#power as paul thinks he does . something like that ?

[haphazardlyannotated]

With how much we as a fandom discuss what will happen to John in AtN, it's kind of surprising how little I've seen on what the future has in store for Alecto. Since I already love her, I've decided that won't do. So here's a bunch of possible endings for Alecto:

1.) Alecto dies (alongside John): We know that neither of them can die while the other one is alive, so if John dies in AtN the most likely result would be that Alecto does, too. There are several ways I could see this going down. To the subsections!

1.1) The cycle of violence: Alecto is killed unwillingly as collateral damage by someone who wants John dead more than they want her alive. This ending mirrors how John killed Alecto the first time trying to get revenge on the billionaires. I really hope this doesn't happen. Not only does Alecto deserve better, it also doesn't bode well for everyone else's future.

1.2) The self sacrifice: Alecto dies willingly so John can be killed. Slightly less horrible for her than replaying the trauma of her death and birth to the letter, but still pretty damn sad. We know from Nona that Alecto at the very least has the potential to love being alive. I want her to get that chance. But at least this ending gives her some agency.

1.3) The peaceful rest: In this version Alecto wants to die. Something something necromancy as a violation of the natural order, something something everyone John wanted to keep around died 10000 years ago and his desire to hold onto them only caused everyone pain, and so on. A more bittersweet ending. However, I still struggle to believe that the entirety of Nona didn't mean anything about Alecto's will to live. Nona accepts her death, but that's for the lack of a better option. I firmly believe that Nona is still a fundamental part of Alecto and I want her to have the chance to live and be happy again. The odds of survival for Gideon don't look good in this ending either. If keeping someone alive via necromancy is meant to be categorically bad, the only way we're getting a happy ending for griddlehark is on the other shore of the river.

2. Alecto stays alive as Alecto: We know Alecto doesn't like her current body, so this goes square in the middle for me.

2.1) The survivor: I know I was just talking about how John and Alecto live or die as the world's worst package deal, but to be fair, their situation is entirely unique. There could still be some way for Alecto to survive John's death. There's an entire book left to find loopholes. Alecto would probably have some kind of feeling about whatever ends up happening to John, but I don't think we've seen enough of her yet to know what these feelings would be. Not to mention, part of her soul is stuck in John, and I suspect it's a tad optimistic to think she'd get those parts back if he died. Killing him would leave her with a literal hole in her soul. My girl deserves better. In any case, I dont think this ending is likely. It's too neat and basic for a series like tlt. And besides, why have a 'perfect' solution when it's so much more fun to make characters choose between flawed options?

2.2) The wanderer: This one's not tied to Alecto remaining in a humanoid form, but I'm putting it here anyway. This ending sees Alecto leave the Houses behind to travel the universe. Possibly with someone else. John? Paul? Pyrrha? Varun? Who knows. This ending is pretty open and feels more like a new beginning, but it's also rather hopeful. I could live with that.

2.3) The probation officer: This would be a version of events where John survives and is sentenced (by anything from court to the narrative) to some version of restorative justice. In this ending Alecto finally gets to see John use her powers the way she intended. This is basically the antithesis to the cycle of violence ending. Whoever chose this weighed saving the innocent (Alecto/humanity) against punishing the guilty (John/the billionaires) and decided that Alecto's life matters more than revenge. While I'm not entirely happy keeping Alecto in a body she hates, I think it would be an otherwise satisfying, hopeful ending for her. And hey, maybe someone can give her a necromantic makeover.

3.) Alecto lives, but not as Alecto: I don't think it's unreasonable to think that the planet who became a girl, who became a different girl and then became the first girl again might end up going through another transformation.

3.1) The Resurrection Beast: What it says on the tin. I'm not sure if Alecto technically is one already, but who says she can't turn into an eldritch being even larger than the planet she used to be? Unless this is combined with a wanderer ending (probably alongside Varun), I see this more as a temporary step that happens during the finale. In this case, I am incapable of imagining as anything other than an even messier version of the Steven Universe future finale. John being eaten by RB Alecto would also be one of the few ways I can think of to achieve a John dies, Alecto lives ending.

3.2) The planet: I feel like I'm daying 'hopeful ending' too much, so I won't do so again. It's a good one, though. I picture Alecto walking into the sea and dissolving into foam like the Hans Christian Andersen version of the little mermaid as the planet comes back to life. I like this ending a lot, not only because it would be a happy ending for Alecto (but bittersweet enough for those who loved her to still be exquisitely painful), but also promises a chance of healing for the rest of the cast.

3.3) The Paul: Short version: Alecto and John do a Paul, but since John's just a guy and Alecto is literally the world, it's not an equal fusion like, well, Paul. This post already says everything about John's side of this better than I could, but I have some additional thoughts on what it would mean for Alecto. Because part of her is in John, right? Doing a Paul would return these parts to her and (hopefully) heal the damage John did when he ate part of her and stuffed the rest in her barbie form. I think this ending has a high potential of going into the planet ending as well.

And that's all the endings I can think of right now!

For everyone who read through this entire thing, please tell me which one of these endings you're hoping for. Here's a poll!

[canadianbaguette]

The first time the meteor struck, Pokotho did not lure Paul to the starlight. His hand was never forced in the first showing. In the first showing, there was no protagonist. Pokotho had not deemed one necessary. In the repeated showings Paul would be spared so that he could be led to the Starlight, but in the first one that was not the case.

Wheras if it was always inevitable?

That was a difficult question, not because Pokotho didn’t know the answer. But because as much as the Lords consider themselves the most powerful forces in the universe (and as far as they can observe they are) just because you cannot observe something, does not mean it does not exist.

The Lords don’t like thinking about that. About the strings of fate pulled and spun that not even Webby can touch, nor Blinky can see.

The truth is, on the first showing where Paul showed up of his own will. Pokey had no idea if destroying the meteor would end the apotheosis, and as such had put his all into forcing Paul to stop.

It was his own actions that cemented his fate. And it was the fact it Was Paul’s Own Will that made it inevitable. Because it was him alone that caught the Gods eye.

Was his integrity worth anything at all?

Was the promise of joy and comfort, being special, really worth it. He could feel the Lord poking around his mind. His thoughts were not private any longer, however the connection burned both ways.

It was utterly terrifying to be known so deeply by something so beyond comprehension that his brain had to be completely rewired to even think about it without frying itself. To have that thing along the way rewrite vast swathes of who he was, turn the machinery of his thoughts against itself.

Logically, he was scared. But the reaction just didn’t go off in his brain. He knew he should be utterly terrified of the lord known for hollowing people out and turning them into empty puppets choosing him as its vessel.

He felt violated in a way that, he couldn’t feel anything other than joy and gratitude towards the Lord in his mind. That no matter how logically scared he was. His heart rate never raised, his breathing remained even, and the implications didn’t feel so bad.

Open RP:

"I swear to God if I hear another jingle or person singing in the street I'm going to lose it..."

[murphysiblings]

in these violent delights by micah nemerever, i think if they were anthropomorphic animals julian would be a housecat (obvious choice, there are even moments where he is literally described to be cat-like) & paul would be a fox . classic cat/dog pair but one of them has a prey drive

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

Thinking about Book Chani. I love what Denis did with her character, I do. But I've been wondering how a version of her might have been adapted that still follows her original storyline more or less while *also* giving her some richer and more interesting character development. There's a lot you could do with her book counterpart that would be both interesting and hm. possibly even more tragic.

Think about it. You're fifteen. Your people live underground - literally and figuratively - waiting for a saviour that may never come. Your father is revered by them, and by you. He talks about a beautiful future, and you believe him. You believe the legends, because what else is there to believe? You look out into the desert and see the oceans he's told you about, that his father told him about.

You're spirited and playful and a touch hotheaded and yes, a bit naive, but you're full of hope.

And then your father dies. Your hope almost goes with him. Your uncle takes you in, protects you. His wife mourns with you, lets you weep in secret for the first time in your life. A stranger, a foreigner fleeing the same powers trying to break your people's spirit arrives and everyone believes him to be the saviour out of legend. He can't be - but maybe he is? He's strange and melancholy and you don't fully understand him, but there's something innocent about him and his own father has just died, and you comfort each other.

Something's not quite right. There's something eerie behind all his naivety, behind the sweetness that comes out when he's with you, but you can't put your finger on it. But it doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't matter that his mother doesn't like you. It doesn't matter that they speak to each other in a language of looks when they think you can't see, that sometimes he looks at you with an elder's wisdom when he shouldn't.

It doesn't matter that there are things he doesn't tell you. You're young, and you're in love.

Your people take him in, give him a new name and whisper that he will one day lead them. His mother goes through a ritual that should kill her. She lives. They all say this makes him that saviour you'd almost lost hope for. When he's with you, he's nothing special. Maybe he is the messiah, but he's more than that. He's strange, but he's gentle with you. You want to protect him, not worship him.

His mother has a baby, the child everyone avoids. You try to befriend her, but she frightens you too. There's a moment when all three of them frighten you, when you realize how connected they are - that you will never be so connected.

He rises through the ranks, earning respect. He teaches you to fight in his own way, and you teach him yours. It's the first time you see that he can be strong, that he too can do damage. He's changing, before your eyes from an innocent boy to a solemn man. Now he's the one protecting you. That's all right. He's still vulnerable with you when you're alone. Sometimes.

He talks of freedom, of paradise, of a beautiful future. Takes the words your father used to spin as tales to get you to sleep at night, and speaks them to enraptured crowds. You look for your father's ghost in the stars at night, hoping he sees. This is good. This is right. You see him leading your people, with you at his side. You love your world - what your world can become - and you love him. You're sixteen. You're in love.

Plans get made, some of which you're part of. He doesn't want you in danger, you understand. He grows distant. Cold. You can still make him smile, though.

You get pregnant. You have a son. He plays with the strange sister, and you reluctantly let him. His father is gone for days at a time (and sometimes so are you, but there's a war being fought). You thought you knew what motherhood meant, but you didn't, and now you have a son and it frightens you. If anyone asks, you are overjoyed. His father gave the child the name of his father, but at night you whisper into his infant ear another name, a secret.

And then one day the summons come. He's done it, the ritual no man survives. Confused, angry, more afraid than you've ever been in your life, you revive him. It had to be you, his mother says. You don't understand. There's always something they know, something they aren't telling.

That doesn't change the fact that when he awakens, at your doing, you feel a drop of pride mixed in with relief (with the desire to kill him all over again). He is the saviour. He is the messiah. But you brought him back from death.

Will anyone remember that?

He rises a different man. You search for what you remember, and find only fragments. You love him anyway, because you swore to. For the first time you're in awe of him too, and you hate that, because you're supposed to be the one he's allowed to be normal with. But you can't help it.

For the first time, when he raises his voice to a crowd, you can understand why his enemies fear him. And that it's not only them he's capable of hurting if he wants.

He fights more. He leads more. You follow. You don't know what else to do, what option do you have? They call you sacred too now, and your child. He's a god to them, but to you he's still just a man and you only ever wanted to love him.

Your enemies arrive. He isn't there. There's an attack, and your son is killed, and you thought your father's death was the worst thing you'd ever felt but now you can no longer think from grief. Everything feels miles away, on some other world you can barely touch. You're not you anymore. Is this how he feels, all the time?

People lead, and you follow. You can't think. You can't feel.

You watch him take the throne. It's not real, what he is now. You tell him about your son, and he doesn't seem to care. He loves you, doesn't he? He marries another woman, but it will be you he loves, at her expense. He promises.

"You will never leave my side again," he tells you. It's a promise. It's a threat.

No one knows what to do. He's now the most powerful man in the universe, and there's talk of war and you just want to go home. You're eighteen and you're a grieving mother. You don't cry. His mother tells you you will be powerful too, and you cling to that. It's the only thing to cling to.

His orders start going through. Your people fight and die for him. Thousands die, on both sides. The number gets higher and higher. It doesn't matter, right? You're safe, at his side, in luxury you'd never imagined. He will make your world a paradise. He promised.

He avoids you at first. But you're patient, and eventually he visits you. More and more often. He loves you, he says. He can demand and intimidate and order, but not to you. Never you. He loves you.

He doesn't love his wife. Years go by, and you hardly see her. Hardly speak to her. You forget about the war, because what's the point in thinking about it? You miss your son. You miss your father. Your uncle is away on another planet, fighting men you will never see.

Years go by. The death toll rises. You don't watch.

You want another child, and at first he refuses. You ask again. He agrees to try, but doesn't meet your eyes. There are plots he doesn't tell you about, dangers he's not voicing, you know it. He still loves you more than anyone else. He becomes a man again, with you, and you live in your own hidden away box together, separate from the rest of the world. Everything is okay. You love each other.

Sometimes he lets you leave the palace, under strict guard. You long for the desert. He says it isn't safe. You want a child, and he's afraid to give you one. He talks of that green future, but it hasn't come. You want to help, to bring the water back, but there's always something else to do first, something more important.

You overhear things. You hear him fighting with his wife. You hear accounts of the things his soldiers have done on other worlds. They can't be true, the rumours. But you've seen him lead armies. You know what he's capable of.

It doesn't matter. He loves you. He protects you.

It doesn't matter that your own people are dissatisfied. That veterans return from his war scarred and disheartened. That they claim he's no better than the men he displaced, just another evil who commands them. It's not true. It's the only thing that can be true.

Your uncle returns and you don't recognize him. He talks to you in your own language, tells you of water as far as the eye can see. Worlds that are green, or blue, or white.

You look out over the desert at night, searching for your father's memory. For the first time you don't want a world the colour of mourning. You miss the desert. You miss living underground, with your father, when all these great and terrible things were only dreams.

And then assassins come. You hear about the attempts. He's left blinded, disfigured, scarred. It's the ritual all over again - he is a different man now, melancholy and angry and it's your job to bring him back. But this time you can't. You try, and he tells you he loves you again and again, but something has changed. You shouldn't care. Nothing can make you stop loving him. Nothing should.

You hear the truth. His wife has been poisoning you. You aren't a mother yet because of her. You rage and weep with no care about wasting water. You've done nothing to her, nothing to deserve this.

You beg him to tell you if he knew. You don't need to - he tells you. All this time. You ask why, and get no clear answer. But it doesn't matter, does it? You've conceived now. You'll get what you want, finally. He's known about the drugs, his people - your people - hate him for what he's done and they call you a traitor, he tells you he's done all this for you, for your safety, that he loves you. So it doesn't matter. He loves you, you're going to have his baby. It will be all right, you can forget again and be happy with him. He loves you. Nothing else matters.

Does it?

[artbyblastweave]

Something this season of Invincible has been doing that I find interesting is how it's engaging with the Superman archetype in the specific context of his role as the quote-unquote "top superhero-" what happens when "superhero" is enough of a demographic that you've got a bunch of moderately powerful ones, but then you've got one who's basically so overwhelmingly powerful compared to all the rest that from the perspective of the people in charge of planetary security, he's basically the only one who matters. There have been several subtle beats this season about how holding that position is distorting Mark's interactions with everyone around him without him even realizing- Robot leaves the Guardians not because he necessarily thinks Mark is right, but because he thinks it's important to stay on his good side. The Powerplex subplot has Scott's coworkers at the GDA expressly state that Mark is being granted infinitely more leeway by Cecil than anyone else would be, because he's their only plausible answer to the Viltrumites.

What's interesting is how they've made Rex the site of a lot of this. One of the first scenes of the season is him complaining about the needing constant adjustments to the hack-job prosthetic he was issued after the Lizard League debacle, juxtaposed against the bajillion dollar bespoke machine that was built for no purpose other than training Invincible specifically. When they go out into the field together, Rex is perfectly in his element against a single street-level opponent, but when Multipaul jumps him, Invincible has to pull his ass out of the fire via intense meatgrinder violence. It isn't a coincidence that in the same episode where (Debbie's boyfriend) Paul realizes the gulf between the impact his job has on the world and the impact that Mark and Oliver have, with Debbie assures him that it's okay to be normal- Rex gets his fatal crossing-the-Rubicon moment by refusing to retire with Rae.

Rae can read the writing on the wall here about the power scaling of the story she's in; capes like Invincible and Immortal brush off everything the world can throw at them, but she and Rex are gag characters- a couple extra bodies who, in the best case scenario, are somewhat useful to have around, and in the worst case scenario end up in the hospital for months at a time before getting stitched up and thrown back into the fray so the GDA can wring a little more utility out of them. But even though his lifestyle is very clearly going to get him killed, Rex refuses to quit because being a superhero- even a middling one- is all he has going on. He's never going to be as relevant as Invincible because he's nowhere near as powerful as Invincible, but if he doesn't keep throwing himself at the same kinds of problems Invincible does, he'd be nobody. He'd be Paul. Is being Paul worse than dying? Well, we're gonna find out in a minute

[dammit-tazmuir]

For all the things this fandom refuses to believe and chalks up to John's lies, the thing that baffles me to see so many believe without question is the idea of Perfect Lyctorhood.

Guys. Guys, there is no Perfect Lyctorhood.

Or at best, if there hypothetically could be, it's nothing we've ever seen. Paul is the closest thing and I know a lot of you would not consider Paul perfect. John did not achieve Perfect Lyctorhood, and it wasn't even his idea to claim he did. A quarter of NtN extensively details that he didn't.

The old Lyctors didn't know what Alecto was. John definitely told them more than he would have liked to, because of course she doesn't lie and is too obviously inhuman to hide it fully. But if they knew everything, Mercy wouldn't doubt that Alecto ever had a genetic code; she would know she didn't, or that any genes she might've had were made from John's own blood and bone.

Because they didn't know what she actually was or what actually happened (foreshadowed too by Mercy's "if you had lied about anything else" lines, when actually he did), they drew the wrong conclusion. They assumed something different in his process allowed Alecto to persist. But we now know the truth is that Alecto was simply too big to consume. She didn't die because she was already limitless. This will never apply to another human. But he lets them believe their conclusion because he thinks it's better and easier to talk his way out of than them figuring out the real truth.

It does remain possible that Anastasia and Samael were genuinely on the cusp of that breakthrough, but I honestly doubt it. That was another conclusion drawn by the Lyctors as a follow-up to the previous wrong one, and when John answers, he visibly hesitates. It feels like he's once again going, "....Sssure, yes, let's go with that." I don't know what Samael and Anastasia WERE on the verge of. Maybe they would have become gestalt like Paul, and the possibility of just one dying was why Pal begged Cam "don't look back", and John was afraid of the power they'd achieve (could Paul have greater thalergy than a normal Lyctor?) and/or of just the others seeing a different process and getting mad at him.

AND/OR, ACTUALLY? Especially if their attempt was one of the earlier ones (around the middle rather than the end), but even if it wasn't: I think a Paul situation has a STRONG possibility of being exactly what happened. John's most outright lies are usually the ones other people tell that he just nods along with. When it's from himself, if it's not feigned incompetence, he usually goes for half-truths and misleading truths. He says Anastasia panicked halfway through and if he hadn't stepped in they would have both died. I think it's very possible that John panicked halfway through as he realized what they were doing, and that it's genuinely true they would have both died— in the same way Camilla and Palamedes both died, to create someone new.

And we know how much John hates change. How desperately John needs to keep his specific people close. What are the odds he was so afraid of losing both of them and being left with a new person he didn't know, couldn't predict, and couldn't easily control with them having a whole Lyctor's power and maybe more? Especially if Cyth and Loveday, Cassy and Nigella, Cyrus and Valancy, Ulysses and Titania, maybe even G1deon and Pyrrha— if any others hadn't undergone the process yet, and there was a chance they'd see Samastastia and decide that was the path they wanted too. If he thought this meant he might lose all his friends instead of only the less favored half.

