#the prophecy has begun

[the-incredible-auraa]

they have arrived.

The one to OutPizza the Hut.

[anghraine]

Meanwhile: I have so much I have to do, and so much I want to do, and suddenly my brain was possessed by an incredibly niche AU fanfic plotbunny.

It's not only for the Guild Wars video games (hardly the most popular series out there!), and not only GW1 fic in particular (the first game was on a far smaller scale than GW2 and had a much smaller userbase with maybe five fics on AO3). The fic concept specifically appeals to me as a way to unfridge Althea Barradin, an NPC I latched onto in 2005 out of all proportion to her screentime and frankly how well her lines were written. But it's not only that she's an underwritten GW1 character, or even just that she's one who only appears in Guild Wars: Prophecies—the very first GW game. She's actually only alive in the tutorial zone and is a mentor to PCs of one specific class that happens to be my personal favorite, mesmers (they're elegant spellcasters specializing in chaos magic, illusion magic, and other sneaky, unpredictable stuff).

There's a cataclysmic war crime committed against your people at the end of the tutorial, and a time jump to two years later, when you discover that Althea disappeared in all the upheaval and has not been seen since. You get a quest to discover what happened to her, only to find out that the answer is "dragged off and burned alive by the war criminal invaders." The worst resolution for my teenage pixel crush :( Anyway, you briefly interact with her ghost and gather her ashes to take to her father so both of them can find some kind of peace.

BUT

I sometimes think about how Althea's father (Duke Barradin) was originally next in line in the royal succession. He has already stepped aside for a popular war hero to become king instead when GW1 starts, and there's even a quest in the tutorial to make sure he and his people are faithful to the war hero king, Adelbern. At that point, Adelbern seems to be a good stabilizing authority figure after a lot of internal conflict, but he can be a bit short-sighted and self-aggrandizing in ways that become disastrous when his subjects are massacred in a massive magical attack that devastates the land and people (even GW2 acknowledges that this was so destructive that the aqueducts ran red with the blood of his people).

Adelbern is very obviously not equipped to handle the absolutely dire situation he ends up facing. He's already snapping under this incredible strain in GW1 and disowns his adult son (and it seems only child) for rightly questioning him, only to break even further when said son dies tragically. From what can be pieced together, he only went further downhill after that, becoming more unreasonable, absolutist, and desperate until he completely lost his mind.

Meanwhile, Duke Barradin—Althea's father and the guy who got skipped over for Adelbern in the first place—seems a far steadier and less egocentric figure. He gracefully accepted Adelbern as king before the game, and serves him with loyalty and discipline for the rest of his life, rather than taking Adelbern's ascension as a personal affront or holding a grudge or turning on him in the face of his own tragedies or anything. So I occasionally wonder what would have happened if Ascalon had kept to the traditional succession and Duke Barradin had become the next king, rather than Adelbern.

The cataclysm and invasion still would happen, but I think Duke Barradin would have been more resilient and less obsessed with his personal power and authority. He seems deeply fond of his daughter and I suspect wouldn't have disowned her over a tactical disagreement. Basically, from everything we saw of this guy, I think he'd have handled this situation a lot better than Adelbern—but this is such a niche scenario that requires so much information that I didn't feel like writing it.

But yesterday I was re-reading an idle post I'd made a couple of years ago that mentioned the concept in passing and suddenly realized that in that scenario, Althea would have been the heir rather than her canonical fiancé, Prince Rurik. Instead of tragic war victim Althea whose awful, awful death in an atrocity of war matters mostly because of how terrible her father and fiancé feel about it, she would be Princess Althea, the heir to a now desperate and struggling kingdom. We'd get Althea prioritizing saving her people above everything else, while Rurik gets the horrible death that illustrates the stakes of the war.

In a way, that would even make a bit more sense, logistically. In the game, Althea is a fancy illusionist strongly associated with her theatre just outside of Ascalon City, at this point the seat of Ascalonian power. Even after all this devastation, it took decades for the Charr armies to get far enough into Ascalon to seriously besiege it (before the remaining population was reduced to undying vengeful ghosts, too). It's not beyond belief that a warband could have reached the theatre, and it's also possible that Althea might have been in a more dangerous location at the time of the Searing, since lots of people were dragged off, including children. Just a bit odd in terms of where you would expect a fancy civilian noblewoman specifically to be, even a powerful and highly skilled spellcaster like Althea.

Rurik, on the other hand, is an intimidating warrior, and he's heavily involved with Ascalon's military, especially the Ascalon Vanguard that he himself leads. There's every reason for him to be fairly near the battle lines even without expecting the Searing. The fact that he's one of the main leaders of the Ascalonian military defense would hardly save him from being sacrificed in this terrible way.

(And this might still be a better end than the one he actually gets in canon, in which he's resurrected as an undead servant and forced to serve an evil lich until you kill him for good, freeing him. Getting reduced to ash by the Charr would at least spare him that.)

Despite a certain degree of pathos, though, Rurik was always a bit annoying IMO. He is a very archetypal honorable warrior dude, not as hidebound as Adelbern nor as blind to the reality of the threat they're facing, but his personal approach still tends towards an attitude of "if hitting my problems with my sword doesn't solve them, I didn't hit them hard enough." The PCs really have to handle anything that needs more diplomacy or subtlety.

Althea, though, is a very different kind of person—subtle, tricky, versatile—so I don't think a Princess Althea would necessarily be nailed to the same path as Prince Rurik is in canon. Mesmers in GW2 canonically use their powers of illusion to make themselves appear they're in a particular place when in reality they're skulking invisibly somewhere else, which could easily keep her from being an identifiable target where Rurik was striding around a snowscape with a giant flaming sword when he was killed. I don't think the premise requires Princess Althea dying the same way at all.

I can imagine, for instance, that the AU king might send a reliable, competent, and trusted figure like Althea to ensure the refugees get across the mountains, especially if he wants Althea "safely" out of the country. But as an illusionist, Althea could definitely take precautions that were not available to Rurik, and would be expected to do so.

So there's this whole "okay, if Althea isn't killed like in canon or even like Rurik is in canon, and I manage to completely unfridge her, how does her survival and the AU in general affect the GW1 plot? What is changed about the later canon revelations of what's going on in this era from Eye of the North and GW2?"

I don't have time for this and it's so incredibly specific that it's difficult to even explain to anyone else, but it's also possessing my brain ;_;

[phantasmicfish]

So I saw Dune Part 2 yesterday and I was initially super crushed because of the deviation from book canon but the more I think about it the more I sorta like it…

So without further ado here’s a list of stuff I liked about Dune Part 2:

- all the scenes initially of Paul growing closer to the Fremen. You can clearly see that they become friends, accept him as a Feydakin, that they’re laughing, joking, hanging out. (And contrast that to the end of the movie, where Paul has no more Fremen friends, only followers. In the book, this is echoed, where Paul recognizes that he has lost his friends to the Muad’Dib religion. Take book Stilgar, who truly embodies this… by the end of the book, Paul says: “I have seen a friend [Stilgar] become a worshipper.”

- giving Chani explicit rejection of Paul’s messiah status was an interesting choice. Chani’s main thought over part 2 is that they don’t need religion to save them, that through Fremen power and desert power, the Fremen can save themselves. She recognizes that this fanatical worship can be a vehicle to control and enslave her people, and I sorta wish we saw Paul lean into that more… that they found a way to stay together and ‘fight’ the prophecy together based on Chani’s ideals…

- also, I love how engrained this rejection of religion and prophecy is in her character. Book Chani takes no issue with her Fremen name, Sihaya (desert spring), but movie Chani hates it “because it’s part of some prophecy.” Later, we see that despite her rejection of prophecy and religion, that the prophecy does indeed come to pass— the tears of desert spring save Him aka, Chani saving Paul after he drinks The Water of Life. (Interesting how Jessica has to force Chani to save Paul using the Voice… another example of Jessica explicitly forcing Paul to become the messiah).

- adding more depth to Fremen culture— the South being the more religious fundamentalist tribes vs the North being more secular. Early on, the movie paints this immediate divide between the tribes of Fremen who accept Paul and Jessica versus those who treat them as offworlders (who murdered Jamis). In the books everyone accepts Paul and Jessica after Paul bests Jamis and Jessica quotes some scripture, but I think it makes more logical sense that there’d be friction over these two random offworlders coming in

- I love love loved Paul speaking at the meeting of the Fremen tribe leaders in the South. He fully accepts his messiah status, exercises his power of the Voice + his prescience as a way to command all the Fremen under his name

- I’m a big fan of omitting the two-year time skip, so with that I’m glad Leto II was skipped over entirely. I always felt that Leto II was an unnecessary character addition to the book, especially when he just dies and everyone sort of goes “oh well” and moves on, so I’m glad it’s omitted.

- another interesting choice was to paint Jessica as a straight up villain in comparison to the way her book counterpart was not. The movie Jessica we see here is seemingly corrupted by the Water of Life: she walks around talking to herself (Alia) and scheming Paul’s ascent to Lisan-Al Gaib. She knows about the Holy War, which is the very thing Paul is trying to prevent, yet she expresses no concern about bringing it to fruition. (Probably because Jessica knows it’s impossible to prevent, but still.) The very last line of the movie, where Alia asks Jessica what’s going on and Jessica says “The Holy War has begun” is just total villain in my mind— explicit acceptance of the Holy War, like it’s just another stepping stone in her plan. Plus, the fact that Paul has visions of Jessica leading him into this period of great starvation totally cements her as a villian.

- going off of that, I like that we see Jessica undergoing actual agony when she takes The Water of Life. When book Jessica and Paul take The Water of Life they accept it calmly and without obvious pain (book Jessica was sitting with her eyes closed, as if sleeping), so this physical reaction that Jessica has to the poison adds to the idea that The Water of Life did change her in a negative way.

- I feel like so far we’ve been introduced to Alia as just a weird talking fetus who’s been consorting with Jessica, so Paul’s vision where Alia says “I love you” really strikes home, that she really does care for Paul which we might not have understood otherwise

[biggianteggplant]

Sleep Walking With Haikyuu Men

Ah yes, sleepwalking. A funny but undeniably terrifying way to emotionally damage your favorite volleyball boys at 3AM.

You don't mean to cause psychological distress. You’re just trying to live your best unconscious life. Unfortunately, that includes:

Bargaining with rats,

Whispering cryptic prophecies,

Performing rituals in bathtubs, and

Declaring things like “The chicken coup has begun” with the gravity of a war general.

Is it a dream? A warning? A threat? No one knows—not even you.

But one thing’s for sure: They’ll never sleep peacefully again.

AKAASHI KEIJI

It was 3:47 a.m.

Akaashi blinked awake to the buzz of the refrigerator humming louder than it had any right to. The glow under the bedroom door looked like a horror movie setup. Your side of the bed? Empty.

Which was never, ever good.

He sat up slowly, his instincts as sharp as a seasoned libero's. No thuds. No screams. Just... soft muttering.

He padded down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.

There you were. Eyes half-closed, mumbling nonsense to the refrigerator.

Inside the fridge?

The cat.

Akaashi stared.

The cat stared.

You, serene as a monk mid-exorcism, reached in to gently pat the cat’s head like it was a cherished casserole. “He’s the secret ingredient,” you murmured lovingly, as if that explained anything.

Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Of course he is,” he whispered to himself, already accepting that this was his life now.

The cat gave him a look. The kind of look that said, You’re supposed to be the sane one here. Do something.

With a sigh that came from the depths of a boyfriend who’s seen too much, Akaashi scooped the shivering furball out of the fridge. The cat immediately clung to his chest like a baby koala. With his other arm, Akaashi gently reached out and took your hand.

“Come on, secret chef,” he said softly, guiding you away from your midnight masterpiece. “Let’s get you and your ‘ingredient’ back to bed.”

You went along willingly, still half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder as you muttered something about “adding cinnamon.”

Akaashi didn’t even ask.

He tucked you in first, the cat next, and then slid in beside both of you with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from being deeply in love with a chaos goblin.

As you snuggled closer, Akaashi stared at the ceiling.

“I deserve an award,” he muttered.

The cat meowed in agreement.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

It was 3:02 a.m.

The apartment was silent. Peaceful, even.

Until—

“Koutarou.”

His eyes snapped open. He sat up like a meerkat sensing danger. “...Y/N?”

You were curled up under the blanket, eyes shut, completely still—except your mouth, which just whispered:

“I ate the evidence.”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

But you were already quiet again. Breathing evenly. Asleep.

Dead asleep.

Koutarou stared at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at you.

He felt a chill.

“What evidence?” he whispered. “What did you eat?”

You looked so calm. So peaceful. As if you hadn't just confessed to a federal crime in your sleep.

He slowly got out of bed and tiptoed into the kitchen like a detective in his own home. The fridge door was closed. The counters were clean. Nothing suspicious.

Or maybe too clean.

The trash can? Empty.

His eyes widened.

Did you clean the scene?!

He shuffled back to the bedroom like a man walking toward his doom. You were still there, all curled up and cozy, like you didn’t just say something that would ruin him in court.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, mentally cycling through every possible interpretation.

Did you eat his protein bars? His leftover pizza? The last KitKat?

Did you kill a man?

Why did you sound so proud?

He laid back down slowly, eyes open, staring into the void.

You scooted closer in your sleep and mumbled, “Mmm. Crunchy.”

He stopped breathing.

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you yawned and stretched like a cute, innocent little cloud.

"Morning, Kou," you said sweetly.

He blinked at you, dead-eyed, whispering: “...what did you eat.”

You: “Huh?”

He: “...What did you EAT.”

You: “??? Toast?”

He watched you take a bite of breakfast like it might be someone’s finger.

And yet… he still kissed your forehead.

Because love is terrifying.

KUROO TETSURO

It was 2:41 a.m.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of blankets. Kuroo was mid-dream—something about taxes turning into volleyballs—when he felt a presence.

His eyes fluttered open.

You were standing at the foot of the bed.

Staring at him.

In the dark.

He sat up immediately, already seconds from punching a demon. “Babe? Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer.

You leaned in slowly—unnervingly—and whispered:

“The ducks are watching.”

Then turned around.

And walked out of the room.

Kuroo sat there, frozen, mouth slightly open, soul halfway to another dimension.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“THE WHAT IS WHAT?”

He scrambled out of bed and peeked down the hallway to see you peacefully crawling back into bed on the couch like nothing happened.

You were out cold. Blissfully unconscious.

Kuroo stood there in his boxers, heart pounding like he just got tackled by a flock of birds with a vendetta.

He looked around.

No ducks.

But he didn’t trust it.

The next night, he installed a nightlight.

The night after that, he placed a rubber duck on the windowsill just to test your reaction. You said nothing—but stared at it for a little too long.

Now?

Now he sleeps with one eye open.

Just in case.

Because maybe the ducks are watching.

And maybe, just maybe… you’re their prophet.

KENMA KOZUME

It was 3:19 a.m.

Kenma had just paused his game. The glow from his Switch lit up his face as he dragged himself toward the kitchen for a drink, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

He wasn’t expecting to see you already standing there. In front of the fridge. Silent.

The door was open. Cold light spilling across the tiles.

You stared inside like it had insulted your bloodline.

Kenma blinked. “...Babe?”

You tilted your head. Whispered, "It's not a portal today. Lame."

Kenma froze, holding the juice carton like it was suddenly cursed.

“The hell does it usually lead to?” he muttered.

Still facing the fridge, you sighed dramatically, like a tired traveler returning from war. “Regret,” you said solemnly.

Then you shut the fridge and walked away.

Kenma just stood there.

Alone.

With the fridge.

And the regret.

He slowly backed away, returned to the bedroom, and found you already face-planted into the bed, limbs tangled like nothing happened.

He lay down next to you carefully, staring at the ceiling.

What did you see in there? Was it the expired yogurt? The leftover fast food? His search history?

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

And the next morning, when you yawned and casually opened the fridge, he watched you like it was a boss battle.

"Hey," he asked quietly, not looking away, "is it… is it a portal now?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered, sipping his juice with caution. “Just checking.”

KYOTANI KENTARO

It was 1:56 a.m.

Kyōtani was already half-awake, lying on his side, arm lazily draped over you. The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that made everything feel heavier. His eyes were just starting to close again when—

You turned to face him.

Eyes barely open.

And whispered, slow and serious:

“I’ve hidden the body where they’ll never find it.”

...

His entire soul left his body.

“What.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sighed… and rolled over.

And immediately fell asleep.

Kyōtani sat up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. “The what?!” he hissed into the silence, heart racing.

You snored.

He stared at you, mind spiraling into hell.

Was this a joke? A dream? A code? Did he just become an accomplice by proximity? He’d watched enough crime shows to know how this ends.

He checked the closet. The bathroom. The hallway. Under the bed.

Nothing.

Which only made it worse.

Because now the question was: where?

You, meanwhile, were blissfully unconscious, curled up like a harmless little gremlin, breathing softly as if you hadn’t just dropped a psychological nuke into his life.

He sat on the edge of the bed, muttering under his breath. “I didn’t hear anything. I saw nothing. We don’t even own a shovel.”

The next morning, you stretched and yawned, rubbing your eyes like sunshine itself.

Kyōtani stared at you over his coffee.

You blinked. “...Why are you looking at me like that?”

He paused. Considered. Then said:

"...Just making sure you’re real.”

You smiled.

He didn’t sleep for three nights.

Just in case.

OIKAWA TOORU

It was a quiet night in the Miyagi apartment.

Too quiet.

Oikawa had just finished his skincare routine and was about to crawl into bed next to you, humming softly and adjusting his silk eye mask, when it happened.

A thud.

Then— SPLAT.

He flinched and turned toward the sound.

A cupcake.

Smeared on the wall.

Like a pastry-based crime scene.

And you? Standing beside the bed, arm still mid-throw, eyes closed.

Then, in a low, haunted voice that echoed through his soul, you whispered:

"It's too late, Carol."

...

Oikawa’s jaw dropped.

You got back into bed like nothing happened.

He stared at the cupcake. Then at you. Then back at the cupcake.

There. Was. No. Carol.

He didn’t know a Carol. He’s never met a Carol. He doesn’t even like the name Carol. It sounded… threatening now.

He slowly pulled the eye mask up, face pale.

“What did Carol do?” he whispered to himself.

You snored.

Oikawa backed into the hallway and whispered into his phone flashlight camera like he was in a horror documentary.

“It’s been 7 minutes since the incident. Subject Y/N has returned to sleep. Carol remains unidentified. The cupcake is… dead.”

The next morning, you woke up chipper and confused as to why there was chocolate frosting on the wall and your boyfriend was sipping tea like a Victorian widow.

“Did… something happen?”

He didn’t answer. Just muttered: "We are never baking cupcakes again."

Tooru now double-locks the pantry at night. And flinches every time someone says “C” words.

Carol, whoever you are… he hopes you never come back.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

1:03 a.m. Peace. Silence. The soft hum of the aircon.

Iwaizumi Hajime was dozing off, his breathing steady, arm wrapped loosely around you.

And then you whispered, barely audible:

"Hajime..."

He stirred. “Mm?”

You shifted, lips near his ear, and mumbled like a general delivering final orders:

"The chicken coup has begun. Tell Gerald to start phase two."

...

He blinked.

“...Huh?”

But you were already gone.

Not dead, no. Just deep in sleep. Face smushed into the pillow. Dead to the world, but not, apparently, to the ongoing uprising in the poultry community.

Iwaizumi sat up slowly, like if he moved too fast, the chickens would hear him.

He stared into the darkness.

"Gerald... who the hell is Gerald."

Was Gerald a chicken? Was he Gerald? Did you plant something?

He got out of bed, checking every window, fridge, and closet like a man preparing for an oddly specific war.

When he returned, you were cuddled in the blanket fortress, completely unbothered.

Iwaizumi whispered into the void: "Why would you say that to me."

The next morning, he brought it up over coffee like a man trying to casually discuss a national emergency.

“Hey... um... last night you said something about a chicken coup? And phase two?”

You blinked. “I what?”

