place. The two of you can only afford one, but it’s a small building, a small town.

“This one will be different,” your cousin says with a firm nod and smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “I just know he will. He’s new in town, he starts tonight and he - when you meet him, you’ll see what I mean.”

You don’t say that she said the same thing about the last bouncer - what was his name? Dave, or Frankie, or something like that. You’ve stopped learning their names now - it’s pointless when they never last longer than a few days.

The bar is still quiet; tinny music coming through the speakers as you finish unloading the clean glasses from the dishwasher.

“Are you playin’ tonight?” she asks.

“Might do. If the crowd let me,” you say, smiling at your cousin gently. It’s a joke now; the bar hasn’t been safe enough in months for that.

It used to be your favourite thing about this place; the music, the ability to perform songs and transport yourself to what could have been, what could be. It might not be Nashville, or the Sofi stadium, but it’s the closest you think you’ll ever get to feeling like a real musician. And now you don’t even have that.

“Good, they will. It’s going to be a good one tonight, you’ll see.”

The new bouncer is called Joel but your cousin calls him by his surname: Miller.

He’s quiet, not like the other one. Instead of stalking around and flexing, Miller sits in the corner of the bar, perched on a stool and staring into a cup of coffee as though it would answer all his queries about the universe.

You feel bad about the coffee; you should have warned him that it’s truly awful, pointed him in the direction of the small diner ten minutes away that serves some of the best coffee in the whole state. You think your own coffee isn’t too bad either; perfected and tweaked over years to figure out the perfect combination of beans and grind to bring the best out of your worn moka pot.

“Next time, I’d go for water,” you say lightly as you approach his side of the bar. It’s still quiet for this time of the evening but the trouble doesn’t usually start until after ten anyway.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m not sure we can even legally call this coffee. I think there’s more caffeine in the Kahlua.”

“You have Kahlua?” Miller asks.

“It’s a very old bottle, I really wouldn’t risk it.” You try and remember the last time someone ordered a drink with it here but it’s hazy. The Bar doesn’t exactly attract people for its cocktail list anymore.

“Pity.”

“I can get you a water if you’d prefer. Or something else?”

“It’s fine.” You notice Miller has pushed the cup slightly away from him though. He eyes it with mild disgust and you feel suddenly even more worried for him. If he can’t handle the coffee, he surely won’t be able to handle the patrons.

“You’re Joe, right?”

“Joel,” he corrects instantly.

“Joel, right. Sorry.”

“Are there that many of us passin’ through, that you don’t learn the names properly now? Is that why your boss calling me Miller?” He doesn’t know who you are, that’s clear. He doesn’t know it’s your family’s legacy here too and you’re not just a bartender. This place matters to you.

“It’s only your first shift.”

Joel sighs and meets your gaze. His eyes are deep brown and you take in the slight salt and pepper to his stubble, the surprisingly comfortable looking plaid flannel he’s wearing. At the same time, you notice the stoniness in his posture, the wariness in his eyes.

He isn’t spoiling for a fight because he lives for them, not like the other bouncers your cousin has hired.

You’ve already realised that Joel Miller fights in an entirely differently way to his predecessors. You can tell his biggest battles aren’t the ones in a bar like this. Without projecting too much, you think they’re probably inside his mind. No one has haunted eyes like that without a story. You’re a bartender, you can just tell.

“What have you have been told about this gig? Do you know what you’re getting into?”

“I know this place has some troubles,” he says carefully.

“I’ll say.”

You remember when things were different in the town, in the bar. It wasn’t like this back then. It used to be for families. Your aunt once joked that your dad’s cooking could bring the entire town together. It’s been a long time since the place was known for a family meal though.

You grew up with laughter and joy inside these walls. Now, it feels like it must have happened somewhere else entirely. This bar is still where you ran in after being asked on your first date ever, where you opened your SAT results, studied while the bar was closed, had every family significant gathering or event you can remember.

This isn’t just a job for you.

“How long have you been here? No offence, but you don’t seem the type -”

“It’s my family’s bar. Your boss you mentioned, she’s my cousin. The two of us run it these days, well I mean, I only help out. It’s her bar now more than mine but it’s been our family’s place for generations. We’re what’s left.” All that’s left.

“I didn’t know. I wasn’t - I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Of course, Miller.” His words weren’t meant with offence but he had still managed to pick at your vulnerability that you don’t truly belong and cut at your soul.

Your family never thought you’d keep up with the bar, your cousin was the clear front runner to inherit it and you supported that. You wanted to leave your hometown, that had never been a secret and your childhood bedroom had been covered in posters and postcards for exciting and different places.

Once, you dreamt of Nashville, of music venues and guitar calloused hands playing idle melodies as a tour bus drove you to your next city across a starlit sky.

Life had different plans for you thought.

“This town didn’t used to be like this,” you add, “We’ve had a lot of bad luck and - the whole town is suffering. You wouldn’t have recognised this place if you passed through even just a few years ago.”

”I’m -“

The door to the bar crashes open before Joel can finish his sentence. You notice the first of the regular troublemakers walking in and warily look around the bar. You can tell by their posture, the look on their face exactly what type of night it’s going to be.

“Looks like your work will be getting started soon, Miller. I’d drink up.”

He might just survive his first shift. That’s annoying - you have five bucks counting on him either walking out or be stretchered out like any of the bouncers by the end of the night.

You try and pay attention to your surroundings. It’s sensible in your line of work. For so many people that line between a good night and becoming the worst version of themselves is wafer thin and you’re often the first line of defence, you’re the one who has to say when someone’s not being served anymore.

Your cousin is in the back office, trying to sort out the multitude of paperwork that comes with owning a bar or business that nobody ever thinks about.

He’s calm, polite even for the most part.

He doesn’t escalate the situation, not like some of the bouncers who have spent a shift here recently. Mostly he sits and observes. His calmness is almost disconcerting and contrasts sharply with the danger in his posture, the readiness to move he’s concealing.

There hasn’t been too much trouble so far tonight; a mild fight which was easily taken outside but you can feel the tension in the air.

“Can I get ‘nother whiskey?” Robert slurs. He’s a regular to the bar now and has a particular penchant for not being able to handle his alcohol, being very resentful at being cut off, and worse of all never has enough money to cover his bill or damages.

“I think you’re done for tonight,” you say lightly.

“Nah, I say when I’m done.”

“Not according to the liquor licence,” you snark back.

“Look, just pour me -”

“You’re done.”

“You’re such a fucking bitch.” Robert slams his fist down on the bar.

“I think it’s time to go,” Joel says politely, suddenly standing next to Robert in the bar. You’re not sure if he’ll last as a bouncer here but you’ll give him points for stealthiness. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.

“I think -“ Robert starts before pulling a sloppy punch. Joel easily dodges it, raising his eyebrow incredulously at Robert.

“C’mon, now, it’s time to go.”

He places a hand on Robert’s shoulder and guides him out. You’re struck that he didn’t escalate the situation - that was the last bouncer’s mistake. What he hadn’t counted on was what Robert is a mean drunk and often gets a second wind of energy.

Joel walks back up to you at the bar. “The way people talk about this place. That wasn’t so -“

“That, Miller, that was nothing.”

You watch as another troublemaker, Owen, walks in, all biker vest and swagger. It’s never a good night when he’s here. Usually his presence signals a full moon style night of fights, shouting and misery. He hasn’t been in for weeks to your joy; you’d heard a rumour he was in jail. Not any more though.

“Miller you see now the trouble’s really going to start. That wasn’t even your warmup.”

Sunlight streams through the window as you finish wiping over the table. It’s your favourite time of day in the bar. Your cousin is catching up on admin, sleep and supplier deliveries, the bar is empty and it’s just you, the stereo and sunlight.

You can’t help but lose yourself in the music just for a moment. You love this song, the beat, the lyrics, the way it ebbs and flows in all the right places. Music is magic.

You’re not in a rundown bar, not weighed down by obligation and memories and self-doubt. You’re not here, you’re somewhere else. In a city, in a crowd, on a stage or even just dancing around somewhere else. You’re lighter and freer and desperate for the song to continue just a little more as you spin around, humming along with the lyrics.

You hear the door open and turn around quickly. You heard about the diner getting robbed a couple of weeks ago. You should have locked the door.

Miller’s there, some light discolouration to his jaw from the one punch he didn’t dodge, but otherwise intact.

“You seem surprised to see me,” he says.

“You’ve cost me five bucks,” you reply simply.

He raises an eyebrow, “Didn’t think I could hack it*?*”

“The odds are the odds.”

“Well, I’m sorry about your money.”

“Yep, that five bucks was my ticket out of this town,” you joke.

“Not sure that would even cover a bus ticket,” he replies dryly.

“Maybe the coffee for on the bus?”

“Maybe.”

“So, day two,” you say awkwardly, swinging your arms around you and then immediately wondering why on earth you did that. You busy yourself by turning down the speakers.

“Yep,” Miller says casually, sitting on a bar stool.

“Have - are you hungry?” you ask, suddenly conscious that it’s lunchtime and Joel not doubt has another difficult day ahead.

“I could eat.”

”It’s nothing fancy, because the kitchen’s not open, but it is homemade - well, it was. I froze it but it’s defrosted and it’s really good. Also, frozen food still retains its nutrients well, and in the case of cake, freezing it makes it even better.”

“I see.” Miller pauses, “It’s not cake, is it? I don’t think I can eat frozen cake before a shift. ”

“No,” you argue, “it’s Tuesday, that’s what we’d do on a Wednesday! Today it’s lasagne.”

Miller smiles then. It’s a good smile. Slightly crooked and his eyes crease a little, the way you always associate someone smiling when they mean it. His deep eyes are momentarily lighter, there’s a change in him.

You want to tease more smiles out of this man, want to identify each and every changed in his face or the way his hands tap against the old bar. You want to keep him like this, bask in the glow that you’ve bought that expression to his face.

“Lasagne sounds great,” he says after a moment.

“Sure, okay, Miller. Coming right up.”

“Call me Joel. Please.”

“Okay, Joel.”

You like how his name sounds against your teeth, the way he smiles once more when you say his name.

It becomes a habit. Joel survives shift after shift and inevitably turns up to the bar early the following day when you’re there.

He’s lasted longer than fourteen bouncers now. He might just make it. He’s quiet, yes, but you’ve seen the violence in his movements when needed, the way he tries to be polite and then it’s over, then it’s a line. There’s something that compels and terrifies you about the violence he holds, its contradiction because he speaks to you so softly and how can a man be capable of both?

“You need a second bouncer,” he says one morning as you’re trying and failing to sort the back door out.

The employee room in the bar is a barely functioning space. Cliche after cliche with the cheap red IKEA futon, mismatching furniture and chairs and elderly microwave and kettle. The air conditioning has never worked in the room and now the back door is jammed too.

The place is falling apart.

“Can’t afford it,” you reply nonchalantly. “We’re doing our best.”

“I know. But then someone could try and watch at the door, stop some of these people coming in.”

“I know. But no one’s coming in because they’re there so we can’t afford a bouncer. It’s uh, a catch 22. Can’t even afford to replace the damn -” You shove your weight against the door to no avail.

“I can fix that,” Joel says softly as you kick the door one more time.

“The gangs? That’s ambitious.”

“The door.”

“Oh, it’s just the weather and it always gets stuck now. Replacing it would cost-”

“I can fix it. I uh, used to be a contractor.”

“A contractor?” Joel hasn’t talked about his past much before. You know he has a brother, he’s the oldest and that he’s from Texas. Joel carries that

“Did you have to say that with the air of a cowboy in an old movie?”

“I wasn’t aware I did,” he replies, cocking his eyebrow in a way.

“What sort of contractor were you?”

“Building, just the general type.”

“Oh, okay. So you could actually fix the door?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“How do you get from contractor to bouncer?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d expect so.”

Joel squirms awkwardly. You’ve watched him easily apprehend aggressive gang members shouting the vilest things to Joel and move them outside. You’ve seen him barely blink over ill drunks spilling their souls on his shoes. You’ve seen him so strong and resolute.

He looks at his watch which, for the first time, you notice is broken and then at the ground.

“It’s fine, Joel,” you say, “you don’t need to tell me anymore.”

He keeps coming back, night after night and things start to change. It’s small, a fixed door and then a window catch replaced, the fact the gangs start coming around less. It’s change but the quiet type of change you only discover through previously entrenched routines.

You’ve spent time cataloguing his details, each scar or line, the way he takes his coffee (black, but a two to one ratio of sugar that makes you wince a little). Joel Miller has a sweet tooth.

You’re used to Joel now, you like talking to him in quiet moments in the bar, before or after shifts as he hangs around just a little longer. You tell him about the town, about how it was growing up, he lets it slip he’s from Texas, mentions a brother, Tommy, and you want to unpeel his secrets more and more.

You proudly place the slab of cake in front of him. Rain hammers against the windows and roof, creating great echoes as it sounds like the bar will come down around you. It’s unseasonal, the rain, an omen of quiet days. Today you don’t mind.

“What’s the occasion?” Joel asks, looking at the cake curiously.

“It’s a Wednesday.” You take a bite of your own slice, savouring the flavours, the delicate balance of sponge and icing. If you can say so, it’s a pretty great cake. You really have improved over recent months and while this was experimental, you’re happy with the result.

“Ah. Say no more.”

“Also, congrats, you’ve officially been here for eight and half weeks.”

“I pass probation then?” Joel looks around dubiously, clearly concerned your cousin or others will suddenly pop out in some surprise party or sense of occasion.

“Pretty much passed that by coming back on day two, but that’s my cousin’s domain. I just pour drinks.”

“And provide frozen food to the bouncers.”

“Only the ones who come back. Besides, it’s defrosted. I can take that cake back you know.”

“No, don’t you dare.” Joel takes a large forkful of the cake. “So why the cake though, sweetheart?”

“You, Joel Miller, are officially our longest standing bouncer.” You clap lightly in mock celebration as he cocks an eyebrow in response.

“What an honour,” he replies sardonically.

”You’re welcome.”

“Do I need to make a speech?”

“I think it was the speech that bought the previous record holder down.” Clint had lasted forty-five minutes after that speech. It was a bad night - a particularly nasty gang fight.

“Hubris,” Joel says lightly.

“Exactly.”

“Not bad for a contractor turned bouncer though.”

Joel laughs. “You going to tell me that story one day?” you ask, hoping your teasing expression hides how genuine your question is.

“Maybe,” he says. “You’ve not hit my records yet.”

“That a challenge?”

He shrugs and walks towards the door to ready the bar for opening.

You hand Joel the frozen peas wrapped in an old cloth. After the commotion, your cousin’s closed the bar early. It’s hard to recover the night from a scene like that and you’re pretty sure the broken table and glass amount to some sort of safety violation at the least.

“Thanks,” Joel says gruffly.

“You could have a concussion.”

“I'm fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Joel looks at his cracked knuckles and raises a finger to the cut on his head, lightly touching it and observing the blood that comes away on his hand. “’m fine.”

“You hit the bar.”

“Standard night on the job.”

“You hit it with your head.”

Joel shrugs, nonchalance and mischief at once.

“How’s the idiot?” Owen had come in with the intention of causing trouble; something about the rival gang, or his girlfriend, or something that would never justify his trail of destruction. Joel had maintained his usual rules; polite, carefully moving Owen outside the bar, even as he tried to fight back. You’re not sure how it went so wrong, how instead of getting Owen outside suddenly there were more of the gang, broken tables and chaos.

It’s been weeks since a night like that. It makes it feel brand new, the hurt starker somehow.

“He needs to go to hospital,” you say, wrapping your jacket around you after you lock the bar door, keys heavy in your hand.

“Oh.”

“He’ll be fine. His friends are taking him. You probably need the hospital too, I’ll drive you.”

“’m fine.”

“You’re not. Get in the damn car, Joel.”

“I’m -”

“The car, Joel. Don’t make me start calling you Miller again.”

Joel holds his hands up and shakes his head. “Fine, I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” you say with a sweet smile.

You drive in near silence but once you’re both in the hospital waiting room, he talks. He talks more than he ever usually does.

“I didn't need to come here,” he grumbles.

“Are you on the lam?”

“What?” He asks incredulously.

“You seem reluctant to be in a hospital that takes down personal information. It’s a reasonable question.”

He sighs, pinches between his eyebrows. “No, I’m not on the damn lam. I just - I just don’t like hospitals.”

“I don’t think a lot of people do. I guess it’s an occupational habit with your work.”

“I patch myself up usually. Last time I was in one of these places, it was … I was …”

“Joel, it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.” You reach for his bloody hand and squeeze, unsure if the blood on it is from his own split knuckles or the fight. The violence of his body contrasts so much with the man you talk to, the friend you’ve made.

“When I told you it was a long story, how I went from a contractor to this … it’s, I don’t know.”

You shift so you can face Joel and try and model your best supportive expression. Joel and you talk about everything now, but he’s guarded and this is the first time he’s volunteered this story to you.

“We can talk about it later.”

“I had a daughter,” he says so quietly that you can barely hear him. “And then I had a chance, a second chance to - but it’s been a mess. I’ve been a mess. I’ve got a lot wrong.”

So much of Joel Miller makes sense to you know and you can understand the sadness that crosses his eyes sometimes, the reluctance to talk about his past.

“Haven’t we all?” You pause. “I’m really sorry about your daughter, Joel.“

“I don’t know how to make it right now though.”