Either way, though, based on everything we know, there is no simple soul swap that results in dual immortality. Even John and Alecto involve a fusion of megasoul. "You and she are one." (This is also likely how a seemingly real facet of John could talk to Harrow in Alecto's dream.) And we've seen through NtN, the soul longs for the body. The body longs for the soul. A body housing a different soul doesn't last long, even when those souls ARE semi connected. A body even temporarily renting space to a foreign soul is a massive strain, like Cam carrying Pal.

Lyctorhood inherently involves death and consumption and acting against nature. It is the indelible sin. It's possible that Grand Lysis avoids that sin by making it about mutual death, about giving instead of taking, but it's still bittersweet at best. I highly doubt we're going to see a perfect solution that fixes everything, at least via more necromancy, because that's not the kind of series this is. It's messy, beautiful in its flaws, embracing the understanding that life is change and things can never be exactly as they were, and can rarely be exactly what you want, and letting go and moving on are necessary parts of life eventually.

Don't misunderstand! I do think Gideon will either be resurrected (perhaps the last true one ever) or there will be another way for her and Harrow to happily be together. In Gideon's case, there was nothing natural about her death, and the decision to say "no" is a rejection of the system that led to it.

I just also think the odds of rewriting the laws of life and death entirely are more likely than Lyctorhood But With No Consequences. It always has consequences. There is no Perfect Lyctorhood, but there's something good on the horizon, whatever form it takes. After all...

"There are more worlds than this. Come with us. We are the love that is perfected by death, but even death will be no more. Death can also die. There's still time, Ianthe. Time for you and for Naberius Tern."

[ghostgirl101]

I just wanna say that I am SO excited for the part 2 to your Paul Destiny fic. I have so many questions and Im excited to see if they get answered. Like if Paul is pledging his love to the reader then is the romance plot with Chani still relevant? Is the reader still the princess here? Very interesting

Imagine if Paul Atreides claimed you as his destiny: PART Ⅱ of Ⅱ

|| Word Count: 1.7K || Fluff ||

A/N: Honestly, I didn't think this would blow up so much- 1k+ likes??! Thank you all, it's sick 🙃 in answer to your questions, I didn't really specify if the reader (you) are part of a Great House or the Emperor's daughter, or maybe someone else, that's kind of up to your imagination. And yeah, sorry Chani fans, I kind of kicked her to the curb lmao; This is all about you, and so enjoy the second and final part of this destiny trope before I work on some relationship headcanons for Paul and Feyd-Rautha... Requests are open for Dune 2, so don't be shy 📩

You can't escape fate.

It's as real as the Spice that threads through the grains of sand blanketing Arrakis in heavy, warm golden waves. It twists and turns in the air, in the tides of change, something beyond understanding roping together reality and its lives to bond, whether in love or hate.

At least, with the newly ascended young Emperor, you know which side you're on. Since the day of his declaration and claiming of you as his Empress, you've never once left his sight, unknowingly or not. The boy is almost ridiculously close and observant, as if testing the depths of the events unfolding around him, testing to see whether you'll try to run from them, from him. But you can't run from fate, either.

"You aren't resting."

Paul's soft, low voice slices through the silence of the dusk, the only words you hear before you feel his warm, firm arms slipping under your arms and around your middle, pulling you into his front in a smooth, protective motion. His chocolate brown locks tickle your neck and cheek as he gazes up at you from your shoulder; wandering, curious eyes study yours knowingly, his natural hues tainted blue with the Spice.

"What troubles you?"

You hesitate in your response, unsure of the right thing to say. There's no point in lying, not to him, to a boy who could easily use the power of his Voice to make you tell him everything and anything with just a few words. He's done it to the Bene Gesserit, to those who speak out of turn and challenge him cluelessly, but never to you. And something tells you that he never will.

"I'm sorry," is how you answer instead, in a small whisper, trying to read his expression before his reaction.

But all Paul does is give you one of his soft, amused smirks, a brow raising slightly, unconvinced.

"Don't apologise to anyone for anything," he murmurs, his fingers drifting to lock with yours, his hand hot and strong in yours. "We are to be wed, you and I, soon. So what troubles you?"

"It's not you," you tell him as earnestly as you can, his eyes capturing yours and holding them as you blink up at him. "I'm just... nervous."

"Nervous?" Paul repeats gently, his hands squeezing yours for a moment, his face an inch away from yours. "What have you to be nervous about?" He grins slightly, not attempting to hide his teasing amusement. "A wedding?"

You can't help but smile at his tone, savouring the unguarded moments of the new, young Emperor, his boyish traits lingering beneath the newfound power and promises passed down to him.

You were nervous, because you weren't so familiar with destiny and its quirks, and yet, Paul Atreides seemed to be its master. Nervous, because although there was a strange pull between you and him, a deeper part of you somehow knowing him, at an instinctive ease with him, you had never met him before these past few days, and now, you were going to be joined together for time indefinite by marriage. Nervous, because he didn't just want you to rule with him, but alongside him, as a partner, a second part of him. His second half who's with him in soul, not just spirit, physically, not just mentally. And he's relishing in it.

"I've never had one before," you shake your head with a light smile, "I don't know what to expect. Or what's expected of me."

Paul hums to himself at your reply, pausing for a while as he thinks over his words.

"It isn't just a wedding," he tells you quietly, "it's so much more. This... this a beginning. A new dawn."

"Beginning?" You echo in bemusement, looking up at him in wonder. "Of what?"

"Of a new era," Paul says thoughtfully, his hands moving from yours to run over and down your sides, tracing over your figure absentmindedly, a gesture that makes you hold your breath for a beat as you watch him, "the first of many. You are more than a mere future. You're the future. My future. And the future of my people."

The sincerity and conviction in his voice makes you stare back at him in slight awe, taken by his certainty of what he's seen in the deepest stretches of his mind, the flickering images of you, adorned in all your natural beauty and grace that he could find nothing short of perfect. You were a fantasy and a hope materialised. Someone he'd wished and dreamed for so much, that you came true, just as you should have.

"Anything that happens to you," Paul continues, looking you straight in the eye as he speaks, "happens to me. You have always been mine, and I was yours before then. Absolutely and completely."

And his words make a home in your head, everything he says so poetic and beautifully surreal, but so honest and unwaveringly confident. He didn't need to practise what he said before he whispered the sweet words in your ear, in a voice only you could catch, in the long, warm nights on Arrakis. There was no need for practice. He had been made for this, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

You let yourself relax slightly in his grips, giving him an earnest smile. "That sounds nice."

Paul smiles back at you, a bright, sweet smile that makes him seem so soft and normal, almost forgetting for a moment of his utter strength and glory over the planets, his dangerous darkness that he occasionally allowed to rule over his actions at the tensest of times, until those who stood up against him retreated in bewilderment and fascination and fear.

"It does," he agrees, his gaze dropping to look out at the dunes beyond you, "you can't imagine..."

You couldn't. But every part of you wanted to. And those parts won.

"Won't you tell me?"

Paul's attention shifts back to you after you speak, before you can stop yourself.

"Would it be kind to tell you?" He asks aloud, speaking half to himself as his eyes go to search yours again, studying every inch of you, almost unsettlingly intently.

"Do you dream?" Paul questions you softly, and you dither before shaking your head.

"Not like you do," you answer steadily.

"Like I do. Seeing your face amidst the streaks of sunbeams and every kind of ethereal power that could create wonders, planets, worlds. Waking up, and you're not here, though it felt so real," he goes on, his voice laced with longing, as if it pained him to remember the feeling. "Realer than I've ever felt anything before. Every sense in me was awakened, because with destiny, I saw hope. And I did not know that hope could be so.... beautifully... angelic."

Paul draws closer and closer with each word, pulled by invisible strings to rest his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long moment to breathe, breathe you in. The sight of it is almost dizzyingly hypnotic, staring at the little scattered freckles over his fair, lightly tanned skin, cheeks flushed golden. He moves his face to rub his cheek against yours, seeking out affection in an irresistible rare, vulnerable move. Your hand reaches up to brush your fingers against it, and he takes it in his immediately, pressing his lips against your fingertips as he speaks.

"I need you," Paul insists, his voice firm and pressing again as he stares at you with a spark of desperation. "I need only you. More than you can comprehend. By my side, always, where you belong."

"I'm right here," you reply a little giddily, looking away from his eyes slightly bashfully from the intensity and unbridled longing of his gaze. "I suppose I'm just not used to this."

"To what?" Paul questions, his fingers tilting your chin up softly to force your eyes back up to his, his face a little closer than before. "To being an Empress?"

Before you can respond, he's pushed himself closer over you, his warm, damp lips sliding and pressing against yours and parting to encourage you to deepen his affections. It sends hot shockwaves rushing straight through your blood, as Paul crouches over you, all patience and purpose forgotten in the moment where it's just the two of you in the calm, lingering desert night.

You fit together perfectly, too perfectly for his words to be untrue, and his head tilts keenly where your fingers skim his neck, his lips parting from yours as they tangle in his hair with a short gasp. He loses none of his confidence and persistence, his azure blue eyes a shade darker as he watches you with an open trace of adoration.

"A queen?"

"Paul," you start shakily, as he smirks at you fondly, his head ducking to trace his tongue briefly up the skin of your neck, with a faint chuckle.

"To being desired?"

You glare at him weakly, hanging onto his hands tight to find some sense of grounding. "You're just playing with me."

"I intend to do so much more than that," Paul grins at you, kissing your cheek before burying his face against your shoulder. "And so should you. Test the depths of our connection. Push it to its limits. Push me. Please."

You find yourself speechless again at his way with words, simple and truthful, but full of passion and unthought romance, a sensation he's been craving since the first shadows of your being in his hazy dreams and visions.

"Give into your destiny, sweet girl," he croons to you in a whisper, his lips brushing against yours and pressing down against your skin needily, hungrily. It takes almost inhumane strength not to crumble and shiver under his touch and desire radiating off him and his dark glare, the wanting over years of dreams and prophecies building up to its peak. "Give into me."

"I think I will," you whisper back in awe and giddiness, your arms having to hold tightly around his neck to stay upright. "I think I want to."

"That's good," he praises you with a soft smile, as his voice lowers. "And besides," Paul mutters in your ear, nuzzling against your cheek breathlessly, with that subtle, teasing look in his eyes, "I plan on taking you as mine well before the wedding."

══════════════⊹⊱≼ fin ≽⊰⊹══════════════

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to this for my future Dune fanfics): @minaxcarter @milaeth @ennycutie @weird0o0 @aoi-targaryen @jindongdongie

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

In all seriousness, I do find the stark contrast in the perceived power dynamic between John and Paul one of the most fascinating things.

Not to bring this interview back but his fucking face here is sending me into the outter stratosphere

[gremlingottoosilly]

okay now i need mafia!könig as a dad and him enjoying his son so much that he fills you up with another😋😋

At least you have nannies and servants to help with his son. Little Paul is a menace even at his young age - and it doesn't help that his father seems to have grown feral as soon as he learned about the pregnancy. It's like a light switch was turned on - it's like everything he wished for, in the form of one small human and his mother. If you think your mafia husband was possessive before, never allowing you to leave his side without a few dozen bodyguards, some more hidden than the others, you knew nothing. It was already three or four months spent without going out for anything - and with servants tending to your son, you've grown bored. Pliant. Paul is breastfed mostly on your whim since you want at least something to do before chirping nannies will go flocking to take him to play. You can't even play with him without a couple of servants trying to get him out of your hands just so you could "rest and prepare yourself for his daddy". You hate having nothing to do - and you hate having Konig fawn over you like your body isn't covered in stretch marks and like remaining pregnancy hormones are not ready to choke him with your bare hands. Konig presses his face against your tummy, now empty - and he whispers how much he'd love to fill it up with his seed again. The doctor advised against having back-to-back pregnancies, judging by how big Paul was and how taxing it was on your body - but Konig just kisses you over and over again. Promises to get you the best medical treatment, whispering how it's fine, he can afford to have multiple children. How much he wants to give your son a baby sister to adore or a baby brother to take care of. You can't force Konig out when he is like this - your baby is in the other room, with his favorite nannies, and your husband is proving that with enough fucking per day, you just wouldn't have time for postpartum depression. Konig can't breed you quite right now, but he does everything in his power to make you remember how nice it was to be filled to the brim, and how much he wants to repeat it. The night always ends with you on your back, begging for his cock - and with him finally fucking you, treating your body like it's made of glass. You never thought that Konig would have such a soft spot for children, but he allows his son to crawl all over him when he gets older, and you have to physically remove baby from his arms or else Konig would just allow him to go to every criminal meeting - and you want to save his innocence for as long as possible. Until, at least, he is old enough to ask why mommy is never allowed outside.

[bloodibambiidoll]

Her Emperor, His Destiny

(Alpha!Paul Atreides x Omega!BeneGesserit!Reader)

Summary: Ever since Paul presented no omega has smelled remotely appealing to him. His only reprieve is his dreams that have been filled with nothing but an angelic voice calling out to him, the silhouette of a woman he can’t quite make out, and the sweetest saccharine smell. Wk: 3.2k

Warnings: General omegaverse behaviors, knotting, scenting, marking, breeding, Paul and reader are a soul bound pair, inappropriate use of the voice(by both Paul & Reader) , fluff, kinda love making? Idk this is much softer than my usual smut. I think that’s it, lmk if I missed any!! 18+MNDI!!

A/N: Listen… I know this is left field for me but I made a promise to myself that I would start writing for ME again, and that means writing whatever I want. I saw Dune 2 and I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. Paul is so alpha coded I feel like it was dropped in my lap.

Paul expected the air to be different, smell different, out in the desert planes of Arkkis. Thus far it’s as he expected. The smell of spice and sand permeate the air to the point that it’s over powering, flooding every single one of your senses. The sand lingers on any inch of exposed skin practically borrowing its way underneath. The smell of spice is so strong that it feels like it’s drowning you, invading your lungs and nostrils, coating them, leaving your insides feeling like sandpaper if you dare breathe it in.

But as he follows Stilgar into the sietch he can’t even be bothered with the glares and sideways glances from the Freman because the further they walk the more his senses are hit with an overwhelmingly saccharine smell. It was like someone was baking the finest pastry mixed with a warm milk bath on a cold winter's day. He had only ever smelled something as sweet as this in his dreams. A scent he’s dreamed of so vividly that it lingered in his nostrils when he woke, but he’s never caught a whiff of it in waking hours until now. There was no doubt in his mind that this is the same scent. The scent that’s haunted him every night since he presented. The scent of his omega, his destined mate.

“I can hear and smell you scenting back there, Paul Atreides… I suggest you get your pheromones under control before we enter.” Stilgar looks back at him with an apprehensive look and Paul apologizes nodding in agreement. “Mating is a very sacred thing to my people. Each pair must be approved and blessed by the high priestess. And all unmated omegas rooms are on the opposite side of the alphas. It is very important that you follow all rules, but especially this one. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.” He understood the rule but does that mean he was going to follow it? He could certainly try. But that scent was intoxicating and the closer they got to the sietch the stronger it got. He knows given the chance, he’d break that rule in an instant. Consequences be damned.

“Many wait for their soul bound mate and majority of them die alone, never finding the one.” Paul found this odd. Soul bounds are few and far between nowadays and he comes from a place where mating is a transaction, a bargain, something of power and not of love. But as that sugary sweet scent swirls around him, almost making him dizzy, he thinks he might understand wanting to wait for your one. It’s been a few years now since he presented and no omega has ever smelled even remotely appealing to him. They either smelled of nothing or downright revolting, his only reprieve was in his dreams. His dreams filled with that sugary smell and the figure of a woman whose face he could never quite make out.

When Stilgar pulled his mother aside Paul found himself alone in a room filled with stares. Some looked at him in awe, certain he was their long awaited Maud’Dib. Others looked at him with disdain, snickering to each other as they shamelessly pointed his way. But he honestly wasn’t concerned with any of it, because as he sat against the stony wall the scent was stronger than ever. He could almost taste it. His eyes searched the room, craving nothing more than to put a face to the smell that has nearly become his drug. But as he looked across the various faces surrounding him, no one stuck out to him.

But he was certain she was in this room, if not this one than the next. That warm saccharine scent was so close it was as if it were right next to him. That’s when he feels a tap on his shoulder, causing him to jump. Either this person was stealthy or he was so lost in thought he didn’t hear them approaching but when his head whips around to see who it is he feels like his heart is going to burst. He hears the sound of bells ringing, a sound that he’s only heard in the churches back home. There standing over him is the most ethereal woman he’s ever seen, beautiful, perfect, sweet smelling, you.

“Hello, Paul Atreides, I’ve been waiting for you.” You smile down at him sweetly, your eyes filled with adoration. You aren’t dressed like the Fremen, no tans or browns or stillsuit to be found. A black silky dress adorns your form, fitting you perfectly. There’s a sheer midnight colored scarf wrapped around your head and shoulders, framing your face like the greatest work of art. You weren’t Fremen. You were a Bene Gesserit. Or at the very least, one in training.

“I think… I’ve been waiting for you too.” Paul’s voice is trance-like, looking up at you like you hung all the stars in the sky. The sound of the voice you’ve heard so many times in your slumber sending chills down your spine.

“Won’t you come with me? I have so much to tell you.” You look at him eagerly, offering him your danity ringed hand.

“I don’t know if I’m… supposed to…” He wants nothing more than to follow you. He would follow you into one of the suns of Arakkis if you asked him to. But he knew he was already on thin ice here and he feared what would happen to him and his mother if he were to upset anyone further.

“Do not bother with them, they will see the way. They will see what I’ve seen. Soon they will be cheering your name. Come.”

Paul scans the room, all eyes are on the two of you but when he looks back at your reassuring smile it’s like no one else matters, no one else exists. He takes your hand, letting you pull him along through hallways and far away from prying eyes. You drag him into a room that he assumes is yours, shutting the door behind you.

“Have you dreamt of me, Paul?” You sit on the bed and pull the scarf from your head, leaning back on your palms. You look so beautiful and the room is engulfed in your scent. It clings to every inch of the space and radiates off of you in waves.

“Yes… have you dreamt of me?” He takes an apprehensive step toward you, leaving a few feet of distance between the two of you. His green eyes feel as if they’re eating you alive and the scent of him causes slick to rush into your panties.

“Yes, every night since I presented as an omega my dreams have been filled with nothing but you. And more recently I’ve had visions of you in my waking hours. Will you tell me, Paul, about your dreams?” Your voice is as sweet as your scent. The way you’re leaning back on your hands makes the silk of your dress taunt against your breasts, your peaked nipples on display. The sight of you and the unmistakable smell of your slick makes his cock stir in his pants.

“They aren’t very vivid… mostly just flashes of you from behind, the sound of your voice, you were always saying ‘come to me Paul, for I am your destiny’ but your scent? That was so clear to me.” He takes another step forward, reaching a hand out as if he’s going to touch you but he lets it fall to his side, like he thought better of it. “I didn’t know it was possible to have a sense of smell in your dreams, but night after night I was surrounded by your scent as I slept.”

“I could smell you as well and I smelled you the minute you arrived. But my dreams are much more detailed than yours. There is much you do not know.” You approach him, closing the small distance between you. You rest your hands on his chest, looking up at him with hooded eyes. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”

“I’d love nothing more, omega.” His thumb gently caresses the apple of your cheek before traveling down to push some of your hair off your shoulder. He’s looking down at you expectantly, eagerly waiting for you to speak.

“Your dreams are correct, I am your destiny, and you are mine. I can feel the doubt in your heart, feel that you do not believe in yourself, do not believe that you are the Maud’Dib but you are, sweet Paul. For I have seen it.”

“Tell me? What have you seen?” He searches your eyes for signs of doubt or deceit but all he sees is truth there. Truth and the same adoring look you gave him when he first saw you.