“And Gerald. Don’t forget Gerald.”

You laughed. “That’s unhinged. I must’ve been dreaming.”

“Yeah, well. Now I can’t go near a rotisserie without wondering if I’ve made enemies.”

Iwaizumi now triple-checks chicken coop memes for signs of coded rebellion.

He doesn’t know who Gerald is. But he fears he’ll know when it’s too late.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

It was nearing 2 a.m.

Kageyama had just gotten comfortable, duvet pulled up to his chin, the room quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.

And then—

CREEEAK.

He opened one eye. You were standing.

In front of his closet.

You opened it slowly. Looked inside with the gravity of a priest opening a tomb.

Then whispered, completely monotone:

“This is where I keep my alter ego… Brenda.”

...

He blinked. “Huh?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark closet.

And added:

“Brenda wears red lipstick and commits tax fraud.”

You shut the door. Got back in bed. And slept peacefully.

Kageyama, however, did not.

He turned slowly to stare at the closet like it personally insulted his family. His entire body froze, unsure whether to scream, pray, or text someone for help.

“Brenda?!” he hissed, trying not to wake you.

He opened the closet cautiously, half-expecting a mannequin in heels or a woman in a red power suit whispering, “You owe me everything.”

But there was only… clothes.

And yet. It didn’t feel right anymore.

Kageyama now sleeps with a volleyball in one hand and a slipper ready to throw in the other. He also googled “how to remove lipstick stains from dreams” and “can closets hold alternate personalities legally.”

The next morning, you stretch, yawn, and ask why he looks like he didn’t sleep.

He says nothing.

Just side-eyes the closet.

And mutters:

“…Brenda.”

SUGAWARA KOUSHI

It was 1:47 a.m.

Sugawara had just drifted off, snuggled under the warm blankets with dreams of mochi and domestic peace. Everything was perfect. Still. Serene.

Until the TV clicked on.

He blinked awake to a soft gray glow filling the room. Static. Pure white noise hissing like a snake in the dark.

And you?

You were standing directly in front of the screen. Barefoot. Eyes closed.

Sugawara sat up slowly. “...Babe?”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. You just leaned in a little closer, hands relaxed at your sides, and whispered:

“This is how they talk to me.”

...

He screamed. Internally. Like a church boy in a horror movie.

You turned around, eyes still closed, and shuffled back to bed without another word. The TV kept hissing behind you.

Sugawara stared in utter terror.

He grabbed the remote. Nothing. He tried the power button. Nothing. He unplugged it. The screen flickered—finally—off.

He stared at the outlet like it had personally offended him. Then grabbed a bundle of sage from the kitchen drawer (emergency vibes only) and lit it like his life depended on it.

Twice.

The next morning, you woke up refreshed.

“Oh wow, I feel great!” “Yeah,” Sugawara said, looking deeply unwell. “Did you… dream of anything?”

You squinted. “Hmm. Something about… a static broadcast? Weird, right?”

He paled. His mug trembled.

You sipped your tea cheerfully.

Sugawara burned sage again when you weren’t looking.

He has since installed a child lock on the TV.

And prays nightly for “Them” to pick a different channel.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

1:26 a.m. He was up scrolling, glasses low on his nose, earbuds in. Everything was normal.

Then he felt it. Movement.

You.

Shuffling out of bed like a gremlin in a trance.

He pulled one earbud out. “...You good?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you walked up to him, eyes half-lidded but direct—too direct. You slowly… silently… handed him a single white sock.

And whispered:

“If it moves, run.”

...

He stared at the sock in his hand. Then stared at you. Then back at the sock.

You had already turned and zombie-walked back into bed. Out cold.

Tsukishima, alone in the dark now, holding a cursed sock like it was the Horcrux of Satan, muttered:

“…What the actual f—”

He sat there for a good minute, debating every life choice that led him to this moment.

Then he cautiously set the sock on the floor and backed away like it might sprout legs.

The sock did not move. Yet.

He stared at it for five full minutes, just in case. By 2 a.m., he’d burned it in the sink with kitchen tongs and muttered curses under his breath.

Next morning:

“Kei, have you seen my other sock?”

“No. It's dead. Forget about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You tilted your head. “You’re acting weird.”

He stared at you. Then at your feet. Then at the floor where the sock once was.

He doesn’t sleep well anymore.

To this day, he avoids the laundry basket like it's cursed. Because what if the sock wasn’t alone?

What if that was just phase one.

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI

Yamaguchi had just reached peak comfort—blankets tucked just right, your leg draped over his, the room perfectly quiet.

Then— You snorted in your sleep. Sat up like a possessed doll. Eyes opened just enough to be terrifying.

And in the creepiest half-asleep voice imaginable, you said:

“He knows we switched the baby.”

...

He blinked.

“...I’m sorry—what?”

You flopped back down without another word. Snored. Like nothing happened.

He lay there stiff as a board, heart pounding.

“Switched the… baby?!”

What baby?

WHO IS "HE"?

Did you two kidnap a child in your sleep? Was it metaphorical?? Is this a code???

He lay awake for the next hour, eyes darting around the room like someone was going to bust through the door with a warrant and a diaper bag.

At 4:27 a.m., he was on Google:

“Sleep talking criminal confessions”

“Can dreams be used as evidence”

“How to unswitch a baby you don’t remember switching”

Next morning:

You stretch. Smile. “Morning, Tads!”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. Cautiously.

Finally:

“...What baby.”

You: “Huh?”

“Last night. You said—‘he knows we switched the baby.’ WHO IS HE. WHAT BABY.”

You blink. “That’s horrifying. I don’t even remember dreaming.”

He just nods slowly.

You sip your coffee like a totally normal person.

He stares at the baby doll on the shelf.

It’s looking at him. He swears it is.

He now sleeps with a night light and checks behind the couch before going to bed.

Just in case.

Because what if it wasn’t a dream?

What if “he” really knows.

HINATA SHOYO

It was 2:47 a.m.

Hinata was dreaming about volleyball and mochi. The night was peaceful. Moonlight spilled gently across the room.

Then, out of nowhere—

You opened your eyes. Sat upright. And in a voice that did not belong to you—deep, rasped, echoing like it had crawled out of a well—you said:

“The bones… are in the closet.”

...

Hinata blinked. “HUH???”

You laid back down. Eyes shut. Completely still.

He froze.

"...Bones?" he whispered.

He looked at the closet.

The closet looked back.

Slowly… cautiously… Hinata climbed out of bed, crept over like he was in a horror film, hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob.

He opened it.

.

.

.

A cockroach ran out.

He screamed. Tripped over a shoe. Fell flat on his back.

The closet swung open wider. Nothing else inside. No bones. No monsters. Just clothes… and shame.

You snored peacefully behind him like nothing had happened.

Hinata stared at the ceiling in silent betrayal. He’d been set up. By YOU. By fate. By the roach.

The next morning:

“You okay? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I saw things, [Y/N]. Things you can't un-see.”

You blinked. “Oh. Maybe it was the bug. I dreamed about bugs last night.”

Hinata just nodded slowly.

He now closes the closet with tape every night.

And occasionally whispers back:

“The bones are gone. But the trauma remains.”

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

It was 1:13 a.m. Goshiki had to pee.

Simple mission. In. Out. Maybe brush his teeth, maybe not—who’s to say? The world was quiet, the moonlight soft, his socks comfy.

But as he passed the bathroom, he heard something. A whisper.

A low, reverent, slightly sing-song whisper:

“…Soup time.”

He paused.

He turned.

And there you were.

Sitting in the bathtub.

No water. Lights off. Just you. In your pajamas. Holding a rubber duck gently like it was an infant. Cradling it. Whispering sweet, terrifying nonsense to it.

“Soup time…”

Goshiki stared. You didn’t blink. You didn’t look up.

He backed away.

Step. By. Step.

Closed the door. Slowly. Like in a horror movie.

He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until 4 a.m., whispering:

“Not my business. Not my duck. Not my soup.��

The next day:

“[Y/N]… were you… in the tub last night?”

You: “Huh? No. Why?”

He just nods. “Right. Me neither.”

He still hasn’t brushed his teeth in that bathroom.

The duck remains. Somehow closer to the drain every morning.

He swears it’s watching him.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

It was 3:33 a.m.

Ushijima slept like a man who trusted gravity and his eight hours.

Until—

You suddenly shot upright in bed. Eyes wide. Moonlight framing you like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Then, in a voice he did not recognize— Elegant. Crisp. British.

You said:

“The theatre calls… and I must answer.”

Then collapsed.

Limply. Tragically. Like a haunted widow whose fiancé just perished in a horse-and-carriage accident.

Ushijima stared at you, heart pounding.

Silence.

He blinked.

“…Since when do you have a British accent?” he whispered to no one.

No response.

You were already back in dreamland, drooling peacefully into your pillow like none of that just happened.

Ushijima sat there for a full minute. Processing. Possibly glitching.

“…Was that... Shakespeare? Who’s calling you? Where are you going? What theatre??”

No answers. Just the quiet hum of betrayal.

The next morning:

“Do you—do theatre?” he asked over breakfast, like he was afraid of the answer.

You, chewing cereal: “What? No. Why?”

He paused. Stirred his coffee. Quietly mumbled:

“…You lied with accent.”

You: “Huh???”

He just nodded to himself, deeply disturbed. You, apparently, had layers.

And one of them was British.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

It was 2:16 a.m.

Shirabu was halfway through cramming for an exam when he heard the fridge open.

He figured it was you. Midnight snacking. Normal.

Until—

He peeked into the kitchen and saw you standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in cold light, cradling a cucumber like it was sacred.

Then you hissed, voice low and gravelly:

“This one’s got the code.”

He froze.

“…What?”

You turned, eyes glassy, face serious.

And walked away—back to bed—still holding the cucumber.

Shirabu stared after you. Then walked to the fridge, curious, confused, low-key concerned for both your sanity and his.

That’s when he saw it.

On the cucumber. Right under the sticker.

A barcode.

That’s it.

Just a plain old, grocery store barcode.

Shirabu stood there for a second. Processing.

Then sighed the heaviest sigh of his life.

He didn't even bother asking questions.

The next morning, he handed you a slice of toast and muttered:

“You need to stop watching spy thrillers before bed.”

You blinked at him. “I didn’t?”

He stared. Then slowly pulled the cucumber out of the fridge.

You: “Why is that in a Ziploc bag??”

Him: “For containment.”

You: “...Of what??”

Shirabu just bit his toast and walked away.

He's not sure what worries him more: the fact that you sleepwalk… Or the fact that you did it with such conviction.

MIYA OSAMU

It started with missing onigiri.

At first, Osamu thought maybe he just forgot he ate them. Or maybe Atsumu dropped by and did what Atsumu does best—steal without remorse.

But when it kept happening, he got suspicious.

So one night, he waited. Lights off. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on the kitchen.

And right on cue—there you were. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Eyes unfocused. Floating toward the fridge like a snack-seeking phantom.

He watched in horror as you unzipped a bag of rice crackers, whispered, “It’s okay now,” and stuffed two in your pockets before munching on a third.

The next morning, Osamu confronted you, holding up the empty snack bag like a lawyer in court.

“You wanna explain this?”

You blinked at him, groggy. Then sighed, like he was the unreasonable one.

“They were hungry.”

“…They who?”

You glanced at the floor.

Then at the air vent.

And said nothing.

Osamu turned slowly to the vent.

Paused.

“…No. No way.”

You just sipped your coffee, dead silent, looking like someone who’s seen things. Things that crawl. Things that whisper.

He didn’t sleep that night.

He bought an air vent cover the next day. The snacks now live in a locked cabinet. He doesn’t question it anymore.

But sometimes, when it’s really quiet, He swears he hears a crunch.

KITA SHINSUKE

Kita was a light sleeper.

He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him—maybe the creaking floorboards, maybe the distant thump of... jazz hands?

He peeked into the hallway and stopped dead.

There you were. Spinning slowly. Barefoot. Arms raised like a ballerina summoning a weather god.

And whispering, with complete, bone-deep conviction:

“This is how the rats taught me to summon rain.”

You did a final pirouette. Then clapped twice.

Kita blinked.

You turned toward him, eyes closed, nodded solemnly, and walked straight back to bed like nothing happened.

He stood in the hallway for a long moment, lips parted, socks cold.

“…The rats?” he muttered.

It rained the next day.

Not a drizzle. A downpour.

Thunder. Flood warnings. A rogue frog on the porch.

Kita stared out the window, hand gripping his mug like it might float away.

You? You ate cereal like normal.

Not a single mention of rodents. Of rituals. Of rain.

He didn’t ask.

He couldn’t ask.

Because if you answered, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again.

MIYA ATSUMU

Atsumu had just drifted off when he felt the bed shift.

You sat up—slow, stiff—like something out of a ghost documentary.

Then, in a voice that didn’t even sound like yours, you muttered:

“If I vanish… check under the floorboards.”

Then flopped right back down and started snoring.

Atsumu blinked at the ceiling, eyes wide, frozen. He didn’t breathe for a solid minute.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

The next morning, you acted completely normal.

Too normal. Smiling. Stretching. Asking if he wanted toast.

He didn’t mention it.

But he remembered.

Night two, he tossed and turned.

By night three, he had a flashlight and a crowbar.

By night four, he was in the floorboards.

There was nothing there. No hidden passage. No secret note. No you-shaped hole.

Just dust, a broken pencil, and the faint scent of panic sweat.

He’s stopped sleeping.

Every time the clock hits 3:33AM, he holds his breath.

Because what if this time, you sit up and finish the sentence?

SUNA RINTARO

It was 2:12AM.

Suna got up for water.

He didn’t expect to find you kneeling in the kitchen, arm stretched dramatically toward the base of the cabinet.

In your hand: one single, perfectly balanced Ritz cracker.

Whispered, reverent:

“For the council.”

Suna blinked. Didn’t move.

Three rats emerged from the shadows like they were summoned. Took the cracker.

You gave a solemn nod, murmured, “The pact is sealed,” and shuffled back to bed.

No further explanation. No context. Just rat business.

Suna stared at the empty floor for a long moment.

Then turned around and walked away.

“Not my business,” he muttered.

He hasn’t brought it up. He won’t.

But deep down, he wonders—

What if you're on the council, too?

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

It was 1:47AM.

Kiyoomi was half-awake, scrolling through news articles about bacteria for fun (as one does), when you rolled over and mumbled into the darkness:

“I gave the rats my brain. I don’t need it anymore.”

Silence.

Then your breathing evened out, like you’d just shared your grocery list.

Kiyoomi sat there for a full minute, blinking slowly.

“…Makes sense,” he whispered into the void.

The next morning, you poured juice into a bowl instead of a glass.

Then stared at a spoon like it betrayed you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded. Respectfully. Acceptingly.

Because clearly, the rats had taken over.

And honestly?

They were doing just fine.

[vxnuslogy]

╭──────     no matter how long it's been, you're mine.    ✦ ⸝⸝

            ✦   ⭑𓂃   honkai: star rail      ┆     mydei    .ᐟ                ──╯

𐔌  warnings. mentions of blood, murder/assassination attempts, war, implied possessiveness, established relationships, mydei refers to himself as your husband       ♟         notes. a part 2 for my first mydei fic "the challenge for a new king" which explores mydei's past with the reader and dive into their dynamic more

           ━━━ art credits. hoyoverse        ♟        tags.  @lowkeyren @starcharmed @mikashisus @https-sourlimes @dazaisms @powchakko @somniachant @snobwaffles @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @st6rly @gl4di0lus ; if you'd like to be tagged, please fill out the forms on my pinned!!

                                 ౨ৎ crown prince of kremnos, mydeimos — every man that has walked on the paths of okhema knew of the tragic fate that weighed of mydei's shoulders. but very few knew the full prophecy the titans have actually weaved.

mydeimos had his first experience with assassination when he was only six years old. in the comforts of his own home, the palace built to shelter and care for him — it was nothing but a playground for the men who wanted his head. no royal guard nor his own mother could ever prepare for the visceral image of a child plunging a spear straight into mydeimos’s chest as if he were nothing but a sewing doll in need of a repair. 

mydeimos remembered the fury in his mother’s eyes, the way she gripped the spear in her arsenal in white anger as she lifted you by the collar and off the ground. her voice carried unfiltered war as every word that spilled from her tongue all aimed to kill—just as you did with her only son. mydeimos did not care that he got stabbed; in his head, he was far more curious about what prompted someone your age to drive a blade straight through his heart. 

you were sentenced to death not even a day later. in the cold cells of the palace dungeons where you lay to rot, mydeimos visited in the dead of night—in secret, away from the guards, his mother and father who wanted you dead for harming him. you never spoke, just nodded your head whenever the prince asked questions. he brought you food and water and stories; he even sang you the ballads he heard on the streets of castrum kremnos to keep you entertained. most baffling of all, he delayed your execution for as long as he could. mydeimos began acting up—causing trouble within the palace that no one ever expected. even his mother, who proudly exclaimed she knew him best, could not wrap her head around her son’s strange behavior.

on the seventh month of your delayed death, you finally spoke.

“why do you keep me alive?”

you would never forget the shimmer of intrigue that glazed over the suns in his eyes. he opened and closed his mouth, his mind racing with a million thoughts before he settled on one reply, though it didn’t quell the burning curiosity that had begun to pile up since you were escorted to your death.

“i wanted to know your name.”

“that’s it…?” your baffled expression caused the prince to grin. he stepped forward and gripped the bars that separated you both, his eyes shining with a fervent determination befitting of a warrior. 

“tell me your name before you go.”

before you die, is what he meant. and in the bizarre situation you were in, you couldn’t fight the urge to laugh—so you did. warm and comforting, the complete opposite of the presence you had brought since your first attempt to end mydeimos’ life. 

he stood in front of you, motionless and curious—enchanted—by the timbre of your momentary joy. out of instinct, he reached out to push the stray hairs that obscured his view of your eyes. they were dull, unsuitable for someone your age, and yet, your smile all but made up for the lack of life your eyes had.

you were a killer, but mydeimos never realized you would be warm to touch.

mydeimos wished he held you sooner, cradled your bruised face and helped you nurse the wounds from those relentless guards. instead of prolonging your demise for an arduous seven months, he should’ve broken the lock and helped you escape. for titan’s sake, mydeimos learned the definition of eloping because of you. 

“prince mydeimos,” you called to him like a siren. even with the heavy golden chains locking your wrists in a painful position, you still had enough strength to find him in the crowd and smile. “come find me in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

the son of gorgo did not care for philosophy nor the strange beliefs of the after life. but when you looked at him with eyes of regret and hope, mydeimos pressed his open palm to where you had struck him and bowed.

“i’ll find you—i promise.”

as mydeimos grew older and his path to exile grew clearer and clearer, his duty of finding allies to aid him in battle loomed like an impending shadow. in this ten year long journey back home, he needed pillars of support to keep his foundation—his will to continue—from crumbling to dust.

he already had hephaestion, who loved to tease him for his choice of drinks. though his figure was scrawny, it didn’t equate to his brilliance on the battlefield. then there was perdikkas, who knew all there was to medicine. he was the first to chastise the rest for not being careful and getting so many injuries. leonnius was their trusty messenger, always quick to get on his feet and run through the battlefields, while ptolemy was their guide, akin to something like a teacher with his vast knowledge from mydeimos’ library. and when the nights grew cold and a longing for home crashed into them like a vehement storm, peucesta would sing them a song about glory and homecoming with his mysterious voice.

mydeimos was surrounded by people who would not hesitate to lay down their lives for him. something he was eternally grateful for but dreaded more with every body that began to fall in this wayward path to home. even when his pillars began to crack and collapse one by one, mydeimos could not spare even a single moment to grieve their deaths. hephaestion’s passing in particular was a fatal blow no weapon could ever hope to inflict. it was right in front of him, and yet for the second time, he failed to reach out and actually help. 

on the eve of his duel with the wretched king of kremnos, hephaestion layon his deathbed. even with perdikkas’ knowledge in medicine, his death could not be avoided, and it frustrated mydeimos to no end. how much more? how many deaths and blood must be used as a sacrifice for what everyone called“the greater good”? wouldthis prophecy really bring them to peace or just more destruction?