“I think,” you say gently, “all you can do is try. For what it’s worth, you’re making a difference here, you’re making a difference with me.”

“Really?” He glances up at you, suddenly years younger and as you nod a slight smile light up his face briefly.

“Why don’t you tell me about her? If you want to.”

He smiles. “I do, but not tonight, but I will.”

“Joel Miller,” a doctor calls.

“C’mon, you’re up.” You squeeze Joel’s arm before standing up.

The balance has shifted and something’s changed.

The bar changes gradually like the way spring teases itself for weeks. It’s all subtle shifts, blossoms of hope and shoots of a future you didn’t dare think of too much. The bar might survive, your cousin is smiling again.

And then there’s you and Joel. Joel, who still pops in to talk to you even on his days off. Joel, who you sit out with after the bar closes and drink beer and play guitar to the stars.

“You should play here,” he says, taking a sip of his beer, “you’re good.” “You’re better. I can’t play guitar like you.” “Nah. Just had more practice at best. Your voice is pretty, so pretty.” “Oh, I’m not so good at playing. I’m better at singing,” you say. “Four basic chords are about my limit on the guitar.” “Don’t do yourself down.” “Trust me, I’m not.” You pause. ”Joel, you could - you could play with me. If I ever played here. it’s probably stupid.” There’s something unreadable in his eyes, a soft smile on his lips. “No, I’d like that.”

You’re accustomed to his presence, his low but grounding voice, his calm demeanour throughout all chaos.

He’s told you more about his past now. About Sarah and how her loss tore him apart for years, and also about the foster daughter he took in, Ellie. He won’t tell you much about Ellie though, except they stopped talking around about the time he became a bouncer. He once asked you if you would do anything to save the life of someone you love and you said yes. He nodded and moved on. You think it’s connected, you’re not sure.

You’ve worked at a bar long enough to know when it’ll be a bad night. There’s an electricity in the air, a tension that is so tight anything could snap it. You look over at Joel to see if he’s picked up on the same energy.

He’s sitting on the stool, observing quietly, but you notice the slight furrow in his brows. He looks at you and his mouth twitches into the smallest of smiles, but there’s anxiety in his eyes.

“I heard that Owen’s gang declared war on the Rattlers,” you say in a low voice. You don’t like Owen, or his friends, but the Rattlers are worst. Owen’s gang is the typical cliched grouping of a small town that’s become lost. They drink too much, throw punches without thinking and cause trouble. They’re not evil though.

The Rattlers are.

“Didn’t hear the Rattlers came through here,” Joel says in a low voice. “I heard of their reputation at a previous gig.”

“Their uh, second in command, is that the term? Anyway, he’s had a thing with someone in town for years. On and off. Guess it’s on again.”

“They cause trouble when they’re here?”

You scoff. “This was starting to feel like -”

“It still is, it still will. Let me do my job,” Joel says firmly.

You want to trust him; you do trust him. It’s the Rattlers that worry you, the feeling in your gut that this hard sought over peace is threatened, the deep and terrifying fear that this bar can never change. Not now. Not even with Joel.

Joel smiles at you, the picture of reassurance. “Owen might not come in here. This is hardly a welcome environment for his group anymore.”

“Joel,” you say nervously, “I just … I have a feeling.”

Joel doesn’t laugh or dismiss you; he straightens up and nods.

You’re not sure how things fall apart so quickly. One moment the bar was quiet, then Owen was there and before Joel could get him to leave, the Rattlers were here too. Maybe it was planned, maybe it was what they all wanted.

“Evening, unfortunately I need to ask you all to leave tonight,” Joel says politely, standing from his barstool. “I’m afraid the business is at capacity and we have a private function on.”

“Well,” Owen begins.

“Leave.”

“Look, Miller, it’s not -”

“I’m not asking, Owen.” Joel’s voice is low, deadly, the tone he uses when polite words fall flat, when it’s time to not be nice. “That goes to all of you.”

Owen falters slightly at the sound of that, you wonder if he remembers how things went the last time Joel used that voice.

“Y’all got a function on?” one of the Rattlers asks you. He’s covered in tattoos and is wearing a leather vest with numerous patches with no other top underneath. You wonder if he based his outfit on the existing tropes, if he’s intentionally as cliched as possible or if it truly is just an unspoken truth now. His hair is slicked back into a ponytail that highlights his receding hairline and a puckered scar that runs from his brow to his nose.

“I’m afraid so, gentlemen. While we, uh appreciate the desire to visit, I’m afraid Mr Miller is correct.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. It doesn’t look so-”

“Please,” you say quietly.

For a moment you wonder if it will work, you’re on bated breath as the Rattler steps back and moves to say something to his gang. However, that’s the very moment Owen smashes a chair on his back and hell breaks loose.

“Oh, thank you so fucking much for that,” Joel says in an irritated voice, immediately pulled into action to try and get the situation outside, away from the patrons, from you.

You step backwards, hoping the protection of the bar will be enough.

People are running out of the bar as the chaos unfolds. It’s a flood of sound,

Someone pushes Owen onto the bar, pummelling him as you try and back away. “Please stop,” you say.

Then a flash and searing heat.

That’s when you hear Joel swear, you notice his eyes have darkened, his entire demeanour has changed.

Your vision is blurred by something and you can feel a sharp pain on your face along with something sticky and hot when you touch it.

You shut your eyes, willing the events away and allowing yourself to crouch under the bar and wait for the noises to stop.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

You’re fine.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” a soothing voice says. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise but we do have to close early today.”

There’s a pause, noise around you and then something cool on your face. “I need to see the damage, okay? It’s me, it’s Joel, you’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

You open your eyes to see Joel crouched in front of you. He’s holding a damp cloth that is already soaked in red.

“You’ll need stitches, I’ll drive you.” Joel moves your head gently and nods. “Your eye looks okay; can you see normally?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

”Fucking - it was Owen, he grabbed a glass from the bar and instead of hitting the rattler - ”

“Got me.”

“Yeah. It’s deep but um ‘”

“I’ll live. I’m okay. Don’t need hospital.”

“Huh, you trying to prove a point here? How annoyin’ it is when someone who needs hospital won’t go?”

”It’s fine, Joel.”

“You’re hurt,” he says and he looks disappointed.

You feel a burst of shame, you should have defended yourself better.

“I’m going to call your cousin and tell her what happened and then I’m driving you to hospital. No arguments, okay?”

You try and smile weakly in acquiescence which seems to only make Joel frown more.

His hand lingers on your shoulder slightly as he hands you the seatbelt after bundling you into his truck. He moved quickly, closing the bar, making a hushed call in the corner to your cousin and then immediately guiding you out, a clean cloth placed in your hands to hold against your cut.

There’s a nodding dog ornament on the dash, something that doesn’t seem like Joel at all.

“Ellie,” he says quietly as he notices you looking at it. “Keep the pressure on that wound, okay?”

He turns out of the bar.

“Didn’t seem your sort of ornament,” you reply placidly.

“She called it Ernie, I - that kid.” Joel sighs heavily.

“You could call her,” you say, braver in the wake of your injury.

“I would. But she doesn’t want to hear from me, trust me.” He mumbles something else you can’t make out.

“You’re a good person, Joel. She -”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you say, “trust me, I know bad men, but you aren’t one of them. Owen? The Rattlers?”

“The bar’s pretty damn low there.”

“You know the town I live in.”

Joel chuckles mirthlessly.

“I was going to play tonight,” you say quietly, “I thought it was time. That’ll teach me.”

“You could still play, maybe tomorrow though.”

“It would be harder with the blood right now.”

“Just a tad.”

“Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course.”

You wonder if he’s trying to return a favour, whether he’s the sort of person who just can’t feel indebted to someone else. Now you’ve bled on his car too, now you’re even?

He looked worried though. You think about the way he sounded too, the forced calmness when he checked on you.

You’re friends.

That’s normal, right?

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “You shouldn’t have got hurt.”

“Joel, it’s … you can’t be everywhere at once. It’s not on you.”

“I should have -”

“Miller,” you say sharply, “it’s not on you. Not one bit. Do you think I can bar Owen for good now?”

Joel chuckles. “Yeah, I reckon so.

“Good, well that’s something, isn’t it? Almost makes it worth it. Do you think it will scar?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

You pause. It’s vanity, you know, but the idea of this leaving a permanent scar on your face hurts worse than the injury itself.

“That’s not ideal. I-it’s stupid.” It feels so foolish to be worried about a scar when things could be so much worse, for your own vanity to say ‘well, now, you’ll never make it as a musician or star’ or to focus on your looks. It’s normal, it’s human, but it makes you feel guilty.

Joel looks at you carefully and he places a warm, solid hand on your hand that is not holding a compress to your face. “You’re so beautiful, you know that, right?” he says in a low voice. “This won’t change that. It couldn’t, okay?”

No-one calls you beautiful. There’s been half-hearted claims of your ‘hotness’ with exes, of your friends’ encouragement when you make a particular effort in your appearance, but nothing like this. Nothing that feels this sincere either.

He takes his hand away as the doctor joins you. You can feel the heat lingering like butterflies as the doctor attends to your wound.

Joel stays with you the whole time.

You hear the guitar before you can see him. Soft, melodic chords that reach a crescendo as you walk closer to the small cabin style house he’s renting. You’re not sure if it’s a complete betrayal of the trust from when you dropped him off after his hospital trip weeks ago, but you need to see him outside of the bar.

“Hey,” he says in surprise when he sees you. He places the guitar carefully down before standing up to greet you.

“I’m sorry to just turn up, I hope it’s okay.” You awkwardly clasp your hands and wring them together. “I was passing through and I thought - I thought I’d say hi.”

This is a complete lie; you are not passing through at all.

You’re wearing your favourite outfit and you sprayed an extra two spritzes of your best perfume on this morning. In fact, you have made considerable effort when you think about all of this.

“No, it’s great. I’m happy you stopped by.”

“You’re good. The guitar, it was … really good. I’ve not heard you play that before.”

“Oh, it’s just something I’ve been working on.”

“It’s really good.”

“Nah, not really.”

You frown, hands on your hips and he raises his own hands in defence.

“Can I - do you want a drink?” Joel indicates inside the cabin and you nod enthusiastically.

“That would be great, thanks Joel.”

There are three cabins in the area that a local businessman rents out. Joel’s cabin is the closest to the woods, the one that’s slightly hidden away. Inside it looks like a typical rental; the slightly shabby furniture and neutral demeanour that feels void of any character, the aged kitchen stove and units, an abundance of wood furniture.

There are touches of Joel too though. There’s a vinyl player and box of records on the coffee table, a plaid blanket over the sofa and a couple of photos on the fireplace mantle. You think they might be Sarah, maybe Ellie, but you don’t want to pry.

This changes things. It’s not the bar, neither of you are at work, or hanging out outside after a shift. This feels more personal, more intimate. This is Joel Miller, the real Joel, the one you can’t hide your feelings for now.

You do have feelings for Joel.

It’s funny, when he started you wanted to keep him at a distance because you expected him to leave like everyone else, you thought the bar was beyond help. You wondered if you were beyond your dreams. He’s helping bring you back though.

It’s his calm demeanour, the wry expressions and dry humour, his plaid shirts and the way when he smiles, which is rare but you’ve seen it, his whole face softens and lightens up. It’s electric.

You think about him all the time; reading articles you try and remember to bring up at the bar, when you hear a song he’d like. Joel’s found his way into your life and you don’t want to let him go.

He’ll leave though. The bouncers inevitably do, most people in your life do. You just don’t want that with him. You want him to stay.

“Are you okay?” Joel asks.

“Why?”

“You have that serious thought face on.”

“I have a serious thought face?”

Joel scoffs. “So, what’s up?”

“I just - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.”

Joel frowns then. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, c’mon I said I’d get you a drink, right?” Joel indicates the sturdy wooden table and you sit obligingly. “So I’ve got a choice of tea, well It says it’s tea anyway. Uh, some whiskey, beer, water …. I’m out of coffee.”

“That should be illegal.”

“Shouldn’t it?”

“I might just leave now.”

“Wouldn’t blame ya.”

He’s close to you now and you feel emboldened by the fact you’re here, you’re with him and he’s not pushing you away or looking like he wants to leave. Maybe, just maybe this is a great idea.

“Now I think about it though, I’m not sure that I’m thirsty after all,” you say boldly.

“Oh no?” He leans in closer, hands hovering just over your waist. “Look, you don’t want -”

“I do. I do want.”

Joel swallows. “Really?” He’s looking at you as though you’re something mythical, something intangible he could lose at any second. There’s reverence in his eyes and it’s overwhelming and beautiful at once.

You nod. “I’m not the only one here who - I’m not though, right?” There’s a hint of nervousness in your voice now, a sense that perhaps this isn’t the great idea you thought it was just seconds ago. It’s like whiplash. This is why you should just focus on music instead.

“No,” Joel says softly, “you’re not.”

His hands, hands you’ve seen both acts of violence and hold your injured face so gently, skim your body. Joel’s hands, like him, are contradictions. He steps minutely closer, a little more into your space and oh so welcome.

He smells like soap and coffee, with the faint hints of autumn you noticed around the cabin and there’s something magic in this Joel Miller. Something in every sense of him, the way he touches you, the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin and sound of his voice that instantly draws you closer, that makes heat pool in your stomach.

He kisses you and you reach for his hands, entwines them together. He stops, concern mounting over his face. “You’re injured, I should have -”

“Doesn’t hurt,” you say softly, drawing him close again.

You’re a mess of hands and lips, a clash of sensations and finally, finally this is happening you think as h guides you further into the cabin. Towards his bedroom.

He guides you past the kitchenette, down the narrow corridor to his room.

You want to drink him in, absorb every detail of his body and commit it to memory.

There’s a ragged scar on his abdomen, a light scattering of stories across his body from other bars, other jobs, other Joels.

There are other details you want to remember though, especially the look in his eyes right now, heavy with desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. You’ve heard the words before in similar settings but it’s been clear to you it’s the lust, it’s the ‘right’ thing to say. You know when isn’t meant, the lack sincerity signalling a paint by the numbers dalliance at best.

Joel’s voice is fervent though. Honest. He means this.

The majority of your clothes are soon discarded, both yours and his in a combined mess on the floor.

Your hands are running through his hair as he guides you onto the bed, as his fingers hover over the edge of your underwear.

He pauses, just for a moment. You wonder if it’s recognition of the line you’re both about to cross, if it’s to give you the space to confirm that yes, you still want him, to offer an out just in case.

You reach for his face, run your hand down his stubbly cheek. You’re trying to sum up your thoughts, to bring everything you want to say together into a neat sentence.

You smile and gently say, “I want you, want this. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t think you’d want me. Been driving myself crazy thinkin’ about you lately.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you show me what you thought about?” you ask.

He smiles as his fingers finally reach beneath your underwear, carefully pulling them down and then gently gliding his finger.

You’re wet, almost embarrassingly so, you think, for just making out.

“This all for me?” He asks with a devilishly teasing tone.

You don’t immediately answer, just smirk as he teases up to your clit and traces circles around it, smiling as you finally make a groan of contentment.

He slides a finger inside you, lazily moving it within you, finding that spot that makes you moan, adding another finger.

You feel close already, but he withdraws his fingers and then, looking at you, brings them to his mouth one at a time in a move that makes your cheeks heat up.

He moves to his bedside drawer, fumbling for a box of condoms you suppose. You’re still lost in catching your breath, in replaying the last few moments, in anticipating what’s about to happen.

He kisses you before positioning himself and you ready yourself for him.

You’re entwined, adjusting yourself for the feel of him, the weight of him. Hands interlocked with his as he finally moves, as he meets your kiss once again.

He adapts quickly, noticing micro=movements or sounds and changing his rhythm to draw every one of them out, to bring you to the edge once more.

You’re both a mess of rushed breaths, a chorus of names and gasps, ebbing and flowing to tease each other apart.

He’s everything and nothing like you expected. Hoped for even.

The feeling builds in your stomach, the rush of pleasure building almost unbearably.

Finally, finally you get your release. The ripples of pleasure ride through your body as the two of you lie together, boneless, catching your breath.

You usually feel a need to say something, to fill a silence, but it’s comfortable. You roll over, daringly placing an arm over Joel’s chest and leaning close. He pulls you towards you, kissing your brow lazily

You can feel his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin.

You feel like you could stay here forever.

Instead though, you’re practical. You excuse yourself to his bathroom to clean up.

You take in your reflection; the telltale signs of your exploits feel so visible to you as you freshen up.

He’s not in bed when you return. You pull your clothes on and head back into the main room of the cabin.

Joel’s wearing his jeans and not much else, humming as he concentrates on something by the stove.

“I promised tea, didn’t I?”

“We did get sidetracked.”

“Well, that was welcome,” Joel says. His voice is so much softer than you’ve heard it in the bar. There’s a vulnerability leaking through with each moment you stay here. It’s two sided, you can feel your own edges softening, a desire to open yourself even more to the man in front of you.

“I agree.”

The kettle boils and you watch Joel making the tea, try and not lose yourself in the broadness of his shoulders.

“So …” you break off, swinging your arms nervously and then wrapping them around yourself.

Joel hands you a steaming mug. “So,” he says. His voice is calm though, relaxed and somehow that helps.

“That wasn’t exactly what I thought was - I didn’t turn up for this specifically, you know? It wasn’t intentional.” Not that intentional.

“Would you have been wearing a trench coat if it was? Seduce me properly?” There’s mischief in his eyes as you meet his gaze.