“I’ve seen you learning the ways of the Fremen. I’ve seen you move them, rally them. I’ve seen a battle in which you win. I’ve seen you upon the emperor's throne, ruling over all, with me by your side, our child in my arms.” Your hands travel from his chest to take his face in your soft palms where you rub soothing circles on his temples.

“You saw… all of that?” Paul’s voice sounded exasperated, like what you’ve told him took all the breath from his lungs. He feels like it has. The finality and bluntness in which you speak tell him that your words are true.

“Yes, and more. There will be plenty of time to tell you about it all. But right now? I need you.” Right as the words leave your mouth a gush of slick drips down your legs. The presence of your mate triggering your heat weeks early.

“Tell me what you need, omega.” His voice drops an octave, taking on that deep alpha tone. It makes your heart speed up as another gush of slick drips from your core. You can’t help but think what it would be like if he used The Voice on you. Regularless of how absolutely blasphemous that would be considered.

“I need you, alpha. I need your cock. I need you to fill me up and lock your seed inside me with your knot.” Paul lets out a growl before reaching out, one hand gripping onto your hip to pull you flush against him and the other going to the back of your neck so he could connect his lips with your own.

The kiss starts off rough, eager, and hungry. But after a few moments his lips become tender against your own, his fingers threading through your hair as his tongue swipes across your bottom lip. You grant him access, immediately intertwining his tongue with your own, moaning at the taste of him.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, my moon. Ask for it and it is yours.” He kisses down your jaw to your throat where he runs the tip of his nose along your scent gland, inhaling deeply. “You wish for me to make love to you? Then I shall.”

Paul pushes the thin straps of your satin dress down your shoulders, kissing along the column of your throat, your collar bones, across your shoulders. You drop your arms so the straps fall the rest of the way down, the dress slipping down your body with them. Leaving you bare before him aside from the thin black material of your panties.

“Absolutely beautiful, angelic.” He runs the back of his hand down your cheek, your jaw, your neck, all the way down until his back knuckles are caressing the tender peaks of your nipples. He slides it across your chest, giving the other the same treatment before taking both of your tits in his hands. He gently squeezes them, pinching your hardened nipples between his fingers, eliciting little whimpers from you.

“I heard your mother has been teaching you our ways. How is your training?” Paul raises an eyebrow at you, certainly wondering why you’re asking him about that at a time like this. “I only ask because I was wondering if you might want to practice on me.”

“Do you mean…?” He looks at you with wide eyes and you smirk, biting your lip.

“That’s exactly what I mean. I can feel your apprehension, don’t be afraid, I want this.” You lean into him, smashing his hands that are still on your chest between your bodies as you lean up to you run your nose along his scent gland, darting your tongue out to taste the sweat and spice that coat his skin. He grabs onto your shoulders, pushing you back so he can look in your eyes, searching for any signs of doubt. But as every other time he’s looked in your eyes tonight, he’s seen nothing but honesty there. Nothing but truth.

“Get on the bed on your back. Spread your legs.” Your body immediately reacts, doing exactly as he asks. Paul approaches the foot of the bed, standing between your spread legs. “That’s a good girl.”

His hands grip onto your knees, pushing your legs further apart, leaning down to shove his face between your legs. His nose runs along the soaked material of your panties, deeply inhaling the sugary sweet smell of your slick.

“Alpha, please.”

“You do not have to beg, my moon. I’m going to give you exactly what you want.” Paul smirks up at you before lacing his fingers into the band of your panties and ripping them in half. He runs his tongue up your slit, circling it around your sensitive clit. The feeling of his hot wet mouth has you coming undone instantly, your slick gushing all over his chin and down his neck where it drips onto his shirt. He moans at the taste, sweeter than anything that’s ever graced his taste buds. “Yes, that’s my good little omega, give it all to me, let me drink in your sweet nectar.”

He dives back in, shoving his tongue as deep into your pussy as it can go, fucking you with it. His lips come up to wrap around your clit while his fingers circle your dripping entrance. He runs his fingers through your folds before shoving them knuckle deep inside of you.

“Oh fuck! I’m going to cum again, I’m gonna cum.” You move your hips against his face as he curls his fingers against your sweet spot, your legs clamp around his head and your entire body shakes as your high washes over you. Paul pushes himself up from the bed, ridding himself of his clothes before climbing back over to you, situating himself on top of you with his hands on either side of your head. His hard cock is resting against your lower stomach, the tip leaking precum onto your skin.

“I want to taste you too.” You run your fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. You didn’t even care that the ache between your legs wouldn’t be satiated until he was inside you, you needed to taste him.

“Next time. I need to be inside you now.” It comes out a soft whisper, his forehead resting against your own. He reaches between your bodies, taking his cock in his hand and lining it up with your entrance. He connects his lips with your own, kissing you passionately as he begins to push inside you. You both moan as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your own. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, slipping your tongue into his mouth as his thrusts begin to pick up.

“Mmm you feel amazing, my love, my lord, my emperor.” Paul looks into your eyes as he continues to fuck you at a linguid pace, rolling his hips against your own as he pushes himself as deep inside you as possible.

“My moon, my destiny.” He picks up the pace, pushing up on his knees and wrapping your legs around his hips. Your tits jiggle with every thrust, the fucked out love sick gaze that you send his way makes his skin even hotter.

“I want you to fill me up, alpha. Fill me with your cum. Put a pup in me. So we can fulfill our prophecy.” Paul snakes a hand between the two of you, connecting his thumb with your clit so he can rub circles on it in time with his thrusts.

“Open your mouth.” The sound of him using The Voice makes your walls clench around him, your jaw dropping open at his command. He leans down, letting the spit that had collected in his mouth drip down into your tongue. “Swallow it.”

You swallow with an audible gulp. Your heart warming at the gesture that anywhere else would be considered lewd but here on Arakkis to share one’s sacred spit with another was a grand gesture of love.

“Thank you, my love. You taste better than the finest feast. I cannot wait to know what your cum tastes like.” Paul groans at that, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. His thrusts start to grow sloppy but he refuses to finish before you do.

“Cum for me.” As soon as the words leave his mouth your walls are convulsing around him, sucking him as your slick soaks his cock.

“Mark me, Paul. Sink your teeth into my flesh and bind us together as we are meant to be.” You tug on his arms, pulling his upper half so it’s draped over you, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts become slow and deep again, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you.

“But Stilgar said…” He groans, using every ounce of strength in his body to not just sink his teeth into your soft neck.

“I do not care what Stilgar said. This is bigger than him. Bigger than all of them. Mark me.” His mouth moves before his mind can process what’s happening, his teeth sinking deep into your flesh, breaking the skin. The feeling is like nothing you’ve ever felt. Electricity washes through your body, the most world altering orgasm of your life wracks through you, and you feel like your soul leaves you, connecting with Paul’s before returning to your earthly vessel. He pushes his hips flush against yours, ropes of his cum spilling inside you.

“Oh fucking shit.” Paul groans, pulling his mouth from your neck, gliding his tongue over the indents of his teeth. He leans back to look at you, eyes roaming your face. His knot swells inside of you and a look of pain crosses your features before turning into one of ecstasy. Loud moans leave your lips as your final orgasm of the night washes over you. Paul leans down, connecting his lips with yours, kissing you like it’s the last thing he will ever do. Though it was far from it.

“I hope you are not upset with me, Maud’Dib.” You take his face in your hands, running the top of your nose along his cheek.

“I don’t think I could ever be upset with you, my love. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on when you used The Voice on me…” he chuckles, resting his forehead against your own. “I am so happy I finally found you…”

“You have me now, until the day I take my last breath I will belong to you, Paul Atreides. Together, we will accomplish great things.”

[thedansemacabres]

On Helpol tumblr there has been some discourse on the worship of Ares and it is completely justified for a personal practice why someone would not honour him. However, though, I would enjoy to bring up points from history on a reconstruction angle on why to worship Ares. I appreciate the critical examination into who and what we worship—we should be more critical of stately portrayals of the divine and understand ancient politics less we reconstruct something wretched. These points are sourced from Cults and sanctuaries of Ares and Enyalios: A survey of the literary, epigraphic, and archaeological evidence by Matthew Paul Gonzales.

It is deeply historically attested, for anyone thinking that it was not. The anti-Ares classical sentiment can be traced back to WWII for reasons that do not need explaining. The emphasis on his pathetic myths also partially stem from this.

Ares was and is deeply concerned with justice and Dike is described as his lead. He is shown as the blood vengeance in particular, which still does have modern importance—many of us endorse the guillotine. This could inspire modern worshippers to take to action for causes to support good, justice, and love in their communities. Love and war, mayhaps?

He is also connected to peace and restraining violence alongside war-like desires. This is depicted in the homeric hymnal.

Ares is also close to defending land, especially that of floral and agricultural bounty: he is often positioned with fertility goddesses, such as Aphrodite, Despoina, and Cybele.

He is a vengeful protector, when people are wronged or land is stolen and waged against. Athens used this for defending their land—chaining Ares to the land meanings bringing in his power to serve you and your land’s interests. I do not endorse the usage of this to support oppressive regimes, but it could be adapted in a more liberation focused fashion.

Through Ares, some facets of prosperity is given, and I do not take it as a coincidence he is paired with Athena, who directs while Ares rushes.

Worship is also used to avoid conditions; Apollon to keep the plague away, Ares to keep war and strife away, such as his homeric hymn entails.

Courage is also stated to be a condition he gifts.

Lastly, I find it of vast importance to establish modern ideas of gods that are honest to the historical record and finds fluidity in them. Gods can change and they can be discussed with. Perhaps this is my Roman pagan influences, but we can influence and argue with the gods on points we believe in—for justice and ultimate good, as Zeus does mandate divine justice. We can show Ares, more than he already knows and has, the importance of supporting the revolutionary, and we can invoke his power in fighting for the sovereignty of nature. I am also personally fond of the feminist interpretations of him, and while not likely accurate to history, we should be adapting and developing with the gods in the modern period. Ares as a symbol of violently defending women against patriarchy is ripe for expression and movement, though not without due issues.

We should be striving towards ultimate good and Ares’ power in the modern era, with a modern lens, can continue to give weight to this pursuit. If he can encourage us and take a stand against the machismo ideas of “spartan” ideals that dudebros often have, we can make beneficial cultural changes. The gods do not just belong to history, they are history, and Historia is here to inspire and defeat us at every turn. 

I will say my dea Bellona is more of the historical revolution divinity that people want. She has a lot more of the epigraphic record to support this, but nonetheless, there are many reasons to honour Ares outside of war. Especially in his connections to nature and fertility, which strikes my heart happily as a sustainable agriculturalist. If it is Ares that can motivate more Hellenic pagans to embrace liberation and revolutionary ideas, that is something to preserve.

And regardless, if I can worship Ker without expecting much benefit, we can easily worship a god that is not literal murder. 

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt. 2

a/n: re-uploaded cause tumblr wouldn't show it in the tags for some reason Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con, Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atriedes, Horny Violence, and some angsty family relations (lmao)

Summary: The courting becomes more and more complicated, as both you and the Na-Baron discover something about each other.

Part.1, Part 3. Part 4.(finale)

- He's a beast.

Lady Jessica stops in her tracks, her hands sliding gently across the fabric of your nightgown. It's your Mother, that puts it out on the table next to your bed. But the person, who turns back towards you with an unreadable expression, is most definitely not her. You're talking to a Bene Gesserit sister now. A freezing chill runs up your spine, and you start picking at the skin around your fingernails, a nervous habit you've picked up a long time ago.

- Have you forgotten all that I have taught you? - she asks, turning to face you fully, in the dimly lit space of your bedroom

Subconsciously you retreat into yourself, body leaning further away from her, as if that distance might save you from whatever unpleasant revelation will most likely fall upon you. Lady Jessica takes a deep breath, her lips pulling back into an easy, soothing smile. In the past, you would look for expressions such as this, fish them out for comfort. Now, as you look upon your Mother's face, it all seems to be a trap made specifically for you.

- Men like him, beastly men, are the weakest ones - she explains, taking slow steps towards your hunched form - They need the power and the blood to feel worthy of existing, which makes them easy to manipulate. Keep them pliant under your hands like fresh dough. 

She sits beside you, your mattress dipping under her weight, and your eyes are immediately drawn to your Mother's elegant hands, folded neatly in her lap. You wish you could put your head there. Have her pull your running thoughts out with gentle caresses. A hairbrush lays abandoned on the vanity in front of you, and silently you contemplate, whether you'll ever have the opportunity to have your hair brushed by her. 

- You must find his weakness, what drives him to do what he does. And then control it.

- I don't want to control my husband - the words spill out of your lips, before you have the chance to stop them - I want to love him, to support him. To give him children he'll love, children I'll love. 

Tears fall in heavy waterfalls down your cheeks. You haven't had the luxury of a good cry since your betrothed had arrived, and it feels divine. Letting your body shake and shiver, wrecked by uninhibited sobs, as your Mother looks down upon you, torn between the two roles she must fulfill. 

The more you've thought about your situation, the more hopeless you felt. The Harkonnens will never let you see your family again, you're sure of it. You'll have to deal with all the horrors of Giedi Prime entirely on your own, with no support from your husband, no friends, no family. And your children, as they are sure to come, will be taken away from you. Thrown into the black and white, until there's no love left in them. 

The Emperror is a cruel man, you think. An execution would've been a kinder end. 

- Why did you have to make me a Daughter? - the way your voice breaks in desperation fills you with shame - Why couldn't you give Father another Son?

You know you've overstepped, as soon as the accusatory tone registers in your brain. It is far too late by then, and the hands, which just moments before you've fantasized about running through your hair, grip you tightly. Your Mother's face, a constant image of beauty, twists into something darker, something you don't recognize, and you gasp, as her dull fingernails dig into the skin of your wrist.

- Your Father has Paul - her voice is barely above a whisper, blue eyes stabbing you with the intensity of her gaze - I gave him a son, because he asked for a son. Because I loved him enough to give him one. And he can have him. He can fill him with lessons of male leadership, of short-sighted plans. You. You are my Daughter. You are mine, and I've trained you well enough to conquer this task.

A hopeless pit settles itself in the void of your stomach.

You've always known your destiny would be to marry well, to further House Atreides' legacy. And yet, somehow, there was a sliver of hope, treacherously worming itself into your brain. Your Father had Paul, the perfect heir. Surely, he could send him off for the greater good and leave you to your own devices. Let you find someone to care for you, someone you'd do anything for. The thought sits in the pit of your stomach, turning your insides in shame. Still, you can't shake the sinking feeling, that if the universe was kind, you would've been born a Son. 

Your Mother, or more likely, the Bene Gesserit, stands up, a cold chill filling the space where her body used to sit. She regards you once, a stern, unwavering gaze.

- Wear black tomorrow.

Perhaps, you'll die in your sleep tonight. Perhaps the universe will bring you this small mercy.

*** Perhaps you did die. 

Through the haze of dreams, you can see him. Bare, as the day he was born, body gleaming white in the darkness of your room.

You can't move, can't see his face, and when he approaches, every single one of your muscles tense. You shift under the covers, cold tendrills of fear engulfing you entirely. He comes closer, moves like a wild cat, stands at the foot of your bed. 

The need to run is overwhelming, but your body refuses to listen, as slowly, torturously slowly, he climbs on top of you, defined muscles moving under his skin in a way that reminds you of some cursed demon, rather than a man. His scent fills your nostrils, a mixture of something heady and metalic, and, like a little child scared of the dark, you try to hide your face under the covers. 

This demon version of your betrothed sits down, sculpted thighs squeezing around your sides, and with rising panic you realize, he's slowly choking the life out of you. A fitting end, a welcomed one. Perhaps it would be better to die right now, before you discover what atrocities he plans to commit on your body and mind, after you're wedded. 

Then, his hand reaches behind his back, full lips pull upwards, exposing blackened out teeth. You barely register the glint of his sword, not until he holds it high up, above his hand. You're not allowed a moment to wallow in your confusion, as your future husband brings the weapon down, sinking it with brutal force into your beating heart.

You awake screaming.

***

In the morning, you pull a black tunic over your head, remnants of your dream clinging to you like an unwanted shadow. 

Every move of the silky fabric against your skin feels like a small defeat, and with your head hung low, you make your way towards the dining hall. Truly, you're not hungry, stomach turning and twisting, a steady presence of nerves keeping your body on edge. Your attendance is required however, such are customs, and it is entirely too eaarly for another lecture about your behaviour. 

As you enter the room, your mask of tired indifference slips just for a second, a mixture of fear and anger flickering in, and out of existence.

 There, opposite of your Father you can see him. Your future husband, the love of your miserable, ending life. Slow horror washes over you, as you suddenly realize that this demonic, otherwordly version of him, which visited you in your nightmares is just how he looks. He greets you with a polite inclination of his smooth head, and you consider not showing any outward sign of repulsion, a small victory on your part. Your Mother doesn't think so, but you dodge her sharp eyes in favor of greeting your brother.

It doesn't go unnoticed, the way Feyd Rautha's eyes drink in greedily the sight of you embracing Paul. His gaze lingers on your smile, and he raises his cup to his lips, scrunching his nose ever so slightly at the unfamiliar drink he's been offered. You want to ask, if they have coffee on Giedi Prime, but the question is forcefully swallowed down. You will not talk to this man. He will never know anything more than contempt from you. Curse your Mother's words, you'll fight this battle every day, on your own, if you have to. 

- My Daughter will show you around the training barracks after breakfast - Duke Leto announces, and you freeze with a cup of coffee half-way to your lips.

- Will I? - you ask, trying to control the edge in your voice. 

- Na-Baron has made inquires about a place to train - your Father explains, giving you a meaningful side eye - You'll accompany him. 

The coffee tastes like rot in your mouth, and you place your cup down with a note of finality. You won't look at him, you don't have to. That knowing smirk could be felt through the very particles flowing in the air, every single one laughing at your predicament. 

Despite your best efforts, the breakfast comes to an end, your family slowly rising to attend to their duties. Your Father, ever the cordial man, bids his farewells to the unwelcomed guest. Your Mother does the same, albeit sounding more honest. Paul lingers as long as Lady Jessica allows him, until he is forced to retreat by a slender hand tugging mercilessly on his elbow. A gesture both of you know intimately from your childhoods. 

Before you know it, you're left alone with the pale imitation of a man. He arises slowly from his seat, smoothly making his way towards you, each of his footsteps echoing in the dining room. 

- Shall we, my Lady? 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his offered hand, like a white spider living just outside of your vision. With a shudder, you slip out of your chair, trying very hard not to touch him, and failing immediately, when his broad chest nearly pushes you back into your seat. 

He smells nice, your brain betrays you, the scent bringing back images from your night terror, causing an involuntary shiver to run up your spine. With averted gaze, you turn to leave, ignoring his still extended hand. He follows you like a shadow, catching up to you in no time, as you slide through the corridors of the Palace. It's uncomfortable, to say the least, walking with him behind your back. His eyes bear into you, a prickly feeling at the base of your neck making you roll your shoulders.

It follows you, as he follows, right to the very destination. All in blessed silence, a small miracle to save this already dreadful morning.

The men, launging about at the training barracks freeze in their spots, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, when Duncan Idaho catches your eyes. His skin has a beautiful, warm tone, highlighted by the morning sun flowing into the room through the windows. You nod, he nods back, an unspoken understanding blooming between the two of you. There could be no suspicion of any closer bond, lest this engagement would be called off. A result, perhaps favorable to you personally, but your family would never live down the shame. And you would never jeopardize Paul's future, no matter how hollow yours looked.

- You have a warrior's body - your betrothed comments, as he inspects the blades laid out on a small table - Do you train here as well?

Small talk, you could do small talk. With a sigh, you tear your gaze away from Duncan, and turn to the Harkonnen, forcing something resembling a polite smile to bloom onto your features. 

- Yes, I do - you answer curtly, eyes falling onto elegant, white fingers, sliding over a shiny metal blade. 