“mydeimos, our king… do not shed tears for me. it’s not befitting of your status.”

statuses be damned, you’re dying! he wanted to cry out. no one, not a single soul nor the writings on the wall could ever judge mydeimos for grieving—they had no right. what use would the title of “king” be if he could not even raise the palace gates to shield all that is precious to him? why wield the spear if it’s only meant to harm?  

the son of gorgo will bathe in a crown of blood.

how true that prophecy has come to life. 

“i know you’re there, assassin.”

a blade, dripping with carnelian waters, was pointed right at his throat. if he was not stricken by grief, mydeimos would be overjoyed that you had remembered his promise. but your very presence now reminded him of another failure: he was supposed to be the one to find you, not the other way around, and most certainly not with you planning to take his life again.

“i had hoped our second meeting would be more favorable.” your voice came as nothing but a dejected murmur. “i’m sorry, mydeimos.”

his fists clenched in anger as he turned to you. his eyes were no longer curious or bright—the shine of childhood had been replaced by the ruthlessness of strife. “have my wretched father and his council sent you to kill me? what a cruel coincidence it is that it’s you again, of all people.”

his voice dripped with venom that could kill, but you saw past it. you hadlearned from your past mistakes as you dropped the blade to the ground with a loud clatter, circling your arms around his shoulders. you embraced him as if it’d be your last chance—it may very well be. but mydeimos had only just learned about the ugliness of the world, he could not bring himself to reciprocate.

“kill me.” your voice, whispered in his ear like a plea, had his eyes widening and stance tensing. “escape into the night, prepare for your final battle, and leave. just leave, mydeimos.”

“for how long must we endure the failure of the gods?” he asked between ragged breaths. 

“until one by one, they fall—until there is a world where no one cages us between the fingertips of fate.” you pulled away, and mydeimos wanted nothing more than to pull you back into his arms—to indulge in short-lived comfort of you cradling his face as if he were just a man. “mydeimos, men are wretched things — but not you. never you.”

“what a foolish thing to say. i am the most wretched of them all.”

“not to me.”

he sucked in a breath and gripped your hand like a lifeline, “must you go, too?”

you only smiled and nodded. mydeimos carefully picked up the blade from the ground with quivering hands—if he were in the presence of his father, he would’ve belittled him for hesitating. but this was you—the reason for his lifelong regret. was it such a crime to make your death peaceful?

as if sensing his hesitation, your hands gently guided the blade and aimed it at your heart. even in such a grim moment, you still found a reason to joke. “i guess we’re even now.”

mydeimos snorted in dark amusement as blood began to pool where he was slowly pressing the blade. “the next time we meet, you better not try to kill me again.”

his voice was small, a far cry from the lion that wreaked havoc on the battlefield. “there was mydeimos, before the son of gorgo. may we meet again, in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

you still smiled, even when you dimmed and lost life. even when the colors on your face began to fade into a dark red and when your lifeless body dropped straight into his arms, you smiled. 

“may we meet again, in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

the son of gorgo will be bathed in a crown of blood.

every man on amphoreus knew of the fate that beheld mydei’s existence. but very few actually knew that this was not all. there was a second prophecy, something more personal than claiming the title of strife.

and an assassin from a faraway land will find him in every lifetime.

you were not a ghost that haunted his every waking breath, you were his shadow. a companion in both life and death—inseparable by mortal cycles but a cruel prisoner to time and fate. mydei could not count the amount of times he had met you in his journey. 

when you tried to kill him in his own home, he broke the rules and helped you survive for seven months. when your blood had been spilled on white marble floors, everyone celebrated, but not him. he escaped into the dead of night, and in the middle of an abandoned outpost for warriors, he created a small monument for you. every night, for as long as his fate would allow it, he would visit—recounting stories from the battlefield, laying down pomegranate juice and snacks, and even putting flowers he thought you would like. 

the second attempt to take his life ended with you laying limp in his arms inside a cramped room where hephaestion lay on his bed. two deaths in one night— it was incomparable to the bloodshed he had seen in the battle for power, but it didn’t lessen the heavy weight that dragged his heart into the river of styx where you both waited. he wondered that night, if he had plunged your blade into his chest and traveled to thanatos’ domain, would he find the two of you there and be given the challenge? exchange his apathy for you both to drag you back to the overworld? mydei concluded he would not survive it if he were. what great punishment it was, to fall deaf to your voice.

on the third, you were no more than a civilian caught in the flames of war. he hadn’t had the chance to approach, not when you held a newborn in your arms and another man cradled you for comfort. and for the first time in his search for you, mydei's weakness had been exploited for all of amphoreus to see. somehow, in some way, he was always too late—just at arm’s length to finally catch up to you. he protected your family that day, even though deep down he knew you would die again in a matter of seconds.

the fourth was no better. you were still an assassin out to claim his head. the outcome of that reunion ended with you stabbing yourself to avoid more blood on mydei’s hands. you were angry at him in this lifetime of yours; you cursed him for always failing, and he did nothing but agree with you. that was the first time he ever saw you cry. mydei held you as you were dying. whispered promises to do better next time, and you could only bitterly laugh as you admitted to your exhaustion. you were tired of your reincarnating, but when faced with the option to forget him, you declined without a second thought. 

“mydeimos? is something the matter?” your voice rang in the room like soft bells of union on an eternal afternoon. mydei only huffed in amusement, turning away from the balcony view to find you at the door. you still looked the same—hair, eyes, build, and stance, you were still you, despite all that your soul had endured just to reunite with him. 

“it’s nothing to worry about,” he dismissed, sparing one last glance over okhema’s city before he approached.

you frowned in response, crossing your arms over your chest. the bracer on your forearm gleaming with its blue gem, served as a reminder that you were finally his. “don’t play dumb with me, mydeimos. we talked about this.”

“and how many times have i told you? i’m fine.” his hand rested casually on your hip, rubbing comforting circles as you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting the topic go. 

“lady aglaea is looking for you.”

he tilted his head in a teasing manner as a grin stretched from his lips, “oh? and here i thought you just missed me.”

you rolled your eyes and broke free from his hold, making your way to the door and looking back at him with playful eyes. “not after wreaking havoc in janusopolis. i bet lady aglaea is going to scold you for doing something so reckless.”

“how cruel of you to let your husband get scolded.”

another roll of your eyes, but mydei caught a glimpse of a bright smile on your lips. “relax, a simple scolding will not kill you.”

he huffed in amusement but nonetheless followed you to meet aglaea. onlookers stared shamelessly, but mydei did not care—he even dared to wrap a protective arm around your waist, tugging you closer to his side until you reached marmoreal palace. you sighed in amusement as he puffed up his chest like a lion when you leaned closer and indulged in his possessiveness. 

“mydeimos, just to remind you,” the man in question frowned in disappointment when you broke free from his hold and pushed him in the direction of aglaea, “don’t use the word ‘husband’ willy-nilly. you’ll give someone a heart attack if you do.”

“and why shouldn’t i? don’t i deserve that title?”  he asked, something akin to a pout graced his lips.

you shook your head in amusement, cradling his cheek as he nuzzled his face further into your palm like a cat. “you do deserve it, mydeimos. but not everyone should have the pleasure of hearing it.” you stood on your toes, lips brushing against his ear as you reminded him: “you’re still mine, and i’m not fond of sharing.”

mydei’s eyes widened as you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and went your merry way back to your temporary quarters. an armored hand grazed the spot where your lips landed, and he barked out a quiet laugh.

that’s right, mydeimos belonged to you and you alone—in this lifetime or the next. 

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[melodygatesauthor]

The Only One

Dark - Duke Leto Atreides X f!Reader

Not Beta Read

PLEASE READ TAGS/DISCLAIMERS/WARNINGS BEFORE READING THIS FIC. THERE ARE DARK THEMES!

Summary

The duke needs an heir, or Caladan will fall under the rule of his enemies. There's one woman is capable of saving the planet...she's the only one.

Tags/Warnings

Disclaimers: This fic does not comply with canon, throw everything you thought you knew about the Dune lore out the window. The duke is (in my opinion) in character for this situation, despite the obsessive tendencies. There is heavy non-con in this fic, it's not for everyone. If you're sensitive to that sort of thing in fanfiction, please keep on scrolling thanks. NSFW, non-con, rape, kidnapping, sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, praise kink, lactation kink, pregnancy, blood kink, cockwarming, forced pregnancy, non-consensual bondage, porn with some plot, smut, creampie, body worship, pregnant sex, oral sex (f receiving), Dark fic, Dark Duke Leto Atreides. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (that means that what you see in the tags WILL be in the fic, don't act surprised when you get exactly what you were warned about.)

Word Count: 6k

Prelude

After many years of trying for an heir, Duke Leto has begun to give up hope. Without an heir, the emperor threatens to give away his birthright, strip him of his title, and hand Caladan to his enemies. He has been given only one final year to produce a son who will carry on his family name. While searching for someone who could give him what he needs, he happens upon a mysterious woman. The strange woman tells of a prophecy, one that Leto takes very seriously, because he has no other choice. "In a village, not far from here, my lord, there's a girl. She is not of noble birth, but I have seen her future, and she will give you many sons." Duke Leto, a kind and gentle man, would never hurt someone so innocent on purpose, but when faced with the choice of taking you, or losing Caladan to those who meant to oppress it, he must set aside his morality for the greater good...

The duke entered his chambers where you were suspended from the lofty ceiling, as he’d requested his men to do once they found you. A warm smile spread across his face at the sight of you, so beautiful, so scared. Leto stepped forward, nearly jumping when your head shot up and your tear-stained eyes locked on with his. He held one hand behind his back in a regal manner, holding the other out to touch your cheek as he closed in on you slowly.

“W-wh…” you cleared your throat, “where…”

“Shh,” he whispered softly, brushing his thumb over the soft skin of your beautiful face, “you’re safe now. There’s no need to panic.”

Despite his words, it was clear you were terrified, struggling to breath in a normal, even heave. No matter the fear you displayed in your eyes, the duke’s expression remained calm, and filled with adoration.

“I know you’re frightened. It is…expected,” he said softly, standing up straight and casually walking to his wardrobe. “Would you care for some wine perhaps? Or I can call for the doctor, he could provide you with a mild sedative?”

He turned to look at you, your head was hung downward once again, naked body trembling and rattling the chains that held you in place. He wasn’t a cruel man, though he suspected you thought he was. He’d never done something like this before, sending his guards out to retrieve a young woman to keep in his chambers indefinitely. A nearly inaudible sob escaped your lips.

“No need to cry my dear, you’re not in any danger,” he said, beginning to unbuckle his belt, the sound of the metal piercing through the room. “In fact, you’re going to be very well taken care of here. Do you have any idea just how lucky you are?”

You cried harder, sobs becoming even louder as you looked up at him again. He removed his shirt, revealing his warm, sunkissed skin. It was hard to tell, but he appeared handsome through the blur of your tears. You dropped your head again, your neck aching from the position you were in. Your arms were pinned behind your back, body bent forward at the hips, leaving your rear exposed and open. Your thighs ached, legs spread wide, forced open by a metal pole secured between your knees. The ache in your chest from your labored breathing was horrid enough, only made worse by the chains wrapped around you, keeping your torso held upward and parallel to the stone floor.

“You don’t even realize that you are the most important piece to maintaining our way of life of Caladan,” he continued, removing his pants completely and letting them fall to the ground. “I have been unable to find anyone compatible. Perhaps it’s that my genetics are too much for the average woman to carry to term.” He stepped closer to you, cock bobbing heavily with every stride. “But you’re not average, are you my dear?”

“P-please,” you croaked, “I…I…”

“No no, not another word. You’re frightened now, yes, but you’ll soon realize the important work that you were made for,” he walked past you, running his hand along your arm and to your hip as he did. “The important job you’ll be doing for me…”

You whimpered, struggling slightly against your restraints but to no avail. The duke used to pride himself on being an honorable man, and even in this morally reprehensible moment, he felt justified in his actions. He didn’t always like what his duty called him to do, but knowing it was for the greater good, he would do almost anything.

“You see my dear,” he cooed, “you were found for me, a beautiful, fertile woman who is prophesied to give me many children…” he leaned into your ear, “many.” His tone turned to a low rumble. “So even though this may seem sudden, you will realize with time that you’re fulfilling your purpose…your destiny.”

His right palm splayed over the globe of your cheek, moving toward where your body was spread in two. He didn’t like hearing you cry, but he knew it was inevitable. No normal girl would consent to being abducted and restrained in a man’s bedroom, not even the duke’s bedroom. He saw your puckered hole, and he pressed his index finger to it gently, inciting a gasp from you, followed by the rattling of the chains. You cried out, begging him to release you, but your wails fell on deaf ears.

“I know you care about Caladan, our people. I know you care about the Atreides legacy, and you know…” he spit between your crack, letting his warm saliva trickle from your rim down between your folds, “you know I need a strong, healthy heir.”

Leto positioned himself behind you, using his hand to fist the fat tip of his cock at your glistening entrance. The metal pole keeping your legs spread for him creaked with tension as you struggled to close your thighs, a pointless endeavor. He sighed heavily, gliding his head between each crevice of your pretty little cunt, making himself slick with your arousal.

“You must think me to be a cruel man, but you’re mistaken darling. I don’t want to hurt you, and if you’ll relax this will be much less painful for you.” His breath was ragged with an almost animalistic desire. “You must understand, however, that I care far too much about the future of my people not to provide them with an Atreides heir.”

No matter how hard you tried to escape the flesh splitting thrust of his wide girth, your attempts were futile. A pained scream echoed off the walls of his chambers, followed shortly by the warmth of your blood against his thighs as he slapped them against yours loudly. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he wanted to get your first time over with, and not drag it out any longer than necessary. He slowed down after a moment, once your screaming turned to soft whimpers.

“You’re doing so well…” he huffed through his nostrils harshly “…I know this isn’t easy for you,” Leto leaned forward, grabbing one of your hanging breasts in his large hand, pinching the nipple gently, “b-but your body was built for this…it was built for me…”

“No, n-no…” you trailed off, feeling your head fall back down, neck aching still from the strain. A small moan left your lips, despite your attempts to keep it in.

“O-oh sweetheart is…is it starting to feel good?” The roll of his hips remained at a steady pace. “That’s wonderful, it will help with the pain, and your time will be more enjoyable for you if you can gain some pleasure from this as well, I don’t want you to feel misery if I can help it.”

“S-stop, please, my lord…”

“Shh,” he whispered softly, continuing to palm at your breast.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the soft skin of your spine. He could feel your tied-back hands fidgeting against his ribcage. His free hand moved to your left hip, holding it tightly to angle himself deeper.

“I’m going to fill you with every bit of me , every-single-drop,” he punctuated each word with a harder thrust. “I need to make sure you get it all, need to make sure it takes…mmph!”

Surely your noisy whimpers could be heard in the halls, yet no one came to help you. They all knew what was happening in there. You were to be the mother of the next Atreides heir. You would be made to bear child after child for the legacy obsessed duke. A breeding vessel for a desperate nobleman, torn between his kind nature and his need for the security and wellbeing of his people.

“The emperor will take everything I have if I can't secure my bloodline. He’ll give it t-to the…” he whimpered and gulped deeply, “Harkonnens, and I can’t let that happen to my people.”

You could hear nothing over your whimpers save for the wet slapping of his skin against yours as his pace quickened. You didn’t know what he was going on about - destiny, legacy, an Atreides heir? - He snapped forward again, a gravelly rumble falling from his chest. He moved to an upright position, letting your breast hang loosely once more. You wailed loudly, the feeling of his thick fingers leaving their impressions in the flesh of your hip.

“M-my lord, my lord…it hurts so…s-so-much-s-sir!”

“I know, but you’re taking me so well anyway aren’t you?” He looked down where your puffy little hole swallowed his crimson painted cock. “Look at that.”

His index finger touched where you were stretched around him, that little bit of skin that held onto his cock like it never meant to let go. You whimpered, chains rattling around you as your body involuntarily moved, only serving to sink you down further on his length once more. He could hear you hyperventilating, a panic-stricken whine punching out of your chest that he felt a tad guilty for inciting.

Until he remembered what your purpose was…the reason he’d had you brought to his castle in the first place.

He reached an arm around your leg, sinking the pad of his finger into the wet, bloody mess between the slippery lips of your cunt. In the sea of your arousal, he found the swollen bud that made your walls flutter around him. You gasped, and seemingly on their own, his hips slid forward, chasing that delicious feeling of your body finally accepting him, pulling him deeper inside.

“You like that don’t you?” He bit his lip, a breathy chuckle escaping through his teeth with the knowledge that he’d found a way to settle your terror, if only for a moment. “I promise, no matter how terrible this may be, that I won’t allow you to stay like this…and-s-suffer-oh-my…”

He felt your body squeezing tighter, walls contracting around his cock. He thrust forward again, shuddering at the way you were taking him, pulling him deeper, like your body was begging for his cum, like you needed him to feed your hole until you were stuffed and overflowing.

“Mmm-m-my-lord…p-please–”

Your tone was different now, more sultry and full of desire. It was good to hear you like that, moaning instead of crying, grunting with pleasure instead of pain. This would be so much better for you once you gave in, he knew that much. He could give you everything: make your body shake with orgasm after orgasm, clothes made from the finest silks, and comforts that were reserved for only the lords and ladies of Caladan.

“Your pleas don’t go unnoticed sweetheart, don’t think me cruel, I wouldn’t do this if the circumstances were different,” he huffed, breathing becoming more ragged with every glide of his hips. “I need you…Caladan needs you–needs-you-full-ah!”

The smooth roll of his hips slowed as his seed spilled into you. You felt it, warm and slick as it coated your insides white. You felt a sensation you’d never felt, rolling over your entire body and pooling in your core, causing your legs to shake and your mind to go blank. It was euphoric; a reprieve from the pain you’d endured for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than several minutes.

Leto felt your pussy walls squeezing, crushing down over his girth in waves while you moaned. What a sweet sound, one that made him feel mental relief that he’d given you something in return for your suffering. His finger slowed around your hardened clit, letting you come down slowly from your high.

As your pleasured whines subsided, you thought he would remove himself from you, letting your hole relax after such an ordeal, but he didn’t. The duke stayed there, hips pressed flush against your rear, making no motion to release you from his hold. You moved slightly, but he gripped tightly on your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

“No, no darling, no.” His voice was calm but raspy, still settling after his climax. “I’m going to stay like this for a moment longer, just to make sure it takes. We wouldn’t want to waste it.”

He looked down, seeing the way your body had bled on his, coating his pubic hair in a deep red shade. He felt for you, truly he did, but once you realized what an honor it was to be in your position, he knew you’d find it was worth the sacrifice. Your breathing was slowing, going back to normal, and after several moments he pulled back, letting his limp cock fall from where it had torn you open. 

You groaned, feeling yourself become empty all at once. Your head hung down, neck finally too tired to hold it up any longer. You heard the duke tsk behind you, his palms pressing against your cheeks and spreading them further. The sound of dripping cum on the floor echoed through the room.

“Let’s keep it all inside, sweet one, I need you to give me a son,” he pushed his spend back inside you with his finger, what little was still there and had not fallen to the floor.

You winced and hissed, the metal holding you in place rattling once more. His thick middle-finger slid in deep, Leto shuddered as your hole clenched in response. He could hear you crying, a soft, defeated sound he wished one day would stop. But he couldn’t expect that from you, not now as he broke you in for the first time. He expected you would be like this for a while until you were used to him, used to his size, used to the way he kept you as full as possible, as often as possible.

“Your body handled me very, very well darling,” he said, idly fingering you as he spoke, continuing to push his spend back inside you. “Looks like I’ve made quite the mess of you, but don’t worry, I’ll have you cleaned up in a moment.”