“That a fantasy or something, Joel?”

He laughs. “Maybe, maybe it is.”

“Okay then. Logging that for another day.”

“Oh really?” Joel’s smile warms his entire face, it softens each feature and it’s something you never want to stop seeing.

It feels like you’ve known him so much longer. You feel comfortable in his house, you feel comfortable around him.

“So we’re opening back up at the weekend,” you say, “Got any plans for this time off?”

“Nope. You?”

You shake your head. “How about that?”

“Hmm, that’s not right. We should do something about that. Let me take you to dinner?”

“Dinner?“

“People still do that, right?”

“Yes, but - I’d love to.”

“Great. I’ll uh, defer to your recommendation, seeing as you know this area more.” It hits you then. Joel doesn’t have roots here and the bar, except for the Rattlers, has improved. What does this town, what do you have to offer?

“Are you going to leave?” you ask suddenly, the anxious thought you’ve tried to suppress bubbling to the surface.

“Leave?”

“When the bar’s open, when there’s no trouble.”

“There’s always some trouble.”

“Don’t. You know what I mean.”

Joel sighs and takes a sip of his drink. “Usually, I would.”

“But this isn’t usual?”

He points his hand at you and adds, “I don’t make a habit of this. I don’t …. Usually, yes I go in and out of places and I don’t stay long.”

Your heart sinks. “I understand,” you lie.

“I think, I think maybe there are some reasons to stick around here though?” It’s a question, not a confirmation. It strikes you then that maybe Joel feels just as exposed as you do.

“I think there could be,” you say.

“Good. I’m glad.“

The bar looks like the Rattlers never came through here. Everything is neat, clean and in its place. There are no broken chairs or tables. It seems almost impossible for how short a time ago it was.

Joel helped, you realise, he helped your cousin bring this place back.

“Are you okay?” she asks, “I can cover the bar if you need -”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure.”

You pause and run your hand over the smooth, clean bar surface. You think of Joel, of the conversations over so many nights about music, about what makes you happy. “Can you still cover the bar for a bit?”

“Sure.” Your cousin pauses and hesitantly puts down the crate of soda bottles. “Is everything -”

“I want to play tonight.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to stop waiting right for the right moment, right? Just do it,” you say.

“And this has nothing to do with a certain bouncer?”

“No,” you say, thinking of the scar on your face, the battles you’ve won and will win in the future. “It’s for me.”

You can feel his eyes on you. It doesn’t make you feel nervous or under a spotlight though as you carefully sit on the stool.

It’s almost as though it’s just the two of you. Another night after work under the stars and messing around with a guitar. Or outside his cabin, thick flannel wrapped around you as you both play.

The bar feels safer somehow. It’s funny considering the recent Rattlers attack. Maybe that’s why - they came in and they tried to wreck the place, you were caught in that crossfire, but you survived. The bar survived. And the locals are back, the locals you wanted back. If you shut your eyes, it almost feels like before when your family ran the place.

It’s different though, because it’s your cousins. Because even though it might not be on paper, it’s yours too. Your legacy. You don’t want to fight it anymore. You don’t want to feel cynical about this town.

You look at Joel and smile and then you start playing.

Everything Pedro tag-list: @harriedandharassed@pedrostories@hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk @pastelnap

#joel miller x reader #no outbreak!joel miller #no outbreak au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #the last of us #tlou fic #the last of us fic #the last of us smut #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel the last of us

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roguegambitweek · 7 months ago

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Rogue/Gambit Week 2024

Hey y’all!

It’s time for what y’all have been waiting for—Rogue/Gambit Week 2024. We’re looking forward to a great week celebrating our favorite Southern couple. Here’s the information you’ll need to participate.

Rogue/Gambit Week 2024 will be held June 16-23, 2024. Yes, that’s right, we plan to have eight days of full of Romy goodness.

Prompts:

Day 1 - Sunday, June 16 - Alternate First Meeting | Robin Hood AU

Day 2 - Monday, June 17 - Roof Top | Steampunk AU

Day 3 - Tuesday, June 18 - MojoWorld | Merfolk AU

Day 4 - Wednesday, June 19 - Rogue and Gambit are physically separated | Fantasy AU

Day 5 - Thursday, June 20 - Legacy as a Concept or Character | Noir AU

Day 6 - Friday, June 21 - Space Adventure | Pirates AU

Day 7 - Saturday, June 22 - Reunion | Power/Role Swap or No Powers AU

Day 8 - Sunday, June 23 - Free day!

Alternate Prompts

Alt 1 - T-shirt Collection

Alt 2 - Hair—Braiding/brushing/cutting/etc.

Alt 3 - Vow Renewal

Rules:

This is a celebration of all things Romy! Your fanworks may cover any point of their relationship—from their early flirtations to their life together as an old married couple, from friendship to lovers.

Rogue and Gambit do not need to be in a romantic relationship (friendship is great too!), but their relationship should be the primary focus.

Feel free to draw inspiration from any medium which they appeared (the comics (any corner of the Multiverse), the animated series (XtAS, WatX, Evo), the movies, etc.)

Please tag your posts #rogue/gambitweek2024 or #rogue/remyweek2024 within the first five(5) tags so they can be easily found and re-blogged on the Rogue/Gambit Week blog. You may also tag our posts @roguegambitweek . (This often makes finding posts easier).

Fanworks are not limited to fanfic, fanart, and fanedits. However you create, that is also a part of what makes a fanworks week successful. Yes, fic, art, and edits are the most common, but I’ve seen amazing fanworks accomplished in other ways. In our fist year a short video was shared concerning what Gambit keeps in his pockets. In another fandom, I’ve seen someone share why a particular musical score reminded them of the couple. I’ve seen people make text conversations between characters focused around that day’s prompt. Handcrafts, music, photography, cosplay, and countless other creative ventures can also be part of a fanworks week. Have fun creating. Please feel free to share your talents and Romy-love with us.

The fanworks you share should be created by you.

Any NSFW content must be placed under a ‘read more’ break, otherwise it will not be re-blogged.

You don’t need to post something for every day/every prompt. Feel free to participate in as many days as you you feel inspired. If you have created something, but are unable to post it on the assigned day, please post it when you can. It will still be re-blogged.

You may combine days (as in cover two or more prompts with the same entry).

‘Regular’ prompts may be set in an AU universe. ‘AU’ prompts could be set in a canon universe. Let your creativity run wild and have fun with the prompts.

Have fun. Try something new. Create something new for an old favorite. Remember, the goal here is to share the Romy love and create more Romy content for all of us to enjoy.

If you have any questions, please feel free to send an ask.

Have fun creating!

#rogue/gambitweek2024 #rogue/remyweek2024 #rogue #gambit #romy #fanworks weeks #fandom appreciate week #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau #fanfic #fanart #xmen #prompts

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deusvervewrites · 26 days ago

Note

Ask Game AU

All Might and All For One kill each other in their first battle, leaving behind no successors to the legacies they’ve cultivated.

The Dawn of Quirks and subsequent era of chaos resulted in near-complete anarchy until All Might emerged. With the governments basically powerless and widespread panic, crime flourished. This resulted in organizations like the MLA and AFO's syndicate. But there was another organization that emerged at this time, the White Court, comprised mostly of people with weaker Quirks looking for mutual protection

While many other organized criminals forged allegiances with All For One, the White Court instead went underground, spying on and manipulating other gangs to weaken opposition and turn profit. This worked out great for the White Court when All Might started dismantling organized crime in Japan as part of his longer-term strategy to cripple AFO's criminal empire.

From the perspective of All Might and All For One, pretty much everything in this AU is canon-compliant up until their fateful battle. All For One died there after having his head caved in. All Might was rushed to the hospital but his wounds were too severe and he succumbed not long after, taking One For All with him.

All Might's death was publicized, which, combined with the sudden power vacuum in the underground, destabilized Japan. Not to the levels of post-Jaku Canon but it's not great. Heroes are retiring, criminals are emboldened, the MLA is siphoning political power from the floundering HPSC. It's rough.

Midoriya Inko is the current White Queen, leader of the White Court. In the decades since its founding, the White Court has ties to most major powers in Japan and a few beyond. The White Court's unmatched prowess in espionage, information, and sabotage has allowed them to subtly direct politics and crime in equal measure. And with the new golden age of organized crime about to start, she's going to have her work cut out for her.

+1. The White Court are the ones who saved Nedzu from experimentation. He subsequently joined the organization and due to his brilliance shot up the ranks. As chief strategist, he is the organization's White Bishop, Inko's right hand man and personal friend.

#asks #ask game #ask game series 22 #white court au

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bvidzsoo · 11 months ago

Text

Love Me Like A Rockstar (1)

ー☆ Chapter 1: The death of peace of mind

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: light cursing ー☆ Word count: 6.9k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hii, first chapter is out, hope you all enjoy it! I hope the lyrics aren't confusing, I went ahead and tried out something new with this story, hopefully it's as enjoyable as I planned it out to be. Please do check the playlist as it'll be updated with each chapter and I also advise you listen to the song before or while reading the chapters, it'll have a different feel. Taglist is open, thank you for showing interest! Please leave feedback and enjoy now!

Taglist: @orshii @lovely-red2 @juicy-red @scarfac3 @sunaswifes-blog

⟨Series M.list ⟩

♫Playlist♫

『I made another mistake

Thought I could change, thought I could make it out』

The rustle of paper, the zipping of a pencil case, the drying scent of freshly used paint, and the oily feeling on your fingertips after using acrylics, the slight burn against your middle finger after having held your pencil tightly for hours were all things I was used to, familiar with. I bit my lower lip as my eyes were stuck to my A5 sketchbook, the paper thick, entranced by the black charcoal forming a way too familiar shape. The outline of the person was dark, shadows creeping around his body, faceless. I didn’t have it in me to put too much detail into his face, my mind kept wandering. I was feeling slightly lost. The weather was getting worse day by day, the sky dark, casting a gloomy feel over our heads. It didn’t help that I haven’t slept well for three days in a row, but perhaps that had something to do with the full moon—or so my mother has said while cooking dinner yesterday.

A sigh left my lips as my fingers itched to trace another line against the paper, to perfect the stray strand of light-colored hair falling against the man’s forehead. My shoulders were hunched over and I only now registered the soreness in my neck and lower back, having been sitting at this stool for almost two hours now. When I was drawing, or painting, time seemed to fly by in a wink, leaving me completely oblivious to everything happening around me. It was a means to calm my mind, to soothe my feelings, and a means to existing without wondering, dwelling, or feeling the dread of not being good enough—and perhaps the worst thought which quite often recurred in my scattered mind was that I didn’t know what I would do with myself once I was done with University. Opening an art club for all the art lovers was a small step in feeling a little accomplishment, however, that would be gone as soon as I was out and away from this place. Who would take over then? Were there students who were interested enough, loved art enough, to continue the little legacy I would leave behind? Those were pressing questions in the back of my mind sometimes, and I knew I was worrying about insignificant things, but they felt very crucial to me. If I could leave a little piece of me behind everywhere I went, nobody would be able to forget me, right?

“Bye, Y/N!” The sudden chirping of my name combined with the greeting finally snapped me out of my thoughts and I looked up, a small smile forming on my lips as I waved at the leaving students. They weren’t my students per se, I was only an Art major, but I did view them as my little apprentices. They were ambitious and determined to learn everything they could, eager to contribute as much as they could. I appreciated their effort and felt glad that people like them existed, it gave me hope in humankind. Not that I had much with everything going on in the world, but I could only appreciate and admire those who found a little kindness in their hearts to share with others.

I finally felt like I was done with my drawing as I sat back, rolling my shoulders back and cracking my neck as the last few students left the room, leaving me alone with the approaching girl with a grin on her face. I turned my head and watched her as she giddily approached me, gripping her sketchbook to her chest.

“Wanna see?” She asked with a chuckle and I nodded with a smile, eyes falling on my best friend’s drawing. I instantly recognized the features of the older woman and I chuckled as I took in the smaller version of my best friend, grinning up at her mother as she held a little flower up to her. She never stopped amazing me with her beautiful creations, and I couldn’t help but clap for her briefly.

“This is gorgeous, Seulgi, I’m in love.” I said as I reached my hand out and lightly traced the leaves of the willow tree in the drawing, making my best friend grin happily. She had her hair down today, her black curls falling around her shoulders. Her hair has gotten long, but she didn’t want to cut it, said she liked it more like this. It did suit her and gave her a younger look; her colorful outfits complementing her personality and overall looks well.

“What did you draw?” She asked and I glanced over at my own drawing, sucking my lower lip between my teeth. I really shouldn’t have drawn him again, but doing so brought me comfort. It always did. Despite the heartbreak he left in his wake, Yunho was a person whom I have deeply loved and found shelter in once—my drawings of him only reflected that. I have anticipated Seulgi’s reaction as I took my sketchbook off from the drafting board, turning it around and letting her eyes rake over it as she sighed, giving me a slightly disappointed look as she placed one hand on her hip. I looked away and quickly closed my sketchbook, getting off the stool. My hips and back protested in pain as I stretched my arms overhead, letting out a groan when my stiff muscles strained and vertebras finally popped.

“I thought we agreed you would stop drawing Yunho…” Seulgi trailed off as she watched me start packing away my things into my dark green backpack. Oh, well, she certainly wasn’t wrong, but I got carried away today—I haven’t even realized I was drawing Yunho until I was done with the outline of his body.

“Uh, yeah,” I muttered slightly embarrassed as Seulgi shook her head and closed her own sketchbook, balancing on one leg as she unzipped her backpack and placed it against her thigh, “But we talked about the feeling of comfort today and a place or person whom makes you feel safe and—I got carried away, sorry.”

Seulgi gave me a sympathetic look as she had forced her sketchbook inside her backpack and lowered her leg, swinging her bag around her shoulders, “And you couldn’t have drawn you—mother? Or teddy bear from third grade?”

Her offhanded question made me chuckle as I looked at her amused, my backpack hanging off my shoulders as I only wore one strap.

“Mom would flip if I drew her and made even the smallest mistake. I’d rather avoid getting scolded about making her eyebrow darker than it actually is.” Seulgi and I shared a look before we both started giggling as I recalled the one and only time I drew my mother, swearing to never do it again as she found every single little detail wrong about her features, pointed them out to me, and then proceeded to ignore me for the next three days. Thinking back on it, it is a quite hilarious memory, but back in that moment she made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, talented enough, making me doubt my skills for a very long time. Until I met Seulgi and she started freaking out about my art, calling me phenomenal.

“Yeah, perhaps drawing your mom wouldn’t be the smartest, but seriously, Y/N, how long has it been?” Seulgi seemed to think for a second as we started for the door, “Five years? You certainly should be over Yunho by now.”

Hearing his name left a sour taste in my mouth even if it shouldn’t have. Despite the passing of years he somehow still made me feel bitter about everything that’s happened between us. I hate that feeling, but I couldn’t get rid of it and it was frustrating.

“I am over him.” I muttered as we left the art studio and I locked the door, making Seulgi hum next to me sounding not too convinced. I sighed and rolled my eyes as I pocketed the key, then we started walking down the empty hallway, headed for the exit.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” Seulgi decided to change the subject as she bounced on the balls of her feet, a huge grin appearing on her lips. I raised my eyebrows at her sudden excitement and thought for a second before I shook my head no. We turned the corner to the left, having arrived in the musical studies department. The hallway was littered with doors on both sides, which were studios for the music majors, private little rooms where they could record and write whatever songs they wanted.

“Cool,” Seulgi grinned and suddenly gripped my hand, her lips falling into a pout, eyes slightly widening. Oh, I knew what was coming next, yet her honey like tone still made me cringe, “Come with me to the Outlaw? Please?”

My eyebrows furrowed hearing the mentioned place. It was famous amongst our university’s students. It was a run down and cheap pub where degenerates gathered to have fun almost every night, drinking their night away, wasting their money and braincells on unimportant things.

“Why would I go there?”

“Because I’m asking?” Seulgi raised an eyebrow, “And because the Noir Zenith are playing tonight and I really want to go—”

“What is a Noir Zenith?” I asked confused, making Seulgi’s eyes widen to the point of bulging out. She looked funny as she let go of my hand and gasped as if I had sworn out her mother or someone she really cared about.

“It’s the coolest band from our university! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of them?” She asked outraged making me laugh, “I’m speechless.”

“Well, you know I don’t waste my time by drinking my sorrows away in a shitty pub surrounded by even shittier people who try to chase fame with scratchy and awful voices. Is the band made up by some music major students?”

“They do not have scratchy and awful voices, Y/N!” Seulgi looked outraged by this point, making me raise my eyebrows in surprise, “God, they are one of the best bands to ever exist—”

“Yeah, right,” I rolled my eyes as we entered the main hall of our university, “Go on and disregard all of the previous phenomenal bands to ever exist, nice one, Seulgi—wait, is this about Wooyoung? Didn’t you say he’s part of a band as well?”

At the mention of said boy all anger and incredulity disappeared from Seulgi’s face and she shrunk back, hiding her face behind her hair, “Yeah, he’s actually a vocalist of the band. Noir Zenith.”

“Oh,” Was all I could say as I watched her push her hair behind her ears, face almost as red as a tomato. I tried not to laugh at my best friend, her crush on the boy painfully obvious, “And I assume you want to go watch them perform tonight?”

Seulgi nodded wordlessly as she pushed open the double doors for us, “At Outlaw?”