- It is not a common practice here, is it? - he looks at you, eyes gliding over your stature - Women being trained to fight?

Suddenly very much aware of your body, you cross your arms on your chest, hugging yourself tightly. You don't miss the way his gaze seems to linger on the low neckline of your tunic, and with bitterness on your tongue you wonder, has this man ever felt ashamed. 

- Not common, but it does happen - your voice betrays your emotions, a sharp edge settling over your tone, causing the man to arch an eyebrow.

Finally, he settles onto a chosen blade, bringing it up to the light and with laser focus observing the way particles dance on the steel surface. Then, he looks back at you, catching you in the act of observing the prominent, lean muscles on his neck. You ignore the knowing smirk and will your blushing cheeks to suddenly become devoid of color.

They don't, of course, and you scurry to the side of the table, to fiddle with the rest of the weaponry. Your favorite training blade is there, and instinctually, your hand reaches for it. 

- Train with me.

The request catches you off guard, and you shoot him a questioning look, one he deflects with a nonchalant shrug. 

Your muscles flinch, as you drag your hand back from the blade. 

- It would hardly be appropriate - you counter, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tunic.

To that, he tilts his head, light eyes studying you for a longer moment, until you truly feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. 

- And suddenly you're worried about what the court says? - he cuts you off, before you have the chance to ask, just what exactly does he mean by that - Perhaps you're too soft to fight me.

- I know what you're doing - you point an accusatory finger at his chest, and the man smiles, blackened teeth peaking between his full lips.

- And what am I doing? - it's hard to ignore the teasing timbre in his voice, and you swallow thickly.

- You're trying to get under my skin.

Shivering under the expected cruel glint in his eye, as another, most likely filthy innuendo purses his lips, you turn to him fully, a serious expression on your features.

- I've seen you fight, Na-Baron - his jaw tightens at the sound of your voice curling around his title - I know you're a force to be reckoned with, I'm not scared to admit that.

He straightens, regards you with furrowed brows for a longer second, until, yet again you start to fidget under his gaze.

- Perhaps then, you're scared you'll hurt me - the mere idea is so preposterous, your head snaps in his direction - If I had known, you liked me that much...

- That is entirely not true, and you know it - you deflect again, although annoyance begins to paint your voice.

Then, his hand shoots out, gripping your arm and pulling you closer. Air seems to thicken around you, as you look up at him, with surprise quickly morphing into outrage. His breath mingles with yours, and you can't seem to look away from his eyes, pupils nearly drowned in the overwhelming blue of his irises.

- Stop hiding, my viper. Fight me.

The command, spoken in a harsh whisper just shy of your lips, turns your insides into molasses. 

His taller form leans down to tower over yours, an intense expression settling over his sharp features. Close to excitement, much too close to desire, even closer to a murderous curiosity. Your throat feels entirely too dry, and before you can stop yourself, you swallow thickly, tongue darting out to lick your lips. His eyes snap almost immediately downwards, and your heart stops beating. You can't see anymore blue in his irises, only black. Darkness covers his eyes reflecting his thoughts, and you feel like you have to flee right now, before something terrible happens to you. 

So you do just that. Ripping yourself away from his closeness, you return to the table, hand finding your chosen blade without really looking. 

Another flash of black teeth, as the Na-Baron realizes what you're doing, and the both of you enable the shields surrounding your bodies. 

The gathered soldiers watch on, as you march towards the center of the room, determination filling every step to the brim. Duncan gives you a look, which you choose to ignore. You can't think about him now, not when you have your honor to defend against this Harkonnen monster of a man. 

Feyd Rautha rolls his shoulders, discards the thin fabric of his dress shirt, and once again you are stricken with his almost god-like physique. The blade looks like an extension of his hand, as he weighs it and slashes the air in front of him. Then, he fixes you with a challenging expression, as if he expects you to do the same, to try and best him at some shameless display.

You decide to keep your clothes on, blade held high, ready to strike. 

He jumps from one leg to another, and immediately an orchestra of alarm bells rings out in your brain. Should a man really be this excited at the prospect of fighting his future wife? Should you be this excited? Questions without answers, and before any of you make a move, another one absent-midedly floats to the surface. Just how much can you hurt each other, before the wedding is concluded? How much you'll inevitably hurt each other after?

The darkness he has brought on the ship with him must be contagious, because despite your better judgement, you smile. A sharp smirk, that makes your eyes look less like a human and more like a wild animal. And he drinks it all in, as he begins to circle you.

You'd never show him your back, never again. He's a tried and true predator, the only instinct he has, is a killer one. A fact you quickly get aquatinted with, as he unleashes a series of lightning fast strikes your way. 

Immediately you realize, that small show of cruelty he organized at your grandfather's theatre was nothing, compared to what he could truly do. And still, you suspect he's holding back, as you barely dodge a nasty stab, right under your ribs. Another one is blocked against your sheild, and before you have a chance to collect yourself, third one sends you back a couple of steps. 

He doesn't let you get away, with confident steps pushing you further and further out of the center of the training floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Duncan Idaho stand up from his place. Thinking back to your last training session, you shudder bitterly. "Never fight in anger" is easy to say, when you're not forced to marry, bed and sunsequently give children to the man you're fighting. 

Panting and sweating, you give Feyd Rautha your all, twirling in place, sliding on your feet. A different kind of choreography, which seems to work surprisingly well, with his almost animalistic force. Gurney taught you how to be powerful, how to land strikes which were as effective, as they were cunning. Duncan, on the other hand, taught you how to dance. So that's what you do.

Finally, you manage to grab at his free hand, locking your feet between his and bringing him closer to your blade. It stops just short of his artery, blocked by his dagger, the clash of metal reverberating through the halls. 

The smirk he gives you is beyond nasty, and forcefully, you push away from him, as if the very idea of skin to skin contact repulsed you. And it does, it truly does, especially now that adrenaline mixed with frustration boils in your head. 

- Again - you snarl his way, assuming your fighting stance.

- As my Lady commands - his voice has a natural growl to it, made even more prominent by the exertion of the fight, and he twists his body into a perversion of a curtsy.

This time you're the one to attack first, ignoring your menthor's words and relying on pure rage to guide your steps. A stab to his thigh, which he deflects with seemingly childish ease. Your tunic slips through his fingers, as you slide under his arm. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his blade, when he hides it into his belt. Confusion hits you suddenly. Was he giving up, why was he hiding his weapon? None of the questions get answered, as a foot curls itself around your ankle.

Your balance leaves you with a gasp of surprise, and soon, your back is on the floor, Feyd Rautha following closely behind. Your heated gaze meets his, as one hand wrenches the blade from your grasp and pins both your arms above your head. The other one supports his weight, as he hovers above you, light bleeding behind him in an unfitting image of a halo. 

Your chest heaves, sweat rolling down your collarbones, and the Harkonnen doesn't even try to hide the way his gaze follows a stray drop of salt, as it disappears between your breasts. 

- You fought well - he complements in a hushed tone, and you writhe desperately under his body.

The night terror rears its ugly head again, as you feel his tighs press onto your sides, almost as if he wants to shape your flesh into the imprint of his body.

- I think I prefer you like this - he whispers, face coming closer to the exposed column of your neck - You belong under me. 

That's what does it. Your face twists into an expression of equal parts disgust, and fury. You won't give him this victory, you'd rather die. Legs tangle themselves around his calves, and you use all your strength fueled by the burning need to fucking hurt him. 

The world spins, two bodies rolling on the floor, and suddenly you're on top of him, legs biting into his hip bones. While one hand supports your weight on his naked shoulder, the other finds the dagger hidden in his belt. The surprised gasp, which leaves his lips feels like music to your ears, and you don't even try to fight the awful smirk splitting your mouth.

The shield on his neck glows an angry red, as you press the tip of the blade down, right under his bobbing Adam's apple. He swallows, for just a second letting you see the mask of self confidence slip. He has quite long eyelashes, you notice, as his eyelids flutter, a low hum reverbating through his chest. Eyes that are neither blue nor completely black drink in the sight of you. The halo of your hair, the snarl on your lips, the curve of your waist, where one of his hands settle. 

Missing all of this, too enraptured by your own fury, you push the blade further down until it pricks his alabaster skin. He hisses through his blackened teeth and you want more, you want him to scream. A thin streak of red begins to flow down his neck, and God help you, it looks like art. 

His grip on your waist tightens, all five fingers digging into your flesh through the thin tunic. Feyd Rautha bares his teeth at you in a cruel smile, one that makes you question whether you're the one in control.

And then his hips roll upwards. 

A barely noticable movement, easily mistaken for a spasm of the muscles, but you know better. You can read it all from his expression, his pupils blown wide, the quickened breaths of air slipping past his lips. From the quickly hardening length pressing against your inner thigh. 

Your stomach flutters with a well known feeling, and that terrifies you more than any pain-motivated erection ever could. Because he sees it, he sees the beginning flames of desire taking root in your center, and the realization looks like ecstasy on his face. Humiliation washes through you, fills you completely. There is no awkward blush on your face, no. All you feel is white, freezing terror, as all your defences seem to crumble all at once.

Like a scared animal, you're off of him in a split-second, and he doesn't chase you, as you all but run from the training barracks. Doesn't have to, he already has everything he needs. 

[fencecollapsed]

started thinking about BillPaul but they're lord servants in the black and white,,, Pokey servant infected Paul and Blinky servant all-seeing Bill,,,

if Bill has retained more of his old self but corrupted by the power he has. Blinky made a deal with him that Alice would always be safe and he uses his power to constantly check on her. in exchange he acts as a replacement for Blinky's thousandth eye that Alice took - Bill has to fill in those gaps for Blinky that missing that eye causes

and Paul is so so different, classic infected Paul. mindless and happy and singing and obedient. he's a shell of who he used to be, but he really likes being around Bill for some reason. cares about his wellbeing a weird amount for someone whose only other thoughts are appeasing Pokey. when they cross paths he follows Bill around singing little tunes at him

Bill has complicated feelings around Paul because on one hand that's his buddy, and on the other hand that's NOT his buddy... Paul's so empty in the eyes, and Bill never thought he'd miss his complaining but he does. it's nice to see a familiar face right in front of him though. he likes having the company. and Paul is... a little friendlier this way. he's getting used to it

Blinky and Pokey let them see each other every now and then to keep them both compliant. when everything Bill sees gets overwhelming Paul lays Bill's head in his lap and sings for him. it gives him something else to focus on while his eyes are closed. and when the music in Paul's head gets too loud, or his old, bad memories start to surface, Bill dances with him, or sits with him and tells him about all the things he can see

what if they were irreversibly changed and taken as playthings by cosmic beings and they were both boys!!!!

[azdoine]

John is hiding two Resurrection Beasts, not just one.

This was originally going to be a much longer and fancier argument, but I don’t have it in me to dress it up properly, so I’ll just pepe silvia this out

What impact does a Resurrection Beast actually have from within the River?

Answer: an apocalyptic and defining one.

I think we’re all on the same page at this point that Tamsyn Muir loves Foreshadowing Literally Every Plot Twist From As Early On As Is Physically Possible, so for posterity, here’s what Palamedes and Harrow first have to say about the River Bubble phenomenon in HTN:

“You cannot build in the River! It is a dimension of perpetual flux—defined space is nonsense here—you might as well try to wall off time with bricks and mortar.” “Yes. Sort of. But by our very presence in the River, we briefly exert space on non-space. Think of how, when you blow air into water, you make bubbles. The water can’t be where the air is. It’s like the air temporarily enforces its own rules over a localised area.” -HTN ch. 33

The given impossibility of carving lasting form into the River seemingly leads directly into some of the biggest open questions as of the end of NTN - i.e., what is the Tower, how is it related to John’s cosmic imperium, and how has it enabled him to wall off time with stone and mortar after all?

However, this is misdirection. While the River Bubbles created by the presence of Palamedes and Harrow clearly remain fleeting and unstable, NTN explicitly shows us the existence of entities capable of pushing back against the River with far more force.

Pyrrha said, “This is impossible. We should be flayed alive,” and Paul said, “Yeah.” Nona tried to explain. “The water doesn’t want to touch us, that’s all.” Crown was saying urgently, “Judith—stop, come back,” and Nona vaguely heard unbuckling; and then shadows fell over her, people standing behind her seat. The Captain’s voice was like old teeth. “He left them too long—you left them too long, my salt thing.” “You are here,” said Nona, finding talking was hard, that her voice sounded drowsy in her own ears. “Okay, good—the water really won’t touch us. I was worried about our back end [of our truck].” -NTN ch. 30

The possessed bodies of Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Judith Deuteros - both of whom now carry the spiritual influence of Resurrection Beasts in whole or in part - actively function to repel the waters of the River such that Nona worries about min-maxing the coverage of their reality fields. If a human’s presence exerts some space on non-space, the presence of a Resurrection Beast supercavitates against the water.

Kiriona is also extremely explicit that the Tower serves much the same cavitation-function in the space of the River, ameliorating the existence-sapping pull of the waters:

“The ride?” said Palamedes. “Wait. You mean you both dropped through the River? In that shuttle?” “Can’t be,” said Pyrrha, who was watching the Prince narrowly. “Not anymore. You’ve got a soul attached to you, kid … or part of one, at least. John would have had to go with you to stop it being stripped bare.” The corpse prince tilted her head to one side, like a curious bird. “You haven’t been in the River lately, have you?” she said. “What’s that meant to mean?” “Guess you’ll find out at some point,” said the Prince. -NTN ch. 25

Pyrrha sucked in her breath, and she said: “What the fuck is that?” “Told you so,” said Kiriona Gaia. As the megatruck spun around, the wide rippling grey waters resolved into something totally different. There was a big structure standing up out of the River—that water was the River, after all—a tall, cold cylinder of what was unmistakably stone. -NTN ch. 30

In other words, we don’t need to postulate a new category of power to explain the Tower: we can be fairly certain that it’s one of the world-body-layers of an as-yet-unidentified Resurrection Beast, for whom an anatomy shaped like a heaven-piercing tower would make it no more alien than the rest of its peers.

That being said, it’s not a difficult guess at this point to match the anatomy inside the River with the outward-facing creature in physical reality - the Tower’s aesthetics are strongly reminiscent of John the half-RB and his literary cant, but John has been active for ten thousand years, and there’s only one Resurrection Beast who starts waking up at the same time as the Tower rises.

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side    Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,    In her sepulchre there by the sea—    In her tomb by the sounding sea. -Annabel Lee

He said, I didn’t stick my thumb in my mouth. Had more sense than that. Fuck knows what would’ve happened if I tried to absorb you all the way; I probably would’ve burnt to death. But I needed a house to put you in, if I wasn’t going to put all of you in me… He said, From my blood and bone and vomit I conjured up a beautiful labyrinth to house you in. I was terrified you’d find some way to escape before I was done. -John 1:20 (NTN)

Before I get to the question of the relationship between the Tower and the Devils, I want to emphasize the significance of this explanatory stance: the Tower’s existence, as a lynchpin nailed through the unreality of the River, is no different from the influence that Palamedes and Harrow are able to exert in their respective River bubbles.

That is, the Tower is larger, but not qualitatively unique. A RB’s force of repulsion against unreality is exactly akin to a human soul’s repulsion against unreality, and both of them give rise to their respective reality bubbles. “Pushing back on the water” is exactly the metaphor for existence in the River that Palamedes takes for granted, and which Nona and the Tower both exert effortlessly.

And here we have to take a step back and ask: just what in the River is really ‘natural’? Does the subjective reality of the River even have objective features to begin with?

“This is Canaan House,” you said. “Moment of death,” he agreed. You said, “The barrier begins where your line of sight ended. It’s derived from everything you saw.” He said, “And it doesn’t change … the sea is still. It looks like it’s moving, but it’s not—it’s like one of those holographic pictures where turning it up and down lets you see another part of the image. There is nothing here, and that nothing never changes.” -HTN ch. 33

In the dream, they were hiking up a big hill of brown, sun-blasted grass, crunching like paper beneath their feet. Below them the waters were rising, but they ascended without hurry, unpanicked by that bubbling, churning, brown morass… The clouds were strange, and in the far distance, a twister danced on the neon surface of the sea. -John 15:23 (NTN)

In the dream the waters kept rising. They started making a hut at the top of the hill. Bodies were bobbing up and down in the water. He was scared of that—he was always scared of the water—and he made the waters go away for a while, and he raised up some parts of the earth that had been covered by sea. -John 19:18 (NTN)

I would venture a guess that the answer is no - that the organizing metaphor of death as flood waters and rotting oceans is actually being imposed by the expectations and experiences of the undead Alecto, just as Harrow-the-Lyctor exerted a uncontrollable subconscious pull over the world of spirit.

Exactly how many Resurrection Beasts are there?

The first time TLT raises this question, it explicitly lampshades that there’s a loophole in the final accounting for this metric: it wants you to pay attention.

“How many revenants are there?” You prepared for an astronomical number. The Body raised its eyebrows when the Emperor Undying said, “Three. “There were nine. We called them by number. Over ten thousand years, we have managed to take out a grand total of five.” Before you could do anything—exclaim, or question his mathematics, which did not hold up even on first acquaintance—he did something dreadful. -HTN ch. 2

Five casualties plus three survivors is eight, one less than the given total of nine. With the benefit of hindsight from Nona or a little forward thinking from eagle-eyed first-time readers, we know that John is equivocating because he doesn’t want to talk about Alecto, who was neither alive nor dead at the time, and who obviously the missing ninth Resurrection Beast of the Earth.However, Nona gives us another accounting problem:

He said, I took you into myself and we became one. He said, I bit through the sun first. It’s human nature. That started things going. Once you take down the sun, you’re cooking with gas, pardon the pun. I sliced through Venus, Mercury, Mars … by that point a couple of the tugs had already launched through the Kuiper. I had to kill Jupiter and Saturn in a fucking hurry. You and I went full fucking Hungry Caterpillar. We took Uranus … Neptune … crunched down Pluto … found every satellite and craft, reached in, crunched up all the humans, moved on. -John 1:20

John kills ten celestial bodies, not nine - nine planets, plus the Sun. TLT is very clear that stars are alive enough to slay and reanimate with necromancy, and thus that they should properly be alive enough to leave Revenants behind upon their violent thanergetic death.

Moreover, the metaphors and apologetics John clings to in this section - the ways in which he talks around his crimes against the Dominicus - are extremely loaded: he can’t stop himself from equivocating between Alecto and the Sun.

He said, You were screaming. I wanted you to stop, I wanted … I wanted you. I wanted you like a caveman wants a wildfire … or the sun.  I realised you were too much for me. This is the problem, the incorporation, this is the hardest part … It’s the human instinct, to take. He said, As the world went up I remade us both. I hid me in you … I hid you in me. And when we were together … once the shaman had claimed the sun … I became God. He said, I bit through the sun first. It’s human nature. -John 1:20

Augustine is certain that John can’t be drawing any power from Dominicus, and the rest of the story seems largely in agreement with his conclusions. However, John is clearly able to draw power from Alecto’s soul despite the fact that the First House is a corpse. If John were also supping on the dead soul of the sun in order to reanimate the sun’s corpse, that would be entirely compatible with the observed flow of energy from out of John and into the star of Dominicus, and it would resolve all uncertainty about his and Alecto’s absurd jump from Kardashev I to Kardashev II.

Then, the only missing planks of this wild hypothesis are: Why didn’t the Resurrection Beast of the sun flee the Dominicus system with the rest of the RBs? Where could John possibly be keeping a third keystone of his Perfect Lyctorhood? And, doesn’t this make the puzzle of John’s powers more complicated than it really needs to be?

Whence the Sun?