He kept true to his word, once he was thoroughly satisied he’d kept his cum in you long enough, the duke turned onto his back, positioned himself between your thighs, and propped himself up on his elbows so his lips could reach your cunt with ease. A gasp shot from your lungs, the feeling of his warm mouth enveloping your sore folds bringing comfort to the ache. You moaned, a sound that represented more than just sexual pleasure, but a sound that told him you were at least accepting your fate…for the moment.

He was right, there was no more fighting, and it was clear your words weren’t going to change his goal oriented mind. His desire to have an heir was stronger than his desire to act honorably. His tongue went flat, you felt it soothing the tear of your hymen, then dragging upward and flicking once it reached the peak of your folds. You exhaled a sigh, cunt throbbing in response to the way he lapped at you masterfully.

“You know not many,” he kissed your pussy lips, “can say,” another peck, “they’ve been lucky enough to carry such an important role for Caladan. Even I’m not as important as you are right now.”

His hand reached up and pressed against your stomach while his mouth continued to melt into your cunt, soothing you even more as he cleaned you. He never felt such pride as he did in that moment, knowing that this was a good effort, even if it didn’t take. The sheer amount that he ate from you, in combination with his already discarded seed on the floor underneath him, gave the duke a sense of relief to know that he was producing sufficiently on his end. It wouldn’t take long for you to give him a healthy child, if you were indeed the girl the old woman had told him about.

You whimpered still when his tongue would touch your wound, though it was always followed with the relief of him dragging it over your clit. He slurped quietly as he continued, not making an indication that he would be stopping any time soon, despite the likelihood of you being clean already. The hand on your stomach moved, reaching up and cupping your breast, holding it and squeezing softly.

“Oh, my lord, y-yes…”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t deny the heat pooling at the base of your abdomen once again. Was it even worth trying to deny the way it felt? He was the Duke of Caladan after all. If he wanted a hundred concubines tied up to his ceiling he could take them, and no one would stop him. You should be grateful it was he who took you, and not someone who might’ve been much more cruel in their claiming of your body.

He hummed into your folds, breathing heavily through his nose as he did. His hand slid over to your waist, gripping around you and holding tight. The vibration from his moans, and the brush of his peppery beard against your thighs was causing your body to near release once more. That would only be the second time in your life that you’d felt it, and you wanted it more than you could bear.

“Mm, let yourself go my dear, I only want you to feel good from now on, now that I broke you in a little.”

His mouth never left your cunt as he spoke, his words only serving to draw your next climax from your body faster. You felt it fall over you, warm and heavy, making your body melt once more, going limp save for the involuntary crashing of your walls around the emptiness the duke had left behind. He didn’t stop until he was sure you were fully satisfied, head hanging down again and breathing returned to normal. 

With a grunt he rose from beneath you. You heard him padding on his bare feet to the wardrobe on the far side of the room. If you turned your head just a little you could see him, much clearer now than before. He looked at you as he put a loose cotton shirt over his shoulders, then leaning down to pull his trousers over his legs.

“You’re simply the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said in a gentle baritone, moving back to kneel in front of you. “I do not kneel for many, but I’ll kneel for the mother of my children.”

You strained your neck to look at him once again. He cupped your cheeks to help you, seeing your struggle and feeling sorry for the part he played in your suffering. He kissed your forehead, feeling the salt from your sweaty brow upon his lips.

“I’ll return every day, at least until I’m sure you’re pregnant,” his lips curled into a compassionate smirk, “then I’ll let you rest while your belly grows.”

He stood, striding to the washroom and leaving you hanging there, like a prized animal on display. Before long, the same men who’d captured you returned, undoing most of your bonds, save for the ones holding your hands behind your back. They weren’t rough, just like before when they’d abducted you. You felt your entire body sigh, your bones and muscles feeling relieved to fall back into place. 

You weren’t sure when exactly you’d conceived. It must’ve happened at some point between that first time when he tore you apart, and the following month when your period didn’t arrive when it should’ve. By then you’d become, not unlike, a piece of furniture in Duke Leto’s chambers, restraints much less restrictive and painful than your first meeting. Only a week after he’d broken you, you’d become more willing for him, crying less when he came to take you. 

“I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here, despite your situation, and since you’ve become so compliant, I think I can afford to make you more comfortable,” he’d explained.

And so he had you moved to the bed. Though you weren’t completely free. That was a risk the duke could not afford. So he had metal cuffs around your wrists, and chains that connected them to the stone wall behind the bed. You could move easier, but you could never leave.

When another week went by, two weeks after your torment began, he was swelling with pride, seeing you spreading your legs upon his entry into his chambers without prompt. You said you appreciated the silken evening dress he’d had the servants craft for you, the one that fell open on either side of your hips when you presented your cunt to him. He wasn’t supposed to love you - it wasn’t necessary for him to love you - but he felt himself overwhelmed with feelings he couldn’t contain every time he saw you.

Three weeks after that first meeting, you kissed him. It was clear he’d been holding back, allowing you to maintain some level of autonomy, despite having taken your body for himself so many times. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, force you to be intimate with him if that wasn’t what you wished.

So it was a shock when he was several moments into fucking you, cock sliding wetly along your walls in a desperation to fill you with him again, and you grabbed his face on either side. His hooded eyes shot up, meeting with yours but then quickly flicking down to see your precious lips closing in. You closed your eyes, and so did he, and everything seemed to slow down for a moment, including the pace that he thrust into you.

The slow roll of his hips was heavenly, and was soon accompanied by the feeling of his hand on the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss, gliding his tongue inside your mouth so he could taste you. The duke filled you faster than ever that night, being so engulfed in the moment that he couldn’t hold on any longer.

And now, it was just over a month beyond your arrival to Castle Caladan, you were sitting with the physician while he examined you, confirming that yours and the duke’s efforts had been fruitful.

The way Leto looked at you in that moment, was a look you’d never seen before. His dark brows turned up and stitched together, soft lips parted just before a smirk curled over them. He held your chin between his thumb and forefinger, the glossy sheen of tears apparent in his eyes.

“After years of trying to produce an heir, I finally found a perfect vessel, such a precious thing,” he cooed, touching your stomach before leaning in and finding your lips with his own. “My most wonderful treasure.”

Leto heard nothing else as the doctor murmured about you, voice seeming background to where his focus lied. Part of him was still shocked that the old woman was right. She told him in his search of her prophecy that you, a normal village girl, would produce many sons for him, and she was right. 

That night, the duke did everything he could for you. His kisses were softer, less desperate and more deliberate. His hands didn’t grab your flesh as a means to hold you, but rather to feel you. And when he sunk his cock into you, he did so in a way that emphasized your pleasure over his own, angling for those spots that made your body quiver.

You may not have been of noble birth, but to the duke, that night you were his empress. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been brushed by the coarse hair of his bearded chin. He worshiped you, giving you an evening dedicated to only your satisfaction.

For many weeks he would come into his chambers and ramble on about how proud he was, and how well you were doing. He would whisper the most depraved, while beautiful, things in your ear about how the people of Caladan owed you their lives, and how he couldn’t wait until it was time to breed you all over again. All of that praise was nothing though, not compared to the way he looked at you after coming back from his trip to Arrakis.

When he walked into his chambers, and you were there on his bed, only a couple short months away from birth, he stopped dead in his tracks. He felt like the words were trapped in his throat, and his feet were stuck to the floor. All he could do was stare, and take in the beauty before him. You were simply radiant, pregnant belly full with his son, his heir; swelling breasts nearly spilling out of your dress.

Once he found the ability to move again he slowly walked over to you, taking off his coat as he sat beside you.

“Look at you…” his voice trailed off.

“Hello my lord,” you greeted softly.

His hand reached for yours, and he was quickly reminded that you’d been a captive there, metal cuffs still wrapped around your wrists, rattling as he held you. He felt a pang in his chest, wanting desperately to release you. Every time the thought crossed his mind though, he worried you would run. You didn’t seem like you would try to leave, having become much more docile since your arrival months ago. There was also the glaring fact that you were pregnant, and it wouldn’t be easy for you to get away even if you managed to pass every one of the guards who might see you before reaching the doors of Leto’s home.

There was always that small chance though, no matter how slim, that you would leave. It was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

He looked back at your body, eyes wide and trained on your stomach. The duke leaned in, kissing just above your navel, a satisfied hum escaping his lungs as he did. It was hard not to like him, and that was what you hated about him the most. The man was dedicated to his people, to his title, and his legacy more than anything. The longer you were around him, and the more time you’d spent under his care, the more you’d begun to understand your purpose within his walls.

The idea of the Harkonnens, or any other house for that matter, claiming the right to Caladan, should House Atreides produce no heir, was a frightful one. He broke you from your thoughts, eyes trailing up your chest and to your eyes. Your breath caught in your throat, he looked so handsome, lips slightly parted with a few stray hairs falling into his dark eyes. Despite holding you captive for the sole purpose of breeding an heir from you, you’d begun to fall for Leto Atreides, against all odds.

“My sweet girl, my darling, you’re doing so well, growing my child in your womb. I couldn’t have asked for a better woman to give me a son, to give House Atreides its heir,” he whispered, cupping your cheek, bringing his forehead to yours. “I’ve been disappointed so many times.”

“Thank you my lo-”

“No sweetheart, no, shh…” he pressed a finger to your lips gently before replacing it with a tender kiss, “you should be worshiped by Caladan, it's people…I want to worship you.”

His hand grabbed at your waist, pulling you against him into a deeper kiss. You felt his growing arousal against your thigh, followed by an involuntary rut of his hips. You whined, trying not to be bothered by the incessant ache in your chest, your engorged tits becoming too heavy and painful to bear. It was hard to focus on the duke’s soothing touch when you felt such discomfort.

He stopped kissing you, looking at you with concern, “are you alright sweet one?” His eyes trailed to your tits, “are they sore? Oh you poor thing.”

You nodded and whimpered, wincing as he pulled one of your straps down and pulled a heavy breast from its confines. Your puffy nipple had a bead of white sitting on it, threatening to trickle down the mound. His pink tongue darted out, lapping up the milk that nearly fell from your breast, and humming in approval of its taste.

“Let me help you my dear,” he said softly, leaning in and latching his mouth over your chest.

You gasped at first, the coarse brush of his beard stinging against the sensitive skin, but it very quickly gave way to a much better, more soothing sensation. You sighed in relief, feeling him suckling at your flesh, drawing out the milk that had been causing your breasts to swell beyond belief. He moaned against your skin, rolling his hips idly as he did. This was very unusual for him, to be so needy and desperate for you, clinging onto your body the way he was.

In the past, Leto would’ve just taken you if he wanted to, but with your body so soft and full with his child, he would resist. Of course he knew you could take it, you weren’t made of glass, but he wanted to give you nothing but comfort, emptying you instead of filling you with more than he already had in the past. He felt your hand reach up and grab the back of his head, delicate fingers massaging between his peppery locks.

“Mm, my darling, so sweet,” he muttered against your tit, a little milk dribbling down his lips.

You felt his hips moving more, now more deliberate before, as though he were accepting of his primal urges to find release, rather than suppress it, but still unwilling to ask you for help.

“It’s alright my lord, you haven’t…mmph…you haven’t been satisfied in some time. Do what you must.”

Even though he was trying to remain stoic and refined, your permission was all he needed to throw all that aside. With his free hand he tugged at his belt, keeping his lips pursed around your nipple as he did. You heard the unmistakable clanking and rattling metal as he found success, pulling the leather from the loops and tossing it to the ground. His dexterous fingers then made quick work of his pants, pulling them to his thighs.

Leto Atreides was a nobleman, not one to give in to such animalistic delights so easily, but something about drinking from your chest, and how perfect you were serving him and his house with your pregnancy made him feral for you. His hands were shaking as he tried to bring his cock to your hole. He’d done it so many times before, why was he struggling now?

“Sir…” you pushed him off your breast, biting your lip at the sight of him as he looked up at you.

His eyes were hooded, milk-drunk and heavy. The lips that had been suckling for a while were now pink, puffy, and covered in a white, glossy sheen. You lifted your leg, sliding yourself into a position that you were both parallel to one another. You wrapped your leg around his hip, angling his fat tip to your slippery entrance.

“You’re too precious, too g-good…oh…” His hips stuttered forward, opening you wide around his cock once again.

You hadn’t been with him in so long, your body had nearly forgotten how to take him. You winced, needing to readjust once again, but he was patient, holding himself flush against your hips while your walls moved aside for his girth. He let out, what sounded like, a low growl as he mouthed at your neglected tit. His hips remained in place, making no attempt to retreat, nor to glide in further. His cock rested there contentedly, throbbing every now and then.

He gulped, humming into your breast as he drank more, the ache in your chest slowly subsiding with every moment that passed. Eventually he moved his hips lazily, pulling back after a time before rolling back forward.

What the duke was feeling with you in that moment was more than a simple sex act. What he felt now was comfort, his cock buried in your soaking, slippery heat, and his lips pursed around your nipple. Leto swirled his tongue in a slow roll over your peaked mound, taking a moment to inhale several shaky breaths before going in for more.

The way he drew more and more milk out of you was causing your body to relax further, your walls becoming more open to his slow movements and deep strokes. A low moan escaped you, forcing his eyes to shoot up, still so dark in their feral hunger. You tugged his hair, forcing him to pull off your breast with a loud pop. Without hesitation, you kissed him, filling your mouth with a combination of your sweet fluids and the duke’s own signature taste 

“You’re like no other. Not a day goes by that I don’t want to hold you close sweetheart…”

He brushed his nose against yours, eyes moving slowly from your lips, to your eyes, and back again. A swell of emotion poured through him, his desires going beyond just wanting to give you his seed, but it was something more. Your last name…it was wrong. He never wanted to take a wife, in fact, he’d vowed never to do such a thing, but you’d changed the very fiber of his being from the moment he’d found you.

“After my son is born, I’ll give you the best gift I can, the only gift I can give a woman of such importance…oh my…g…”

The duke lost himself, holding you tightly against him, though careful not to squeeze against your stomach too harshly. His choked moans vibrated against your chest while he filled you, pumping your body with his cum once again. You felt your own climax wash over your body, inspired by his own, drawing everything it could from him as it did, both of you a trembling, moaning mess.

He sighed with contentment after his mind cleared. He looked at you once more. 

“I’m going to keep you,” he kissed your lips breathlessly, “I’m going to keep you here with me. I’m going to give you my name, and until the day I die you’ll be mine, my precious thing.” He pecked you again, and then pressed his lips to your stomach.

“I can’t wait to have your name, sir, and to be able to walk around the castle freely,” you said softly.

Leto’s blood ran cold. 

Walk around freely…

Perhaps you’d misunderstood him, in fact, he was certain of it. He could see how his words may have been misconstrued. Evidently he would need to be more clear with you. The duke’s gaze darkened when he looked back into your eyes.

“My sweet girl.” He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead. “Until the day you are barren, I cannot risk any harm to you, nor your body.” His words were chilling, but his gaze was warm. 

“You’ll never leave this room, so long as I can help it.”

Duke Leto Atreides Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[a-spes]

Before the Storm. (N. R. x W. M. x R.) — Part Two, 'Unforgiving Hands'. (3.198 words).

" From the ashes of a fallen kingdom, a threat that everyone thought was defeated shall rise once more, sentencing a second realm to the same fate. The prophecy foretells that the apparition of a young woman where she never belonged will herald the end of everything. Can the impending doom be forestalled, or will the destruction of Earth become inevitable? "

| Tags & Warning — Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff x Enhanced!Reader. None for this part, except maybe Nat' being mean, and memory loss (R).

| SERIES MASTERLIST - MAIN MASTERLIST - REQUEST GUIDELINES. previous part. - next part.

Despite what the woman had expected, it had not been too difficult to catch her prey. A short, easy run — Perhaps even a little too simple. Fury’s warnings still echoed in her mind. The man seemed to see the situation — Or should she say, you — as a potential threat to the very existence of humanity, and that is something she couldn’t take lightly.

Every move she made, every assumption she took, were carefully considered to make sure she wasn’t walking into a trap. If she was honest, Natasha would admit that she was becoming a little paranoid, overanalyzing every piece of information she could get her hands on. This had resulted in countless sleepless nights, but it was nothing she was not prepared for — Nothing she was not used to.

It is not as if she was used to getting much sleep anyway, the ghosts of her past often preventing her from closing her eyes after dark, and so the distraction was welcome. She had immersed herself, body and soul, in this case, using it as an excuse for those nights spent awake, a lie to tell to others when they asked questions about the pronounced dark circles under her eyes — They may not believe her, but it was enough to keep them quiet.

Yet, in reality, it had not taken her more than a few hours to track you down. She might admit that you were not exactly the type of threat she was used to dealing with — But don’t they say that the devil comes in all shapes, sizes, and forms? Still, she found it hard to believe that you could be the threat Fury saw in you, you were so… careless, inexperienced, clumsy. 

Yet, your behavior didn’t arouse compassion in her, only frustration for not being able to see through your game. Everything about your case was suspicious, but she hadn’t yet been able to understand the reasons for your presence on this planet, nor what were your plans. You had no name here, no identity, and it was as if your life had begun on the day of that accident. 

The footage was then all they knew about you, and it was up to the woman to determine who you were from this data. Natasha may be born for that, but this information was still too meagre for her to really assess the threat you were, especially because, despite the hours she has spent observing you, you hadn’t given her much information.

Sometimes, she was thinking about how your attitude may not be an act meant to deceive her, but something more genuine. But the woman could not let these thoughts cloud her judgment — There was a time when she herself was not looking like an assassin, and yet she could have killed any man who came her way in an instant. She had learned to trust no one. 

Especially as there were also these abilities of yours about which they had even less information. She glanced at the identity sheet they had tried to integrate in your file. Most of the boxes were empty, or filled with a few words followed by question marks since they were sure of nothing. The field named ‘Abilities’ was no exception. In messy handwriting, the woman had written down what little they knew — High resistance. Unable to regenerate.

At least, that is the conclusion Natasha came to after observing your every move for so long that, if you had a schedule, she would have known it, and all your habits, by heart. But you did not, and if she had to compare you to anything, it would be to a wounded creature. You were lost, desperate, unpredictable, and it only made you more deadly, even though you were obviously weakened. 

She observed you drag your wounded body from day to day without even trying to heal your wounds, maybe because you did not know how. As surprising as it may seem, it made sense. You didn’t even try to steal supplies, neither medicine nor food, and that is what eventually gave her the perfect opportunity to catch you. Your accident with the truck had obviously taken a heavy toll on you, and even though it was not as heavy as it would have on a normal person, it was still enough to cause you to limp and other health difficulties you were doing a poor job at dealing with — So much so that your injuries, benign at first, eventually got worse. 

For several days, you did not eat, and barely slept. You spent your days wandering aimlessly through the city street until the sun set, continuing until it rose, creating an endless cycle that Natasha had at first mistakenly believed to be a logical pattern.

“We are here to help.”

Those are the first words she spoke to you on the day she had finally decided to establish contact with you — A day that would also be the one she had taken you back to the quarters, as a captive. Fury was getting impatient with the lack of advance on the mission, and so was she, the woman being eager to get to the bottom of this.

Although she did not doubt her ability to capture you, given your condition, she had not come alone. She may be confident, but not foolish. There were several black cars pulled up beside you, trapping the both of you in a corner of the city. The red-haired woman was the only one close enough for you to clearly distinguish her face, but it didn’t make her any less threatening than the dozens of silhouettes that were standing to her back.

You did not believe her words. She could see it in your eyes, but she could not really blame you for that given the circumstances. You were not sure what to do. You scanned your surroundings, but when you eventually realized that there was no way out, your eyes fell back on the woman that was standing a few meters away. The hand she was holding to you was tempting, almost welcoming, as a promise of better days, and you must admit that, for a few seconds, you have considered taking it. You were so lost, and exhausted, that all you wanted was to give up, but even though a part of you wanted to believe that her words could be true, you knew that there were clues you could not ignore — And these people in black that were pointing at you some things you could not name were one of them. Their presence was not friendly, it was threatening.