She nodded again and I hummed, raking my brain for any plans I had made for tonight, but I found none. I had zero excuses to refuse Seulgi for so I glanced at her as we ascended the few stairs, licking my lips as I dwelled on the idea of being seen at such place. I mean, it couldn’t be that bad, right? After all, it was just a band singing from our university and I would be out of there the second they were done. That sounded pretty reasonable and alright to me, so I hummed, and smiled at Seulgi.

“What time?” Her eyes widened as she whipped her head towards me as we were headed to the bus station.

“Oh, my God!” She shrieked and flung herself at me, almost throwing us off balance, “You’re the best, I love you! Seven, you should be ready at six thirty, and I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive there together—oh, my God, I’m so excited! Wooyoung said they’ll be performing their newest song and he said it’s so fire! Mingi wrote the lyrics, and Wooyoung helped with the chorus, he actually showed me a snippet—do not tell Mingi that—and it was so good, oh, my God—I’m rambling, sorry, but you said yes and I just—”

Seulgi cut herself off with a shriek as she let go of me, leaving me partially deaf as her shrill voice rang through my right ear, making me wince. Of course, I wouldn’t tell Mingi, whoever that was.

“Alright, I’ll be done by six thirty.” I muttered as Seulgi skipped ahead, sitting on the bench by the bus stop, grinning from ear to ear as she took her phone out of her pocket, starting to type furiously. She was probably texting Wooyoung, but I couldn’t be too sure, they had periods when they would talk all day and night, and then periods when they would go radio silent for a week or so. Their relationship was interesting but Seulgi never talked too much about it, having once muttered that if she thought about Wooyoung for too long she’d fall for him—or something like that, I couldn’t be sure, Seulgi says a lot of things which she only half-heartedly means.

『Promises break, need to hear you say

"You're gonna keep it now"』

The pub was exactly like in the stories of others, and an exact replica of what I had in my mind. Which was bad, so being right here only made it worse as I allowed my eyes to travel to the ceiling, noticing all the uncovered pipes traveling above our heads. The lights were dim and there was almost like a light fog in the air, thankfully there weren’t any foul smells, like cigarettes or something else. The room was spacious, which was the only alright thing I could find about this place, as the walls were made of burgundy brick, a few falling out here and there. The dark wood floor seemed to be rotten in some places and I could only hiss as the front of my boots caught in an uneven plank, sending me slightly forward. Seulgi threw me an amused look before continuing her trot towards—I didn’t know where, but I decided to follow her blindly as I really wasn’t vibing with this place. Posters hung from the brick wall here and there and some graffiti covered it where the bar was. Chairs and tables were littered around the room, all looking quite old in age as I noticed one chair missing a leg, chuckling at the idea of someone toppling over once sitting on it. Seulgi gasped quite loudly and stopped walking for a second, making me crash into her back and throw her an unamused look as she swiftly turned around, lips pressed together and hands cupping her cheeks.

“Do I look alright, Y/N?” She blurted out, eyebrows furrowing, “Or am I too much? Do you think—did I totally miss the vibes with this outfit? I look ridiculous right now, don’t I—”

“No, Seulgi, you don’t.” I decided to cut off my best friend’s panicked rambling, placing my hands on her shoulders. I allowed my eyes to take in her outfit again and I smirked at her as we made eye contact. She was wearing black nylon bomber pants paired with fishnets which were peeking out above the waistband of her pants, her white crop top stopping at the middle of her torso. A black bomber jacket was thrown around her shoulders, matching her pants, and her white boots reached just underneath her knees. She had straightened her long hair and I helped her by making a smokey eye for her, accentuating the depth of her beautiful eyes, sharpening her stare. She looked absolutely gorgeous and I needed her to stop second guessing her outfit, “You look fucking hot and anyone in their right mind would want to devour you right now.”

“You included?” Seulgi flirted cheekily and I pretended to gag as I pushed her playfully away by her arms, making Seulgi laugh as she pushed her hair behind her shoulders, “Alright, I believe you.”

“Very well.” I grinned and allowed her to grip my elbow as the crowd was slightly denser here as we made our way towards the front of the room, headed to where the small stage was. I could see a drum set up on the dark stage, and suddenly I was veered to the left, almost getting whiplash by the force Seulgi pulled me after herself. I took in the people around me and decided that I definitely wasn’t part of this crowd, and it was showing. One, I was painfully sober and they weren’t; two, I certainly missed the point of this being a pub dominated by rock lovers, and my outfit had nothing to do with it. Against my better judgement, I have decided to wear a tight black skirt which barely reached the middle of my thighs, paired with high heel boots which reached my knees. A white tank top peeked through the burgundy long sleeved blouse I wore over it, having discarded my leather jacket in Seulgi’s car out of fear of losing it. All in all, the outfit was awesome, it’s just that it didn’t really match with the place in question I was at. I was slowly starting to regret coming here as we finally stopped walking and Seulgi’s hand, which brought comfort, disappeared from my elbow. I suddenly became aware that we have stopped by a table, and my best friend’s arms were around a guy’s shoulder as the two hugged each other—rather tightly, might I add. I allowed my eyes to fall on the guy and realized, only because Seulgi had shown me countless pictures of him, that it was Wooyoung. The only reason we were here, her crush. I tried to hide my snickering as they pulled away from each other and I have noticed Seulgi’s flushed cheeks, which was probably wise as Seulgi’s eyes were instantly on me, holding a warning in them.

“This is Y/N, my best friend.” She said sweetly as she lightly pushed Wooyoung towards me, “Y/N, this is Wooyoung the—vocalist and guitarist of Noir Zenith.”

“Cool name.” I muttered half-heartedly as Wooyoung extended his hand to shake, I was only speaking because I had to say something if I didn’t want to come off rude. A huge smile broke onto Wooyoung’s face at the praise of his band’s name and he eagerly shook my hand, making me force a smile onto my face when he held my hand for an unnecessary long time. The guy was just around my height and seemed to be buzzing with energy as he tapped his foot against the ground, sneaking glances towards Seulgi before finally facing her. His jawline was sharp and nose high as I took in his profile, his pretty eyes focused on my best friend. His hair was longer at the back and had two colors, black and blonde, it certainly didn’t look bad on him. He seemed to be the only one, besides myself, not dressed fitting for the place, and suddenly I didn’t feel as singled out as I had been moments prior, thankful for the light grey extremely baggy jeans littered with glitter he was wearing and for the grey and black faded out loose shirt hiding his frame. The front was slightly tucked in and a maroon belt held his pants to his hips, matching the color of his sneakers. The guy wore a few earrings and I just heard Seulgi complimenting them, making me chuckle. I knew she wanted to talk to him, so I didn’t bother them and instead looked around again, feeling slightly awkward, before I rested my gaze on the other two sitting at the table.

One guy was looking down at his phone, completely immersed by it as his long fingers were typing quickly, his wavy black hair falling into his eyes. He wore a very intricate white shirt, the material seemed to part at his shoulders and only covered his upper arm, cuffed and puffed out at his wrists, leaving the rest of his arms bare. A black corset like looking fabric was wrapped around his torso, stopping right below his chest and everything was neatly tucked inside black dress pants, an expensive silver chain hanging under the neckline of his shirt. The outfit was something I would’ve never thought of putting together, yet, it looked fabulous on the man and for a few seconds I found myself gawking at him. But I quickly caught myself and looked away awkwardly, hoping that nobody noticed my staring, instead, I found myself looking at the third guy, taking him in. His demeanor screamed confidence as he wore a smirk on his cherry red plush lips, jawline visibly sharp as his head was turned to the side, his nose tall and long. His tan skin glistened underneath the shitty lights of the pub, yet you were able to spot a few covered up blemishes around his jaw. His neck was heavily decorated with silver chains of various dimensions, a shinning silver pick dangling lower on his exposed chest as his black tank top was low cut and form fitting. The guy had a big midnight blue jacket over his frame and it had an interesting design, his jeans ripped at the knee and black like his tank top. Silver chain like bracelets wrapped around his wrists and I found my eyes drawn to his hands as he was pushing his glass from one hand to the other, fingers littered with smaller and bigger rings, the one with a red gem catching my eye. His nails seemed to have dirt scribbled over them, that is, until I looked harder and realized it was chapped black nail polish. I couldn’t deny how nice this guy looked and as I looked back up at his face, I found him looking back at me. My heart somersaulted but I played it off—hopefully my face really didn’t show any emotion—as I steeled my gaze and allowed blankness to settle over my features. His black hair was shorter and fell over his eyes, covering his forehead. The guy’s eyes were sharp and his gaze intimidating as his face remained unexpressive, features cold as he seized me up, suddenly the smirk back on his face. My eyes narrowed as the guy continued watching me smugly, and I just noticed the little something which looked like a smudge of something on his right cheekbone. Did he smudge dirt on it? Was he even aware that it was there? The possibility of him not knowing his perfect face was tainted brought a smirk on my lips and an eyebrow of the guy’s flew up, his gaze almost challenging as our stare down was abruptly stopped by a chair scraping backwards. My gaze went back to the very handsome man and I was surprised by the friendly gaze sent my way.

His features were soft yet sharp at the same time, his eyes big and warm as his lips were plump and looked soft. His skin was tan too and the highlighter reflected off his cheekbones, giving him an ethereal feel. There was a small piercing in his nose and I was slightly alarmed as he suddenly walked around the table, approaching my side. My body tensed and I glanced towards Seulgi, who was deep in conversation with Wooyoung. I assume these three must be friends since they were sitting at the same table.

“I’m Seonghwa, Wooyoung’s friend.” The guy finally spoke up, his voice was definitely softer than I expected it to be, and I reluctantly shook his extended hand.

“My name is Y/N.” I answered politely and retracted my hand from his as fast as I could. Seonghwa continued smiling as he looked towards Seulgi and his own friend, “Oh, uhm, I’m Seulgi’s best friend.”

“I figured,” He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. The aura this outfit gave him certainly didn’t match his current attitude, “Wooyoung mentioned Seulgi coming by and bringing her friend, it’s nice meeting you.”

“Oh, you too.” I offered him a lopsided grin and clasped my hands together in front of myself, Seonghwa’s demeanor not as off putting as most guy’s—or like the other guy’s who just stood up from the table and started approaching us. I watched him, eyes falling on him involuntarily as there was something about him which demanded attention as he came awfully close to Seonghwa and I, towering over the both of us. Seonghwa was a tall guy too, but this third guy’s height seemed to loom even over him, but I didn’t let that affect me in any way as I looked up at him with a bored expression.

“Found another little fan of ours?” I gulped at the hear of his voice, which somehow matched his face, it was deep and slightly raspy, however, the tone he used rubbed me the wrong way. My eyes narrowed at him and before Seonghwa could answer him, I fired an answer his way.

“A fan of yours?” I chuckled drily, “You certainly can’t be as self-centered as to think every female around a mile radius would instantly throw themselves at you, no?”

A beat of silence followed before Seonghwa started snickering, hiding his mouth by his hand as the other guy’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t look pleased by my question and he leaned down to be at the same height as me, gaze boring into mine. When his face was blank, his eyes seemed to get sharper and it somehow made my heartbeat pick up, but I ignored it. It was just the adrenaline, the annoyance, probably which threatened to seep through my bloodstream sooner than later.

“And who are you again?” The guy’s voice was quieter, dropped lower as he tried to belittle me with his stupid question, but I just rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Don’t think I introduced myself to you before,” I snapped and the guy clicked his tongue, “Who are you, first of all?”

“You don’t know who I am?” His eyebrows suddenly furrowed as confusion washed over his face and for a second—but just that one little second—I thought the guy looked cute as his features softened.

“No, I don’t.” Him lowering himself allowed me to see whatever that was on his cheekbone better, and I could make out that it was some sort of logo, however, I have never seen it before, “And you have some dirt on your face.”

I pointed at my own cheekbone and Seonghwa’s sudden loud laughter alerted Seulgi and Wooyoung as they finally seemed to realize there were others around them, especially me, as Seulgi quickly stepped close and gripped my shoulder.

“That’s not dirt!” The man exclaimed and for someone with such a deep voice, his tone went incredibly high, “That’s my signature, bro.”

“Okay, bro, you’re self-centered, like I said—” Before I could really go off on this guy Seulgi gasped and laughed loudly, awkwardly, as I threw her a small glare.

“Aren’t you two hitting it off right the bat?!” She tried to diffuse the tension as Wooyoung chuckled, amused by the situation as Seonghwa was grinning too, “Y/N, this is Song Mingi, the bass player, singer, producer, lyricist, founder of Noir Zenith—be nice.”

The last part was only whispered to me and my eyebrows furrowed as I looked back at this guy, Mingi, who stood back up straight and threw a glare my way as I scoffed, shrugging my shoulders, “What a waste of talent on such personality.”

Seulgi’s eyes widened to saucers as Wooyoung inhaled loudly before breaking out into an ear-piercing laughter, making me wince, while Seonghwa had to cover his mouth again as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Y/N—that’s—” Seulgi stammered but I hushed her and smirked up at Mingi as he seemed lost for words for a second before his eyes hardened and he pulled his shoulders back, jaw clenching.

“What are you doing here if you don’t even fucking care about our band?” He hissed and for a second the viciousness in his tone took me off guard, but I didn’t let it show as I wrapped my arm around Seulgi’s shoulder and pulled her into my side. She looked mortified and tried speaking again, but I beat her to it—to my pleasure.

“My lovely friend, Seulgi, dragged me here because her and Wooyoung are friends, happy?” I felt Seulgi slightly relax in my grip, but she still subtly poked my side harshly, making me bite my lower lip to keep the groan of pain inside. Wooyoung had stopped laughing, thankfully, and was looking very amused as he punched Mingi’s arm weakly.

“I think you got a little bit humbled, dude.” He whispered loudly—probably on purpose—and Seonghwa giggled again as he quickly adjusted the front pieces of his hair.

“Why would anyone who doesn’t even listen to us come here?” Mingi muttered more to himself as he turned around and sauntered off towards the bar, throwing a glare every so often my way, making me giggle as I found it amusing. Poor dude, couldn’t handle a little humbling, but he definitely needs it.

“Y/N is a little bit—of a bitch—ow!” Seulgi hissed as she rubbed the spot on her arm where I had punched her, “You didn’t let me finish! She’s a bitch, but she’s my bestie and she doesn’t mean harm. I’m sure you guys will charm her by the end of the night.”

Charm me my ass. Maybe Seonghwa and Wooyoung, Mingi not—for sure. Not now or ever. Not that there will be another time and another chance for him to do so.

『It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

You're in the walls that I made with crosses and frames hanging upside down』

The music coming through the speakers shook the little pub as I sat at the table the three boys have claimed as theirs earlier. Seulgi was by my side, but she was standing up, and she was jumping to the beat, somehow knowing the lyrics to the band’s newest song. I had a feeling Wooyoung had shown her already everything, but she did ask me not to tell Mingi—to whom now I could associate a face—and I had no desire to speak to him ever again, so she really had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t help but admit that they were good—not that I would ever say that out loud, especially not to Mingi—as the rock music blasted from the stage, purple and white lights illuminating the boys. Mingi stood in the center as he gripped his microphone, face scrunched up and the veins on his neck straining as his raspy voice involuntarily covered my skin in goosebumps.

『For granted, in vain, I took everything I ever cared about』

My fingers were tapping the rhythm of song, chin placed on my palm as I rested my hand on the table, watching each boy with curiosity. They all seemed to have different personalities and styles, yet up on the stage, they blended together and they worked well. Their voices complimented each other, where’s Mingi’s was raspy and low and harsh, Seonghwa’s seemed to be lighter and raspier, but then Wooyoung would jump in and his was powerful and high, and yet it still felt like a soft caress of a whisper at times. Their outfits, despite being so different, also made them look exquisite and gave the band a special and unique touch. As I glanced around I noticed how taken everyone seemed by their music, hanging onto every note they played as Seonghwa played the drums at the left side of the stage and Wooyoung the guitar to Mingi’s right.

『I miss the way you say my name

The way you bend, the way you break』

Mingi was gripping his microphone as his eyes were closed and nose scrunched up, eyebrows furrowing as the words slipped through his lips smoothly, his raspy voice soft and tender, like a steady but soft caress of your cheek, the light flutter of your eyelashes as if he was right by your side, whispering the words to you, trying to seduce you.

『Your makeup running down your face

The way you fuck, the way you taste』

Suddenly his eyes flew open and he looked out onto the crowd, locking his gaze with mine. I was about to grab the glass of water and take a sip, but I froze as a smirk slipped onto his lips, mixing in with his voice and very obviously making him sound smug. My jaw clenched just as the people, especially the girls in the front row, started cheering loudly, enjoying Noir Zenith’s performance. I tried to convince myself that I was just imagining things, but I could’ve sworn Mingi’s gaze remained on me and only me, singing the words from deep withing his chest, all kinds of emotions and feelings plastered over his face as he took his microphone out of its stand and started walking around the stage, crouching down and pointing at the girls close to the stage.

『When the curtains call the time, will we both go home alive?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

When the curtains call the time, will we both be satisfied?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind』

They played two more songs after their newest, the crowd going wild as they sang along and I could feel all those unslept nights catching up as my eyes threatened to shut closed at any given time. Seulgi noticed and grew concerned, but I reassured her that I was only tired and would head soon home if she didn’t mind. She insisted I wait at least until the boys finish their performance in order to not be seen rude as I have, probably, already offended them. Not that I would mind, even though Mingi is the only one who actually deserves it.