As for the first question, I believe John and Abigail both have their answers for this:

“The only sure way to banish a revenant is to destroy the physical anchor it inhabits before it can escape the shell. Inanimate objects can be destroyed; corpses too, if you remove the brain. But, Harrow, we have other problems on our hands,” said Abigail. -HTN ch. 49

You said, “So if you die, the Houses die with you. The star warming our system fails, and—becomes a gravitational well, as I understand it?” “Yes. A black hole, like the one that took out Cyrus,” he said. -HTN ch. 37

“It’s not that getting rid of the corpus wouldn’t be useful,” said the Emperor. “It would be. When Cyrus drew the corpus into a black hole, Ulysses said that it was the simplest thing in the world to dispose of the brain, that it fell into a dormant state, and he could bring it down to a stoma singlehanded…” -HTN ch. 36

When we see Harrow flip planets on-screen, the process of apopneumatic shock which blows the soul of the Beast from its corpse is not instantaneous. In other words, if a highly energetic system such as a star were to immediately die, its corpse might collapse or detonate faster than its soul could possibly escape through a thanergetic link to another vessel. The Resurrection Beast of the sun may literally be stillborn, severed from its own ties to undeath and left vulnerable for John to seize it - a vast and spiritual world-body lost somewhere within the afterlife.

And there is, in fact, another candidate for this entity - another ‘objective’ component of the underworld that we can map to the ruin of the sun, just as we can map the Tower and the entire aquatic River to Alecto.

“It is the mouth to Hell,” said God. He said, “A genuinely chaotic space—chaos in the meaning of the abyss as well as unfathomable … located at the bottom of the River. The Riverbed is studded with mouths that open at proximity of Resurrection Beasts, and no ghosts venture deeper than the bathyrhoic layer. Anyone who has entered a stoma has never returned.” -HTN ch. 36

Outside—another kilometre down, maybe—was the pale belly of the River, studded with rocky promontories. And right at the bottom—the water was churning. The station tilted forward, and I could see clearly. A hole had opened. It was big enough to swallow up the whole of Drearburh and have room to spare. It was a huge, hideous, dark expanse, and it had seething, weird edges; it took the lights pattering over them for me to see that the edges of the hole were enormous human teeth. Each one must’ve been six bodies high and two bodies wide, with the dainty scalloped edges of incisors. The teeth shivered and trembled, like the hole was slavering. And that hole had nothing in it; that hole was blacker than space, that hole was an eaten-away tunnel of reality. -HTN ch. 52

“They concoct their own vengeance,” said the Captain. “Their justice is not my justice. Their water is not my water. I came to help. I am made a mockery. The danger is upon you, and you do not even know … they are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you.” -NTN ch. 27

A standard interpretation of Varun’s words is that the Tower itself is as a prison containing the Devils, and there’s a ‘hole’ in the sense of an aperture which now allows them to escape. Yes, but: the hole is specifically attributed to the bottom of the Tower because the spiritual embodiment of the black hole of Dominicus is spatially located at the base of the Tower. The hole is the Stoma, which Alecto has been placed to help seal and tap into - a Tower by definition rises up and over the bottom of the world.

We can say with some confidence, just on aesthetic grounds, that is an extremely strong connection between the Stoma and John’s power. The power of the Eighth House, which “sucks at the Stoma like a teat”, shares a shadow of the intensely oral, penetrating, incandescent burning glow of John’s transcendent necromancy:

As he faded, the pale Silas incandesced. He glowed with an irradiated shimmer, iridescent white, and the air began to taste of lightning. Gideon felt an internal tug, like a blanket being pulled off in the cold. It was a little bit like the sensation back in Response (which was, what, a thousand years ago?)—something deep inside her being prodded in its tender spot. But it also wasn’t, because it hurt like hell. It was like having a headache inside her teeth. -GTN ch. 17

Silas slammed his fists on the ground. The air was choked from Ianthe’s lungs. Her mouth and skin puckered and withered: she stopped, awkward, stiff, eyes bulging in surprise. The remnants of blood rose from the floor as pale smoke, trailing heavenward all around them. For a moment everything was blanched clean and luminously white. -GTN ch. 34

And God said, “Stop.” The world slowed down. You stopped, sitting upright in your chair: your bones somehow rigid and still, and your flesh chilly and rigid around those bones. The shrapnel spray from the Saint of Duty did not stop. But what remained of him stopped too, half man, half rupture—his prurient details hot and white, naked insides clothed with the sinus-drying burst of the power of God. -HTN ch. 25

I’m not sure that John has entered a full Lyctorhood arrangement with a second Resurrection Beast. However, I certainly believe that he’s constantly siphoning the RB of the sun, and that he’s permanently shaped Alecto to help him siphon and subjugate the sun, in much the same fashion that the Eighth House uses its own cavaliers to suck at the Stoma - yet incalculably vaster, for Alecto’s world-soul is both an impossibly vast channel and likely more suited to metabolizing the power of the sun than any other planetary Resurrection Beast.

Likewise, because he has no personal connection to the sun, I suspect John is using it not just as a punitive measure, but also as a proxy to extend his Lyctoral well - he can feed countless billions of people to the stillborn RB of the sun, dump smaller RBs inside, let them render down into an insane soul melange hive - teeming with demonic Heralds bursting to leap free through the first thanergetic link or solar convergence they can find - and capture the energies released by their lysis without having to devalue the meaning of the priceless relationship he thinks he shares with Alecto.

TL;DR - Hell is the ghost of a black hole, John is using Alecto to perform the Penrose Process on it

[callmrmorrow]

mark v cecil debate is way too polarized for what it is

cecil is reacting exactly how he should react. omni-man pretty much deceived them all for 20 years to the point where cecil was actually “hurt” by his betrayal (yes he might’ve known he was lying, but had no clue what he was lying about — was his planet fake, was his government fake, was he here to protect him, was he even really a viltrumite). mark defenders saying “how many times does he have to save the world for cecil to think he’s good” ignore the fact that omni-man saved their world MULTIPLE times over, and still was intent on committing genocide. the inner-ear device is extreme, but so is the threat that mark poses. this guy disappeared to go help his father on a faraway planet, came back with another overpowered kid, and is talking shit about how “it’ll take a long time for anyone to forgive him,” which implies that mark thinks, on some level, his father should be forgiven.

wanting to forgive nolan for everything he did but refusing to forgive any of the murderers that cecil employs is… super hypocritical from mark, and is exactly what he scolds oliver for doing: prioritizing people he knows and cares for over the world at large. objectively, the reanimen (who aren’t even ALIVE, they’re donated corpses) and darkwing 2 will save more people than they hurt. mark is a killer. oliver is a killer. omni-man is a killer. mark has more compassion in his heart for killers that he loves than innocent people that he doesn’t know.

on the other hand, we the audience KNOW mark is a good guy. we know it’s his prerogative to be offended, even scared, at the idea of cecil having that kind of power over him, over ANYONE that he cares about. mark is 18, first and foremost, and he didn’t get much choice in the situation he’s in (though he does have choice in how he reacts to it, which he did badly because of how morally conflicted he is). it really is as simple as mark wanting to be a good person and cecil wanting to save the world. of course cecil sees his heroes as tools! it’s shocking that none of the new GOG understood that earlier. the guy isn’t lying and acting like he cares any more than he does. mark is very caught up in his own situation — reasonably so, it’s a really fucking nasty one — and can’t see things objectively, and has a sort of entitlement to him that is very normal for a guy his age, half-alien or not. it’s shown when he gets pissed at debbie for sharing his identity with paul, as if it isn’t debbie’s prerogative to talk about her kids, as if she hasn’t been through the same shit that he has regarding nolan. it’s shown when he’s berating oliver for ideas that he fostered when he killed angstrom (albeit accidentally), that it’s not okay to kill even if it’s to save others. no wonder oliver was confused — he’s just following his brother’s example.

on that note… why have a no-kill rule and then be anti-rehabilitation? mark won’t kill the bad guys, but he won’t accept cecil using them to save other people. there’s nuance to the situation, i’m sure, but mark’s flying off the handle because he thinks his might is right. it’s obvious from the pilot of the show, where the moment he realizes he has powers, he tells his own mom to “make him” go to bed. mark has always wanted to be like his father, and he’s trying to find a way to be LESS like him now that he knows the truth, and that’s confusing. his path is diverging unexpectedly in so many ways, and of course he’s gonna struggle. he’s holding onto the only stuff he knows for sure, which is that “good guys do not kill. i am a hero, and i don’t work with villains.” when something flies in the face of that, he freaks out, because he’s losing a moral foundation of his that he grew up on.

i would even go as far as to say the fact that they call him “invinciboy” in the news is kind of symbolic of a moral regression, where he’s just going back to what he knows to be true, and sticking to it even if the ideas clash with how the world has to be — because it isn’t all so black and white anymore, and mark has a hard time slotting himself into a world that isn’t clear-cut.

tl;dr cecil’s idea is right, but mark’s reaction is justified not for cecil’s handling of the situation, but due to mark’s difficulties with figuring out who “invincible” is.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Blood singer, part 7

Summary: Jasper opens up, giving her a glimpse of his past and a key to his heart.

Warnings (be mindful of your triggers): injury, blood and death, angst, fluff, grief, swearing, sexual content, mentions of mental health struggles, alcohol, eating disorder

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader (blood singer), Paul Lahote x human!reader

Word count: 14.6k

Blood singer - Series Masterlist

“Good mornin’,” Jasper murmurs.

His voice is soft, low, almost hesitant and it pulls her from sleep like a thread unraveling a dream. Her lashes flutter, brows furrowing as reality sharpens. She’s alive. It’s morning. She’s still in his arms.

And somehow, that makes everything feel more surreal.

Her cheek rests against his cold, unmoving chest. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t shift beneath her. Yet he holds her like she’s breakable. Like he’s afraid she’ll slip away.

The silence fills the room, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Her fingers twitch slightly against the edge of his shirt. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want to leave this moment.

She should be afraid. Any sane person would be looking for salvation. She isn’t. There's so much she doesn't know, more than she can fully grasp, yet she’s not moving. Her head remains on the rock hard chest of a man who admitted he's a vampire. And she’s comfortable, more comfortable laying on a man without a heartbeat than she ever felt in her own bed.

Everything hurts. Her body aches from the inside out, her muscles dull and her ribs tender, like she’s been wrung out and stitched back together. She draws in a shallow breath.

“Everything hurts,” she whispers, voice barely there.

“I know, darlin’,” Jasper says, his fingers grazing her bare shoulder. The touch is light, incredibly gentle, and cold. It startles her, but not in a bad way. Her skin prickles beneath the chill. She leans slightly into it before she even realizes what she’s doing.

There’s a quiet moment. She stares at the pale fabric of his shirt near her face, her mind spinning. So many questions. So much she doesn’t understand, but she wants to. She wants to understand everything. She wants to understand him.

“What happened to you?” she asks, her voice rough, almost guilty. Then quickly, she amends, “I mean... what made you this way?”

Jasper goes still. She doesn’t look up, but she feels his pause. His silence makes her question if she should pry. Perhaps he doesn’t like to talk about it and she’s reopening wounds best left alone?

“A power hungry vampire,” he finally says. “She wanted a soldier. Someone to lead her newborn army. I was good at killing, and she knew it.”

He sighs. It doesn’t sound natural. Does he even need to breathe? It sounds practiced, something he does for her benefit.

“I didn’t ask for it. But I didn’t fight it, either. Not then. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

She slowly lifts her head from his chest, wincing as her body protests the movement. He immediately curls his hand around her elbow to support her. His thumb strokes softly across her skin.

"I'm not proud of who I was, darlin’, but I'm trying to be a better man that I was when I was alive."

Her eyes meet his. He looks at her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he blinks while she’s left breathless just by looking at him and the beauty he exudes .She doesn’t know what to say at first. So she settles for the truth.

“I think it’s admirable,” she says quietly. “That you’re trying to be better.”

Her lips part like she wants to say more, but she hesitates. He sees it.

“Just ask,” Jasper says. His hand comes up, fingers brushing her cheek. He rests his thumb along the edge of her lip, a featherlight touch that sends heat to her face despite his cold skin.

“Do vampires have some weird power to make humans attracted to them?”

Her voice is quiet, but the question hangs between them. She doesn’t look at him right away. She’s staring at the ceiling, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her chest. Since the moment she met him, she’s felt drawn to Jasper, like a current dragging her under. His voice, his scent, even the way he walks, it all gets under her skin. Paul was handsome. He still is. But this is different. This is… overwhelming and impossible to fight.

Jasper doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts toward the window, his jaw tightening.

“We’re created to draw our prey in,” he finally says.

She swallows. “Humans,” she adds, softly.

He nods, then turns back to her. His eyes meet hers and holds them steady, like he wants to be clear. Honest.

“Does that ever go away?” she asks, her voice just above a whisper. “Or am I always going to feel this…”

She trails off, unsure how much she wants to admit. But the way Jasper watches her, like nothing she says will scare him, gives her courage.

“Not really,” he says gently. “But you’ll get used to it. The longer you’re around us, the easier it gets. Ask Bella. She’d be the one to understand. It’s still fresh for her.”

The realization hits her like a cold splash of water. Of course. Bella. Something had felt off since breakfast, since she first saw her again and now it all makes sense. She’s one of them. She chose this… for Edward.

Her brows lift, just slightly, and Jasper notices.

“Any other effects I should expect?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. The motion pulls at the stitches near her temple, and she winces.

Jasper frowns, gently reaching over to brush a loose strand of hair away from her face. His fingertips hover for a moment before they make contact, cool, featherlight against her skin.

“Alice can see the future,” he begins. “Edward reads minds. Bella has a shield protecting her from some abilities. Renesmee can show you memories through touch.”

She blinks, stunned into silence.

“And I…” he hesitates, then continues, “I can feel and influence emotions.”

She stares at him, her body still. No words form in her mouth. It’s too much. Too strange. Yet it makes sense. The safety she felt. The calm that wrapped around her when she should’ve been breaking apart.

“No,” he says quickly, catching her expression. His eyes flick to her lips as her mouth opens slightly.

“No what?” she asks, voice hushed.

“I haven’t made you feel anything,” he says. There’s a small, barely there smile on his lips, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your feelings are your own. I’ve only eased your anxiety... and dulled the fear, to help you breathe.”

She exhales shakily and rolls onto her back. A quiet grunt escapes her as pain flares across her ribs and back. Her arm moves slowly, one hand pressed lightly to her side.

So that’s why she felt safe. That’s why it was easier to breathe around him. It wasn’t real. Or… maybe it was, and he just softened the edges.

“I’ve taken your pain, too,” he adds, watching her face closely.

Her dry lips part as she licks them, trying to speak. “How can I ever know if…” Her throat tightens. “I mean, I’ve felt something change when you’re near me.”

She places a hand over her face, her fingers curling slightly against her forehead, as if hiding from her own thoughts.

“It’s okay,” Jasper murmurs. His voice is calm, his hand gently brushing the top of her arm. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Yell if you need to. Be mad. You don’t have to hold anything back.”

The way he says it…it doesn’t feel rehearsed. It feels like permission. Like he means it.

She lowers her hand slowly, her eyes meeting his again. There’s a flicker of something raw in her gaze. Doubt. Hope. Maybe even trust. And still, despite everything, she doesn’t move away.

“I’m not angry,” she grumbles, voice low and rough with sleep. “You’re… you make me feel safe. What if it’s only because you’ve affected my emotional state?”

Her fingers twitch beside her on the bed. She doesn’t look at him. Instead, her eyes lock onto the ceiling like it might give her answers. A breath pushes through her nose, sharp with frustration.

“I loved feeling that way around you,” she admits, almost like a confession she regrets. “I hate that it could be a lie.”

Jasper shifts beside her, his body leaning closer. His cool hand hovers just above hers but doesn’t quite touch. “I promise not to do it again,” he says, voice quiet, layered with something too close to desperation. “Not unless you ask me to.”

She finally turns to face him, her breath caught in her throat. He’s closer than she thought. Too close, maybe. His golden eyes flicker with uncertainty, but his body doesn’t move away. She doesn’t know whether to kiss him or shove him. Every inch of her aches, stitched and sore, but the ache in her chest is worse.

God, she wants to kiss him.

How does the devil look so angelic?

Her head is spinning. Everything she’s ever known about vampires tells her to run. Blood, death, darkness, that’s what she expected. That’s what she’s seen in books, in stories. But Jasper… he doesn’t fit any of that. He’s something else entirely. Still dangerous. Still capable. But different. Gentle. Thoughtful. Beautiful.

Her breath shudders. “Jasper,” she exhales, almost like she’s asking him to stop. Or maybe to keep going.

Her mind is chaos. Jasper clouds her thoughts, Paul warps her sense of self. Being around either of them distorts her, one with comfort and the other with possession. It’s impossible to think straight when she’s wrapped in someone else’s influence.

“You want to go,” he says, almost a whisper. His eyes flicker to her lips and back again. His voice doesn’t crack, but the pain in it is unmistakable. “I know.”

He licks his lips and tries to smile, but it falls short. “It’s alright, darlin’. I wouldn’t want you in this world either.”

That hurts more than she expects. Her heart twists. He’s never been hers, not really, but the idea of losing him cuts deeper than she can explain. She swallows hard. Her lips part, but no sound comes.

His gaze drops again, this time lingering on her mouth just long enough for her heart to skip a beat – the monitor betrays her. She wants it. A kiss that would anchor itself in her skin. A kiss she'd remember even when she forgets everything else. One she’d carry across time and distance like a scar.

“I don’t know what I want,” she admits, finally. Her voice shakes. “But every inch of my body and soul wants to stay.”

Jasper's expression softens. He leans in slightly, not touching her, but close enough she can feel the cold air between them. His next words come gently, but they land hard.

“You can let me go. I won’t break.”

She blinks. The breath she draws in gets stuck halfway. Maybe he believes it. Maybe he’s trying to be kind. But there’s something behind his eyes, a flicker of fragility that makes her question everything he just said.

“Why me? Why did you save me?”

Her voice is raw, uncertain, almost childlike in its honesty. She stares past Jasper’s shoulder, past the walls, at the window where the world stretches out in eerie stillness. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. Like she’s living on a movie set, with mountains and sky painted on some massive canvas. A green screen fantasy. Her mind turns on her like that sometimes. A quiet whisper insisting nothing is real. That everything, people, places, pain, is plastic.

But Jasper’s nose brushes hers, and that thought shatters.

He’s the most unreal thing she’s ever known, yet in this moment, he’s the only thing that feels real. His presence is solid. Grounding. And when his lips ghost just above hers, her tortured lungs forget how to work. Her heart flutters wildly, and it’s not even a kiss. Just the hint of one.

“Because I couldn’t ignore the siren song of your soul calling out for me,” Jasper murmurs, the words barely brushing her skin. “The song was irresistibly sweet… but your sadness…it was there, woven into every note. It called to what little soul I have left. Pulled me in. Consumed me.”

His lips brush the corner of hers, a fleeting, trembling almost kiss, and her fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. She doesn’t mean to grab him like that, but she’s unraveling. Her body aches for his. Her heart wants what her head can’t make sense of. She can’t resist him. And the truth is, she doesn’t want to. She wants this. Him. This moment. Forever.

Nothing about her life makes sense right now. Nothing about this should feel right. But it does. If being torn apart is what it takes for Jasper to finally let her in, she’ll take it. She’d relive every second of pain just to feel this again. One real kiss from him and she’ll fall. She’s already falling.

Screw leaving. Screw New York. Jasper is the only thing she wants anymore. Maybe he affects her thoughts. Maybe not. But she knows one thing, she isn’t leaving him. Not without learning everything. Not without knowing the truth about what it means to be his.

“I… who have done nothing noble in my entire existence,” Jasper whispers, voice filled with restraint, “will do this one noble thing and set you free.”

His fingers loosen their hold. His breath ghosts her cheek one last time. And before she can speak, before she can stop him, he’s gone.