It was that moment of hesitation that cost you your freedom. In a matter of seconds, the hand that had been held out to you as a promise of safety had become a threat. Carefully hidden under the sleeve of her jacket, an object you had mistaken for a bracelet, unaware of its true power — Her widow’s bites. Yet, you felt it when the woman activated it. One blow at full power being enough to send you to a place where only blackness exists.

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

When you finally open your eyes, you have lost all sense of time, and you do not know how long it has been since you were knocked out. On the contrary, Natasha knew perfectly well how much time had gone by. She had spent several hours at your bedside, waiting for you to wake up with nothing to do but count the minutes — Nine hundred and sixty-nine. 

At some point, she was forced to admit that her decision to use the full power of her widow’s bites may have been a bit… drastic, considering that you were already weakened. Yet, she had not wanted to take any risks, especially after she had seen you survive a violent accident with a truck, and worse, walk away as if almost nothing had happened. Sure, you had been hurt, but less than a normal human would have been. You could have easily taken care of your wounds if you had wanted to.

Her attack seemed to have been one too many, but that did not mean she was regretting it. On the contrary, Natasha knew she had no choice, and that it was necessary since she did not know the full extent of your abilities — But that is something she plans to discover soon.

The place you were in seemed like a hospital room, but it was not one. The walls were immaculate white, and the neon lights harsh for eyes unaccustomed to light, but the guards posted outside the door and the security system made it easy to understand that this place was not an ordinary hospital room. It was actually situated in the Avengers tower, and it was made to contain people of your sort so that they could be cared for in a secrecy that was not allowed in hospitals — And, as you are going to realize soon, there is no way out of here.

Natasha was sitting in a chair, and she had not moved from her uncomfortable position for hours. The pain was starting to build in her numb limbs, but she couldn't care less about it, and not once she had moved, barely blinking. 

Ever since they had brought you here, she has been watching you with the intensity of a hawk, refusing to take her eyes off you for even a moment. In so much time, she had time to observe every detail of your appearance and to come up with a theory for every imperfection she saw on your skin, attaching a story to each of your oldest scars.

When you eventually open your eyes, it is only to close them again immediately, blinded by the lights, and if the woman notices your discomfort, made clear by your whining, she makes no move to make the situation more comfortable. Natasha was just kind enough to offer you a few seconds to come back to consciousness, and get your eyes used to the sharp light, before she starts with her questions — But there lay the limits of her pity. 

The first thing you see when you manage to open your eyes enough to have a look at your surroundings is the face of this stranger, whom you can recognize. Your memories are a jumble, and you are not sure what happened before the world went dark, but if you are sure of one thing, it is that her face was the last thing you saw. Yet, her features no longer bear the benevolence they did last time — On the contrary, they were sharp and were not showing even an ounce of compassion. 

Your breath gets stuck in your throat as panic sets in, and you can’t manage to say anything. The woman does not speak either, and she lets a silence of several seconds settle in. As you watch her guardedly, she gives the impression of analyzing her prey — you — and it makes you uneasy. Unfortunately, you had no way of escaping it. You felt barely strong enough to move your head, and despite your desire to run away, you were aware that you wouldn’t take more than a few steps before collapsing.

At some point, after several minutes of unbearable silence, the woman eventually decided to make a move. Her legs, which had been resting on your bed without you really paying attention to it until now, find the floor again as she pulls her chair as close to your bed as she could get. The scraping of the chair against the floor is the only sound to be heard at this moment. 

The tension is palpable, and it is maintained by Natasha. Her every move is calculated to play with your nerves, and to understand that you are not the one in charge. The intensity with which she stared at you, the slowness of her every gesture, her calm yet firm posture as she leaned slightly forward, her forearms resting on her legs… all of this made you want to disappear instantly — Run, the voice in your head was whispering. 

Yet you can’t, and not only because you have no energy to do so, but also, as you are going to realize soon, because you are bound to the bed, your wrists and ankles firmly tied to the frame, restricting your every movement. As the realization dawns, you feel that your breath quickens, and she must have felt it too because it is at that moment that she decides to break the silence. 

“If I were you, I would not try anything stupid,” she said, but the tone of her voice gave you the impression that this advice was more of a threat, “I could kill you before you even manage to break free of your restraints,” she added. Natasha knew it was not necessary, that her first words had been enough to drive any thought of escape out of your mind, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying the fear she could read in your eyes — It was like a personal revenge on people of your kind. “I do not have much time, and even less patience, so I will be straightforward,” she said, her voice somewhat soft again, as if she had not threatened you just a few seconds ago.

She picks up the file that was placed on the bedside table, and it is with an almost painful slowness that she flicks through the pages. Yet she knows the contents of the file like the back of her hand, and would be able to quote every word, and describe every image, without even seeing them. But, as you will soon realize, it is nothing more than an act designed to intimidate you, like everything else she does.

Eventually, she pulls out a page from the file and lays it on your lap for you to see. These are screenshots from the surveillance cameras on which you appear, and you frown, a bit confused at the sight of them. 

“Care to explain what happened there?” She asked, but you did not reply, unsure of what she meant. You recognize yourself in the pictures, but you have to admit that the last few days have been a blur in your mind, and you would be unable to explain exactly what you were doing at the time — Running, surely, you can’t remember doing anything else. 

The woman’s attitude does not soften. On the contrary, she remains impassive, not falling for what she considers an act. Natasha was used to hearing the lies, but also the cries and pleas of those she had questioned, and they had never managed to soften her — And you certainly won’t be the first.

“We know what you are, there is no point in trying to hide it,” she said. It was not completely true but you didn’t need to know that for now. “But what we don’t know, and what I need to find out, is why are you here?” She asked, and as she said these words, her face was so close to yours that you could feel her breath on your skin. If you had the bravery to look into her eyes, you would certainly see your reflection in them. But you did not, not even having the courage to move to put a little distance between you — Maybe if you do not move, she will forget about your presence. 

“When I ask you a question, you answer it. Do you get it?’ She spat those words in your face, and you slowly nodded. Yet the simple gesture was not enough for the woman, and the hand that was holding your jaw tightens, her nails digging painfully into your skin.

“Y-yes,” you managed to say. It is hardly a whisper, but it seems to satisfy the woman who, after a few more seconds of watching you, eventually decides to release her grip. 

“So I’m going to ask you one last time…,” she started. Her tone is deadly calm, each of her words is articulated with a calculated slowness that makes your heart beat rapidly while her eyes are locked in yours. “Why are you here?” She asked, and she quickly glanced at the files before continuing: “We already know that you do not belong here, so do not even try to lie about it. That would be a waste of my time and, believe me, you do not want to know what happens when I lose my patience,” she warned. 

“W- what?” You asked, the word being the only thing you could say.

Her words echo in your mind — you do not belong here — and they fill the void there — if not here, then where? — but that is an answer you do not have. You do not know from where, nor why, and you feel tears welling up in your eyes as you realize how lost you are. The woman had just shaken the only certainty you had; that you belonged to here. You had hoped that, as you wandered the foreign streets, snatches of memories would eventually come back to you, or familiar faces that would allow you to put your story into words.

“I- I don’t know,” you admitted, “I don’t remember,” you immediately asked when you saw the expression on her face harden. Somehow, you already knew that the rest of this conversation wouldn’t be pleasant, especially as you were unable to give her the answers she was hoping to get.

“You don’t remember?” She slowly repeated after you, as if to make sure she had heard correctly. When you nod, she rolls her eyes. “How convenient, isn’t it?” She answered sarcastically, and you knew better than to say anything, not wanting to make your situation worse than it already is.

After a few minutes of silence, the woman sighs as she seems to realize she won’t be able to coax any answer out of you, partly because you were determined to lie, and partly because she didn’t have the patience to play these mind games. 

“Then I guess you would not mind if I ask a friend of mine to have a look at what is going on inside your head,” she simply said, and if it sounded like a choice, it was not. The last words had hardly been spoken that the door was already slammed behind her back, leaving you to fight against your restraints. You didn’t know exactly what her words implied, but they still left you with a sick feeling. 

Yet, Natasha didn’t care about your protests. Instead, she was focused on how she was going to convince Wanda — her girlfriend — to agree to do what she was asking. She already knew that the witch was reluctant to use her powers on those who didn’t consent. The only solution was to convince her that you were a threat, but she knew that she would let herself be softened by your situation when she is going to see you since you didn’t exactly fit the profile of a villain.

| SERIES MASTERLIST - MAIN MASTERLIST - REQUEST GUIDELINES. previous part. - next part.

| Tag list — @beggingonmykneesforher / @queen-of-chaotic-surprises

[evilminji]

My ONGOING "SI-OC Ponderings that my Muse is haunting me with but I may never get around to write" Series!

Because, fuck it, might as well. Maybe it will inspire somebody?

Jedi Youngling! Staring down that double barrel Order 66! FUCK.

Now, see, they don't blame the Clones. They don't even blame the Jedi. Whole lot of "victims of circumstance and our Wrong Place Wrong Time environment" going on. But? Are they gonna lay down and take it? Fffffuck no!

They JUST got this body!

Also?

THESE ARE BABIES.

They, An ADULT, have a god damned MORAL OBLIGATION to save as many of this itty bitty alien babies as they can. They warn the adults, obviously. But they FULLY expect? And are unsurprised? When they DON'T LISTEN.

There is a Force Damned PRECEDENT for that. (May you finally rest in peace now, Master Sifo-Dyas.)

The younglings though? THEY didn't get to make a choice. THEY are innocents. And as the only ADULT with knowledge of what's to come? It's HER moral, ethical, and Force given obligation to PROTECT them until they can do so themselves.

As a Jedi... she has to PICK.

Try to save the adults? Those who willfully chose ignorance AND have the ability to defend themselves? To fight and flee under their own power? Or... save the younglings, the infants and babies. Those whose ignorance is that of the young and still learning? Who CAN NOT fight. Can Not run?

It's no choice at all. And if they truely understood? She can only hope they would command her to do EXACTLY as she is doing. Would demand no less. Consider it UNTHINKABLE to ever choose them.

She searches out the hidden passages. Practices lifting things instead of sword stances. She will need to carry so much. Move so quickly. She KNOWS where the attack will come from... Force willing, if she plans well? The Creches will be EMPTY by the time the soilders arrive.

But for that? She must steal. Redirect. Take things from where they should be. It is easier then it should be. First because no expects true mischief from a child, then? Because a war has begun.

Restriction Bolts of the Temple droids and a simple explanation is enough to gain their assistance. It's illogical not to have a plan, even if you never use it. And through them? "Liberated" data jewels. Already plumbed for all the information they're good for. High end, too.

Perfect.

She wipes them all. Fashion's a belt that, one day, Force willing she might wear as a necklace. Then sets to work coping EVERYTHING about the Jedi. When the temple is lost? Their history should not be.

So long as this string of jewels alone survives.

The Jedi are remembered. Luke with not have to start over from half memories and hearsay. They can learn from the past AND still have it. She puts diaries, prophecies, books the jedi wrote for fun. Various Force sects both past and still alive. Teaching methods. Anything. Everything.

A time capsule.

It HAS to be enough.

She fears it's not. Sneaks into the hall of retired Sabers. Sits. And opens her mind to them all. Please. Please! She knows. She's so, SO sorry. You were done. You EARNED your rest. She would not ask this if youngling were not on the line. If Illum might not become to dangerous to travel too.

....if she did not fear what would become of you, should you stay.

The Sith is coming. He WILL take the temple.

Will you come with me now?

Some do, some promise to die, and die VICIOUS. Swear to blow to deadly shrapnel in the hands of any who dare come for them. Others leave their casings. Willing to come, but not as they were. She apologizes for the indignity, as she stuffs them all in the hidden paths.

Honestly? They muse. They've seen worse. Remember that-? WE DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT. HE WAS TRYING HIS BEST, OKAY?!

And all throughout? One must wonder. What do the other younglings think? That OC is strange? Mad? To be ostracized? No, of course not. She is nice. Listens when they're upset. Does not judge or make every emotion a test. Hugs come readily and her mind FEELS older. Like the Creche Master.

And? If Master YODA can be short? Why not OC? She just lives with them. The other Knights and Master's don't listen to her because she Sees things. It scares them. They SAY they do. But children know the difference, don't they? Between what you promise you'll do... and what you'll ACTUALLY do?

But see, the Creche Master's? Increasingly distracted. Preparing the eldest of their charges for WAR ZONES. It's stressful. The fact that the youngers are quiet? SHOULD raise alarm bells. They KNOW better. But they are distracted.

The ones who DO notice? Are the orphan Padawan. The older initiates. People assigned to "help out".

There aren't enough mind healers. Not enough hands to help around the Creche. It was considered a good idea. Young children are full of uncomplicated Light! Yes, Yoda. They are. But as with Obi-Wan, so too with the Crechelings? Children are NOT here to mend the hurts of their elders. That is NOT their purpose.

They are exposing the youngers to Fear and Grief. Broken bonds and the echos of war. This is NOT good for young force sensitives.

Yet... are THEY not young Force Sensitives? Children too? OC knows they are. And it is a bitterness on her tounge. She does what she can. Because SHE is and adult. They notice too. How can they not? The other children turn to her, she guides them through their day. She gives "projects" and listens to concerns. Walks everyone through meditation.

......runs everyone through the Evacuation Plan? WHAT Evacuation Plan?

Oh.

It... it helps. Having something they are PART of. Doing TOGETHER. Something to combat the growing, creeping, darkness that is not violence and death. This? This is planning. Preparation. It... it feels like have some sense of control again, after everything has become senseless and OUT of control. Yet? It is not DARK. Not seeking to force control on others.

It is just... quietly stepping back.

One foot, then another. Calmly and with grief. Letting go, knowing you have tried, as you leave those who have made their choices to the fates they chose. Silently slipping out the door before the building begins to burn. Just as you warned them. Just as they refused to hear.

It's okay to grieve.

Even those who are still alive.

Of course, Shadows ARE supposed to notice unusual movements. Spies and Falling are a concern. Heeey, little youngling! How's things? Just swinging byyyy~☆ soft interrogation tactics~! Gonna admit to any of the Blatant Theft?

Yes, actually. Good you are here. Saves OC the trouble of trying to figure out who is and isn't a Shadow. Kinda convenient, Master Vos, that it's you. What's the fastest set of ships you could stash at the exit to this and THIS hidden path? By this date?

He's sorry, what?

You heard her.

Tiny youngling, unflinching, staring him down and asking for ships like that's a thing she has any right to do? Why? Well... that depends. Are you actually going to listen, Master Vos, or do you want an answer that will comfort you?

Excuse me.

Do you remember? Master Vos, the suffering of Sifo-Dyas? A temple full of Jedi, a seat upon it's council, yet not a single soul would hear him. Would truely listen. How many Knights? How many Masters? Tell me, Master Vos, exactly how many have DIED for willful ignorance and attachment to peaceful days?

There could not POSSIBLY be Sith. So we will not train or prepare. There can not POSSIBLY be a war, Sifo-Dyas, so be consumed by your fear alone. Die, alone. Let Padawan and peacekeepers be Generals. Because what the Force has shown you? It is happening today.

So we refuse to see it. Cling to the present, Master Vos.

Isn't it so COMFORTING here?

You don't have to know what might be. Don't have to ACT. Can be blind and choose ignorance.

A vision then? He surely concludes. For he is no fool. And the Youngling just looks tired. Eats their meal. Answer the question, Master Vos. Do you remember? Was Master Kenobi's suffering also ignored? How well did that work out. Will you LISTEN or have you already come to your conclusions, and now simply seek information to support them?

....he wants to. He does. But you're like, four.

OC nods. Fair. She can see the genuine conflict on his face. He HEARD her. But can not let go of what his eyes tell him. The Force is too muddled here. She too, would have a hard time trusting a small child with something so serious. But.... she can not change her path. And neither can he.

May the Force Be With You, Master Vos.

Plan Besh it is.

She is a small adorable child. The Coruscant gaurd are overworked and filled with spite. Who wants caff and bribery~? Do they clock her immediately? Yes. Is this hilarious. Also yes. Who did you kill, small child? We promise not to be mad.

No one, yet. Could change. She would prefere it not. But who knows. Anyway~☆! Do any of YOU caff loving (here have a refill) gentleman happen to know of any asshole Goverment Officals with REALLY fast ships that run primarily of droid piloting? With potentially easily disabled trackers? Not that she, a small child, would be DOING anything with this information!

It's just neat information to know! *innocent blinking of innocence*

Uh huh. And they were decanted yesterday.

That SAID.... they have a list. Oh noooo! They dropped the list! So much effort to pick it up. Hey, kid, could pick that up and definitely not steal it for us? Good baby Jedi. Thanks for the Caff. Tell Vos to stop haunting the lower levels. It's OUR job to hunt criminals for sport, not his.

Yes, sir o7

Of she goes? To the Senatorial Garage. It's mostly droids. Of LOOK! I have this handy little tool! Pop. Pop, pop, pop~! Hey? Wanna fuck over the asshole who doesn't appreciate you, steal this ship, AND save the lives of small children?

BOY WOULD THEY! Says local every droid in the Ship pool.

Great! Just figure out where the trackers are, how to turn them off, and when it's time? Meet a one of these locations for pick up. We're gonna NEED you. Like... actually NEED. Not "I'm throwing my money around on the latest and greatest then not USING THEM FOR ANYTHING" supposedly need. You'll have SO MUCH WORK.

(They're gonna cry in Binary. Omg? Fuckin FINALLY???)

And so... inevitably. The clock ticks down. The drama of adults ramps up. They smuggle a few clone troopers through surgery. Try to warn the others. Know it won't be enough. The momentum is too great. The gears of War will grind over everything.

Like a forest fire... the old has to burn away for new growth.

But like hell is she letting that come at the cost of tiny bodies. Clones trapped in their minds forced to fire upon children. There will be enough horrors this day. This can be on less. They WILL be ready. And... they are.

She sees the council running out. Knows what it means. And she does NOT hesitate. Her signal goes out. Her Padawan helpers dropping everything to BOLT for the Creche and the go bags stored there. They are followed by friends. Who do not understand, but trust them. Who's Master's do not understand, but assume this is some plan they were not told off.

It certainly seems so, when in the distance? They hear the temple gaurds fighting to hold the line. Hear blasterfire. They race down the hidden paths. Are met with droids, loading up food and medicine, leave as soon as each ship has the assigned numbers. Again and again. Senatorial chips mean instant pass into space. Important business, you understand.

The droids will follow, with everything. Including what was nailed down. Probably the nails too.

Might steal the hammers while they're at it.

Next stop? Wild Space.

Explorcorps newest finds. FRESHLY deleted. All points warning already being sent. A Fuck You Very MUCH, Sith-y Pants. You'll not be getting ANY of the Corps workers if THEY can help it. And hey... the Masters and a few knights were a pleasant suprise. Them and their squad of rescue troopers? Almost make enough adults to take care of everybody!

Now all they have to do? Is hide, rebuild, and regrow.

Return when Luke has down his Luke thing.

Who knows... not her. She made a plan and she DID it. Some one else can decide for a while. She's just a kid. Tell her when they get there, okay?