Once they got off the stage everyone was swarming around them, congratulating them and offering them drinks, and I watched as Seonghwa kindly turned down all of them, meanwhile Mingi carelessly accepted almost all as Wooyoung was pushing his way through the crowd, eager to get back to the table. His cheeks were flushed by the time he reached us and Seulgi sprung onto her feet and went to hug Wooyoung but suddenly paused, looking awkwardly at her feet, until Wooyoung went and pulled her into his embrace instead. Seulgi’s face lit up and she started animatedly talking, but I couldn’t hear as the crowd was loud. Seonghwa seemed to be nowhere as Mingi managed to make his way through the crowd and now was grinning smugly at me, one eyebrow crooked as I rolled my eyes, still not impressed at all by him. He said nothing as he sat down next to me and took a sip of his drink, eyes falling on me. I could see him staring at me from the corner of my eyes, but I ignored him, and instead reached for Seulgi’s jacket to get her car keys so that I could fetch my jacket before leaving. As I felt around her pocket I became aware of two people towering over me as they had stopped behind my chair. I turned my head around and raised my eyebrows at the two girls as they were giggling, waiting for Mingi to notice them. And when he did, that irritating smirk was back on his lips and he greeted the girls with a wide smile, biting his lower lip as they started praising him.

“Mingi you are so cool!” The brunette exclaimed, grinning at him, “I swear to God, this new outfit concept is so hot on you.”

If I could, I would’ve died from the second-hand embarrassment these two girls were giving me, but instead, I decided to stay just a for a little bit longer and see what nonsense they manage to sputter so that I can use it against Mingi later.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you singing so passionately like tonight, Mingi, the new song is so good I’m already obsessed with it.” The blonde chimed in fast, throwing a slight glare towards the brunette. I guess the friendship between them flies out the window the second they step closer to a relatively attractive male—not that Mingi is attractive or good looking.

“Ah, you two…you always know how to flatter me.” I possibly have thrown up a little bit in my mouth because of Mingi’s sultry voice and narrowed eyes—he partially looked like he was about to pass out and partially like he would inhale one of the girls, if not both.

“You so deserve it, Mingi!” The blonde quickly exclaimed and placed a hand on his bicep, “Who is your new song about?”

My breathing faltered for a second as Mingi glanced my way, but then I threw him a glare and rolled my eyes, realizing this was our first time meeting. Why did I even think for a little second that the song could’ve been about me? That sounded crazy, and now I felt crazy as I shook my head and downed the glass of water I have abandoned like half an hour ago.

“Someone who won’t leave your mind and makes you want to crawl up the wall, thoughts filled with them, desiring them like no one else before.” Mingi’s voice dropped a few octaves and I couldn’t help but look over as I smirked, abruptly standing up.

“Oh, girls, not to disappoint but he’s said that to like—three other girls before you two, and I don’t think that’s entirely what the song is about. Or maybe Seonghwa was talking about another song…” In fact, I have lied. Mingi hasn’t talked to anyone since he sat down to the table, but the lie was worth it, because the girls expressions dropped slightly, “You know men are usually more desperate to get laid than women, I suppose it makes them say all kinds of things, doesn’t it, Mingi?”

Mingi’s jaw clenched as the two girls looked unsure as they looked back at him, and he chose to laugh it off as if I have said the funniest joke on Earth, leaning slightly forward as he looked up at me, “I suppose someone wasn’t really paying attention tonight to our performance.”

“Right,” I hummed and stepped around my chair, “I prefer listening to real bands and good music, not to some wannabes wailing to a crowd of drunken and high as fuck university students—have a lovely night!”

I only caught the irritated huff of air Mingi let out as I headed towards the bar, where Seulgi and Wooyoung were talking to some people I didn’t know. I didn’t want to disturb them for long, but I had to tell Seulgi I was leaving and would get my jacket before going home.

『You come and go in waves

Leaving me in your wake』

By the time I have gotten home it was very late and despite my body feeling tired, my brain was relentlessly swirling with thoughts and replaying tonight’s happenings, so after fifteen minutes of laying in bed and staring up at the dark ceiling I realized sleep wouldn’t come easy neither tonight. I sat up and turned on the lamp on my bedside table and grabbed my smaller and thicker sketchbook, flipping it open to an empty page. I sighed as I grabbed a pencil and pressed it against the paper softly, letting my wrist curve whichever way it wanted as I started doodling, humming to myself a melody which sounded slightly foreign yet somehow familiar. I knew I have heard it before, probably recently, but I couldn’t figure out just which song it was.

『You come and go in waves

Swallowing everything』

It didn’t take me long to have the outline of something, which was starting to look an awful lot like eyes staring back at me, and I continued tracing lines and shading in the spots where depth needed to be added. I licked my lips and narrowed my eyes as I pressed the pencil harder against the paper, tightening the frail lines and finalizing the quick drawing of the eyes. I extended my arm and stared at the eyes, which almost felt like they were glaring at me by how sharp its stare was, and my eyebrows furrowed as I realized the eyes looked nothing like Yunho’s. I couldn’t remember the last time when I drew anyone else that wasn’t Yunho and for some reason that scared me as my eyes bore into my drawing, my humming coming to an abrupt stop when I realized who’s song it was. Noir Zenith. And the drawing, the sharp and glaring eyes, were of Song Mingi’s. I gasped and without a second thought started scrawling at the drawing, heart racing and mind an awfully lot quiet. What was I thinking singing his song and drawing his eyes? But there it was, the answer, I wasn’t thinking. And I was sleep deprived. I needed to sleep, like right now. I threw my sketchbook to the floor and jumped back underneath my blanket, pulling it over my head as I screwed my eyes shut. Sleep, I must.

『Are you satisfied?

Love's the death of peace of mind

Mine

Mine』

❱❱ Next chapter

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spnmoosejerk · 4 months ago

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Throwback to Casey’s 3rd birthday

@walkingdeadlightsimmer

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queenofcandynsoda · 6 months ago

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A part about combining that Dad For One and Inko Shimura AUs is that it means that All For One was able to track down Inko, like he had done with Kotaro, and managed to marry and have a kid her while taking in her other grandson as a very petty way towards ruining Nana's legacy

#all for one #dad for one #dad for one au #inko midoriya #izuku midoriya #mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #inko shimura au #hisashi midoriya #all for one is hisashi #tenko shimura #tomura shigaraki

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dimepdf · 1 year ago

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★ 𝐈𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒, 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. your small town was known to those who carried money in their pockets, especially attention-grabbing men like Miguel, who needed a place to stay in town for the night. luckily, your hostel-owning cousin is willing to make just the perfect bargain for the traveler.

─── ☆ notes. oh brother here we go again. | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 4k (30 minute read)

THE POPULATED TOWN of Edgewater was a place you called home. It was strange when it came to its fair share of travelers, from coin-hungry merchants to empty welding warriors and the cobbled roads that stretched from land to the seashore.

Edgewater was known for its lively community, always something happening from dusk till dawn, the moon only encouraging those of the night to linger on.

Most would call it anarchy. You would call it a pisspot full of people who didn't know what else to do with their lives, so all they could do was drink.

Your uncle, who had owned one of the town's most sought-after local love hostels, catered to the sleazy travelers that would stumble their way into the heart of the town with more coin than they knew what to do with, calling the grotty drunken things that would come through looking for an easy way to settle their darkest desire good for business.

Your uncle, who wasn't actually your uncle but had been the closest thing you unfortunately considered family since the day you could first remember, had always been guided towards the promise of good wealth. He was a grimy older man you had been stuck with since he had first adopted you after your mother's unfortunate passing. She had been one of his workers who had collected more debt than the men she would have ever bedded combined.

Debt that had been carried on down like a tragic legacy, leaving you shackled as the one and only handmaiden forced to clean whatever was leftover from the men you would envy as they had the ability to actually leave. Your forced imprisonment was the main reason why you would snide at every man that would struggle through the front door, drunk fools with not enough coins in their pockets to pay for rent or take care of their families back at home, yet just enough to come to your uncle's love hotel and buy off one of the mistresses to give them a temporary good time.

You thought them to be all the same, balding drunks running away from their lives off with some mistress that falsely tolerated the disappointment that they used to think with between their legs for the coins in their pockets. You couldn't blame them for their jobs. In fact, you preferred to be the one scrubbing the aftermath, then bed with some of the toothless, grimy slobs considered customers your uncle would welcome as if they were his old friends.

You would even consider the fact of having some sort of liking for your job. Being considered a lowly maid came with its rare but useful perks. Other than not being a lady of the night because you were too busy wiping the stained cum from sheets, you were allowed to dawn more comfy drapes, allowed to eat whatever you pleased without your uncle chastising you about your weight since your body wasn't his to display, and lastly, the best part of it all: the eavesdropping.

The town was big with gossip, word to mouth was how normally word would spread throughout businesses and homes faster than the ink would dry from the papers being passed out. Since you were the only real task hand in the love hostile most upkeep jobs besides cleaning were included in your wages. During afternoon runs through the market, you oh so loved to keep an ear out for bickering couples, big-mouthed children, or even merchants that would slip their tongues of secrets.

Said way was also how you caught word of an interesting wanderer that had stepped foot on the town's soil. With whispers of a dark-skinned, broadening warrior that stood out from the rest, hipping an iron sword and battle scars, you heard word that he was merking somewhere around for a place to rest for the day, along with some supply trading.

Your brow almost raises at the mention of places to stay the night. Edgewater was a place where you could murder someone and then sell the clothes off their back for a nice dime, not necessarily the place you could go trusting just about anyone to stay the night, especially if you were lugging around the type of gear the merchants already had as big as the target on your back as this guy did.

This is why you were surprised later in the night to see two men ram their way through the front door of the building. You were working on sweeping some of the dust from the wooden floorboards near the entrance, almost flinching out of your own skin as the doors slammed open. You quickly collected yourself, holding back from muttering something rude under your breath instead of turning to greet the guest.

An older man, who you had assumed to be the cause of the door hinges being in their last life, stumbled in and almost slumped over if it weren't for the man beside him carrying his drunken dead weight as he rambled on and on to the other man he leaned against about how great this hostile was for the eye candy and how he whiffed on and on about how he could get them both discounted personal rooms just to prove his point. The other man made you halt in greeting, almost choking on your words as you took in his appearance.

You were starting to understand how he had managed to grab the town's attention now that you were able to see him with your own eyes. He was a much taller man compared to the other, you only assumed he'd be taller in his own height if it weren't for his hunched structure, practically lugging a grown man on his left shoulder. He had been a fit fighter for the warrior description, with his broadened shoulder and the peak of muscles from his sleeve being yanked up as the dark curtain of hair that shields most of his face from where you stood. Though his clothes were tatted and worn-looking, on his hip was sheathed a sword.

His presence alone would suffocate you alone if it weren't for the awkward situation of him babysitting some bubbling idiot. It only took seconds for your uncle to come budging in, greeting the two and settling them into separate rooms. He had managed to even squeeze a little more coin out of the newcomer, your uncle offering him a place for the entire night since he heard he had nowhere to stay "out of the kindness of his heart." You almost snorted at his fancy act of knocking up the prices and throwing in packages that didn't exist to the poor mystery tourist.

Since the unnamed stranger's arrival, the powder room has erupted into a fit of frenzy. You hadn't seen this many of the women chatter about being excited and happy since a few years back when a strangler of men came back to town with their hunt earnings and decided to make the poor decision of blowing all their newly earned money in one night.

It was sad to say that the excitement would slowly die out more and more as the night progressed. Even though who you considered the most stunning women to come back with pouty faces and empty pockets cussing the new handsome-faced fellow's name under their breaths, the man had managed to do his rounds of rejecting just about every working lady in the hostile, much to your uncle's dismay, who at first just waved his dismissal off as him being just being another picky man with a type.

Your uncle wanted to charge him for more than just the bed he had offered him, yet no matter how many times he would send a new girl to his doorstep, the man had gotten to the point of annoyance where he wouldn't even bother to have the courtesy of not slamming the door closed in their face before they could utter a word. Unfortunately, due to their demise for failed flirting, you were the very last option at your uncle's attempt at ringing money out of the warrior's pockets. You put up a quiet fight, making every excuse under the sun until your uncle flat out struck you across the face and spat that he would threaten to stop giving you pay and instead add the wages you've collected to the long list of debts you were trying to pay off.

The threat was enough to have you taking your sweet old time, shuffling your feet against the floorboards, making your way down to the stranger's door, your hands tracing over the soft throb of the cut he had lifted, marked in a scratch from the backhand of one of his rings. You hadn't even bothered changing out of the clothes you had been working in all day. Instead of protesting with what was left of your pride in your hands, you held some spare straw pillows that your uncle gave you to use as some sort of excuse to coax you into at least opening the door.

You lightly tapped your knuckle against the wood for a moment before you knocked once more with just a bit more force, "Excuse me, sir." You hadn't even finished your sentence before the door creaked wide open.

By the slight raise of his brow, you guessed that he too wasn't expecting to see that you were the one behind the intrusion. Your words shriveled down your throat at the towering sight of him. Now standing tall in his full glory, his height almost reached up to the top of the door if he hadn't been using the frame to slouch against, very shirtless.

You took a step back out of instinct, taking in his muscled torso, bared with scars and marks you could only imagine the battle he earned them from. In Between the distance that parted you two was another beat of silence, his as he stared down at you, his features now plastered with what you could only assume was boredom as you gaped up at him, your mouth parting like you were some type of fish as your brain struggled to form the words you wanted to come from your throat.

"Uh, sorry, just—would you mind if I….offered company?" Your voice trembled as you couldn't make the request sound more awkward, forcing the strength surging through your veins to hold you upright as his eyes shamelessly traveled down your body as if you were some sort of prey ready to get swallowed up.

"And what company would you ever have to possibly offer me?" An annoyed grimace soon followed as he spoke, making it difficult for you to even process if the question was supposed to be insulting.

"I offer an exchange. You take these pillows and let me hide out in your room—at least until you leave, so my uncle stays off both of our backs." In the offer, you lifted the pillows towards him, watching as he scanned them with the same expression of boredom as if you were offering him vegetable soup.

"I should mention that if you do not accept, my uncle will be more furious with me than you." Clarifying the stakes you were taking, the beast of a man gave your face a once-over, his expression softening to something that you could only guess was a pity as a sigh parted his lips, gesturing you inside with a careless limp wave. He had not bothered moving over, only raising his arm to let you walk under and into the room before closing the door and making his way to the bed.

You could only watch, standing close to the other corner of the room, as he slouched, sitting against the headboard almost too comfortably against the creaking wooden mattress to what you assume he continued his interrupted task of sharpening his sword.

The room, besides the moonlight that leaked onto the floor from the open curtains. Had the room been poorly lit, a light orange from the oil lamp that sat on the crate-made nightstand illuminated the man's figure and sword dangerously. The light kissed his muscles and tanned auburn features, basking in the handsome aura that he was intertwined with, reminding you of the portraits you would see strung up in royal galleries of oil-painted men ascending from the parted clouds.

Your staring had not gone unnoticed. The man's dark eyes flitted over to you, gazing upon all the scabbed, light scars that riddled up from his torso to his face as if they were tattoos. "Could you at least give me your name before undressing me so unkindly with your perverted eyes?" he offered out another vague-sounding insult, dipping his sword back into its sleeve as he reverted his attention to you. The raising of his thick brow was the demise of any offense you could have possibly reacted with. You spoke your name softly, almost as if you were in the blink of forgetfulness, falling under whatever spell came with him bearing his charming canines.

"And I, Miguel," he returned, easing back his shoulders slightly, bowing his head, and reaching his arms out for you in a small polite greeting, which you could only assume to be considered manners outside of your town. Your steps were skittish, pausing for a moment before your legs processed the placement that you stood away from had to be closed for you to shake his hand. You had practically wisped across the room with the light of your feet as your hand ghosted close to his.

He took the first step in closing the distance, reaching for your hand and pressing the back of your palm against his lips. To say that the gestures had not stirred something inside of you would be a deep lie as you caught your eyes following his mouth. Your hand flinched under his gentle hold, molding against the callus of his fingers before you had even realized it. Your fingers brushed up against the scar that stretched against the end of his brow.

Miguel yanked back in a wince as your breath hitched, his brows knitted together, and a large hand fisted around the bend of your wrist, yet his hard stare never left the same mouth your fingers had just rudely traced over. "Just what is going on in that perverted mind of yours?" His tone held a strong accent that made every word sound condescending yet more gentle than the last time he spoke, his grasp planting you just beside the bed between his legs.

You wanted to call him out on his insulting accusation. If it had been any other man on the street, you probably would've given him an earful by now, yet there was just something so alluring about Miguel that left the bend of your knees threatening to wobble as he glanced up at you with his dark, intimidating eyes. "I bet you're not even going to apologize. How rude."

Your own lips parted in hopes of a response, yet shut quickly as his hand interpreted you once more, guiding your hand by the hold on your wrist back to his face and letting your palm rest against the curve of his cheek. Your fingers dance against all the small scabs and smudges he had yet to clean from his face, almost as if he were caressing himself with your own hand. You didn't bother pulling away, letting his warmth dance under your palm at his grasp. Your thumb graced under the most prominent scar caught close to the side of his lip, tracing the mark and pausing at just the underside of his mouth.