Gone in a blink.

“JASPER?!” she cries out, pain lancing through her ribs as she jolts upright. Her hand flies to her side, but the ache in her chest burns more than any wound.

In the doorway, Paul leans casually against the frame, arms crossed, face unreadable. “He’s gone,” he says. “Edward just told the rest of them.”

Swallowing thickly, she places a shaky hand over her sinking heart. "What does gone mean?"

Swallowing hard, she presses a trembling hand to her chest, right over the place where her heart feels like it’s caving in.

“What does gone mean?” she repeats as her voice cracks, but her eyes stay hard.

Paul steps into the room, slow and casual, like nothing explosive just happened. He hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of his shorts and licks his lips, unreadable.

“He did you a favor, Y/N,” he says. “Let him do this one good deed in a sea of bad ones.”

Her laugh is sharp, hollow. “And you’re saying this out of the kindness of your heart?”

“No,” Paul cuts in, tone blunt. “I’m being selfish. More selfish than the vampire. I want you with me. Back in La Push. Where we were supposed to start a new adventure. Remember that?”

She does. Unfortunately. Her jaw tightens. “You mean the one where you left me standing alone in front of your family and friends while you walked off with some random woman? Where you humiliated me? That adventure?”

Her hands move quickly now, anger giving her strength she shouldn’t have. She rips the electrodes off her chest with sharp, reckless motions. The tape burns against her skin. She grabs the chest tube and shifts it aside, pain tearing through her ribs as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

A harsh, broken sound escapes her throat and her ankle sends off a warning when her feet touch the ground. It’s not a scream, but close. Paul’s there in a flash, hands on her hips like he has any right to touch her. Like this is about care, not control.

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” she snarls, every word pulled through clenched teeth. Her body trembles, not from weakness, but from the fury boiling in her blood.

“Don’t be too proud to accept help,” he says, pulling her slightly closer. It’s possessive, subtle. He smiles like he’s amused by her defiance. “I missed your temper. Your stubbornness.”

“You barely know me,” she snaps, pushing against his chest. Her hands are weak, but her glare is all fire.

“Yeah, but I know some of you,” he murmurs, lowering his voice like it's a secret. “Let me know all of you.”

She peels his hands off her body, slow and deliberate. Her fingers shake from the effort, but she steps away anyway. Even if it hurts like hell.

“I gave you a second chance, Paul,” she says, voice low, controlled, lethal. “And you gambled it away. I warned you I don’t give third chances.”

He looks down at his hands, flexing and fidgeting with his fingers. Shame? Maybe. Guilt? Doubtful.

“What if I told you I had no choice that night?” he asks. “That as a wolf, I was assigned a girl to love and protect. And she broke my heart. But I’m still bound to her.”

Her eyes narrow. The cut above her eyebrow flares with a familiar sting, but she doesn’t blink.

“I’d say that’s a pretty fucked up deal you’ve got there.”

“It’s called imprinting,” Paul says, his voice lower now, almost resigned. “When a wolf meets someone supposedly perfect for them, they imprint. From that moment on, you’re supernaturally bound to your imprint. You become whatever she wants you to be. And at one point, Rachel Black wanted me to be her boyfriend.” He swipes a thumb under his bottom lip, avoiding her eyes. “Then she didn’t.”

His gaze moves to the door, jaw tense. “She broke my heart. And I guess… she heard I was finally moving on when you came here with me. It didn’t sit well with her.”

“That’s awfully selfish of her.” She presses her hand lightly over her heart, trying to slow its panicked rhythm. It’s getting harder to speak now and impossible to stand. Her throat is raw, her voice scratchy and fraying at the edges. Talking feels like swallowing sand.

“I wouldn’t have left you there if I had a choice,” Paul says, taking a step closer. “Ask any of the wolves from the pack. Most of them imprinted too.”

His hand reaches out, brushing her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. She pulls away without thinking, an instinctive recoil. The warmth of his skin feels misplaced now, like a key turned in the wrong lock. After Jasper’s touch, she can’t imagine another hand upon her. It’s wrong. So, so wrong.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Paul,” she says gently, and places her hand over his. Her palm rests there for a moment, just long enough to say goodbye. “But I’m not interested in restarting what we could’ve had.”

He blinks at her, confused. She manages a small, sad smile as she continues, “I’ll give your school fifty thousand dollars up front. It’s the most I can offer without raising red flags for my father’s accountants. Once I see progress, I’ll send more in payments. As long as I get proof it’s being used the way you promised.”

She taps his hand softly, her chest rising with a shallow breath. The movement tugs at her wounds, but she ignores the pain. “But the moment I can… I’ll fix things with Jasper.”

Paul stiffens. “And if he doesn’t want that?”

“Then I’ll leave.” Her tone is soft but steady. “I won’t beg anyone to love me. Not anymore.”

“I could make you happy,” he says, almost pleading. “Keep you safe.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t belong with you. It’s time you accept that.”

Her hand moves up to his cheek, cupping it gently. He leans into her palm like it’s a comfort he wasn’t expecting. A quiet smile tugs at the corners of her lips, but it’s fleeting, bittersweet.

“You barely spent a few days around me, Paul. Soon enough, I’ll just be that rich girl you used to know.”

“With really expensive vases,” he says with a dry chuckle, and she can’t help it, she giggles. Just a little.

That’s the thing about Paul. He has that effect on people. It’s easy to imagine someone new filling her place before the week is over. Women will line up for that smile. They always do.

“If I end up leaving…” she trails off, and Paul gives her a tight-lipped nod.

“I might find myself visiting,” he says.

She nods, too. Watches him step away and leave out the door. Watches the space he leaves behind. And as silence settles over the room again, she realizes something that cuts deeper than the stitches at her side.

She’s going to miss him. More than she wants to admit.

“You shouldn’t leave.”

The voice comes before the blur of movement, and then Alice is standing directly in front of her, close, too close. Y/N gasps, heart jumping into her throat. It takes several long seconds for her pulse to stop slamming against her ribs. Even then, her breathing is uneven, shallow. Every breath burns.

“I want to stay,” she whispers hoarsely, her voice brittle. “I do. But Jasper…” Her eyes sting. “He seems to want anything but.”

Alice doesn't blink. Her hands settle on Y/N’s trembling shoulders, the weight feather-light but the strength behind them unmistakable. “If you leave, something bad will happen. Garrett will hurt you.”

Y/N flinches. “No. He wouldn’t dare. That would be suicide.” Her voice is barely above a rasp. “He knows what I know. He knows what’s at stake.”

Alice’s eyes darken, her grip tightening. “Jasper is your destiny. He is yours. You’ll always be his. It’s an unbreakable bond, and if you walk away now, you’ll drag both of you through hell.”

“Then why did he leave?!” she snaps, pain slashing through her chest, sharper than her cracked ribs, deeper than the gash across her thigh. She tries to pull away, to walk past her, but her body rebels. Her muscles seize. Her vision spots. And Alice doesn't budge.

Her breath catches in her throat as she sways, and Alice’s unnatural strength forces her gently, yet undeniably, back down onto the bed.

“You’ll die if you leave,” Alice says, her voice like a prophecy etched into stone.

“That’s enough, Alice,” Rosalie says sharply from the other side of the room. Her voice cuts clean, full of command. She crosses the floor in three strides, and suddenly Emmett is there too, planting himself in front of Y/N like a shield.

Alice finally steps back. Her eyes linger on Y/N, almost mournfully, before she disappears without another word.

The moment she’s gone, Y/N starts shaking, violently, uncontrollably. Whether it’s adrenaline or heartbreak or the damage done to her ribs, she doesn’t know. Maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s because she believes Alice. Maybe it’s because she wants to believe her.

God, she just wants Jasper back, even if it’s a dream. Even if he’s not real. Even if none of this is.

“Where did he go?” she asks, her voice thin and cracked, the raw edge of her throat making it feel like every syllable is made of glass.

Rosalie folds her arms, face impassive. “Far.”

The word punches a hollow through her gut. She nods anyway, though her lips are trembling and her jaw won’t stop clenching. Another crack in the mask. Another sign of weakness she can’t hide. Her entire body feels too heavy, too broken. Even her breath feels borrowed.

“Well,” she croaks, swallowing hard against the sharp sting in her throat, “if either of you speak to him, let him know I’m not leaving this town until he shows his face again.”

Rosalie raises a brow, unimpressed. “Then you’ll never leave.”

“Good thing I own a house in Forks, then,” Y/N snaps. Her voice is hoarse, but the fire behind it isn’t. “If he wants to be a coward and run, fine. He can be a coward. But he doesn’t get to say the things he said and vanish without giving me a fucking choice. I’m not going anywhere until I talk to him. Not one step.”

Rosalie’s mouth opens, maybe to argue, but Emmett gently places a hand on her arm, stepping forward with surprising softness.

“We’ll tell him,” he promises, voice low. “But until then, focus on healing. Carlisle said you’ll be here for a few weeks at least. You’re not going anywhere even if you try.”

Y/N breathes through clenched teeth, the pain radiating through her side like fire beneath her skin. She presses a hand against her ribs, nodding once. “Thank you,” she whispers. It’s the only thing left she can say. But inside, she’s screaming.

The first day was hell.

Even through the haze of potent painkillers, the agony chewed at her from the inside out. No reprieve. No mercy. Not like before when Jasper had shielded her from it, pulled the suffering away like it weighed nothing.

Now she felt everything.

Eating was a fantasy. The mere sight of food turned her stomach, and water left her retching until she dry heaved bile. Every breath scorched her throat. Sleep? Laughable. Her mind was a warzone, thoughts of Jasper ricocheting with no rhythm, no rest. Questions spun like blades: Why did he leave? Did he regret saving me? Was I always disposable?

Carlisle held out hope for the first twenty-four hours. Trauma, he'd said. Shock. It would pass. But it didn’t.

By day four, Y/N’s lips cracked and bled when she whispered answers, if she spoke at all. Her voice became a ghost of itself, frayed and raw. The bruises mottling her body darkened, pooled, spread. Her skin, once warm with color, began to drain to a chalky pallor. Her cheeks caved in, bones starting to sharpen beneath the surface of her skin. Her collarbones jutted out like blades.

Her abdomen throbbed endlessly. Her body shook when she tried to sit up, her muscles weakening with terrifying speed.

And yet, when Carlisle threatened a feeding tube, she turned her hollow eyes on him and said, plain as day, “I won’t consent to one.”

There was no anger behind it. No drama. Just calm finality. He begged. He tried logic. He tried compassion. He even tried subtle manipulation. Nothing worked. IV fluids kept her marginally alive, but they weren’t enough. Her electrolyte levels were dipping. Her kidneys were beginning to strain. Her skin no longer flushed with life, just blotched and bruised, cold. She was fading.

Edward couldn’t reach her. Bella couldn’t either. Desperate, they called Paul, but she didn’t even acknowledge his voice. She wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t scream.

Twelve days in, Carlisle stood with his arms crossed, glaring through the glass into her room. She lays curled on her side, unmoving, staring blankly at the world beyond the window. The hospital gown hung on her like it belonged to someone twice her size.

“She’s going to die of starvation at this point,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I’ve treated dozens of terminal cases and she looks worse than some of them. I can’t even consider removing her chest tube now…her lung isn’t expanding at all.”

Inside the room, her chest rises and falls in slow, shallow movements. Barely breathing. Her once glowing skin is gray. The shadows under her eyes have gone violet. Her hair is limp and dull, sticking to her damp forehead.

Bella swallows hard. “I wasn’t much better when you guys left,” she says, arms folded tightly, her voice quiet. “It felt like… the world stopped spinning. Like nothing mattered anymore.”

Carlisle shakes his head. “Yes, but you were still eating. Still moving. Still fighting. She’s… wasting away.”

Edward adds, “This isn’t the same, Bella. She’s not coping. She’s weaponizing her own body. She wants him here and she’s very much willing to starve herself to death.”

Bella frowns. “So what now? Do we just sit here and watch her die?”

“She wants Jasper,” Edward says simply.

“And I wanted you. How is this different from what I went through?” she asks, defensive. “Depression is…it’s hard to get survive where your brain goes in those moments.”

Edward’s tone sharpens. “She’s not trying to survive until he comes back. She’s daring him not to. In her mind, if she dies, he’ll hate himself forever. And if he comes back in time, she’ll get to scream at him for leaving her.”

Bella's eyes widen. “And you didn’t tell me that because…?”

“Because I already called him,” Edward says with a grimace. “He told me not to call again. Said she’ll break eventually.”

Bella narrows her eyes. “That’s because he didn’t see her.”

She whips out her phone, steps quietly to the glass, and snaps a photo. Y/N’s sunken face. The lifeless look in her eyes. The torn, chapped lips. The bruises, yellow, green, black. Her arms, once strong, now nearly skeletal beneath thin blankets.

“She looks like she’s already dead,” Bella whispers, staring down at the image, fury building in her chest. “And she’s still too damn stubborn to admit she’s hurting.”

With shaking fingers, she hits send. “There. He’ll see it.”

Carlisle exhales slowly. “You think it’ll work?”

“It has to.” Because if it doesn’t, they’ll bury a girl who only ever wanted a chance to be chosen. And this time, none of them will be able to stop it.

Y/N believed Jasper was bluffing.

The first night, she turned her face toward the door, her body stiff with anticipation, every creak in the hallway making her chest rise in shallow, hopeful gasps. She convinced herself he’d be back by morning. She rehearsed what she’d say, how she’d scold him, how she’d cry, how maybe, just maybe, she’d forgive him if he just showed up with those haunted eyes and trembling hands that used to cradle her like something worthwhile fighting.

But morning came and he didn’t. And the following night, the ache in her chest began to twist, carving deep into places she didn’t want to feel. The realization stung like salt in an open wound: He really left. Not temporarily. Not dramatically. But deliberately. He chose this. He chose to leave.

She felt stupid. She felt empty. She felt used.

It wasn’t the physical pain, though that, too, was unbearable. Her chest felt like it had been caved in, stitched together with barbed wire and left to rot. Her stomach, already tender from injuries, rolled and spasmed at the thought of food. Just lifting her head made her dizzy. The pressure behind her eyes built constantly, like tears always wanted to come but had given up halfway.

Still, none of it compared to the deeper agony. The soul deep kind. The kind that eats at your sense of worth. The kind that whispers, he left because you weren’t worth staying for. The sorrow turned sharp after the fifth day. Sharp, fiery and angry.

She stayed in bed, unmoving, arms crossed weakly over her middle, whispering to the ceiling like it might listen.

"Coward."

"Liar."

"Manipulator."

But in the next breath, she was defending him.

He thought he was doing what was best. He didn’t want to hurt you more. He left to protect you from himself.

The cycle was endless, an exhausting trial where she was both the prosecution and the defense. One second she was screaming in her head that she hated him, hated what he did, hated how he walked away like she didn’t matter, and the next, she was replaying every touch, every look, every vulnerable moment between them.

Because the truth was: she didn’t hate him. Not at all.

But she hated what he did.

She hated how he ran the second things got complicated. How he put words in her mouth, made decisions for her under the guise of selflessness. How he decided her pain was worth it if it meant his conscience stayed clean. She hated how much like everyone else he turned out to be.

Because this…this wasn’t new. People always left. Always.

Her grandfather with his cold expectations. Her father with his absence dressed up as business. Friends who drifted, lovers who faltered. Paul, who humiliated her when all she wanted was to be seen.

Now Jasper. Her one light in the dark. The only person who made the pain hush for even a minute. He ripped her heart out of her chest, made her weak once again. He chose to vanish without letting her say a word. Without looking back.

She could feel the cracks in her soul widening, all her carefully patched pieces falling apart. All her insecurities bleeding out like open wounds.

You’re too much. You’re too broken. You’re a burden. You’re hard to love.

No, she wasn’t starving herself to get his attention. That would mean she still had control over this. But she didn’t. The grief, the pain, it took over.

The trauma of her injuries left her body twisted and aching, her insides screaming every time she shifted in bed. Food became an enemy. Her throat closed at even the thought. The idea of eating felt impossible. The nausea wasn’t just physical, it was emotional. It was a rejection of anything that wasn’t him.

She longed for Jasper, not because she needed saving, but because he understood. He felt everything she did. He made the pain quiet. Without him, the noise was unbearable.

She curled in on herself most days, arms wrapped around her shivering body, silently pleading for sleep, or death, or just some kind of peace.

But none came.

And through it all, her heart ached, not just with longing, but with confusion. How could someone who held her so gently be the one to shatter her so completely?

She wasn’t trying to die. But with every passing day, her body weakening, her hope unraveling, she didn’t know if she could survive without him. Not because she wasn’t strong. But because this time, her heart wasn’t just broken, it was starving, too.

--

Jasper isn’t expecting the message.

He’s halfway through a stretch of cold forest in Alaska, trying to keep his mind blank, his instincts sharp. Hunting has always helped. The quiet, the discipline, it’s one of the few things that silence the war in his head. Or at least dulls it enough to function.

But the moment his phone buzzes in his pocket, he knows. There’s a spike of dread. Heavy. Paralyzing. Like his gift is warning him before he even pulls the phone out.

A text from Bella.

“You need to see this.” There’s an image attached. He opens it and the world shifts. His knees buckle, literally, and he hits the frozen ground like he’s been shot. The snow beneath him doesn’t even register. All he sees is her.

Y/N.

She’s lying in bed, the one he left her in, with a blanket tucked over her waist, but there’s nothing warm about her. She’s colorless. Ashen. The bruises on her skin look more violent in contrast to how thin she’s gotten. Her cheeks are hollowed out, dark circles bruise the space under her eyes, and her lips are split, cracked, like she hasn’t had a drink in days. She’s staring out the window like she doesn’t even see it. Like she’s already somewhere else.

Jasper doesn’t realize he’s gripping the phone so tightly until the screen splinters, cracking across her face. He curses and drops it, pressing both hands to his mouth to keep in the scream. His throat burns. His chest feels like it’s being split open from the inside.

He did this.

This isn’t just heartbreak. This is devastation. His gift floods him with what she must be feeling; emptiness so cold it bites, sorrow so heavy it sinks bone deep. Her emotions reach him even from here, like phantom pain. He feels her grief. Her loneliness. Her hatred. And maybe even her affection. Even now, even through all of that, he feels that one stubborn thread still attached to him. Fragile, straining, but alive.

Why did you leave me?

The question burns through his skull. Not spoken, but felt. It tears him apart. Because he doesn’t have a good answer. He left thinking he was doing the right thing, giving her space, sparing her the risk of him. He told himself it was selfless. But it wasn’t. It was fear. He was scared. Scared of hurting her more than she already was. Scared that one day he’d lose control, scared of not being enough, scared that someone like her could love someone like him.

Now he’s scared of something else entirely. He’s scared she won’t survive this.

He grimaces and is gone before he can think how bad this idea might be. The only thing on his mind is getting back. Getting to her. Touching her. Holding her. He doesn’t care if she screams or slaps him or hates him forever. She’s still breathing.

And as long as that’s true, he’ll fight to help her get back on her feet again…and then he will do as he said. Even if it kills him.

--

Y/N stares out the window, the way she always does now.

She barely notices the muffled commotion outside her room. Carlisle’s voice and Alice’s soft protests. Footsteps sharp, determined stop at her door. She’s too far gone to care. Her thoughts are stuck on a loop she’s recited for days:

He’s not coming back. He didn’t want you enough to stay. You are always too much or not enough. Never just right.

But then the door opens and everything stops.

She doesn’t need to look. Her heart tells her before her brain does. Her body stiffens despite the fatigue, the weight of her wasted muscles resisting even that small act of alertness.

He says nothing. She says nothing.

The silence between them is so heavy it nearly chokes her.