[chebyshevptera]

So i know you said no destiny swap Cole leaks yet but… what about Morro wtehrbgdhd

No pressure your au just really interests me and i love reading you yap about it

okYESSSSA :33 THIS I CAN! Anything for u of course asrik I Know ur the Morro fan ever

the hiccup braids are courtesy of hellz and cappy btw . ok yayyyyy Morro stuff under cut !!

morro is the elemental master of ice, the oldest member of the team, and their leader. in destinyswap, he is a very solid, intelligent guy, … as well as the epitome of a 90s sitcom older brother that leans against the doorframe and makes stupid comments .

he prefers close combat and taking the time to think before he acts . even though he’s pretty impulsive by nature, he knows that he has to reel it in because his team is, frankly, full of idiot kids that need his guidance

backstory …..pretty similar to canon morro. financially unstable, living on the streets, yada yada …. except morro’s family is recently dead, so he’s all alone trying to survive. one day, he is caught attempting to climb the wall to the monastery , and instead of being scolded or threatened, his unkempt appearance … causes garmadon and misako to take pity on him . after a meal and some questioning about his home , he is taken in by the couple

n that’s basically it! morro adjusts to a new way of life, much more forgiving and exciting than what he was doing before . misako helps to homeschool him and catch him up to the grade level that he should be at for his age . lloyd becomes extremely attached to morro, viewing him as a brother of sorts, and morro feels the same way towards lloyd; they become inseparable . eventually, garmadon teaches him prophecies and elements and such, all the things that he has already taught lloyd, and morro soon learns that he , himself, is an elemental master

(and because morro staying at the monastery did not begin with a life of training and the promise of a destiny such as the green ninja’s, he didn’t develop the obsession that canon morro did , and his training as the elemental master of ice was a lot more stable and fulfilling)

somewhere along the lines, garmadon finds another elemental master, zane, who seems just as lost and uncomfortable as morro was when he was first taken in. morro does his best to soothe him. he understands. he learns that zane is one hell of a craftsman .

and then there’s another, kai, who is angry and stressed and constantly straining himself in an attempt to improve . his little sister has been kidnapped , and morro knows what it’s like to lose a sibling. he does his best to soothe kai. it doesn’t work , not at first , not really, but he tries anyway.

and when nya is saved , and when her fate as the green ninja is sealed, morro does his best to soothe her, too. she’s begun feeling like she has to do everything on her own, handle the world because that’s her situation now, and he gets it, because he was in her shoes once , too. maybe their situations weren’t the same, but he understands bearing the weight of your world on your shoulders

anyway

that’s all I can reveal for now <3

have some ds morro facts : )

- he’s the most agile on the team for a while !

- he’s kind of a jungle gym for lloyd and harumi . they beggggg him to carry them around and they cling to his legs while he tries to walk, so he has to stumble down the hallway like he’s stepping in snow .

- even though he tries to be calm, he has a pretty short temper, . however, he’s learned to …… cope with it (he once put his entire palm over kai’s face and then pushed him into the couch cushions because he was being rude)

- since unlocking his true potential , when he’s really emotional, snowflakes flurry around his face . he wasn’t aware of this for a while

- he likes to give gifts , so if he sees something that reminds him of someone when he’s out and about , he absolutely will make sure to buy it

- coffee addict …..

- he really likes LIZARDS! for his 18th birthday, he got a tattoo of one on his right side

- he has a fancy sword collection…… swords he never uses. They’re just hanging on his wall

- he’s kind of just, good at everything . which can be really aggravating… especially when he beats all of kai’s high scores

- his pokemon card deck consists of GHOST TYPES!!!!!!… this was not an intentional callback. but it gets me sometimes

blahblah yap yap

[uhhh taglist… let’s see if i can remember]

[ @hellsballz @captain-space-kin @jammahanna @rusted-fairy-wings @kindaasrikal @old-pine-woods @guacadoodledoo @cherrivixx ]

[pandaofsecrets]

This convo got me thinking about how Ozai being a good parent and husband would actually be like (and how little that would actually change things), so here's the basics of the AU. It follows comics continuity because I think it's more impactful that way, and also because I really don't want to write two AUs for the price of one.

Okay, so first of all, how do we get here? Let's say that instead of Ozai becoming narcissistic as a coping mechanism (unlikely, but bear with me), he just kinda gives up trying to "prove his worth" and distances himself from his father and brother, distrusting them and trying to avoid their attention as much as he can.

Anyway, Azulon hears about the prophecy and wants Ozai married to Ursa, which. So much for not attracting attention. Azulon's logic here is that while he does want those strong firebenders, he doesn't want any of Roku's line to actually inherit the throne. So, marrying Ursa to his out-of-favor second son it is.

Needless to say, neither Ozai nor Ursa are exactly jazzed about the marriage. They're both essentially forced into it, and Ursa was already seeing someone, thank you very much. But they both figure that it's for the good of their country and that they can't really leave anyway, so they might as well try to make it work. Ozai works to make Ursa as comfortable as possible, and she cooperates with him as much as she can. A few months or so into the marriage, Ursa is pregnant with Zuko.

This is when Ursa notices that no one is replying to her letters. No one at all. Not Ikem, not her friends, and not even her parents. Like, she knows mail is slow, but it's been almost half a year at this point. Her parents at least should've written back by now. So, she does a little detective work, and puts together that Ozai is intercepting her letters.

Unsurprisingly, Ursa is pissed. She'd just begun to like Ozai, and he went and tore her heart into confetti. Incredibly betrayed (and also hormonal as all fuck), Ursa comes up with the very smart idea of writing a letter to Ikem in which she pretty much confesses to cheating on Ozai, reasoning that would hurt him pretty bad.

As Ursa expected, Ozai gets the letter and barges into the room, demanding to know what the hell she was thinking. "I knew it!" she goes. "I knew you've been intercepting my letters!" Ozai is like "Count yourself lucky it was me. What if it was my father? How would you have even begun to explain this to him?" He goes on to remind her that she was to give up contact with everyone outside of court, including her parents. He doesn't like his father's orders any more than she does, but he has to enforce them. He then burns the letter, telling Ursa that she can see whoever she wants, do whatever she wants, but she had better not let Zuko get caught up in any of it. Ozai makes a point to call Zuko his child, both because Ursa's letter did hurt him, and as a way to imply he cares about Zuko and Ursa doesn't.

A couple of hours later, both are feeling bad about the whole debacle. Ursa goes to see Ozai, who's in the middle of his usual "dealing with his angst by training until he straight-up collapses" routine, and they have a chat. Ozai apologizes for trying to imply she doesn't care about Zuko and for putting her in this position in the first place, and admits that he should've talked to her instead of going behind her back like that. Ursa swears she wasn't trying to get them in trouble, she was just so hurt by his actions that she wasn't thinking straight. Ozai promises her he'll find a way for her to contact and maybe even see her parents, so long as she promises to try and be less reckless. She agrees.

I'm skipping around a lot over things I haven't thought of in detail, so cut to a few years later. Zuko is around 7 and has just started his firebending lessons, Azula is around 5, and everything seems to be going pretty good. And then Azula starts firebending as well. Not only that, but she turns out to be a prodigy. Oops.

Ozai being Ozai, he immediately goes for damage control. He holds back Azula's progress under the pretext that it's going to be better for her in the long run, discourages her from attracting attention, and is generally very cagey whenever the subject of her bending is brought up. This is in sharp contrast to Azulon and to her teachers, who praise her for her talents and encourage her to develop her skills. So, naturally, Azula is really confused. If she's so great, why doesn't her father ever acknowledge it? This is made worse by the fact that Ozai can't really explain to Azula why he does things the way he does. So he just comes off as an unreasonable tyrant, which is. You know. Not at all the impression he wanted Azula to have of him. He knows what it's like to be the secondborn who is disliked by their parent, he never wanted to do that to his own child. It honestly feels like the universe is out to get him at this point.

So Azula becomes increasingly recalcitrant, and Ozai resolves to just give her space for the time being, spending more time with the one child who isn't fighting him at every turn. Seeing this as a rejection, Azula takes whatever pent-up rage she can't direct at Ozai and starts directing it at Zuko, meaning Ozai is put in a position where he has to protect one of his children from the other. Ursa tries her hardest to pick up the pieces, but that just ends with Azula writing her off as well. Azula also becomes aware of the fact that Ozai and Ursa are both pretty much powerless against Azulon, and that's where the fun begins.

It's a crappy situation all around, but it's about to get worse. Lu Ten dies and Iroh is about to return home from the Siege of Ba Sing Se, so Azulon tells Ozai that he has to give Azula to Iroh. Ozai is like, yep, there it is. There's the moment I've been dreading ever since I got married. Because due to the way this whole eugenics experiment worked, his children were never truly his. Azulon's vested interest in them meant Ozai never had any control over his own family, and Zuko and Azula were always going to be taken away from him sooner or later. But before Ozai can say anything, Azulon drops the bombshell on him. He has to kill Zuko, too. Ozai is like, fuck this. He doesn't care that Zuko was a failed experiment or whatever, that's his son. But he knows by now that his father cannot be reasoned with, so he asks Azulon to wait until Iroh comes home, buying himself time to figure out what to do. Surprisingly, Azulon agrees.

Ozai then goes to Ursa and tells her the tale of what just happened. Ursa goes, yeah, no, we can't afford to wait until Iroh comes back. Because even if they did, Zuko would still die. Ozai is like, well, there's gotta be something we can do. And that's when Ursa gets an idea. She briefly considers telling Ozai, but quickly thinks better of it. Patricide is a strong word. She knows Ozai wouldn't approve, so if she wants something done, she's gotta do it herself. Instead, she just says she knows a way, and leaves Ozai to mope.

Next morning, the palace is in chaos. Azulon just kicked the bucket, Iroh is away, and everyone is looking to Ozai for leadership. Ozai has a chat with Ursa and is like "You did this, didn't you?" Ursa is all "I don't know what you're talking about", and Ozai asks her if she really thinks he's that stupid. He then encourages her to get the heck out of Dodge, because someone is definitely going to trace this back to her and then they'll all be in big trouble, her especially. Ursa counters that she's not the same reckless woman she was 8 years ago, and that she made sure to cover all her bases this time, pinning the blame on supposed Earth Kingdom assassins. They sit in silence for a bit, and then Ozai confesses he can't believe Azulon is dead, and that he doesn't know whether to be relieved or to hate Ursa for murdering him. Ursa says that everything she's done, she's done to protect her family.

So Ozai basically becomes interim Fire Lord while waiting for Iroh to come back, and he does a pretty good job, having basically been acting Crown Prince ever since he came of age (with all of the responsibility and none of the credit, because Azulon was a dick like that). From here the AU can go any number of ways, from Iroh immediately taking over as Fire Lord, to him giving up his claim to the title, to Iroh trying to give up his claim and Ozai refusing.

I don't know if I'm ever going to actually write this AU, so I'm leaving this here, I guess? Lmk what you think.

[separatist-apologist]

The Prophecy

Summary: No one has seen or heard from Elain Archeron in two months…until she turns up one day in the Spring Court with no memory of where she's been or what she's been doing.

Tamlin and Lucien will have to work together to untangle the mystery of Elain's missing memories.

Surprise, @olenvasynyt- I was your secret santa! I hope you enjoyed spending time together as much as I did- and I hope you enjoy this gift as well!

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3

-

She woke up on the damp, forest floor beneath a blanket of twinkling stars. Her breath curled around her face like shadows, dancing through the cold, midnight air like lovers. Elain Archeron lay flat in the grass, her skin so cold it burned. 

Elain Archeron had merely closed her eyes for a moment on the Summer Solstice, exhausted from the constant partying that kept her up into the wee hours of the morning. How she’d gotten here was a mystery. 

Where was she? Elain forced herself to sit up, her once beautiful, purple gown stained with mud and what appeared to be blood. The sleeves were ripped, the dress itself tattered and torn so it appeared to be more rags than anything. No shoes, which meant she had to walk. Elain took a step, causing shooting pain to scream up her left shin, settling in her knee.

She gasped, leaning against a nearby tree trunk as she tried to gather her bearings. It should have been warm—it was still summer. This felt more like the final frost before spring than a warm, summer evening. 

“Hello?” Elain called out, surprised to find her voice cracked, the words burning in her throat. It was as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs for hours, shredding her vocal cords. She was terrified to see herself in the mirror.

“Hello?” she tried again, noting that the forest had become eerily still. No bugs chirping, no wind rustling leaves, no animals scurrying about. Just the sound of her breath, waiting for whatever had silenced the world around her. She’d noticed when a High Lord approached, the world seemed to react with the same reverence so many others did. As if it could sense all that power, too.

“Rhys?”

It wasn’t Rhys that appeared. She knew that creature, with the glowing green eyes and the massive, elk like horns, that suddenly appeared before her. He’d once broken into her home and stolen away her sister. Elain wrapped her arms around her body to try and hide the trembling that overtook her. It hurt to stand, to hold herself upright.

She wanted to lay back in the grass. “I…” she tried to say something, swaying ever so slightly on her feet. In a moment, the creature was gone, replaced by a man she’d seen, too. Tamlin, of the Spring Court, caught her before she collapsed.

“Elain Archeron?” he asked, the disbelief in his voice plain. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” 

Why would she be dead? Elain pushed weakly at Tamlin’s chest for all the good it did. He was warm and strong and uninjured and she was none of those things. He’d begun walking, holding her close enough to leech some of the heat from his skin. “What did you do to me?”

Tamlin only shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Archerons,” he grumbled softly, offering her no other information. Each step jostled her body, causing her bones to rattle beneath her skin. It was agony, pure misery of the highest order.

“Take me home,” Elain tried to demand, but the words came out small and soft as though a child spoke them. Tamlin didn’t acknowledge her, either. He merely stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. 

He didn’t take her home—not that Elain was sure she had one. Instead, he took her to a sprawling manor adorned with creeping ivy and slumbering roses. The drive was dotted by tulips, peeking from just beneath that first frost as though to warn the others it was safe to erupt. The world was still in his arms, though behind her, she could hear life reemerge, chattering loudly like the gossips they were. 

“Is it just us?” she asked when he took her into the warmth. Had Feyre truly lived here, she wondered? It was so quiet, so empty and clean. Tamlin’s boots echoed off the checked marble floors while each inhale of air seemed to echo, making it seem as if a million frustrated men lurked just out of view.

The manor had seen better days. Walls that had once been papered were torn apart, the strips still hanging where the glue held fast. Wooden railings were splintered and doors missing entirely, only noticeable as they passed. Tamlin took her up the stairs, past a room that was entirely covered in ivy. 

That wasn’t the room she was put in. Several doors down, in a room that reeked heavily of dust, Elain was set back on her feet.

“Don’t move,” Tamlin ordered. She wanted to ask where she’d go given there seemed to be no one around. She could have screamed, she supposed, though what good would that do? Elain did as she was told, assuming Tamlin was going to get someone helpful. Someone she wanted to see—like Feyre, or Nesta, or even—

“Lucien?”

Lucien Vanserra appeared in the doorway with his shirt half on, hair a mess. He was barefoot and his pants were unlaced which made her nervous. 

“You’re…” he yanked his shirt wholly over his toned chest, swallowing audibly. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? Where were you?”

“What are you talking about?” she replied, drawing her legs up to her chin as he stalked into the room. With a snap of his fingers both the fireplace and the faelights overhead ignited, illuminating the dark room. 

“You’ve been missing for two months,” he told her, his voice lethally soft. Lucien was angry. 

She shook her head back and forth. “No, that’s not…that’s not true—”

“Where were you, Elain?”

“Nowhere!” she exclaimed, holding up a hand to keep him from coming any closer. “I haven’t—you’re lying.”

“You sound just like your sister,” he hissed, half turning for the hall where Tamlin stood, watching the pair warily. 

“Take me back.”

“No.”

That came from Tamlin, who’d entered the room quietly. “She stays here for now. No word to anyone until we know where she was and what she was doing. After everything Rhys did…I want to know exactly where she was.”

“I wasn’t anywhere!” Elain repeated, but Lucien and Tamlin weren’t listening. They were facing off with one another, some strange tension hanging in the air.

“I don’t work here anymore,” Lucien said in a whisper soft voice.

“Then leave,” Tamlin replied, stalking toward Lucien. They were matched for height, for strength, though Elain suspected Tamlin still had the upper hand given the power he commanded.

She’d never quite figured out how magic worked in Prythian, though to be fair, she’d never really tried, either. 

“Run off, and tell Rhysand what we have…and let him know I’m not sending her back. She’s a threat, and for all I know, she’s his spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Elain chimed in, though it didn’t matter. Neither one of them acknowledged anything she’d said, too busy with whatever argument was clearly about to erupt. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Just ask me to stay,” Lucien snarled.

Tamlin wasn’t going to. Even Elain, who barely knew him at all, could see that pride, or stubbornness, or some other emotion entirely, would prevent him from asking what Lucien wanted to hear. Lucien’s gaze flicked back toward Elain, though all she could see were the brutal scars and the mechanical eye, visible from his profile. 

“You know where my allegiance lies,” Lucien murmured, unclenching his fists. Elain didn’t know, though she assumed it was not to Rhysand. 

“Then she remains here until we learn what she was doing out in the forest and where she’s been. I doubt it's a coincidence she just so happens to show up here after I closed my borders.”

They both glanced back at her with matching expressions of distrust. 

“They’ll realize she’s here after a time,” Lucien said slowly. “Rhys’s network of spies are endless.”

“Then we close the estate to everyone but the three of us. Ward it so no one comes in or out—”

“Ward it with blood?” Lucien breathed, his brown skin paling ever so slightly. 

“Mine and yours,” Tamlin said, his jaw set. “She doesn’t leave this manor until I know what Rhys was doing with her. This reeks of one of his games. You scent it, too.”

Lucien and Tamlin both looked at her again. “She smells like magic.”

“I have magic,” Elain snapped, frustrated with the pair of them. “And you can’t hold me here.”

“Watch me.”

“Not forever,” she breathed, noting how they both took a healthy step backward. “No wards can hold me.”

Tamlin blew out a sigh. “They will for now. Go,” he added, sending Lucien into the hall. Elain considered who she felt safer around—neither, truthfully, but she thought she’d prefer if Lucien remained in the room with her. Lucien, too, hesitated for a moment before doing as he was told. 

“Traitor,” she whispered at his retreating back. He stiffened, but swept out of the room just as he was told to do. 

“The only traitor is you,” Tamlin voiced, the words empty of ire or malice. He didn’t give her an opportunity to respond, leaving just behind Lucien so she was alone in that room. Alone in the Spring Court, which Feyre sometimes likened to the Court of Nightmares. This is where it had all begun, truly. Had Feyre not killed that wolf, had there never been a curse swirling around her youngest sister, Elain would still be human. A familiar anger rose through her, heating her blood until she felt the urge to scream.

She didn’t, though. 

Elain merely stood, looking about the dusty room. The cell was different, though the manner of prison remained the same. Feyre and Rhys offered the illusion of independence though she’d often caught Azriel trailing her in the markets—reporting back, if she knew him. 

And she didn’t. 

At least Tamlin was up front. He wasn’t allowing her to leave until he understood where she’d been and what she was doing. What, then, she wondered? When she herself didn’t know what she’d been doing. She knew one thing, though—she wasn’t spying on behalf of Rhys or Feyre. She’d offered to help scry only once, and after a little pushing, had been told she’d been voted against.

Lucien appeared in the doorway again, pulling his long, thick hair up off his face. “It’s the kind of thing he’d do, you know.”

“Lock up a woman?” Elain snapped.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Erase your memories, Elain. Though…I think he’d do that, too.”

Ah. She’d assumed he was speaking of Tamlin. “You don’t know Rhys very well.”

Lucien’s temper seemed to flare, causing his cheeks to darken. “I know him better than you ever could. Sending you on some absurd mission only to erase your memories is the exact kind of thing he’d pull. He wouldn’t even be sorry, he’d just say it was for some greater purpose.”

“Let me go,” she ordered, well aware he wasn’t going to. 

Lucien shook his head. “Tamlin is right on this account.”

“Even if I knew where I’d been, I’d never tell you,” she whispered, hatred crawling up her throat. Elain felt like luggage, dragged around without any say in where she went, and forced to be wherever she was placed. She didn’t want to be in the Spring Court, but…she didn’t want to be in Night Court, either.

The realization was a revelation. Getting out of Night Court was next to impossible because Elain was always being watched by someone. If not Azriel, the twins who moved from room to room with her, or her sisters, or Rhys or his friends, or—

But here she was alone. Only Tamlin and Lucien for company, and they were already fighting. They’d barred the manor from anyone leaving or entering that wasn’t them, had used their blood to key the lock. Elain, though, knew there was always a way out of magic. She could see it in her dreams, with her eyes closed, could visualize all the threads of Tamlin’s wards. 