The very inmate exchange had opened a portal of doors for your hands to explore the curious marks on his body, from dark specks of moles scattered against his brown skin as if they were constellations to the ugly scabs dug on top of his abs from wounds that healed over from his troubled past. Spread against his skin were stories and experiences, all of which you could never imagine from the bubble of your small rural village.

Miguel let your curious fingers wander on their own, the palms of his hands coaxing around your hips and guiding you into his lap. Not once did you break contact with the light gleam in his dark eyes, not even when you realized that you were practically straddling yourself over just one of his spread-tensed, muscly thighs.

There was no point in squirming away. You had no desire to lean back now, no want to back now, backing away from the control of his cosset, instead melting into the warmth that engulfed under his touch until you were supporting yourself up by the brace of your swung arm around his neck to stabilize yourself.

All senses are overcome with sheer curiosity, with your fingers tracing every ridge and mottle, following the rise and fall of his bare chest. There grew a stained festering of want, a need now revealing its restlessness growing tight within you, so much so that your initial fear was soon drowned out by the heat shifting within your core.

Miguel did just about everything, yet so little to entertain your touch, letting your eyes swallow him whole, knowing just what he was doing and pressing just the right amount of pressure into his fingertips that held around your waist.

His expression had shifted from that bored and somewhat tired look to something more heavy that you could not quite decipher in the low light. You would have been mistaken for thinking that he hadn't had any interest in the fact that you were sitting in his lap if it weren't for the faint throbbing reaction you felt pressing against your thigh.

You were all for self-respect and protecting your dignity, but you just couldn't help but yank that fucking bar down to the dirt and throw yourself at him. If anything, it was more of a freefall you took, leaning in and pressing your lips against your body to cut through the thick tension.

It was your nervousness fading at the sooth of his hands, bringing you in closer by the waist, your back arching to press closer to his chest. His kisses were as rough as you thought they would be, from everywhere his lips grazed, from your mouth to the curve of your collarbones. They left your nerves jolting at the brush of his sharp canines brushing against a sensitive spot close to your jugular.

The whiny small pleads of encouragement were all that could part from your kissed lips, his hands unknotting from the hold on your hips to slowly undoing the buttons to your nightgown, exposing more of your skin for him to assault, his hands cupping your breast through the cotton fabric, groping and suckling at your budded nipples through the fabric of your arching body with a drooling obsession.

With your eyes fluttering shut and head tilted back, drowning in pleasure, already putty under his touch, it was easy for him to lay your limp figure down against the uncomfortable hay-stuffed mattress your uncle would be too cheap to call a bed.

Hiking your thigh over his shoulder with a quick yank, his clean-shaven face smooth against your spread thighs, burying himself between your legs. The ghost of the ghost wanting to admit to it being your first time caught in your throat, cutting through the thick cloud of your worries and insecurities. The moment he brought his mouth close to your mount, his tongue was practically savage against your poor clit.

The vibration of his grunts as your nails knotted around a handful of the hair that curled around the nape of his neck, shifting your hips against the rhyme of the roll warmth of his tongue. A sigh was launched down your throat the moment his thick dark lashes fluttered open, instantly latching onto your gaze, a shiver running down your spine at the lewd scene of the man between your legs desiring your pussy with his mouth.

In the back of your mind, you found it ironic how you were practically close to screaming out Miguel's name as if it were a praying plea for your life, yet in an earlier time in your life, you would always look on in disgust at the moans that would leak through from rooms your coworkers serviced, swearing to yourself that you would never find yourself behind those same doors, yet there you were climaxing under a handsome stranger's tongue as he lapped your twitching cunt through the hard ripple of your orgasm.

His lips tasted like you.

That was the first sense that welcomed you back down from whichever cloud you were floating on. Miguel's tongue invaded your mouth, and swallowing whatever breath you tried to pant out, the struggling continued. He pressed your thighs apart enough to slot himself in between them as a tensed string itched in your lower thigh muscles, your legs trembling under his fingers.

The head of his cock was intrusive and rude, to say the least, bumping his girthy length against you, shamelessly shifting his hips, covering himself in the wetness of your legs, kissing back every whimper that came up your throat at his fat tip, threatening to breach between your lower lips without any proper hopes of a graceful welcome.

The stretch of his fat tip parting you open left a cry falling from you as Miguel grunted into the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath against your sweat-clad skin. Your back arched up against his broad chest as the lewd size of his cock overtook the rest of the sense you had left within your fogged spirit, his dawning pace merciful with experimentally slow strokes deep enough to make your toes curl against the scratchy duvet bedding to a rough pistoning rhythm against your core.

Your fingers clamping tight into the straw pillow at the all too familiar tensing knot forming in your stomach, begging with each harsh thrust, you let outpaced, panting, punched-out moans, following the lead of Miguel's hips, who barreled through your tight cunt as your second orgasm rudely yanked you back to bliss. Your body trembled from exhaustion under Miguel's unsetting ramming hips. The minutes flew by as your brain struggled to do anything but cry out unfinished sentences leading with his name.

Using your noises of encouragement, Miguel chased after his own pleasures, slowly drifting into a less rhythmic pace. His hips buried themselves as he rutted deep inside of you, filling you to the brim with his size, snug enough to twitch his cum into where he lay with one last low, strung-out, stuttering groan.

With each other's hearts hammering, you and Miguel fell fatigued against one another, welcoming the slug of his weight as a comforting weighted blanket, neither bothering to curl away from the other nor making any effort to pull himself out, instead using the strength that you deemed to be infinity for him to reposition you on top.

His arm wrapping around the lower part of your torso and nuzzling his chin against you with a tired breath, more than content with spending the night in his room, knowing that your wobbling legs would betray you the moment you stood on your own, closing your eyes and slumbering against his chest in comfort.

Maybe that was why you shifted away with an aching start, the bruising mark littered across your skin a shade of a hinting purple and red, as well as the mess between your legs painted as a lone reminder of the acts you had committed last night. Miguel had apparently gone after sunrise, leaving the spot in which he lay empty with a stricken feeling in your chest and a defeated spirit after hearing your uncle congratulate you for milking enough money out of the visitor to pay off all of your debt completely.

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#[ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ★ — t.wrks. ]#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #spiderman smut #marvel #into the spider verse

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justicesocietyweek · 2 months ago

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JSA week will take place January 5-11! There are 3 prompts per day. For the event, you can use any of them in any combination or do something different. The prompts are to help give ideas, but if there's something you'd rather do instead then please go ahead! You're also absolutely free to work on prompt fills now and save them to post in January.

Day 1: Win the War/Win the Peace -- Generations -- Legacy Day 2: Forgotten heroes -- Lost time -- Golden Age Day 3: Hurt/comfort -- "Just because there's a crack in something, doesn't mean you throw it away." -- Scars Day 4: Found family -- Mentorship -- "You hurt our kids." Day 5: Rivals to lovers (or friends) -- Role swap AU -- Multiverse Day 6: First day -- Fluff-- Holidays Day 7: Free day -- 3+1 -- Time travel

Check out our rules and faq. If you have any questions, the inbox is open!

#jsa #justice society #justice society of america #dc comics #dc fandom #dc fan event

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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Of Gods and Men (the gift)

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

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

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

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

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: daenys

- Next part: resurgence

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

Two days had passed since the forces of House Atreides and House Targaryen had established their temporary base together on Arctis. The bitter cold still clung to the landscape, but the combined forces had made steady progress in securing the area from the Harkonnens. Targaryen banners now flew alongside the Atreides hawk, marking a temporary alliance born of necessity rather than trust.

Inside the main command tent, Aelor Targaryen, Duke Leto Atreides, and Duncan Idaho stood over a holographic map of the underground hatchery—the ancient structure that had become the focal point of the Harkonnen presence. Aelor’s expression was resolute as he traced the coordinates with his finger, his voice calm but insistent.

“We should commence an orbital strike on the underground hatchery,” Aelor proposed, his tone leaving little room for argument. “Once it’s destroyed, the Harkonnens will have no reason to stay on this planet.”

Duncan, standing to Leto’s right, crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “It’s odd,” he said, his voice laced with suspicion. “The Harkonnens have already lost most of their ground here. Their operation is compromised, and they’re outnumbered. So why are they still here, insisting on these ground skirmishes?”

Leto nodded thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the map. “There must be something else they’re after,” he agreed. “With the Harkonnens, there always is.”

Aelor’s violet eyes flickered as he looked between Duncan and Leto. “Regardless of their plans,” he said firmly, “the hatchery is the key to their presence here. If we destroy it, we leave them with nothing. They’ll be forced to withdraw.”

Leto considered Aelor’s words carefully, his mind turning over the possibilities. “An orbital strike is a risky move,” he said slowly. “But it might be our best option to force them off this world for good.”

As the council continued their discussion, you stood nearby, observing from the edges of the room. The tension between the two Houses was felt, but for now, their common enemy kept them aligned. Not far from where you stood, Gurney Halleck sat on a low bench, adjusting the strings on his baliset. His fingers moved deftly over the instrument as he listened to the council’s debate, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward you.

You caught his gaze after a moment, and he gave a small nod in your direction before speaking, his voice casual but curious. “So, lass,” Gurney said, not looking up from his baliset, “how does someone like you get caught up in a mess like this?”

You smiled faintly at the question, though there was no amusement in it. “I’ve been in far worse situations than this,” you replied, your tone steady. “This is just another battle.”

Gurney raised an eyebrow, his hands still moving over the strings. “Is that so? You’ve certainly got the fire in you, but I can’t help but wonder how a lone Targaryen ended up giving Harkonnens so much trouble.”

You tilted your head slightly, considering your response. “We don’t have instruments like this on Albiron,” you said, gesturing to the baliset. “But my father often asks me to sing during our celebratory events.”

Gurney’s gaze softened at your words, his thoughts clearly drifting elsewhere. His expression turned somber, and for a moment, he seemed lost in memory. “My sister used to sing,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with sorrow. “She had a voice that could silence a room.”

There was a brief silence between you, an unspoken understanding passing through the cold air. In that moment, you saw something of Gurney’s grief, his memories of loss that mirrored your own.

Just then, the council’s discussion came to an end, and Aelor approached you, his posture relaxed but purposeful. “We’re moving forward,” he said, his voice resolute. “Prepare yourself. We’ll commence the final strike against the Harkonnens soon. Once the hatchery is destroyed, we’ll leave this planet.”

You nodded, your hand resting instinctively on the hilt of your sword. The time for words had passed. Now, the battle would decide the future.

As you turned to leave, Gurney’s voice called after you, gentle but firm. “Keep your guard up, lass. And maybe after all this is done, you’ll give us a song.”

You smiled slightly, but your thoughts were already on the coming battle.

As the command room slowly cleared, Leto Atreides stood quietly, watching as the Targaryen siblings, Aelor and you, left together, heading off to prepare for the final strike. The storm outside seemed to have found its echo within the Duke's mind. Aelor’s proposal had merit—destroying the underground hatchery could force the Harkonnens to abandon the planet—but it wasn’t just the military strategy that weighed on Leto now. It was the woman, Daenys Targaryen, you, who had caught his attention in more ways than one.

Leto’s gaze lingered on the spot where you had just been standing, the memory of your composed yet fiery demeanor still fresh in his mind. It wasn’t often that someone from another House—especially one with such a complex history—captivated him in such a way. There was something about your presence, something he couldn’t quite place, but it gnawed at him nonetheless.

Turning to face Gurney Halleck, who was still adjusting the strings of his baliset, Leto allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I heard from Duncan that Daenys gave you quite the chase.”

Gurney looked up from his instrument, a wry smile playing on his lips as he met the Duke’s gaze. “Aye, my Lord. The lass is more capable than she appears. Gave me the slip more than once before I caught up to her.”

Duncan Idaho, still seated at the console across the room, reviewing the latest reports on the Harkonnens’ movements, chimed in without looking up. “She’s not just capable. She’s fast, strategic—trained, no doubt. And there’s something about the way she moves… like someone who’s lived their entire life preparing for moments like these.”

Leto raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued further by Duncan’s assessment. It was one thing for Gurney to acknowledge your abilities—Gurney was seasoned, but also sentimental. Duncan, however, was practical, and his judgments carried weight.

“She’s more than just a survivor, then,” Leto said, his voice contemplative.

Duncan finally looked up from the reports, his eyes steady as they met the Duke’s. “Much more. She’s a Targaryen through and through. I’ve seen plenty of soldiers—both natural fighters and those trained from birth—and Daenys? She’s got the instincts of both.”

Gurney nodded in agreement, his expression turning more thoughtful. “Aye, my Lord. There’s more to her than what we’ve seen on the surface. I didn’t know what to make of her at first, but after that chase and seeing her in action, I’d wager she’s been through more than we can imagine.”

Leto paced slowly, his mind working through the layers of implications. House Targaryen’s sudden return, the alliance of necessity between them and the Atreides, the Harkonnen threat—all of it pointed to a shifting balance of power. But Daenys added an entirely new dimension to it. She wasn’t just a pawn in the game, but a player in her own right. And now, she and her brother had drawn the Atreides into something far larger than they could have anticipated.

As Leto’s thoughts continued to turn, he paused by the table where the holographic map still glowed faintly. “Regardless,” he said, his voice more resolute now, “we have a mission to complete here. The Harkonnens won’t let this planet go without a fight, but once the hatchery is destroyed, they’ll have no choice.”

Gurney’s eyes followed the Duke’s movements, his tone more cautious. “And after, my Lord?”

Leto looked up, his gaze steady as he met Gurney’s eyes. “After we return to Caladan, we’ll be facing more than just the fallout from this battle. The political implications of our encounter with the Targaryens will be enormous. It will shake the very foundations of House Atreides.”

Duncan nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “The Imperium, the Emperor, the Bene Gesserit—they’ll all take notice once they learn that the Targaryens are not only alive but allied with us, however temporary that alliance may be.”

Leto sighed softly, knowing the weight of what was to come. “And that’s what concerns me most. We’ve just become part of something far bigger than a fight for control of a frozen world. If the Emperor catches wind of this, if the Harkonnens spin the narrative in their favor… House Atreides will be caught in the storm.”

Gurney, ever loyal and steadfast, leaned forward slightly. “We’ll face whatever comes, my Lord. House Atreides has survived worse.”

Leto allowed a small smile, though the weight of his thoughts was still evident. “Yes, Gurney. We have. And we will again. But this time, it feels different.”

He cast one final glance toward the door where the Targaryens had left, his mind already turning toward the future. They had a mission to finish here, but the real storm—the political storm—was waiting for them back on Caladan.

And Leto knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same after this.

The cold air of Arctis was heavy with anticipation as Leto Atreides, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck stepped outside the command tent. All around them, the soldiers of both House Atreides and House Targaryen moved swiftly, making final preparations for the upcoming strike. The combined forces had reached a tenuous but effective alliance, and now the time had come to push forward and bring an end to the Harkonnen presence on this planet.

Leto’s sharp eyes scanned the flurry of activity, his mind already calculating the next steps. His soldiers, disciplined and ready, were preparing to launch their assault on the Harkonnen defenses above the underground hatchery. The Targaryens would lead the initial charge, breaking through the Harkonnen lines, and once the Atreides troops disabled the jamming equipment, they would evacuate, leaving the Targaryen starship to fire on the exposed target from orbit.

Hawat joined Leto at his side, his expression as always calm but observant. “Everything is proceeding as planned, my Lord,” Hawat said quietly, his eyes flicking over the battlefield preparations.

Leto nodded, his voice steady. “The Atreides troops will rush in to disable the Harkonnen jamming equipment above the hatchery once the Targaryens break through their defenses. As soon as that signal is disabled, we’re pulling out. The Targaryen starship will fire from orbit on a clear target.”

Duncan and Gurney, standing nearby, exchanged quick glances before turning to Leto.

“We’ll get it done, my Lord,” Duncan said firmly. “We’ll make sure the Harkonnens don’t get another chance.”

Gurney’s grizzled face was set in determination as he tightened the strap on his rifle. “We’ll push through, one way or another.”

Leto offered them both a nod of confidence. “Good. Get to your men. We don’t have much time.”

With that, Duncan and Gurney turned and rushed off to join their respective forces, leaving Leto and Hawat standing among the flurry of soldiers preparing for the battle ahead.

As the activity around them intensified, Leto’s eyes were drawn to a different scene just across the field. Daenys Targaryen, along with two of her people, was crouched in front of a Targaryen Ornithopter, working on a device that was unfamiliar to him. The Ornithopter itself stood ready for launch, its sleek, dragon-like form glistening in the pale light of the storm. Leto’s curiosity piqued as he watched the Targaryen woman, her focus sharp as she adjusted the device in front of her.

Without a word, Leto began walking toward her, his steps purposeful. Hawat, noticing the shift in the Duke’s attention, gave him a curious glance but said nothing, following him in silence.

As you worked on the device, making the final adjustments, you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. Looking up, you saw Duke Leto approaching, his expression one of curiosity. You stood, wiping the snow from your gloves, and offered him a respectful nod.

“Duke Leto,” you greeted him, your voice even despite the cold. “What brings you here?”

Leto’s gaze shifted from the device in front of you to your face, then back to the intricate piece of technology. “What are you working on?”

You gave him a small smile, gesturing to the device. “This is something that will help your men disable the jamming signal faster. Once we break through the Harkonnen defenses, I’ll leave it for your soldiers to use. It should save time.”

Leto’s gaze lingered on the device for a moment, impressed by your initiative. His eyes then flicked to the Ornithopter standing behind you, its design so different from the machines he was used to. It was sleek, elegant, and undeniably alien in its construction.