Jasper steps in slowly, like he’s afraid one wrong move will shatter her. And in truth, he’s right. He looks the same, but there’s a storm behind his eyes. She can feel it crawling across her skin; grief, guilt, fear. Love?

“You’re late,” she rasps, glancing at him. Her voice cracks from disuse. It’s barely more than a whisper.

Jasper swallows hard. “I know.”

She turns her face away from him, to the window again. “I thought you’d come back the next day.”

“I was a coward,” he admits, voice barely audible.

“No,” she scoffs, bitter and hoarse. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. Cowards run. You disappeared. I’m not sure what the term is for that.”

Jasper steps closer, hesitating at the edge of her bed like there’s a line he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to cross. “You’re wasting away,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I saw the photo. I saw what I did to you.”

She doesn’t look at him. She can’t. If she does, she’ll shatter.

“I wasn’t doing it for you,” she says. “I didn’t stop eating to make a point. I stopped because the pain made it impossible. The grief… the confusion… it took away any sense of hunger.”

He doesn’t argue. He knows she’s telling the truth.

Her fingers tremble over the blanket. “I kept telling myself I hated you. That I was better off. That you left because you didn’t care.” She finally turns her head, and when her eyes meet his, it’s devastating. “But I don’t hate you. I hate what you did. I hate how much it reminded me of every other time someone decided I wasn’t worth staying for.”

“You are,” he says, stepping forward, now beside her bed. His hands twitch like he wants to touch her but is terrified she’ll flinch. “You are worth everything. That’s what scared me. You became everything to me so fast I didn’t know how to hold it without breaking.”

Tears sting her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. Not yet. “So you left?”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

She laughs, a weak, hollow sound. “You don’t get to use that excuse. Not with me. You don’t know what it’s like to be alone after being torn to shreds, to wonder if you imagined the man who held your hand and promised you weren’t alone.”

His lips part. “You didn’t imagine me.”

“No,” she says softly, finally letting a tear slip down her cheek. “I just imagined you’d stay.”

Silence.

He moves then, sinks to his knees beside the bed, hand slowly, gently reaching for hers. She doesn’t stop him this time. His cool fingers cradle her fragile, burning ones, and her bottom lip trembles at the touch.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he whispers a promise he can’t be certain he’ll keep. “Even if you never forgive me. I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

Her voice is paper thin when she answers. “Then start by helping me eat. I don’t want to be weak when I scream at you later.”

He lets out a broken laugh, forehead pressing against the edge of the mattress as his shoulders shake, not from laughter but from relief.

And Y/N, for the first time in days, lets herself believe it might not be over. Not yet.

“Can I?” Jasper asks quietly, eyes locked on hers like he’s asking for far more than permission.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

The moment she says it, something in him changes. Jasper moves to the edge of her bed, one hand curling around hers, the other resting gently over her ribs, just above where her pain seems to gather most. He closes his eyes.

It starts as a soft pulse, a tug beneath her skin, like someone carefully unraveling knots she didn’t know she’d been carrying. She gasps as the pressure begins to fade, the throbbing replaced with something like warmth… almost numbness, but not quite. Jasper breathes in deeply, and his body shudders slightly as her agony floods him. All of it. The twisting nausea. The gnawing ache in her bones. The tight, sharp stabs in her chest with every breath. The heavy sadness sitting like stone in her stomach.

He feels it all.

His jaw tightens as he takes it in and burns it away. He doesn’t just push the pain aside, he absorbs it, purifies it, filters it out like poison through his soul.

“Jasper…” she whispers, seeing how quiet he’s become, how his hands tremble.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs. “You’re the one who needs this.”

And suddenly, for the first time in nearly two weeks, she breathes without wincing. She lets her body sink deeper into the pillows. The nausea fades. The trembling slows. There’s a stillness she didn’t think she’d feel again.

Jasper lets go only when he’s certain the worst has passed, and then he lifts a spoon to her lips.

“Try for me?” he asks softly, his other hand brushing her hair back.

She opens her mouth, and lets him feed her slow, steady spoonfuls of broth that would’ve made her gag days before. Now, she takes it in, never looking away from his face.

He doesn’t just help her that night. He’s there the next day. And the next.

Day in and day out, Jasper feeds her, bathes her forehead in cool cloths, holds her through her worst moments. He curls beside her when she sleeps, just like he did that first night, before he ran from afterward. Now, he refuses to go.

He reads to her when she’s restless, distracts her when the pain starts crawling back up her spine. His ability dulls it, keeps her functional, but it costs him. She sees how exhausted he is. She sees how much it takes. Still, he stays.

Until one afternoon, Carlisle enters with a tense expression and says, “Jasper. I need you to step out. I have to remove the chest tube today. It’s… not going to be easy.”

Jasper, still sitting beside her bed with his fingers laced in hers, doesn’t move. “I promised her,” he says evenly, “I won’t leave again.”

Carlisle’s voice tightens. “You don’t understand. She’s going to feel pain. The blood, the scent…it’s going to trigger everything in you. We can’t take that risk.”

“You think I’d hurt her?” Jasper stands, not angrily, but protective, desperate. “I’d die before I touched her like that. I can control it.”

Carlisle turns to Y/N, gently but firmly. “I need your word too. If this gets dangerous, you’ll let him go.”

But she grips Jasper’s hand tighter and says, hoarsely, “If Jasper believes he can maintain control, let him stay. I’d rather have him hold my hand through this, if it’s possible.”

Jasper looks down at her, touched and torn. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. “I won’t hurt you.” His voice is low, strained with conviction. “It’s hard. You smell like blood and warmth and everything I’ve ever wanted… but I’d never risk everything for a momentary pleasure. Not you. Never you.”

There’s a silence between them then. A heavy one.

Carlisle sighs and nods. “Alright. But the second I say leave, you go. No hesitation.”

“I will,” Jasper promises, pulling a chair close to the bed and wrapping her hand in both of his. “But I won’t need to.”

And when Carlisle begins the procedure, when Y/N cries out, when her body twists and the scent of blood fills the air Jasper doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. He closes his eyes, shoulders shaking, and simply holds her hand through it all.

Because love, to Jasper, was never meant to be easy. But for her? It’s worth the battle every single time.

The room is quiet now. Just the low hum of the machines still monitoring her vitals and the steady rhythm of Jasper’s breathing.

Y/N lays curled against his chest, head resting over his unbeating heart. The coldness of his body against hers is the only thing grounding her when everything else still feels too chaotic, too heavy to bear. Jasper’s hand traces gentle, aimless patterns up and down her spine, slow enough to soothe, steady enough to make her feel safe.

His chin rests on top of her head, and he speaks softly into her hair, “Carlisle says the X-ray shows your lung’s expanded fully. Your labs look good. Your stitches are out. You’re eating. They’ve weaned you off the morphine.”

She listens, eyelids growing heavier with every word. His voice soothes her.

“They want you to try standing tomorrow.”

Her breath catches. “I’m scared,” she admits.

“I won’t let you fall,” he whispers, pausing his hand against her back before resuming the slow strokes.

Her arms tighten around his torso, fingers curling into his shirt like she’s afraid he might vanish again. She draws in a careful breath, eyes still closed, before speaking. “It’s been about three weeks,” she says softly. “I stood that day you left.”

Jasper stiffens beneath her, a small tremor passing through his chest.

“I wanted to follow,” she adds. “Even though I knew I couldn’t.”

He pulls her tighter into his chest, pressing a kiss into her hairline. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I am so sorry, darlin’,” he adds, voice hoarse with guilt.

Her fingers lift slightly, brushing against his collarbone. She feels his body now in ways she didn’t let herself before; the subtle tension in his muscles, the stillness beneath the surface of his warmth, the silence of a heart that isn’t really beating. But there’s love there. She can feel it.

She stays quiet for a long time, just listening to the silence between his apologies and her aching heart.

Then, with more courage than she feels, she finally asks, “Jasper?”

“Mm?”

She shifts just slightly to look up at him, her cheek still pressed to his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

His fingers still on her spine. “Always.”

“Am I your mate?”

Jasper goes utterly still. She feels the way his breath pauses, the sudden hitch in his throat. Slowly, his hand moves again, less confident now. Hesitating.

“Where did you hear that?” he asks gently, but there’s caution in his voice. Carefully measured.

“You told Paul, back at the house. When I tried to run. I was barely conscious, but I remember. You said something about mates.”

She watches him closely, reading every flicker of emotion across his face.

And then she repeats, softer this time, “So… am I?”

He swallows hard. “Yes.”

There’s a tenderness in the word. A kind of surrender. Jasper closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “You’re my mate.”

She lets that sit in the air between them. Her heart thuds against her ribs, not from fear this time, but from the weight of what it means. “What does that mean? Really.”

He pulls back just enough to see her face, brushing her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. “In our world… mates are everything. It’s not like imprinting, or falling in love. It’s instinctual. Permanent. Binding. It doesn’t happen to every vampire. Some go their whole lives never finding one. Others feel it the second they meet someone. It’s…” he chuckles softly, eyes warm but stunned, “...cosmic. Violent. Sacred. You just know.”

Her breath catches. “And you… knew?”

“The second I saw you.” He doesn’t look away or explains when that was. She can’t know their first time meeting was nearly deadly. “It wasn’t just how beautiful you were. It was… the way my instincts screamed that you were mine. That you were everything I’d waited for and didn’t even realize I needed.”

“Are you happy with that?” she asks. Her voice is quiet again. Scared, almost. As if the answer might split her open.

Jasper’s brows draw together, like the question wounds him.

“Happy?” he echoes, brushing his fingers down her cheek. “Darlin’, I’ve been alive for over a hundred years. I’ve walked through wars. Felt alone for most of it, even when I was otherwise involved. And then you came along and looked me in the eye like I wasn’t something to be feared.”

He leans forward, forehead pressing against hers. “I’m terrified of losing you. That’s how happy I am.”

She holds her breath as he continues, speaking softly, “You are the one good thing I never thought I’d be allowed to have. And I’ll spend the rest of my days proving I’m worthy of you…if you’ll let me.”

She closes her eyes. And lets the tears fall, but this time they’re not from pain. They're from the overwhelming relief of being seen. Wanted. Chosen. And in his arms, with his hand pressed firm against her spine, Y/N dares to believe she might actually heal.

She breathes in slow, steadying the trembling in her chest before she speaks.

“I’m happy too,” she whispers, fingers gently toying with the hem of his shirt. “I’ve been… so lonely. For so long. Desperate to connect with someone. I kept trying, forcing myself to fit, to be who people wanted me to be. But with you… there’s no trying. It just is. Undeniable and kind of terrifying. But it’s beautiful.”

Her voice cracks slightly at the end, and she ducks her head. “You feel like home, Jasper. Like I’ve finally stopped running.”

His hand stills on her back, and he just holds her, tight enough to say he hears every word and believes them all.

“I don’t deserve that kind of grace,” he murmurs.

“Tough,” she says, voice muffled against his chest. “You’ve got it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, brushing his nose against her hair. “You’ve got a hell of a way with words, darlin’.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at him, a spark of playfulness in her expression. “You know what else I haven’t forgotten?”

“Hm?”

“You kinda kissed me before you left,” she says, eyebrow arching. “Or, you know, your lips grazed the corner of mine in this half-hearted, emotionally devastating, cowardly exit sort of way.”

Jasper blinks, then chuckles low in his throat. She’s not over that…and he doesn’t want her to be. He deserves to be called out. “Cowardly exit, huh?”

She grins. “You heard me.”

He smirks, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “And here I thought it was poetic in a way. An almost kiss, selflessly leaving the one I desire the most in order to protect her.”

“I didn’t want poetry. I didn’t want you leaving and I didn’t want any almosts….I wanted you to kiss me,” she says suddenly, softly. No teasing now, just the truth.

His gaze deepens, golden eyes flickering across her face like he’s memorizing every inch. “Wanted, as in past tense?”

She hums, tilting her head. “Maybe. Or maybe I still wouldn’t stop you if you tried.”

Jasper exhales, shaky, torn between temptation and restraint. “You’re dangerous.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. But the weight returns to his shoulders a moment later as his fingers gently trace her jaw.

“I want to,” he says, honest and heavy. “But kissing you, touchin’ you like that… it’s different for me. There’s a line I walk every second I’m near you. A line between love and…” He stops himself, jaw tensing. “And something darker.”

She studies him. “You really think you’d hurt me?”

He nods slowly, like it guts him to say. “Not on purpose. But… I’m always one slip away from losing control. From wanting too much. You don’t know what it’s like when I let go even a little.”

“I don’t see a monster when I look at you,” she tells him firmly. “I only see you. And I like what I see.”

That brings a flicker of something behind his eyes, shame and awe and hope, all tangled up. “You’re gonna be the death of me, and I of you,” he mutters.

She grins. “Meh. In a way, you almost were. Didn’t really take.”

He snorts, and she leans a little closer, her cheek against his shoulder again.

“And for the record,” she murmurs, voice teasing, “you’ve already been intimate with me.”

His brows raise. “Have I now?”

“Mhm,” she says, utterly smug. “You’ve been sleeping in bed with me for weeks. Holding me. Whispering sweet nothings to each other.”

“Hardly nothings,” he says with mock indignation. “I recall some very angry threats.”

“And don’t think I forgot that time I was in nothing but my underwear and you held me closer than it would be deemed proper.”

Jasper goes perfectly still. “You survived almost drowning. I was… helping.”

“Uh-huh. Helping,” she echoes, lips twitching.

“I was!” he insists, avoiding her gaze, a rare sight that delights her. If he was human, she’s certain his cheeks would be bright red now.

“You didn’t even look once?”

“I’m a gentleman,” he replies, then pauses, voice lower. “...Mostly.”

She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “I think I like ‘mostly.’”

He leans down just enough to brush his forehead against hers again, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice reverent.

“And you’re already in it,” she replies.

Their laughter mingles with the silence, warm and light in contrast to everything they’ve been through.

And though he doesn’t kiss her, not yet, he keeps her close. Holding her feels like safety. Like purpose. Like the only thing keeping the monster at bay is the way she looks at him like he’s not one.

--

The morning sun filters through the window, casting soft light over the bed. Y/N lies still, curled on her side, face half buried in Jasper’s chest. His fingers are already sweeping up and down her spine in that rhythmic, soothing way he always does when he knows she’s overthinking.

She’s silent. He doesn’t rush her.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says gently. “But it’s time.”

She doesn’t respond right away, just listens to the sound of his slow, unnecessary breaths. “I remember standing the day you left,” she says finally, voice fragile. “It tore through my ribs like knives. I didn’t even care. I just wanted to follow.”

Jasper’s eyes close briefly, and his jaw clenches. “I know,” he whispers. “I won’t let you hurt like that ever again.”

She shifts, looking up at him, hand resting lightly against his chest. “I’m scared.”

His promise is immediate, steady. “You fall, I fall with you. That’s the deal. Except I won’t let you fall.”

Y/N slowly nods. She lets him help her sit up, her hands trembling slightly as they grip his for balance. Her chest is still sore, still wrapped carefully, and every muscle in her body feels like it hasn’t moved in centuries. Her feet touch the floor, bare against the cold tile, and already her stomach flips with nerves.

“Easy,” Jasper murmurs, moving beside her, one arm around her waist, the other gripping her hand. “You’re not doin’ this alone.”

“I feel like a newborn deer,” she mutters with a grimace.

“You’re prettier than any deer I’ve seen,” he says with a lopsided grin, hoping to pull a smile from her.

It works, barely. She exhales a shaky breath, her lips twitching. “Charm me after I don’t collapse.”

“You couldn’t collapse if you tried. I got you.”

With a deep breath, she pushes herself upright. Her legs tremble. Her knees threaten to buckle. Pain throbs through her side, but it’s muted, either by her own sheer willpower or by the subtle, steady wave of calm he’s feeding her through his gift. She leans heavily into him, and Jasper doesn’t flinch. He holds her like she’s made of glass and gold at once, something precious and breakable and strong all at once.

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice low and soft. “One foot in front of the other. Just like that.”

Each step is agony, slow, careful, and exhausting. Her breathing grows ragged, and at one point she sways, but his arms tighten instantly, anchoring her.

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “That’s it. I’m right here.”

She makes it across the room. By the time she sinks back onto the bed, tears burn her eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming release of it all. Of being upright, of not falling, of Jasper’s unwavering presence at her side.

“I did it,” she whispers, almost in disbelief.

He kneels in front of her, takes both her hands, and presses them to his lips. “You did.”

“I wouldn’t have without you.”

He looks up at her, eyes burning gold and heavy with emotion. “I’ll be here for every step, darlin’. Every damn one.”

She brushes his hair behind his ear with trembling fingers. “Even when it’s hard?”

“Especially then.”

And she believes him.

--

The discharge paperwork takes nearly an hour, and even then, Carlisle insists on reviewing every detail twice. Y/N waits in her wheelchair, already dressed in normal clothes again for the first time in nearly six weeks; loose sweatpants, a faded t-shirt, and a zip up hoodie that smells faintly of lavender detergent. Her hair’s tied up in a lazy bun, her skin still pale but with life beginning to return to her cheeks.

Jasper never leaves her side. One hand rests on her shoulder, his thumb moving in soothing circles, grounding her in the middle of all the bustle.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go back to my house?” he asks softly as they guide her through the hospital doors.

“I’m sure.” She tilts her head to glance up at him. “I want to be at my grandma’s. It’s quiet. Familiar. I need that right now.”

His brows pull together in concern, but he nods. “Alright. Alice already had it cleaned after the tenants left.” He pauses, “Am I allowed to stay with you?”

She smiles, soft and sincere. “I wouldn’t ask to go there if I didn’t want you to come with me.”

“Good,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he opens the car door for her. “Though, I should warn you…”

She arches a brow as he slides into the driver’s seat beside her.

“Emmett might be impossible to shake off. He’s been talking about your release like it’s the Super Bowl.”

Y/N laughs, genuinely, for the first time in a while. “Please tell me he doesn’t expect a party.”

“He might already be blowing up balloons as we speak. He’s going to be so mad when we don’t show up.”

Jasper grins at her and puts the car into drive.

--

Her grandmother’s home is a modest, cozy house tucked between towering evergreens on a sleepy street in Forks, just a few houses down from Chief Swan’s residence. The moment she steps inside, it smells like aged wood, vanilla candles, and something comforting she can’t quite place, maybe the ghost of Sunday dinners and rainy afternoons curled on the couch as her grandmother braided her hair.

Jasper helps her up the stairs without a word, matching her pace, letting her lean on him when her legs falter. When they reach her old bedroom, she hesitates for a moment in the doorway. It’s exactly how she left it.

He peers past her shoulder, lips twitching with amusement. “Well, well. This is enlightening.”

She follows his gaze and groans.

The walls are plastered with posters, some tacked up with colorful pins, others curling slightly at the edges. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Heroes. The Weasley twins grin mischievously from above her dresser. Draco Malfoy, looking tortured and broody, stares out from beside her bookshelf. Aragorn, grim, glorious, and mud-streaked stands above her bed. And Peter Petrelli is everywhere.

“I forgot how many posters I had.” She rubs her face. “God, I was such a nerd.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to say was,” Jasper teases, walking around the room like he’s in a museum of her childhood psyche. “You’ve got Milo Ventimiglia in here four times.”

“He was hot,” she defends.

He smirks. “Mmm. Mr. Save the cheerleader, save the world? Sexy.”

She narrows her eyes, amused. “Wait… You know who Peter Petrelli is?”

He shrugs, casual. “What can I say? I’ve had a lot of years. Fantasy books, movies, shows…they're a decent way to pass the time. And,” he pauses with a smirk, “you can learn a lot about people by what they gravitate toward. Especially young, dreamy girls.”

Her mouth falls open, scandalized. “Hey!”

“You’re cute when you’re surprised.”