And perhaps, if she was patient and unassuming, she could simply pluck one of those threads, slip in between the warding chains, and make her way into another court. Another continent, even. Somewhere she could live a life of her own making and not one ruled by more powerful men. 

Lucien was watching her, the silence between them stretched thin. Both eyes of russet and metal were narrowed and she wondered if he, too, couldn’t hear her thoughts. 

“Get some rest, Elain,” he told her, before adding he was just two doors down the hall. Elain waited for him to sweep out before she jumped off the bed, her own temper besting her as she slammed the door. That wouldn’t do. She needed to let them see what they wanted to see—soft, sweet, unassuming. No one to concern themselves with. Practically a child, too stupid and helpless to do anything for herself.

Gripping the handle, Elain forced herself to breathe. She’d felt like this before, had felt the rage building too often as of late. Darkness blurred the edge of her vision, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose herself in the world in between the one she currently stood in and what lay beyond. 

Deep breaths.

She was in control.

—

Lucien had always been a practiced liar. 

That didn’t make walking into Feyre and Rhysand’s home, armed with multiple lies, feel any better. He had to remind himself to breathe normally, to keep the stench of fear off him. Tamlin had shifted into the beast beside him which should cover anything related to Elain, though he’d also refused to see her that morning and scrubbed his skin raw.

It wasn’t like he’d been fucking her, anyway. Whatever traces of her could be easily explained by the items of hers he did have. Lucien was supposed to be tracking her, an impossible task when Rhys had so much of his territory marked off limits to anyone but his innermost circle.

That didn’t include Lucien. 

Rhys was at his desk, Feyre in a chair facing the fireplace. Thankfully the spy master was nowhere to be seen, meaning fewer eyes to witness the lies about to come out of his mouth.

It would be the last time Lucien came into this home and he knew it. Rhys and Feyre didn’t seem to, given the warmth in which they looked at him. They’d know, soon enough. Lucien could by himself time, but inevitably someone would spread word that would reach Rhys’ network of spies.

Tamlin wasn’t prepared to handle the wrath of Rhys. Lucien would have to make him ready. Or they’d hand over Elain—either way, Lucien knew he was never going to get the life he wanted. There was peace in the realization. Life would go back to how it had been before Feyre dropped into his life.

“How is Spring?” Rhys began, just as he always did.

Lucien launched into his report, handing the paper to Feyre who merely scanned it over. This was all perfunctory. 

“He’s closed the borders to Spring,” Lucien added casually, hoping Rhys, who was back to scanning his own paperwork, wouldn’t care. That was too much to hope for. Violet eyes snapped to Lucien’s face, searching his expression. Lucien knew better, now—his walls were well fortified. If they wanted to break into his mind, they’d have to use force to do it.

“Why?”

“He’s tired of Azriel circling over his home,” Lucien replied dryly. “Isn’t he supposed to be stealthy?”

Rhys didn’t respond to that, though Feyre’s brow furrowed. “Is he allowing you back?”

“Tentatively,” Lucien lied. Better to keep up the ruse as best he could. “I’ve been searching the grounds, but no one has seen your sister. Tamlin doesn’t have her.”

Feyre sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand where she went.”

“Are you sure she even left Night?” Lucien questioned like the liar he was. “Maybe she ran off with someone.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”

A knot formed in his stomach, a memory slamming into him with such ferocity it stole his breath. Solstice, a near kiss, and an argument had loud enough Lucien had heard it echoing upward through the vents. “You know.”

“He wouldn’t.” Rhys said it so flatly, inviting no follow-up conversation. Ferye’s eyes were wide, her curiosity palpable. So Rhys hadn’t told her? Lucien guessed he wasn’t the only liar in the Night Court. 

“Did you question him like you questioned me?”

They both knew Rhys hadn’t. Cassian and Azriel were excluded from the prying Lucien had willingly subjected himself to. While Nesta was out combing the streets of Velaris and begging Helion and Thesan to help her, Rhys was still spying on Tamlin. 

Rhys didn’t respond to Lucien’s challenge, though his fingers curled tightly around the arm of his chair in a mockery of what he’d like to do to Lucien’s throat. The feeling was mutual. Lucien stood, delighted he could storm out with the air of a wounded male. Turning Rhys’s attention inward would only last so long—but there was doubt there. Just enough to make Rhys question his own friends.

Oh, what a gift. If he and Tamlin were getting along better, Lucien would have brought Tamlin the news alongside a bottle of wine. 

“Let me know if she was with him. I’ll send them a gift.”

“Lucien,” Feyre called, but he’d made his dramatic exit and wasn’t going to stop so Feyre could try and convince him to see reason. Feyre should have been his friend—she’d been his, at the expense of every other relationship in his life. How had she repaid him? Lucien knew if Azriel had hidden Elain, Feyre wouldn’t tell him the truth. She’d lie, she’d cover, she’d let him continue searching beneath every stone, every fresh mound of dirt, trying to find her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for any of it.

That was what stung the most. She’d always pick Rhysand over everyone, even the people who’d loved her when no one else had. It wasn’t personal, he decided as he stepped into the crisp autumn air. He simply had to look out for himself for once. 

Feyre caught him just at the edge of the ward, finger’s curling around his wrist. Lucien didn’t jerk back, though he didn’t immediately stop what he was doing, either. He took another step so she was still within it, he without. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. 

“Azriel wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Lucien replied flatly. “Whatever they had going on, your mate knew and concealed it from everyone. If he doesn’t want to look at his friends, fine. I’m done being interrogated, though.”

Rhys must have told her everything, was likely listening to the conversation in Feyre’s mind. He’d never have a moments peace when it came to Rhys, the nosy fuck. 

“He would have told us.”

“And you would have told me?” Lucien questioned. 

Feyre shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Right. No one in Prythian has seen Elain in two months, and every court has been thoroughly searched—”

“Except Autumn,” Feyre told him. “Beron won’t…he wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Beron jealously guarded the borders of his home and hated Rhysand. He wasn’t about to let a foreign court's troops into his territory. Even Helion had bristled, vocalizing that it felt more like a mapping of territory than a search for a missing woman. After all, they’d all agreed to use their own manpower to search for her, which hadn’t been good enough. It had to be Cassian’s warriors or Azriel’s spies—no one else could be trusted. 

“Ask Eris.”

“We did—he’s a liar, though.”

“So is your mate,” Lucien snapped, frustrated with the same circular conversation. “What do you even know about any of this, Feyre?”

Her eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Lucien shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. He was so, so angry. “From where I’m standing, it looks to me as if he doesn’t tell you much. Lies of omission are still lies, you know.”

“I don’t think you get to tell me about my relationships,” she bit out. Cruel, but fair. 

“Maybe not. But I’ve done my part in this, and I’m tired of being viewed with hostility and suspicion. I’m not returning for the time being—Tamlin needs help strengthening Spring, and frankly, it would be nice to be around people who enjoy my company.” Elain notwithstanding.

“Lucien—”

There was a warning to her voice, likely echoing whatever threats Rhys was making in her mind. Feyre, ever the good little mouthpiece. She’d say it all softer, sweeter, but she’d say it all the same. 

“I know. If I leave, I’ll never see Elain again. So your mate has all but said—but she’s gone, and I don’t think she wants to be found. That’s her choice, and this is mine.”

And then he winnowed off, needing both to have the last word and to get away from them before he dug his own grave. Lucien’s feet slammed against springy, fresh grass and the unchanging season before him. It was sunny, the bird chirping merrily as a lilac scented breeze wafted his hair. Gods above, he shouldn’t have said any of that. Regret slammed against him hard as he plodded back to the manor, replaying the conversation with Feyre and Rhys over and over. Why had he said any of that? He should have kept it cool, should have shut his mouth.

Who cared about his feelings? He’d made a mild enemy of Feyre when he’d meant to slip out unnoticed entirely. 

Though, it did amuse him to think of Rhys going through Azriel’s life. Had Lucien planted enough doubt? Just enough to cause a small rift among the inner circle? Probably not—Azriel would allow it, Rhys would endure, and their gazes would turn toward the south once more.

Still, a little time was better than nothing. As Lucien stepped through the shimmering ward, his blood reacting the key that allowed him in, he figured he had just enough time to figure out what Elain had been doing before he dropped her back off at Rhys’s doorstep.

Whether her disappearance was yet another lie from the High Lord of Night. 

Lucien plodded up the stairs, pulled by the knowledge she was there, hostage and still close enough he could see her, if he wanted. And he did—he’d been dreaming about her the night before. He’d be thinking about her until the day he died, which, if he was lucky, would be mercifully short. 

She wasn’t in her room. Lucien followed the thread between them, winding down the empty, ruined corridors of the once splendid manor. It was as if he could see the damage through her eyes and all of it spoke to Tamlin’s temper, his rage, his refusal to let Feyre go. Lucien sighed as he stepped into the music room. Elain was seated on the bench, her fingers hovering over the keys.

“Do you play?” he asked, reclining against the door frame. Her back was to him, long, thick curls half pinned by a pretty, white bow he distinctly remembered being given to her sister among all the finery Feyre had once had, here. Not that she’d ever worn any of it. It was pretty in Elain’s hair. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t move, either—Lucien expected her to tense up, to betray she’d heard his voice. Strange, he thought, pushing off the frame to walk to her. “Elain?” He reached the piano, overlooking the ruined gardens just outside. Dust covered the keys and the chaise nearby, though it did little to stop her from coming in. He was hit with a visceral memory of he and Feyre, embarrassingly drunk while he played at the keys and taught Feyre all the filthy lyrics to songs he’d once found impossibly amusing. 

“Elain?”

Lucien dropped to one knee at her side, head cocked. Elain was staring at a sheaf of paper without moving save for her eyes, which seemed to be reading the notes on the page at impossible speed.

Lucien touched her knee, hoping it would bring her back. She turned so suddenly he would have fallen backward had he not been stabilized on his knee. It wasn’t her, he realized, but her magic staring out at him through a blue gray film akin to the fog that had once poured from the cauldron. 

Elain opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that emerged. 

Blooming rot and ruined sun

Brought forth with magic to a golden land

Wind and flame see the night undone

Brings new life into a barren land. 

She slumped forward, saved from crashing to the floor by Lucien’s quick reflexes.

“Elain?” he asked, genuinely afraid of her for the first time since he’d met her. What did it mean?

“Why are you touching me?” she asked, pulling away. She sat on the floor while Lucien crouched over her, unsure what  to do.

“What you said…the prophecy…Elain, what does it mean?”

She blinked those wide, doe-like eyes up at him.

“What prophecy, Lucien?”

[aleielle-of-roshar]

Made Myself a December WOF OC Design Prompt Thing for Practice, if Anyone Wants to Join in I’d Love to See Your Designs!

(Probably just doing headshots + small oc blurbs myself lol- I don’t have ocs that fit these yet, they’re just random things I thought might be interesting lol- prompts can be done in writing, art, or both!)

This icewing was born without cold resistance

This dragon is an exiled royal

This skywing fights in one of the many arenas

This dragon is stuck on a island far from the continents

This mudwing was the sole survivor of their clutch, and therefore born without sibs

This dragon oddly has a power not associated with their tribe

This dragon is a hybrid of your favourite and least favourite tribes!

This dragon is an animus- but their spells are wildly unpredictable

This sandwing has an unusual connection to one of the tribe’s many gangs

This dragon can see ghosts

This silkwing never went through metamorphosis

This dragon is heralded a hero- but secretly caused the crisis in the first place

This dragon is literally just a villain lol

This dragon, for better or worse, cannot feel pain

This dragon is wanted for a crime they didn’t commit

This dragonet’s best friend is a sentient animus enchanted object

This rainwing was raised in the poison jungle

These two dragons are on opposite sides of a war- yet after countless battles they’ve begun to fall in love…

These two dragons have been forced to work together- despite despising each other

This dragon is trying to find a way to escape a prophecy

This leafwing was raised in the rainwing jungle

This dragon is part of a travelling troupe

This dragon is plotting revenge on someone who believes they’re dead

This nightwing was born under a strange celestial event

This dragon was animus cursed as an egg

This seawing’s glow scales are non functional

This animus created themself a dragonet

This dragon is an allbrid

This dragon holds a secret deep to their heart, that may very well destroy a whole kingdom

This hivewing can actually control those they sting

This dragon was forced onto the throne unexpectedly

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 11: Through the Mating Bond

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: While Morrigan manages to distract Nyra from her distress, Azriel's desires and insecurities clash. And dinner has yet to be served.

Warnings: Brief mentions of sexual activity and Azriel's traumatic past.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Azriel's POV

Azriel sighed in relief when the Archeron twins walked in for dinner. Both of them were wearing dark blue gowns. The gold in her hair gleamed under the warm light. And with all the strength of the warrior he had honed himself to become, he restrained his gaze from moving all over her body no matter how exquisite she was. He decided her eyes were a good place to settle his gaze but he took in all of her face.

The faelights draped over her like a transparent curtain. Her eyes—those lovely blues had been draped by a golden hue. The edges of her irises darkened and like the quiet sea at sunset, they waited for the moon to eventually rise and command the tides. The mole on the right side of her face right where her cheekbone was. Lips glossed lightly and he looked again into those eyes, wishing they would look at him.

Azriel felt her confusion through the bond. He tightened the grip on his glass, knowing how much he wanted to go over there and embrace her. To see the seas in her eyes and tell her that it was going to be fine. But the shadows were already reprimanding him. She is confused. Pained.

This was wrong. He’d only wanted to meet his mate because Maia had died too young. Azriel remembered the girl who’d been born as Rhysand’s sister. After the Lady of the Night Court had given birth to her daughter, it was Azriel who had first held her. The High Lord of Night had been disappointed at the birth of a female–a feeling that evolved to awkwardness and indifference as the girl grew up. 

With Morrigan to groom her into a lady befitting of her lineage, Cassian to become more of an older brother than Rhys since the latter had unknowingly become a father to his sister in the absence of the High Lord, and Azriel as her guardian from the shadows, Maia grew. And yet, her life had ended brutally, just two months shy of seventeen. 

Nyra was that girl. But she was not. Maia was a child. Nyra was an adult. And he knew that despite sharing the same soul, Maia and Nyra were completely different people. One was a girl he’d watched over as a good friend. The other was a… Cauldron fuck him, how should he even think about this female? She was glowing and healthy and beautiful and so fucking endearing as she looked at him when he’d mentioned chocolate cake. 

Wasn’t it wrong to be attracted to her? 

He’d waited for her only to give her the life she deserved to live as Maia. There were no romantic intentions even though he’d been thoroughly uninterested in pursuing females for the past five hundred years for love. For so long, he’d thought about Maia and how he’d take her reincarnated person to see the world and eat different cuisines, and meet different people and learn so many new things.

He had accepted that Maia would be reborn with a different face, would belong to a different race, could even be a male and whatever affections he’d had for her as a good friend would continue. He imagined a faceless figure whenever he thought about Maia’s new form and now that there was a face to fill that blank space, his thoughts had begun spiralling. 

Azriel wanted to give her freedom and resources to utilise that freedom and he’d collected so much. So much money and books. He’d made a list of all the places to visit and planned out so much so that Maia wouldn’t miss anything. And he’d imagined that her happiness would make him content and he’d watch from the sidelines. But now, he wanted to be a participant. He wanted to make her happy and provide for her. And this female, so lost and confused—he wanted to be reliable for her. 

And none of his shadows were in favour of his original plan to simply be friends with whoever Maia would reincarnate as and watch them be happy. They wanted him to be involved, wanted him to court Nyra, tell her how indescribably beautiful she was and to tell her about the mating bond. They wanted him to be hers. And gods help him because his thoughts and desires were starting to take that route. 

Azriel knew that despite his hesitations, he would succumb. He would want to be hers truly because this was Nyra. And from all that he knew about Nyra Archeron, there would never be anyone who wouldn’t want to be hers unless they were fools. To be her sister, her friend, her brother, her daughter, her son, her mother, her father—to have any sort of connection to her was a blessing. And he knew that it was only a matter of days before he would, without hesitation, want to be her mate in the truest sense of the word. To be her partner, her husband, her companion, her lover. To be able to touch her and kiss her and hold her. To make love to her. 

And fuck him but she looked so extraordinarily adorable despite her distress. Through the bond, he felt her annoyance at the doubts that seemed to pop up constantly but were never clarified. Her eyes scanned everything and everyone. And the shadows swarmed over to her, stopping a few feet away, waiting for her permission. She watched them and Azriel felt her as she recognised them. The storm within her calmed a little as the shadows wrapped themselves around her extended hand and the rest of them settled down on her skirts.

Azriel heard her breathing and her heart rate return to normal. She continued to look at the shadows as they snaked around her fingers and palm and wrist. Her features softened and then she looked up and found him. His breath hitched as she tilted her head to the side and Azriel felt a small smile make its way on his face. Through the string, he felt her surprise and watched her nod to him. He raised his glass to take a sip.

It surprised him, how much he could feel through the bond. Nyra felt so much with such depth to the point where he'd suspected that she would dissect her feelings into parts and peer into them just to ensure that there was no confusion. However that clarity seemed to be absent as she looked at Feyre with a lack of recognition and consequently, a growing sense of guilt. It was a seed and it was starting to germinate. 

The shadowsinger stood straight as he watched the Morrigan waltz over to the twins, knowing how meddlesome the female could be. "Where did those come from?" Mor's voice brought out her surprise and awe as she began closely inspecting the gowns and their fabric. "I want one too."

The shadowsinger felt his mate’s confusion and guilt be destroyed before it could sprout. Nyra's examining eyes were now trained on Mor as the blonde female took the fabric of her skirt and examined it. Mor thoroughly inspected the dress and the design and was even more impressed. Midnight blue silk with gently flowing skirts and a bodice that subtly brought their figures to notice. While Nesta opted for one with a collar neckline, Nyra's gown had a square neckline which revealed all the skin he suddenly wanted to claim with his mouth.

The mere idea of touching her brought with it the onslaught of memories. And all of a sudden, Azriel was a boy, weeping as his hands were burned, howling for his mother. It had rained that day in response. He remembered the voice he had heard from that day onwards. What it said. How he felt after hearing it. The voice had disappeared after he'd been thrown into Windhaven and the only proof of it was etched on his back, cleverly concealed by his shadows. But the way his hands hurt for weeks came back to him. The memory of pain began to take over and Azriel immediately set his glass aside and moved his hands behind him. He clenched it again and again.

Those days are gone. And now, she's here. Mate. Mistress. Ours. The shadows whispered more and more about how the bad days were gone and how Nyra was the beginning of something good. But now, he was transported back to when he had killed someone for the first time. Some irrelevant person who'd called his mother a whore for birthing a bastard like him. He'd travelled through the shadows for the first time and killed the foulmouthed asshole within the next five seconds. Azriel was twelve. The faces of all other people and many faceless people from the distant past he'd killed and tortured and killed flashed by. And the blood in his hands was a constant.

Scarred hands, bloodied and wielding the Truth Teller and other weapons. This was who he was. And Azriel dared to glance at Nyra's hands. Slender and so much smaller than his own. 

Untainted. 

Unlike his own. 

He had no right to be her mate. Azriel did not know the exact moment he had placed her on a pedestal. She sat above everything and he was beneath it all, not even worthy to be a stone that would lie in her path. To think of touching her was blasphemous, the act itself a sacrilege. It should never happen. It could never happen, no matter how violently he’d started to desire it.

But even when he’d begun to label the act of touching Nyra as something forbidden, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

"It's a good thing we're not the same size or else I might be tempted to steal your dresses." Mor smiled coyly. Pretending had to take a pause. He looked in their direction to see Mor's smirk aimed at him. And Azriel looked away as all the decency of thoughts that he had somehow managed to bring about evaporated without a second's notice. Feyre. Looking here. No. He had to stop thinking about touching her. Someone as undeserving as him could never have any right to even request such a thing.