Sensing his interest, you tilted your head slightly, amusement flashing in your eyes. “Curious about our Ornithopters, Duke?”

Leto’s gaze returned to yours, surprised by your question. “I am,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like them. I’d be interested to see how they fly.”

Your smile widened, a flicker of excitement in your eyes. “Would you like to join me, Duke Leto?”

He hesitated for a brief second, caught off guard by the offer. But the thought of experiencing one of your people’s advanced machines firsthand was too intriguing to pass up. “I would,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. “I’ve always been fascinated by technology. It would be a welcome distraction before the battle.”

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. “Then we shouldn’t waste any more time.”

Hawat, standing just a few paces behind, watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow. He was too perceptive not to notice the small, almost hidden smile on Leto’s face, a smile that revealed a spark of excitement—something that rarely showed itself in the typically composed Duke. Hawat allowed himself a brief moment of amusement at his lord’s expense.

“You seem eager, my Lord,” Hawat said quietly, his tone neutral but with an edge of teasing.

Leto shot him a quick glance, his expression composed again but not without a hint of warmth. “Perhaps I am, Thufir. It’s not every day one gets to fly in something so… unique.”

With a final glance at the soldiers preparing for battle, Leto stepped forward toward the waiting Ornithopter, his curiosity and anticipation momentarily eclipsing the weight of the coming conflict.

As you finished adjusting the device, you nodded to your fellow Targaryen soldiers, signaling them to secure the equipment for transport. Then, without another word, you climbed into the Ornithopter’s cockpit, turning back to see Leto and Hawat following closely behind.

As the Duke settled into the co-pilot’s seat beside you, you glanced at him, a glint of challenge in your eyes. “Hold on tight, Duke. Our Ornithopters aren’t quite like anything you’ve flown before.”

Leto chuckled softly, his hands hovering over the holographic controls that shifted to standard Galach symbols aromatically as he prepared for takeoff. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The Targaryen Ornithopter lifted gracefully into the icy skies of Arctis, its sleek, dragon-like wings humming softly as they cut through the stormy air. Despite its size—large enough for both a co-pilot and a passenger—the craft moved with an effortless precision that left Duke Leto Atreides momentarily awestruck. He settled into the co-pilot’s seat beside you, a smile playing on his lips as he examined the holographic interface that floated before him.

“This flies… beautifully,” Leto murmured, his hands hovering over the controls, though he knew better than to interfere with your navigation. The neural feedback system was unlike anything he had ever experienced in Atreides technology. Every movement of the Ornithopter felt intuitive, as though it were responding to his thoughts as much as your commands. The interior, like the exterior, was silent, a stark contrast to the noisier, more mechanical machines he was used to.

He couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship, his eyes tracing the sleek lines of the console and the way the control surfaces shimmered with a soft, amber glow. “There’s almost no sound at all.”

From your seat, you glanced at Leto and caught his expression, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Our Drakaopters, as we call them, are powered by drakaon crystals,” you explained, your tone steady as you focused on the controls. “Just like the rest of our technology. The crystals provide nearly silent propulsion and ensure our ships are undetectable by conventional sensors.”

Leto raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Behind you, Thufir Hawat sat in silence, his sharp eyes observing everything. His analytical mind was cataloging every detail, from the neural feedback system to the seamless way the other Targaryen Ornithopters—smaller, more nimble craft—flanked them as they ascended higher. The Targaryen technology was light years ahead of what the Imperium used, and that knowledge alone weighed heavily in Hawat’s calculations.

As the Ornithopter climbed into the sky, the flickering light of explosions in the distance caught your eye. You glanced at the holographic map in front of you and your expression hardened.

“Harkonnen troops are approaching,” you said, your voice suddenly sharper as you adjusted the controls. The Ornithopter’s plasma cannons began to warm up, their energy readings visible on the interface before you.

Leto’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where he saw the black dots of Harkonnen ornithopters growing larger, rapidly approaching from the east. At the same time, the ground forces below were beginning to clash—the Atreides and Targaryen troops advancing toward the Harkonnen base while their enemies tried to dig in and defend the hatchery.

You activated the plasma cannons, the hum of energy filling the cabin as the weapons powered up. The shields surrounding the Ornithopter shimmered momentarily, absorbing and dispersing the energy of the oncoming fire from the Harkonnen forces.

“Brace yourself,” you warned, your tone cool and focused as you maneuvered the Ornithopter into position. The smaller Targaryen craft flanking you began to engage the enemy, plasma bolts lighting up the stormy sky as they tore through the incoming Harkonnen ornithopters.

Leto watched in awe as the energy shields absorbed the blasts with ease, shimmering faintly as they dissipated the impact. He had never seen such seamless energy defense systems in action before, and it left him with a newfound respect for Targaryen engineering.

Just then, another squadron of Harkonnen ornithopters appeared on the horizon, larger and more heavily armed. Leto's eyes narrowed as he noted their formation. “Another squadron, coming in fast.”

You nodded, adjusting the controls to bring the Drakaopter into a more aggressive stance. The smaller Targaryen Ornithopters around you quickly peeled off to intercept the new threat, their plasma cannons firing in synchronized bursts that tore through the Harkonnen forces.

“We’ll punch through,” you said, your voice calm despite the chaos around you. With a quick motion, you locked onto the ground-based anti-air cannons positioned near the Harkonnen base and fired the crystal-tipped missiles. They streaked through the air, glowing a faint gold as they zeroed in on their targets.

The ground cannons exploded in a brilliant flash of light, the crystal-tipped warheads shattering the hardened emplacements with ease. Leto watched as the Harkonnen anti-air defenses crumbled, leaving the base exposed.

“Ion disruptors engaged,” you continued, your hands deftly working the controls as the Drakaopter’s disruptors activated. A wave of yellow energy rippled from the ship, crashing into the Harkonnen systems below. Leto watched as the disruptors caused their further defenses to sputter and fail, disabling their communications and rendering their systems vulnerable.

Leto was beyond impressed now. He had seen many battles, but never had he witnessed technology like this in action. “Your technology,” Leto said, his voice full of awe. “It’s beyond anything we’ve ever encountered.”

You didn’t look at him, your focus still on the task at hand. “We’ve had centuries to perfect it. And it’s the only reason we’ve survived this long in exile.”

Leto nodded thoughtfully, his admiration clear. But there was no time to dwell on the implications. The battle was far from over.

As you guided the Drakaopter toward the Harkonnen base, you glanced at the holographic display, noting the positions of the Atreides ground troops. “Once your men break through, I’ll land,” you told Leto. “We’ll take out the jamming signal and evacuate the planet.”

Leto gave a nod of agreement, his gaze locked on the battlefield below. “Let’s not waste any time, then.”

Behind you, Hawat observed quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had seen the Duke’s enthusiasm for battle before, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was the technology, or perhaps it was the presence of Daenys herself, but either way, Hawat could see that Leto was more engaged than usual. It amused the Mentat to see the Duke so captivated.

“Shall we?” you asked, glancing at Leto with a hint of challenge in your voice.

Leto returned your gaze, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Lead the way.”

With that, you accelerated toward the Harkonnen base, ready to finish what had been started. The final push had begun.

The Atreides forces surged forward, their precision and discipline cutting through the Harkonnen lines like a blade. The chaotic din of battle rumbled beneath the clouds of Arctis, plasma bolts lighting up the gray sky. The sound of explosions echoed through the air as Harkonnen defenses crumbled one by one, and now, with their anti-aircraft cannons destroyed and the Atreides troops pressing hard, victory seemed imminent.

In the distance, your Targaryen Drakaopter descended, landing gracefully in the midst of the controlled chaos. The wings folded in with a mechanical hum, the sleek craft setting down without a sound. As the hatch opened, Duke Leto Atreides, Thufir Hawat, and you exited, your eyes immediately scanning the battlefield.

Leto’s gaze hardened as he took in the scene. His men were doing well, but they didn’t have much time. The Harkonnens would regroup, and they needed to disable the jamming signal before reinforcements arrived. His mind was already calculating their next move, but before he could speak, Sergeant Kellor came rushing over, his face tense but determined.

“We’ve secured the perimeter,” Kellor said, his voice sharp as he motioned to the area ahead. “But we’ve only got a short window to disable the jamming signal before the Harkonnens can regroup. We need to move fast.”

You stepped forward, your expression calm but focused. “That’s enough time if you use this device properly.” You handed the small but intricate piece of technology to Kellor, who took it with a careful grip. His eyes flicked over the device, trying to understand its function as you quickly explained.

“It’s simple,” you said, your voice clear despite the chaos around you. “This will interface directly with the Harkonnen signal disruptors. Once you get to the jamming site, activate it by pressing here.” You pointed to a small, glowing node on the device. “It’ll overload their system and disable the signal in seconds. But you have to be precise—don’t give them time to recover.”

Kellor nodded, his expression determined. “Understood.”

More Atreides soldiers joined, forming a protective perimeter around the small group as Leto, Hawat, and you prepared for the final push. Leto turned to Kellor, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “We’ll give you as much time as you need, Sergeant. But the moment the signal is down, we retreat. The Targaryen ship is ready for the orbital strike.”

Kellor saluted before turning to his men, issuing orders with quick efficiency. The group of Atreides soldiers moved out, heading toward the jamming site with the Targaryen device in hand. They disappeared into the rocky terrain, their silhouettes blending into the storm.

You stood beside Leto, your gaze following Kellor’s team as they advanced. “I’ll help with the defense,” you said, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword. “Once the jamming is down, we start the retreat immediately.”

Leto glanced at you, his face a mixture of admiration and resolve. “Agreed. But we have to make sure Kellor’s team gets through. If the Harkonnens stop them, we lose our window.”

You nodded, drawing your sword with a swift, practiced motion. The familiar weight of the Valyrian steel in your hand felt steady, grounding you in the midst of the battle. Around you, the Atreides forces prepared for the next wave of Harkonnen resistance.

Hawat, ever vigilant, stepped forward. “We’ll need to hold the Harkonnen forces here until Kellor can disable the jamming. Once the signal is down, we retreat. The orbital strike will be swift, and we can’t risk being caught in it.”

Leto turned to his men, his voice carrying over the noise of battle. “Hold the line! We give Kellor and his team as much time as they need. Once the jamming signal is down, fall back to the transports.”

The Atreides soldiers responded immediately, their formations tightening as they prepared for the final push. Plasma fire rained down from the sky as the Harkonnens sent in reinforcements, desperate to hold their ground, but the combined forces of House Atreides and House Targaryen were relentless.

You took your place beside the Atreides soldiers, your sword at the ready. The Harkonnens advanced, but you met them with the ferocity of a dragon, cutting through their ranks with swift, precise strikes. The Atreides forces fought with discipline and determination, but your presence on the battlefield was something else—an unmistakable force that turned the tide.

Leto, armed and resolute, fought alongside his men, his every strike calculated and efficient. His eyes flicked to the horizon, watching for any sign of Kellor’s team. Time was running out.

Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the sky, and the distant hum of energy signaled that Kellor’s team had succeeded. The Harkonnen jamming signal went dark, their defenses crumbling as the disruption ended. The time had come.

“The signal’s down!” Hawat shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. “We need to move—now!”

Leto turned, his voice commanding. “Fall back! To the transports!”

The Atreides forces began to retreat, moving quickly but with precision as they made their way to the transports. You turned to follow, your sword still in hand, as Leto gestured for you to keep close.

The battle was won, but the clock was ticking. Above, the Targaryen starship loomed, its weapons primed for the orbital strike. The Harkonnens would soon face the full fury of dragonfire from the stars.

You met Leto’s gaze briefly, a shared understanding passing between you. “We don’t have much time,” you said, your voice steady.

“No,” Leto replied, his expression resolute. “But we’ll make it.”

Together, you and the Duke of Atreides moved toward the transports, the sound of the orbital strike looming in the distance as the final chapter of the battle began.

As the transport hurtled across the icy landscape of Arctis, Aelor Targaryen's voice came through the comms, his tone calm but firm. "The orbital strike is in progress. All forces, stay clear of the target zone. We'll be hitting the Harkonnen base shortly."

The announcement was met with silence, save for the occasional murmurs of soldiers securing their weapons and gear. You sat near the front of the transport, your sword still in hand, resting against your knee. Leto sat beside you, his sharp gaze fixed on the horizon, while Thufir Hawat stood nearby, scanning tactical readouts.

Suddenly, a blinding amber light filled the transport, casting everything in a harsh, surreal glow. The grand rumble that followed shook the very ground beneath the transport, causing it to jolt violently. The entire cabin rocked as the orbital strike hit its target, the shockwaves from the impact reaching even this far.

In the chaos, soldiers braced themselves against the walls and seats, gripping whatever they could to avoid being thrown around by the tremors. You felt the transport lurch beneath your feet, and your balance wavered as the violent shake threw you forward.

Before you could fall, Leto acted quickly, reaching out to steady you. His strong hands gripped your arm, pulling you back against the seat and holding you upright as the transport continued to shake. Around you, the Atreides soldiers did the same, steadying themselves as the rumbling subsided.

"Thank you," you said, your voice calm despite the intensity of the moment. You met Leto’s gaze, a flicker of appreciation in your eyes as you settled back into your seat.

Leto gave a small nod, releasing his grip on your arm but keeping his attention on the aftermath of the strike. "We’re not through just yet," he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of caution. The amber light from the blast still lingered in the distance, fading slowly as the transport pushed forward.

You glanced out the viewport, watching as the fiery remnants of the orbital strike’s devastation glowed on the horizon. The Harkonnen base had been obliterated, reduced to nothing more than rubble and smoke. The dragons of House Targaryen had, once again, left their mark on the battlefield.

After a moment of silence, you turned back to Leto, your expression shifting as the reality of the situation sank in. "My ride awaits," you said, your voice tinged with a sense of finality. "At specific coordinates. Once we reach them, we part ways."

Leto studied you for a moment, his eyes searching your face as if weighing the gravity of your words. "And you’re sure this is the end of our path together, at least for now?" There was something in his tone, a subtle note of regret, though it was buried beneath his usual calm exterior.

You nodded, your gaze steady. "For now, yes. Our paths will diverge. The strike was successful, and we’ve achieved what we set out to do. But House Targaryen still has its own battles to fight, and we have a world to return to."

Leto considered this, his eyes flicking briefly to the horizon before returning to you. "Your House… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. And yet, there’s something familiar in the way we fight—something shared in our desire for survival."

You gave a small, thoughtful smile. "Perhaps there’s more in common between us than we realize, Duke Leto."

The two of you fell into a brief silence, the rumble of the transport continuing beneath your feet. Around you, the Atreides soldiers were focused on their tasks, but the weight of the moment hung between you and Leto. The alliance between your Houses had been forged in the fire of battle, but as you both knew, such alliances were rarely permanent.

"Where will you go from here?" Leto asked, his voice softer now, as though the question carried more meaning than just the practical.

You turned to meet his gaze again, your violet eyes calm but resolute. "Back to Albiron, for now. But the galaxy is a vast place, Duke. And I have a feeling our paths may cross again."

Leto smiled faintly, a knowing look in his eyes. "I’ll look forward to that day."

The transport began to slow as it neared the designated coordinates, the vibrations beneath your feet softening as it approached the drop point. You stood, sheathing your sword with a practiced motion, and glanced once more at Leto before heading toward the exit.

Hawat, ever observant, watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. As you prepared to leave, he stepped closer to Leto, his expression unreadable but perhaps tinged with amusement. "You seem particularly interested in the Targaryens, my Lord."

Leto didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still on you as you moved toward the door. After a beat, he glanced at Hawat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How could I not be, Thufir? They’re more than just an ally—they’re a mystery we’ve only just begun to unravel."

Hawat chuckled softly, his gaze flicking between you and Leto. "A mystery indeed."

As the transport came to a halt, you stepped outside, the cold air of Arctis biting at your skin once more. In the distance, your Targaryen transport awaited, sleek and silent like a shadow on the horizon.

You turned back one last time, meeting Leto’s gaze from the doorway of the Atreides transport. For a brief moment, there was an unspoken understanding between you—a shared respect, perhaps even a shared future, though what that future would hold remained uncertain.

And with that, you moved forward, heading toward your ship and the path that awaited you beyond the frozen world of Arctis.

The Atreides spaceship hummed quietly as it ascended from the frozen surface of Arctis, carrying Duke Leto, Thufir Hawat, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck safely back toward the stars. The planet below slowly disappeared from view, the battle now a distant memory as the crew settled into the familiar routine of post-mission debriefing.

But something was different this time. The atmosphere on the ship felt heavier, as though the weight of what had just transpired still lingered in the air. House Atreides had won a decisive victory against the Harkonnens, but it was their encounter with House Targaryen that now dominated their thoughts.

As the Atreides ship entered orbit, the massive Targaryen spaceship came into full view. Its sleek, obsidian-hued hull reflected the faint light of the distant stars, its design elegant and mysterious. The ship was larger than anything Leto had seen, far more advanced than even the most powerful vessels in the Imperium’s fleet. It was a sight that left an indelible mark, one that would be difficult to forget.

The comms system crackled to life, and Aelor Targaryen's voice came through, calm and composed. "Duke Leto, this is Aelor Targaryen. On behalf of my House, I thank you for your assistance. Together, we’ve defeated the Harkonnens here, but our paths must now part."