She pouts. “You really know Heroes?”

“I may have watched the entire first season… more than once.”

She steps closer, lips twitching with a smile that borders on flirtatious. “Okay, I take it back. That’s sexy.”

“Only the first season, though,” he adds with a mock warning. “It goes off the rails after that.”

Her head tilts. “God. You are a nerd.”

He leans in slightly, voice lower, warmer. “Your nerd.”

The air shifts, just slightly, charged with electricity like before a thunderstorm. She meets his gaze and suddenly feels grounded and unsteady all at once.

“Guess I have a type,” she whispers.

He brushes her hand gently, fingers curling around hers.

“You hungry?” he asks after a pause, voice soft again. “I can heat up that soup Esme left for you.”

“Only if we can watch Harry Potter and you let me explain why Draco was misunderstood.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “It’s a date.”

--

The lights are low, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the television. The opening notes of Hedwig’s Theme drift through the speakers as the first Harry Potter movie plays. Y/N is curled up against Jasper, her head resting on his chest, one of his arms around her shoulders, the other tracing idle circles along her arm. His body is freezing, his stillness oddly comforting, like lying beside a statue that somehow breathes just for her.

They’ve barely spoken in the last hour, but the silence has been anything but empty. It’s her who breaks it, pausing the movie.

“Jasper?” Her voice is small but certain.

“Mhm?”

“What was your life like... before? Before all of this?”

She feels the shift in him before he answers; a subtle tension. His fingers stop moving on her arm.

He exhales slowly. “Not much to tell.”

“Please,” she murmurs, lifting her head just enough to look at him. “If you’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, staring at the golden letters.

“I don’t remember a lot of it,” he says, voice rough with something heavy. “Bits and pieces. I know I lived on a farm. Small place. There were animals…lots of them. Horses, mostly, some chickens, pigs, a few cows. I liked the quiet. The early mornings. The smell of fresh hay.”

There’s a distant smile in his voice, but it doesn’t last.

“My parents were still alive when I left. My dad… he got hurt trying to help a neighbor with his roof after a storm. Couldn’t work after that. And the farm was struggling. I joined the war for the money.”

He finally looks at her, his jaw tense.

“I was on the wrong side of things. A Confederate soldier. Not proud of it. At the time, I told myself I was doing what I had to do for my family.”

He looks away again, eyes settling somewhere far past the television. She doesn’t speak, just lets him go at his own pace.

“I don’t know what happened to them. My parents. The farm. I never got the chance to find out. Maria turned me before I could go home.”

The name lingers in the air like a bruise.

“She was... compelling,” he says, almost bitterly. “I thought I was in love with her. I wanted to believe it meant something, the way she chose me. She saw my rank, my ability to influence others, and she turned me to help her build an army.”

He falls quiet, haunted.

“I did things I don’t talk about,” he continues after a long beat. “Terrible things. To help her. To survive her.”

Y/N doesn’t rush him. Her hand has moved to rest gently on his chest, just above his quiet heart.

“I stayed with her for years. Too long. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore, the killing, the emptiness. I left. Wandered. Tried to do better. I had friends… Peter and Charlotte. And when I left…I wasn’t a good person, until Alice found me. She showed me another way.”

She watches him closely, noting the way his eyes avoid hers, how his hands have stilled completely. He looks ashamed. She reaches up and touches his face gently, brushing her fingers along his jaw. Her touch is featherlight, but when she places a finger under his chin, coaxing him to look at her, he does.

His golden eyes meet hers, glassy with emotion.

“You’re not that person anymore,” she whispers. “I’m proud you found the courage to find another way. Another life.”

His throat works around the words he doesn’t know how to say, his lips part slightly, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Her fingers trail along his cheek now, tender, unafraid. He leans into her touch like it’s the only real thing he has.

And in that moment, she thinks, no, knows, that she’s not just comforting a vampire with a dark past. She’s touching a man who has been punishing himself for over a century, who finally let someone in far enough to see the shame and still choose him.

Jasper’s voice is almost inaudible when he speaks again.

“Thank you.”

She doesn’t say you’re welcome, just lays her head back on his chest, wraps her arms around his torso, and holds him like she’s holding something precious that had almost been lost.

As Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone continues to play across the screen, Jasper’s arm remains wrapped around Y/N, but his mind drifts. The movie plays on, charming and magical, but his expression subtly changes as moments unfold.

The first scene that truly pulls at something buried inside him is the arrival at the Hogwarts Great Hall. Candles floating in the air, enchanted ceilings reflecting the night sky, the echo of clinking silverware and joyful noise. Y/N shifts slightly against him. Jasper doesn’t speak, he no longer breathes.

It reminds him of something.

A long-forgotten memory flickers to life…not of magic or castles, but of candlelight. Hundreds of them. Lined up across a church hall one winter during his childhood. There was a Christmas mass, and he remembers sitting with his younger brother, boots muddy, faces ruddy from the cold. He remembers the scent of pine. The sound of a choir song echoing through the wooden beams. His mother held his hand. He hadn’t thought of her face in decades, but for a fleeting second, her laugh plays in his mind like an echo from the past. His heart aches.

The Sorting Hat scene pulls another chord, when Neville is nervous, bumbling, afraid of being inadequate. Jasper doesn’t realize his hand tightens slightly on Y/N’s arm until she glances up at him.

“Hey,” she whispers. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies. Then softly admits, “He reminds me of someone I used to know. A boy from back home. Real gentle soul. Died in the war. Shouldn’t have been there.”

Y/N doesn’t press. She just rests her hand over his heart again, grounding him.

When Harry is told “you’re a wizard,” and he replies, stunned, “But I’m just... Harry,” Jasper’s chest tightens. He remembers the moment Maria told him what he was now. The moment he knew he wasn’t just Jasper anymore. That something had been taken from him: his future, his humanity. But unlike Harry, there was no magic, no safety, no belonging. Only blood and war.

Later in the film, when Hagrid gifts Harry a photo album of his parents, Jasper almost looks away. The image of a boy staring at the only connection to the people who loved him, it hits too close. Jasper never got that closure. He has nothing to remember his family by. He remembers riding off to enlist with a satchel and a half-assed promise to send letters home. He remembers his mama crying on the porch, his father standing tall despite the limp. He doesn’t remember their voices anymore. He never got to say goodbye.

Y/N senses his withdrawal. She looks up at him again, cupping his cheek this time. “What did it remind you of?”

Jasper swallows hard. “Of what I lost,” he admits. “What I never got back.”

A long silence follows. But she doesn’t fill it with empty words. Instead, she leans up and presses a gentle kiss to his jaw.

“You still have time to build something new.”

..

It’s just past sunset when Y/N convinces him to go for a walk. They’ve been cooped up in the house for days now and she felt ready for more tasking challenges. She doesn’t feel weak anymore, nor do her legs betray her. She can do more and this is how she will prove it to him.

The forest behind her grandmother’s house stretches endlessly, painted in fading gold and sleepy greens. Trees stand tall, unmoved by time, and the quiet is so complete it makes the world feel like it's holding its breath.

Jasper’s movements are silent, fluid, his hand brushing hers every so often as they step over tangled roots and moss covered stones. She walks slowly, still careful after her injuries, but steady, more than she was. He watches her feet more than the path, ready to catch her if she slips.

They stop near a clearing where moonlight spills through the canopy like silver wine. A fallen log sits at the edge, wrapped in ivy and old bark. She sits, breath visible in the cool air. He joins her, just close enough that their knees touch.

Y/N tilts her head up toward the sky. “You always seem calmer out here,” she says softly.

Jasper doesn’t answer at first. His golden eyes are distant, lost in the trees, in the wind threading its fingers through the branches.

“I am,” he finally says. “It’s quiet out here. Quiet in a way the world rarely is.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “You mean… like in your head?”

He nods, slowly. “When I’m around people, it’s like drowning in emotion. Even if they’re not saying a word, I feel everything. Their fear. Their anxiety. Desire. Grief. It never stops. It used to drive me mad.”

“And now?”

“Now…” He glances at her, and his voice is softer. “Now I have moments where it doesn’t win. You help.”

A silence falls between them, not heavy, but filled with understanding.

“I used to come here with my grandmother when I was a kid,” Y/N says, voice dreamy. “She said the forest listens better than most people do. That it holds your secrets like tree rings.”

Jasper huffs a soft laugh through his nose. “She wasn’t wrong.”

A breeze stirs the leaves, and Y/N leans her head on his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second, he always does when she touches him like that, like he’s bracing against some storm inside him, but then she feels it: the slow, steady unwind of his tension.

His hand comes up to her back slowly, rubbing gentle circles. She listens to the quiet sounds of his breath, she hears no heartbeat, and yet… he feels alive. More alive than she’s felt in a long time.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asks. “Being human?”

“I miss the simplicity of it. I miss not knowing what it was to be a monster. I miss being able to hold a woman close with no worries…” he says honestly, voice low. “But I don’t miss the weakness. I don’t miss the hunger. And I don’t miss the numbness that came with not having anyone to share life with.”

She lifts her head to look at him. His eyes reflect the moonlight like mirrors, soft, glowing gold. He looks at her like she’s a constellation he hasn’t named yet.

“You’re not a monster,” she says. “I don’t like you calling yourself one.”

His smile is crooked, skeptical. “Sometimes I feel like one.”

She reaches for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “Then come here. Let the trees hold your secrets too. Let the quiet remind you you’re more than what you were made into.”

And so they sit like that, a vampire and the girl he nearly lost, tangled in silver light and stillness of the evening, the wind in the trees whispering not of war or hunger or grief… but of peace.

For the first time in years, Jasper lets go. He rests his forehead against hers, closes his eyes, and breathes, not because he has to, but because in this moment, surrounded by earth and leaves and the girl who touches his soul, he wants to.

The stillness lingers between them, a quiet, soft and heavy. Jasper stares out into the trees for a moment longer before shifting beside her. Then, without a word, he stands.

He dusts his palms on his jeans, glances down at her, and offers his hand with a gentleman’s grace. His Southern roots flash through in the way he straightens his spine, his expression warm, inviting.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, his voice low and smooth.

Y/N blinks, staring at his hand. “Dance? Here?”

A slow grin tugs at his lips. “Yes, here.  Allow this charming vampire to sweep you off your feet.”

She snorts, folding her arms. “Charming vampire, huh? Bit of a stretch.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You wound me, darlin’. I’ve fought wars with less offense.”

She laughs then, but her hand drifts toward his, hovering just above his fingers, not quite touching. There’s a moment of hesitation. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because something about this feels... different. Special. Like if she breathes wrong, it might disappear.

Still, she slides her hand into his.

He tugs her to her feet gently. When he places his hand at the small of her back and clasps her hand in his, he does so with tenderness, not pressure. The moment he pulls her close, everything slows. She’s acutely aware of the way their bodies align. Of the coolness of his skin, the steadiness of his hold.

And then, softly, so softly she almost thinks she imagines it, he begins to hum.

It’s just a hum at first, low and melodic, until it slips into something more whole. Words.

“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”

Y/N’s eyes widen as she lifts her gaze to him.

His voice isn’t loud. It isn’t showy. But it’s beautiful, velvety and rich, with an old-world kind of gentleness that wraps around the lyrics like a promise. He sings quietly, intimately, as if the song was meant for no one else but her.

“But I can’t help… falling in love with you…”

Her breath catches. Every word sinks into her chest like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through her.

His hand trails up her back as they sway. There’s no real choreography, no practiced moves, but there’s something elegant about the way he leads her, guiding her gently under his arm, spinning her slowly, catching her when she turns back to him, his hand brushing her jaw in one of those lingering, almost kiss moments that makes her knees go weak. She’s sure she must be glowing, because her face is hot, her adorned with a blush and completely betraying just how in awe she is.

“Like a river flows… surely to the sea… darling, so it goes…”

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, keeping their eyes locked.

“Some things… are meant to be.”

She can barely breathe as he sings the last line. Not because it’s perfect, but because he’s perfect in this moment. So achingly beautiful it hurts.

“Take my hand… take my whole life too…”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the wind dries the tear from her cheek.

When the song fades into silence, the moment between them fills with something unbearably tender, and she leans in. Her hands cup his jaw, rising on her toes, her lips parting just slightly. But just before she can kiss him, Jasper turns away sharply. It’s like someone snuffed out the warmth of the moment with a gust of cold air.

“I…” he mutters, voice tight. “I can’t.”

She freezes. Confused. Embarrassed. “Jasper?”

He’s standing with his back to her now, fists clenched at his sides, head bowed.

“I wanted to,” he says, voice cracking, “God, I wanted to. But I - I can’t. If I let myself… If I lose even one second of control…”

She takes a hesitant step forward. “Jasper, I trust you.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. I’m always walking a line with you, Y/N. You don’t know what it’s like. To feel it, your heartbeat, your scent, your blood, so close! So goddamn close when all I want is to love you and not become the thing I hate!”

“But you’re not that thing,” she says, voice fierce. She comes closer, touches his arm. He lets her. Barely.

She smiles, voice dipping into a cheeky lilt. “I crave you. All of you. Sometimes all I can do is think about touching you. And being touched by you.”

His head snaps toward her, lips twitching with reluctant amusement.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“And you like it.”

He huffs a breath. “Maybe I do.”

Their eyes lock again, the hurt and longing still there, but the warmth returns too. The tenderness.

She doesn’t press for more. Not yet. Instead, she threads her fingers through his and leans her head back against his chest again, swaying gently where the last note still lingers between the trees.

And Jasper holds her.

She can feel the rise and fall of his unnecessary breaths, can sense the subtle tremble through his muscles from how close they’d just been. For a while, neither speaks. The only sounds are the distant rustle of branches and the faint ripple of water somewhere beyond the clearing.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says quietly. “With the kiss.”

His hand runs slowly down her back, grounding her. “You didn’t.”

“I wanted it too much,” he continues, voice low. “And when I want something… deeply… it’s harder to control everything else. My instincts, the hunger. Even now. You don't know how hard it is to hold back when you're looking at me like that. It sets me on fire.”

Y/N studies him. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You believe that,” he says. “And maybe it’s true and nothing bad would happen but that’s a risk I am not prepared to take. Not with you.”

She searches his face, fingers finding the space over his heart. “I understand. I’m just happy you’ve been by my side this entire time. I cherish every touch, every moment spent together.”

“I am terrified the whole time,” he admits, but a small, helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Terrified… and stupidly happy.”

That softens her. She mirrors his smile, brushing her thumb over his collarbone. “You really are a gentleman, though. Didn't even look at me when I was getting out of the shower with nothing but my underwear last night.”

He laughs, reluctantly. “Oh, I looked. I just did it when you were getting dressed.”

She gasps in mock outrage, slapping his chest lightly. “Pervert.”

He grins wider now, but then he catches her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. His voice gentles. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Her teasing smile falters slightly, replaced by a quiet vulnerability. “Then want me. Let yourself. We don’t have to rush, but don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“You’re not Maria, Jasper,” she says, voice suddenly firm. “And I’m not some fragile thing made of glass and fear.”

“No,” he agrees softly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re made of fire and iron and honey. And it kills me sometimes, how much I feel for you.”

Her throat thickens, heart fluttering wildly. “You already sang to me. If you keep saying things like that, I might get ideas.”

“Dangerous ideas?” he teases.

“The best kind,” she replies with a wink.

They’re close again. His nose nearly brushes hers. Their breath mingles. But this time, neither of them moves to kiss. The tension lingers, aching and sweet.

Instead, she leans back against his chest, and he holds her like he’s never letting go.

“I don’t need the kiss right now,” she says after a while. “Not if it scares you.”

“It doesn’t scare me,” he replies quietly. “It’s what I’d do next that does.”

“Then we’ll take it slow. One step at a time. But promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t pull away again,” she says. “If you ever feel overwhelmed… just tell me. Let me help. Let me be someone you lean on, not run from.”

Jasper exhales a shaky breath and presses a kiss, soft and lingering, into her hair.

“I think I need to feed.”

Jasper’s golden eyes settle on her immediately, alert, protective, but softening when he sees the slight shake in her hands, the way she hasn’t quite met his gaze since she said it.

“It’s been too long,” she agrees. Her voice is steady, but underneath it, there's a rawness that betrays her restraint.

“I’ll take you home,” he offers quickly. “Emmett will probably want to come over and stay until I get back. It can take days…sometimes weeks to fully satisfy my hunger.”

Weeks? Swallowing thickly, she narrows her eyes at him with a smirk. “You do realize I don’t need a babysitter?”

He nods, that crooked smile of his ghosting over his lips. “For my sake?”

Her eyes linger on him a moment, reading all the quiet worry in his expression. The way he’s been hovering since the hospital. It’s endearing and infuriating all at once.

Sighing, she shrugs, feigning reluctance. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He smiles wider, pressing a quick kiss to the back of her hand before walking back the way they came.

Emmett arrives not ten minutes after Jasper leaves, breezing through the door with popcorn, root beer, and an obnoxiously large blanket he declares as his “movie cocoon.”

“You pickin’ the movie or am I?” he asks, already flopping onto the couch.

“I trust you,” she mutters with a yawn.

“Good. Fast & Furious 6, it is.”

The movie begins, the absurd action sequences playing out while Emmett makes ridiculous commentary about who could out-punch whom, Dom Toretto or Jasper. She lets him ramble. The banter is easy, comforting. Almost enough to distract her from the anxiety pooling in her chest.

But then her phone buzzes.

She checks it instinctively, expecting maybe a message from Jasper, or Alice reminding her of something sweet and irrelevant. Instead, her blood runs cold.

Her father’s name flashes on the screen.

“You need to be in New York by Friday. Keep up appearances until I return.”

Her fingers tremble around the phone.

“Everything okay?” Emmett asks, catching the shift in her posture, the way her breath hitches.

“Yeah,” she lies, too quickly.

“Try again.” His eyes are too sharp for her usual brush offs. He lowers the remote. “Who is it?”

She hesitates.

“My dad,” she says finally. Her voice is distant, raw. “He’s demanding I come home. Says he needs me to take his place while he goes to Europe for some business conference.”

“Okay,” Emmett shrugs. “So… New York trip for all of us?”

She swallows, the weight of the message still burning in her palm. “I think I have to do this myself.”

Emmett straightens. “Jasper won’t like that.”

“I know.” She looks up at him now, her eyes serious. “But he can’t follow me everywhere.”

Emmett studies her face for a moment, then leans forward, his voice low. “This isn’t just about your dad, is it?”

Y/N looks down. Her voice drops to a near whisper. “I have some things to handle.”

Emmett’s face darkens, all playfulness gone. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It could be,” she whispers. “But if I don’t do this now, it’s going to follow me around forever.”

“You shouldn’t do that alone.”

“I have to,” she insists, fierce now. “If Jasper comes, he’ll feel what I feel. And I can’t…” her voice breaks. “I can’t let him feel this. He’ll try to protect me, but for once I need to protect him. He doesn’t need to carry this burden. I do.”

Emmett doesn’t argue right away. He looks at her like he wants to. But after a moment, he nods slowly.

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she says.

“Does this have anything to do with that Garreth dude?”

“Yes.”

“And if things go sideways?”

“They won’t.”

She grabs a piece of paper, writing a note for Jasper.

“When he returns, he will want to follow me. Give him this note.”

Emmett takes it reluctantly, tension in his shoulders. “He’ll kill me for letting you do this.”

He watches her pack a bag then grab her coat, slipping it over her arms with practiced ease. She looks stronger now. Steady. But the fire in her eyes, he’s only seen that kind of fury in Jasper before battle.

“Be safe,” he says, almost reluctantly.

She nods. “I’ll be back within a week. Maybe I’ll come back before Jasper.”

But Emmett watches her walk out the door, a strange chill settling in his chest, because something in her eyes looked too final.

-----------------------------------

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