Leto stood at the command console, his eyes fixed on the Targaryen ship as he listened to Aelor’s words. "It was a hard-fought battle," Leto replied, his voice steady. "But I believe we both gained something from this alliance."

There was a brief pause on the comms, and then another voice came through—one that made Leto’s heart skip for just a moment.

"Duke Leto," you said, your voice softer but still clear through the comms. "I wish to thank you personally. Your men fought bravely, and for that, House Targaryen is in your debt."

Leto’s gaze flicked briefly to Hawat, who watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. The Duke’s expression softened slightly as he heard your voice, the memory of your parting still fresh in his mind.

Before he could respond, you added, "I’ve left a small gift of goodwill with Gurney. Consider it a token of our alliance—and a reminder of our shared victory."

Leto turned slowly, his brow furrowing in mild confusion as he looked at Gurney, who stood just behind him. Gurney smiled knowingly, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small, carefully wrapped sachel. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he handed it to the Duke.

"I believe this is what she was referring to, my Lord," Gurney said, his voice low and filled with a certain fondness.

Leto took the sachel, his fingers brushing over the soft material. Slowly, he unwrapped it, revealing the contents within. His breath caught as he lifted out the object that lay inside: a dragon egg, petrified and turned to stone. The intricate markings on the surface glistened faintly in the ship’s artificial light, and despite its stony exterior, Leto could feel the weight of history and power in his hands.

The room fell silent as the Atreides crew gathered around, their eyes fixed on the stone egg. Even Hawat, ever the pragmatist, seemed momentarily taken aback by the sight. The dragon egg was more than just a symbol—it was a piece of House Targaryen’s legacy, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies.

Leto stared at the egg for a long moment, his mind racing with thoughts of what it represented. The Targaryens were more than an ancient, forgotten House—they were alive, powerful, and still connected to the legacy of their dragons.

Just then, a bright flash of amber light illuminated the viewport, and Leto looked up just in time to see the Targaryen ship vanish from view. It was gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the cold, empty void of space.

The crew stood in stunned silence, watching as the last traces of the Targaryen ship disappeared from their scanners. Leto, still holding the dragon egg, felt a quiet sense of loss. The alliance had been brief, but it had left a profound impact on him and his House.

He whispered softly to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ship. "Goodbye, Daenys."

His fingers tightened around the egg, feeling the smooth, ancient surface beneath his touch. The weight of the stone was a reminder not only of the Targaryens’ power but of the connection that had been forged in the heat of battle. A connection that, despite their parting, felt far from over.

Hawat, ever watchful, stepped forward, his eyes studying the Duke’s expression with quiet understanding. "A gift, indeed," he said, his voice low.

Leto nodded, still holding the egg as he turned back to the viewport. "A gift," he repeated, though he knew it was much more than that.

The soft hum of the Atreides starship filled the silence of Duke Leto’s quarters as the vessel made its steady course back to Caladan. The quiet was almost soothing, but the Duke’s mind was far from calm. He sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on the petrified dragon egg resting in front of him. The smooth, stone surface seemed to shimmer faintly in the low light, as though it held the weight of centuries within its hardened shell.

Leto’s thoughts were miles away, lost in the memory of his brief encounter with Daenys Targaryen and the strange, powerful House she represented. The Targaryens were more than a legend—they were real, and they were dangerous in ways the Imperium could hardly comprehend. Yet, there had been something else about them, something that left Leto both intrigued and unsettled.

The door to his quarters slid open with a quiet hiss, and Thufir Hawat stepped inside, his sharp eyes immediately assessing the Duke’s posture. Leto didn’t stir, his attention still fixed on the dragon egg, though his expression was unreadable.

Hawat cleared his throat lightly before speaking, careful not to break the Duke’s deep concentration too suddenly. "My Lord," he began, his voice measured, "we should consider formulating a response for when the Emperor’s inquiry reaches us. The events on Arctis will no doubt draw attention."

Leto’s eyes remained on the egg, his fingers brushing lightly over its surface as he answered absently, his voice distant. "Yes, Thufir, I know."

But Hawat could tell from Leto’s tone that the Duke’s mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were still with the Targaryens, perhaps more with Daenys herself. There was a flicker of something in Leto’s gaze, something Hawat rarely saw—an almost wistful contemplation.

Hawat stepped closer, his analytical mind working through the implications of what they had just experienced. "Young Paul will no doubt be intrigued by this gift," Hawat remarked carefully, his eyes on the dragon egg as well. "Our new… friends have certainly left us with much to consider."

Leto’s lips twitched slightly, his gaze softening as he thought of his son. "Yes, Paul will be fascinated." His voice was quiet, and there was a warmth there when he spoke of his son. "But Jessica will be… less than pleased, I imagine."

Hawat’s brow furrowed in slight surprise, and he turned his full attention to the Duke. "You don’t intend to tell her?"

Leto glanced at Hawat for the first time since he’d entered, his expression more focused now but still guarded. "If there are no inquiries from the Emperor, then there’s no reason to speak of this to anyone. Not even to Lady Jessica."

Hawat’s surprise deepened. The Duke had always been relatively transparent with Jessica, despite her ties to the Bene Gesserit. This, however, was different. It took the Mentat only a moment to realize why Leto would be cautious in this matter. "Ah," Hawat murmured, understanding dawning. "You wish to avoid the involvement of the Sisterhood. They would take a keen interest in such an encounter."

Leto’s face hardened slightly as he nodded. "Precisely. The Bene Gesserit would insert themselves quickly, and I’d rather avoid that. The Targaryens are… unpredictable. There’s no telling how they would react to Bene Gesserit involvement. For now, this stays between us. If the Emperor or the Landsraad does not ask questions, we will let this fade into obscurity."

Hawat nodded slowly, his sharp mind already calculating the risks. "And what of the Harkonnens? Surely they won’t reveal their plans to the Emperor. It would expose their failure and their hidden operations on Arctis."

Leto allowed himself a small, tight smile. "Exactly. They’ll have no interest in informing the Emperor. We’ll report the events on Arctis as nothing more than an ordinary skirmish between our Houses. Routine border conflicts. Nothing more."

Hawat nodded in agreement, his mind already cataloging the steps needed to manage the situation. Keeping the Targaryen encounter under wraps would be a delicate task, but it was one the Mentat could handle.

Just as Hawat turned to leave, Leto’s voice stopped him.

“Thufir,” Leto said quietly, his gaze returning to the dragon egg. “What are the chances… of us encountering the Targaryens again?”

Hawat paused, considering the question carefully. The Targaryens were enigmatic, elusive, and far more powerful than even the Atreides had anticipated. Their sudden appearance had changed everything, and their departure left a trail of unanswered questions.

“I’d say, my Lord,” Hawat began, his voice measured, “that the chances are higher than we’d like to admit. They are not a people who vanish easily.”

Leto nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “No… they are not.”

With that, Hawat gave a slight bow and left the room, leaving Leto alone with his thoughts once more. The Duke stared at the egg, the weight of its significance heavy in his hands. He whispered softly, as if to himself—or perhaps to you.

“Until we meet again, Daenys.”

The thick, oppressive atmosphere of Giedi Prime clung to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen like the oily, polluted air that filled every corner of his home planet. As his shuttle descended toward the capital, the dark, industrial landscape stretched out beneath him, a grim reminder of his family’s iron-fisted rule over their wretched domain.

Feyd’s jaw tightened as he gazed out the viewport, knowing that this return would be far from triumphant. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had already received news of the failure on Arctis—of the defeat at the hands of the Atreides and, worse, the reveal of the Targaryens. His uncle’s rage would be visible, and Feyd knew he would be the primary target of that fury.

Yet, there was something else—something Feyd clung to. They had achieved a sliver of what they were after. The Targaryens had revealed themselves, drawn out from the shadows of obscurity. The Baron may not be pleased with the overall outcome, but Feyd believed that this failure could still be turned into something useful.

As the shuttle touched down in the landing bay of the Harkonnen stronghold, Feyd took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and prepared himself for what was to come. The heavy doors hissed open, and he stepped out onto the cold metal floor, his steps echoing down the corridor as he made his way to the Baron’s chambers.

The familiar scent of grease and decay filled the air as he approached the grand doors of his uncle’s throne room. The walls of the fortress were adorned with dark tapestries depicting the conquests and cruelties of House Harkonnen, reminders of the family’s ruthless ambition.

Inside the chamber, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen sat on his hovering chair, his corpulent form draped in luxurious, dark robes. His pale, bloated face was twisted into a sneer, and his small, pig-like eyes flickered with barely contained rage. Standing beside him, the ever-brutal Glossu Rabban, Feyd’s brutish brother, looked on with a mixture of amusement and impatience.

Feyd stepped forward, his chin held high despite the weight of his failure. He knew better than to show weakness in front of the Baron.

"Uncle," Feyd greeted, his voice calm but respectful, bowing slightly as he addressed the Baron.

The Baron’s sneer deepened, and his eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned forward in his chair. "So, my dear nephew," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You return to me a failure, do you not? After all, your mission on Arctis… did not go as planned."

Feyd met his uncle’s gaze without flinching, though he could feel the simmering anger in the air. "Yes, the Atreides interfered, and we were forced to retreat, but—"

"But?" the Baron hissed, his bloated fingers gripping the arms of his chair. "But? There is no ‘but,’ Feyd! You lost. You were humiliated. The Atreides and those damnable Targaryens bested you!"

Rabban chuckled darkly from his place beside the Baron, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "A failure is a failure, brother. There’s no excuse for that."

Feyd clenched his fists but held his composure. "We may have lost the battle, but we achieved something important," he said, his voice steady. "We drew the Targaryens out. They revealed themselves, showed their hand. That was the true goal, was it not?"

The Baron’s sneer faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered Feyd’s words. He leaned back in his chair, his expression momentarily thoughtful. "Ah, yes. The Targaryens. The ancient dragons who were supposed to be long dead. And now… they return, do they?"

Feyd nodded. "Yes. They are more powerful than we anticipated, but they are no longer hidden. They’ve shown their faces, and that gives us an advantage. Now, we know what we’re dealing with."

The Baron’s face darkened again, though his rage had softened somewhat. "Perhaps. But make no mistake, Feyd—this failure is still yours. You did not eliminate the Atreides forces. You allowed them to gain the upper hand. You are fortunate that the Targaryens revealed themselves, or I would not be so lenient."

Rabban grunted in agreement, his brutish face twisted into a grin. "You’re lucky, brother. Very lucky."

Feyd ignored Rabban, his focus on the Baron. "I understand, Uncle. And I take full responsibility for the setback. But I believe we can use this to our advantage."

The Baron raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Go on."

Feyd stepped forward, his voice lowering slightly as he spoke. "Now that the Targaryens have shown themselves, we can manipulate the situation. The Imperium will take notice, especially if we… steer the narrative. House Atreides is already under suspicion by the Emperor. If we can make it seem as though they are allied with the Targaryens—an ancient, unknown threat—then the Emperor may act against them. We could use this to weaken both Houses."

The Baron’s eyes gleamed with interest, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his chair. "Hmm. You may be right, Feyd. The Emperor is always wary of rising threats. And if he believes that the Atreides are conspiring with the Targaryens… it could work in our favor."

Rabban, ever the brute, looked confused for a moment but eventually nodded in agreement, understanding only the basic idea. "Sounds good. Let the Emperor deal with them."

Feyd allowed himself a small smile. "Exactly. We use the Targaryens’ return as a weapon. Let the Emperor and the Landsraad turn their gaze on the Atreides. And when they fall, House Harkonnen will be ready to take their place."

The Baron’s laughter filled the room, deep and malevolent. "Ah, Feyd. You may have stumbled, but you’ve shown some cunning after all. Very well. We will pursue this path, but make no mistake—you will not fail me again."

Feyd bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I won’t, Uncle."

The Baron’s laughter faded, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Go, then. Begin preparing the groundwork. We’ll let the Imperium know about our new friends, the Targaryens. But we will do so on our terms."

Feyd nodded once more, then turned and left the room, his thoughts already spinning with plans and schemes. He had failed on Arctis, yes, but the game was far from over. And the next time, he would make sure both the Atreides and the Targaryens paid the price.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, Feyd allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. This was just the beginning.

...

The vast throne room of Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV was cold and silent, save for the soft echo of footsteps as Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam and her attendants led the Red Woman into the chamber. The priestess, dressed in tattered crimson robes, her flame-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, had been a mystery ever since her arrival on Arrakis. Now, despite all the efforts of the Bene Gesserit to break her will, she remained unresponsive to their usual methods of interrogation.

At the far end of the room, Shaddam sat on his gilded throne, his expression unreadable as he stared down at the Red Woman. Beside him, an array of documents and reports lay scattered across a marble table—conflicting accounts of the events on Arctis. One report from Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, claiming his forces had been ambushed by House Atreides, painted the Duke as an aggressor and the unexpected return of House Targaryen. The other report, from Duke Leto Atreides himself, painted a different picture—one of defense against Harkonnen treachery. Neither report fully aligned with the scarce updates from House Ix, who had remained curiously evasive since they had delivered that parchment with dragon seal to the Emperor.

Shaddam's frustration simmered beneath his composed exterior. This was not how things were supposed to go. And now, with the Targaryens resurfacing, the entire balance of power in the Imperium was at risk.

The Red Woman was brought before the Emperor, her face serene despite the chains that bound her wrists. Her eyes, fiery and unwavering, met Shaddam's without fear. Mother Helen stood just behind her, her presence a quiet threat.

Shaddam leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "You have defied the Bene Gesserit and refused to answer their questions. But you are in my presence now, priestess. And I will have answers. What are you doing on Arrakis, and what is your connection to the events on Arctis?"

The Red Woman's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "You align yourself with serpents, Emperor," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The Bene Gesserit whisper in your ear, guiding your hand, but they do not serve you. They serve only themselves."

Mother Mohiam's face tightened in anger. "Careful, woman. You speak to the Emperor."

But the Red Woman did not flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on Shaddam, her gaze burning with an intensity that unsettled even the most seasoned court attendants. "The time of false kings and the Sisterhood's shadowy plots is ending," she said, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of fire. "The Lord of Light has sent me as a warning. You think yourselves rulers of this universe, but your reigns are but flickering candles in the darkness. The true prince will come, and he will burn away the corruption that festers in your Imperium."

Shaddam’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. "I asked for answers, not riddles. What do you know of the Targaryens? Of their return?"

The Red Woman’s gaze flickered with something unreadable, her smile never fading. "The dragons are of the flame, born of the same fire that will cleanse this universe. You cannot stop what is coming. You will either bend before it, or you will be consumed."

Mother Mohiam stepped forward, her patience long gone. "Enough!" she barked, her voice filled with frustration. "You dare speak in riddles and prophecies while defying the Sisterhood? You are a servant of chaos, and you will answer for your insolence."

The Red Woman’s smile only widened, her eyes gleaming with something almost otherworldly. "The night is dark and full of terrors, Bene Gesserit. And you are blind to the true threat. Your whispers of control, your breeding programs, they are nothing in the face of what is coming."

Shaddam's eyes narrowed, his annoyance boiling over. "Enough of this. Remove her from my sight," he ordered, his voice cold. "She is no more than a madwoman spouting false prophecies."

Two guards stepped forward to take the Red Woman away, her chains rattling as they pulled her toward the exit. But as she was led from the room, her parting words echoed through the chamber like a curse. "The time of shadows is ending, Emperor. The Lord of Light sees all."

When the doors slammed shut behind her, silence filled the room once more. Shaddam stood from his throne, pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mother Mohiam approached, her voice cold and accusing. "You knew of the Targaryens' presence long before the Sisterhood did, didn't you? And you said nothing."

Shaddam stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face her, his expression hardening. He had known about the possibility of the Targaryens' survival for some time, though he had kept that information close, using it to his advantage when necessary. But now, with conflicting reports, he realized someone had leaked sensitive information.

"It seems," Shaddam said, his voice measured but edged with annoyance, "that certain reports have slipped through the cracks. There has been a leak, and the Targaryens' presence has become known before I intended."

Mother Mohiam’s eyes narrowed. "The Sisterhood could have acted had we known sooner. Now, the situation is slipping from our control. The Targaryens are a threat we cannot afford to ignore, and this… priestess has stirred up resistance on Arrakis. Her followers are growing, undermining our groundwork for the Kwisatz Haderach."

Shaddam’s patience wore thin as he rubbed his temples. "I have a plan to deal with the Targaryens, but it will take time. As for Arrakis, your order should focus on securing the situation. We have little time left before things spiral further out of control."

Mother Mohiam’s lips pressed into a thin line. "The groundwork is already in place, but the presence of these servants of the so-called Lord of Light is complicating matters. They are spreading dissent among the people, speaking of a prince that will come to save them."

"Then fix it," Shaddam snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. "The Bene Gesserit have manipulated rulers for centuries. Surely dealing with a few religious zealots is not beyond your capabilities."

Mother Mohiam’s expression darkened, but she said nothing further. The tension between them was palpable, but she knew that the Emperor’s patience had limits. With a final curt nod, she turned and left the chamber, her robes billowing behind her as she exited.

Shaddam stood alone in the vast room, his gaze once more settling on the conflicting reports before him. The Targaryens, the Atreides, the Harkonnens—all were playing dangerous games. But in the end, Shaddam intended to be the one holding the strings. Time was running out, and soon, all the pieces would need to fall into place.

But first, he had to deal with the shadows lurking within his own empire.

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