"Likely right off them." Cassian's remark was an unhelpful one. Mor's smirk widened, bordering on mischief and desire. And no matter how much Azriel tried to distract himself from looking at Nyra, even thinking of her, the bond did not let him. And neither did the shadows. He felt her confusion take a back seat as Mor's contagious smile began affecting her. She was remembering the time when she had teased Azriel and Cassian about fucking in the forests outside the Archeron estate. An adventurous tumble, she called it. And then there was Cassian, going along with it and extending an invitation to join them.

Azriel felt like his salivary glands were working too well at that moment. The thought of Nyra between him and Cassian, all of them nude, brought about another moment of desire before he felt someone pinch his neck.

"Control yourself. You're not an adolescent." Cassian whispered to him. "You can get through dinner, right?"

Azriel had to truly contemplate that. The female had been here for not more than twenty minutes and he had already felt so much. Admiration for her beauty, concern for her distress, amusement at how endearing she was, a trip down the lane of traumatic memories, arousal. And all of it was his own feelings. He could also feel her through the bond and that was an entirely different category.

"I hope so." Azriel stole another glance at the sisters. Nesta looked rather unimpressed by what Mor said and Nyra was looking at Feyre who was smiling at her older sister. And he felt her helplessness at not being able to smile back.

Nyra's confusion was a wound that seemed to be getting infected. Azriel realised that she seemed to no longer recognise the person Feyre had turned into and that was hurting her. The guilt of not being able to identify this woman as the girl she raised in the neglect of their mother.

The way Nyra seemed to feel like Feyre was no longer her sister or even an Archeron was all too palpable for him. Did she feel like the Inner Circle had stolen Feyre from the Archeron family? Azriel did not know and Nyra looked at Mor again, trying to forget what she had just felt. All while the youngest Archeron smiled oblivious to her sister's inner turmoil. What was that bit about her mother? Azriel was curious and he stored that information away for future references.

"Fortunately for you, I don't return the sentiment." Nesta did not bother looking at Morrigan for the fear of her power and claimed a seat. Azriel coughed. His own surprise slammed into him as Mor took Nyra's hands in her own, the shadows on his mate's hand retreating just enough to avoid any contact with Mor's skin.

Azriel focused on their mating bond, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Once he had decreed himself to have calmed down significantly, he tried to remember what it was when he met Nyra for the first time. The state of his mind when he met the woman who had rushed to greet her youngest sister after so long. The conversations. A female like no other. Truly incomparable. And the peace he felt, he pushed towards the bond. He saw her shoulders relax and how she had begun calming down.

Nyra looked at Mor who smiled brightly at her. "Do you? Return the sentiment, I mean."

"May I take off your dress?" Nyra looked at her, eyebrows raised. Azriel stopped himself from taking a sip of his whiskey lest he spit it out or choke on it.

To take off that dress. Removing the straps resting on her shoulder. Unzipping it from the back to reveal more skin. Warm and golden under the faelights. To move behind her. Kiss her ear, her neck. Removing those silver combs that let her curls remain in a bun and to watch them drop down. Gather her hair in his hand to push them to her front. To let his mouth descend and taste her back. Pulling that dress down as he got on his knees behind her.

Talons knocked at the doors of Azriel's mental fortress, pulling him out of his fantasy. Control your scent, brother. Rhysand's voice came as a warning. He had to control his scent, desires and his aroused state. This was not the time or place for his mind to go wild and start fantasising about... Moving on.

"Why would you want to do that?" Nyra asked, genuinely brightening up due to the mischief Mor had started cooking. Azriel felt like he had sinned with his filthy fantasies about this adorable darling of a female who was his mate. Why was she so... everything? He picked up his glass of whiskey and drank a good amount of it.

"Your dress is beautiful." Mor trailed a finger from Nyra's temple and pushed a strand behind her ear. Nyra controlled her shivers but the shadows told him how sensitive she felt her ears were. He really wanted to test that. With a lick to her earlobe before he took it between his teeth for a soft nibble. No, he could never touch her. "And so are you."

At this point, Azriel remembered how the conversation between the brothers and the Bone Carver was supposed to be a secret. The three Illyrians had bargained over that and three stars were subsequently tattooed on their bodies as evidence. No one would know until the three of them decided unanimously to tell them. And that was how Feyre came to know. Amren suspected something but did not pry.

Mor did not know anything at all. Nothing about the possibility that the female standing in front of her was once her cousin. Very distant cousin but that was beside the point. And Azriel, who knew it, felt the bile rise at the back of his throat at the potentially incestuous interaction taking place... No. It was important to remember that this female was Nyra and not Maia. Even though they shared the same soul, the person was different.

"I will ask you if I require assistance in removing this. Will that be fine?" Nyra did not really consider what reaction her reply would evoke but the surprise in Morrigan's face was rather amusing. Mor's brown eyes widened and she swallowed. It was fun, Nyra decided. Azriel could not help his smile but he did hide it behind his glass of whiskey. And just when he thought he could finally have a moment of peace, Nyra spoke. "Your reaction is rather interesting. What is going on inside that pretty head of yours?"

Mor blinked, not expecting such a response. In fact, none of them had. It was the sort of thing they'd either heard or spoken while flirting with females and males. Oh fuck, she was starting to get into this. Azriel watched them, wondering whether he should be jealous of Mor. The red of the Truth Speaker's dress and wine seemed to seep into her cheeks. "What?" That was the only intelligent reply the blonde female managed.

"What?" Nyra repeated and looked at the blonde female with raised eyebrows and a mischievous look. She then released her hands from hers, took a step back, turned towards the seat with a gentle twirl of her skirts, pulled the chair next to her twin's back. She moved to sit down and adjust the chair according to her. Azriel felt the delight coursing through Nyra. Thank gods, all her distress seemed to vanish for the night.

Azriel did not understand how this female who had panicked like she had witnessed the end of the world was now standing and making such light hearted conversation. It was a strength, he recognised. Something he'd seen in every member of his unconventional family from time to time. To be confronted with the worst and then having to pretend as though nothing had happened. And Nyra was having fun teasing Mor.

A faint blush covered the blonde female's cheeks at the implication of Nyra's words. And for the first time, she saw Nyra for the striking beauty she was. Mor's gaze travelled from Nyra's face to her neck and so did Azriel's. Under the golden lights that brought out the colour of the Archeron sisters' hair, Nyra's hair glowed faintly on one side of her neck while the other side remained exposed. Cassian pinched Azriel's ear and that brought him out of his trance. The shadowsinger glared at his brother only for them to look towards the dining table when Nesta cleared her throat rather loudly.

"Well... I..." Mor fumbled, clearly not used to being the one to blush during flirtations.

"That's what I thought." Nyra raised an eyebrow. The teasing look was a new one for all of them. The shadows twirling around her fingers and palms cried out in joy, dancing at Nyra's good mood. Mor grinned broadly and shot him a cheeky wink before claiming her seat opposite Nyra. Cassian let out a snort and Azriel jabbed him with his elbow at the ribs before moving to claim his seat at the dining table.

The shadowsinger sat next to Mor, not opposite to Nyra but not too far away that he couldn't see her properly. From this angle, he could see if she was eating properly and if she got a chance to taste every dish. And if she liked any, he could keep a note and ensure she got more servings. Cassian had left momentarily to raid the wine collection and returned with a few bottles cuddled to his chest. Wine, Azriel would consume as easily as breathing. At this point, he'd need something stronger than whiskey even.

****

TAGLIST:

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @impossibelle @esposadomd @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @judig92 @bunnyredgirl @sh4nn @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kattzillaa @ronnieglennn @wallacewillow0773638 @forgiveliv @justdreamstars @donttellthecats @cat-or-kitten @jojodojo02 @wandas-dream @evylynny @weasleyreidstyles @stqrgirlies-blog @why4anne @acourtofdreamsandshadows @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @macimads @footyandformula @noelli-smv @mqlfoyelf @thehighlordishere @slytherintaco @spideytingley @deeshag @footyandformula @nebarious @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @prettylittlewrites @lilah-asteria @5onedirection5 @hanitastic @sevikas-whore @krowiathemythologynerd

[nthrbrck]

I'm still thinking about your team best warrior cats au

Do you have designs for other (last) lifers as well?

Decided to design them all headshots today! Not sure on all of the names just yet and there might be some design changes I'll make as I draw more of everyone but this is what I've got so far :)

Story stuff below!

"Three clans live in harmony until a mysterious visitor brings them a prophecy from Starclan. They've been given a gift, but not without a price. Every cat in the forest has been blessed with multiple lives, but the visitor foretells this will inevitably cause their destruction.

As the land descends into a harsh and unforgiving leaf-bare cats have begun falling ill with what could only be described as bloodlust. A senseless need to kill that can only be cured by shedding blood.

The cats of the forest must work together to find out if Starclan truly is the cause of this, or if something more sinister is at work."

Might make a few comics or draw some more work with this idea! I love warrior cats I started drawing and writing because of those so they have a special place in my heart haha Feel free to send any asks about it if anyone's interested :)

[cotl-flower-crown]

How and why did Lamb fall in love with Narinder to the point that they got married and had children?

Besides, if we consider that Narinder was evil and just wanted to use her to return to the world of the living.

TLDR: Slow burn, very slow burn

Feel free to ready the wall of text I prepared below

Angel (the Lamb) ever since they met The One Who Waits, was deeply devoted to him, so when it was revealed that he had plans to sacrifice them, they were devastated. It took them a long time to approach the Gateway, hesitant to fulfill their purpose, but when they thought they were at peace with their fate, Angel finally met him there.

Their plan was to negotiate. Perhaps if Angel pleaded with him enough, they would spare him, but they could tell from the moment he opened his mouth that he was not open for negotiation. But Angel tried anyway. They tried convincing him that perhaps there is another way to free him and if there is one they would be happy to do so. But what The One Who Waits saw was weakness, he saw fear in his vessel's eyes as they looked at him and questioned their faith in him. Were they not as devoted as they claimed to be? No, they doubt his judgement. Him! The One Who Waits Himself! Their God! Such blasthemy could not stand! He called The Lamb out for their cowardice and shamed them for their lack of faith. He demanded for the final time that they kneel to him, so the prophecy could be fulfilled.

But Angel could not do what their God has demanded. Even their deviotion had its limits. Through out the whole journey to free him, Angel was encouraged to learn to stand up for themselves, even by him. And now he's demanding that they ignore all their teachings and bow to him. It all felt so wrong. If they are gone, what will become of her followers, what will become of the scraps of Sheep folk's culture that they hold in their heart? It will all be gone, THEY will be gone.

They could not stand for that. With tears streaming on their cheeks, they drew an axe and pointed it in his direction. "I cannot leave yet" they whimpered through their tears. And so the battle begun.

As it ended, Lamb had no idea that The One Who Waits would survive this battle and yet, there he was, laying in front of them. A stature not taller then theirs, not even able to hold himself on his legs. But he was alive. Their prayers and hopes were heard. A wave of relief washed over Angel's body, and while they still felt betrayed by their ex-God, they didn't have it in them to finish him off. So despite his protests, they brought him to their cult. They would decide on his fate later.

When brought to Lamb's cult, Narinder felt many emotions. Anger, disappointment, fear even. Mostly anger though. He was angry that his vessel betrayed him, that he's stuck in the cult now and stuck in this weak, needy body that cannot even stand on its own. Lamb would help him get back on his feet and he hated that the most. How long would it take for the Lamb to change their mind and finish off what they started? In the best case scenario, he will be killed, free from this mortal body, but in the worst scenario, they will imprison him again. He could not read their mind anymore, he couldn't even read their face, shrouded with unreadable cold disapproval. It was both unsettling and annoying.

For many months Narinder was dependant on Lamb's help to recover his ability to walk. They would help him stretch, accompany on his walks in case he falls over from his croutches, they were his personal assistant in a way, which without a doubt Narinder liked to abuse. But eventually he would learn to stop it, as such behavior was not acceptable among Lamb's followers. They did not take kindly to him making their leader cry and Narinder will forever remember the day those people locked him in prison and threw rotten food and excrements at him. He also remembers well the night when Lamb came to him to clean off the waste off of his head and let him out of the stocks. He knows that they enjoyed watching him being served with justice a little, they told him as much, but he couldn't help, but help feel relieved by their mercy. It's not something that he would do, that's for sure. Supposedly, it was a good reminder that even if Lamb is not keen on punishing him, they have no issues letting the others do the dirty work.

Angel's grief passed soon enough, seeing Narinder's legs getting better. Witnessing him be able to stand and walk on his own, run even, was the most joyous they have felt for a long time. Still he wasn't exactly in the best shape, so the regular walks were still mandatory. Lamb didn't have to accompany him anymore, but they still did to Narinder's distaste. They would not usually speak much, but when Lamb warmed up to him a little, they begun to try and start a conversation. Though Narinder would usually turn those attempts down and challenge Lamb's attitude, one day he insulted how the cult looks, and when asked what's wrong with it, he couldn't point out specifics and stammered that there's not enough red candles. Lamb took it upon themselves to fix that issue, partially out of spite. Begrudgingly he allowed Lamb to take that win. (Narinder's first quest)

Finally the time came when Narinder was well enough to start working. Lamb assigned him to work at the farm. As he worked around with the camelia flowers he mentions Leshy, before he gets back to work. Time passes and Lamb comes back to bring him the flowers, straight from Darkwood. He expresses how he didn't ask for them, but Lamb could see past his exterior, see that they made him a little happier.

Suspicious of Lamb's intentions Narinder challenges Lamb to go to Anura and bring him mushrooms unscaved. Angel teases him a little before the travel and brings him what he wished for. Then as they talk more, Nari sends them off to Archordeep, wishing to see their crystal walls crumbled. And when that's done, he quietly asks Lamb to bring him silk from Silk Cradle. He waited by the entrance as the Lamb came back from the crusade and handed him the silk. And they brought him tea as he at last allowed himself to process the grief.

Narinder grew attached to the Lamb as there was nobody else he would think of as a worthy company. Although he did not consider them a friend, nor anything of that matter. It was hard for him to describe what his usurper meant for him at that point, but he couldn't help but follow them if he wasn't at work or asleep. They would discuss the common topics, like the weather, the jobs, hobbies and their own health. While he didn't seem to let go of his grievances with Lamb, they noticed that he wasn't exactly angry about them either.

One day Narinder witnesses a follower's death for the XYZth time and he grows curious. He hasn't been exactly a regular attendant of Lamb's sermons and he wasn't planning to be, but he realised that he doesn't know all the rites the Lamb and their flock performs as well as he wished he did. He approaches the Lamb, admiting his apprehensions towards them as worthy of the crown, demanding in his usual fashion that they show the legacy of the new God of Death. Lamb did not plan to bring anyone back from the dead that day, but they will not turn down his challenge, if that mean that they can make him eat his words.

They did not expect a genuine praise though. It felt somewhat offputting to see Narinder laugh and sound proud talking of them. They were put off guard by it and Nari didn't blame them. He was surprised himself too, to the point that had to take a step back, but it was undeniable, he was proud to see that his vessel is continuing what he started. Perhaps they have some wits in them after all. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to attend their sermons more often.

Time passed and while Narinder grew to get used to his new home, the more he stayed there, the more trapped he felt. The cult grounds seem a lot smaller once you learn all their nook and crannies. He was itching to see more of what was left of the Lambs of the Old Faith after the millenia of imprisonment. Angel excouraged him to do so, but at the same time, they were worried for his safety. The outside world is dangerous and Narinder was no longer a powerful god. While it wouldn't be impossible to bring him back to life, Angel did not want to see him dead. They eventually figured out that giving him a company to make sure that he's alive would make them a lot calmer about the expedition. They decide that they will send their most experienced missionary with him. Meanwhile Narinder and Shepherd (one of Lamb's most loyal followers, the leading farmer and the missionary veteran) shared another petty interraction, which this time ended in a fight that Lamb needed to break off.

Later, Narinder learned that him and Shepherd would be stuck together on a mission. He was vocally not happy about it but did not fight it. A human shield is always in value.

They get through their shenanigans and end up becoming friends.

When they come back, Narinder is injured and seems like it got infected, but he insists that he's fine. He stops objecting when Shep fistbumps his arm (very much intentionally) and makes Nari speechless. Angel takes Nari to the med bay, and there Nari thanks Lamb (the end of the final quest)

So, by the time the quests are finished, Nari and Lamb are kinda like friends. Acquaintances, maybe. After that, Nari spends his time either working, sunbathing or hanging out with Shep and/or Lamb. Him and Shep turn into bros, but he doesn't really know what to think about the Lamb. They're ok in his eyes.

As the time went by from then on Nari developed a vague fondness of Angel as a companion. He's not in love or anything tho. Meanwhile Angel develops a little crush on him. They think he's cute the way he is now and they enjoy spending time with him. They don't try anything with him because they don't want to ruin their friendship, but they get jealous when someone else shows interest with him and they may contribute to his dwindling love life.

More time passes and Nari begins to develop feelings for Angel. He's very dismissive about it and denies when asked, but Lamb knows and they are very fond of him at that point and really wants to say something, but doesn't want to jump this ship only to later learn that he's not happy. They made that mistake before and they don't want to pressure him into anything so they wait for him to make a move.

Meanwhile Nari tries really hard to convince himself and everyone around that he doesn't like the Lamb, even though he gets very possessive over Lamb's attention and jealous when they speak fondly with anyone else. He also wants to kill people who just happen to have a crush on the Lamb or those critical of them. He's not sure why, but he can't help it.

Even more time passes, and it finally gets through Narinder's skull that, yes, he is in love with Angel, and it's not a hex. He realises it after him and Lamb share a dance among the crowd and after talking with Shep about it. He finally decides to start courting the Lamb, but the way he wanted to do it was to give his life to them, aka stabbing himself in front of them and Shepherd was like "NOPE, how about you try the more casual ways of courting instead?". So he tries the gifts first. Gifts that consist of bones, snake skins and dead critters. Because cat instincts. Shepherd tells him to stop and try something else. After some trial and errors Narinder decides to just stick with his original plan.

He meets Lamb at night when everyone else is asleep and Narinder begins with confessing, then he pulls out a sacrificial knife and aims it at his chest. Lamb stops him, saying that they don't want to see him dead, but Nari argues with "how am I supposed to accurately show you how strong my feelings are if I cannot give you my life" and Lamb is like "do it by being by my side, not like this" and then Nari lets go of the knife and complains that now he doesn't have any plan B and Lamb proposes for him to "court them like a mortal" by sharing a dance together. Nari complains that there is no music to dance to, but that is easily fixed by waking up one of the followers to play music for the two. They share a lovely soft slow dance that ends with them kissing.

They end up getting married soon after that. And after some time spent getting adjusted to married life, they decided to try for children for one reason or the other.

And that's that. Slow burn narilamb beloved <3

[batbabydamian]

DC November 2024 Solicitations - Comics Featuring Damian! 🦇

LITTLE BATMAN: MONTH ONE #1

11/6/24

Written by Morgan Evans

Art and Cover by Jon Mikel

Variant Cover by Patrick Ballesteros

Taking place after the events of “Merry Little Batman,” Gotham City finds itself reeling from the Joker’s attack, and Damian Wayne (a.k.a. Little Batman) is eager to get back into the fight. That’s going to be harder than it sounds, as Bruce now wants Damian to put the cowl aside and embrace the value of his secret identity. After a suspicious guest is found lurking around the Wayne New Year’s Eve Party, it’s up to Damian to find the balance between both of his personas and save the day yet again. See Little Batman in a new adventure from the film’s screenwriter, Morgan Evans, after catching the rerelease of the breakout movie in theaters this winter.

BATMAN AND ROBIN #15

11/13/24

Written by Phillip Kennedy Johnson

Art and Cover by Javier Fernandez

Variant Covers: Simone Di Meo, Ashley Wood (1:25), Aaron Bartling, and Guillem March (Creature Commandos Variant)

What should have been a run-of-the-mill charity banquet for Bruce and Damian has, quite literally, gone up in flames—and now, without access to their costumes and gadgets, father and son find themselves fighting for their lives at the hands of the mysterious specter known only as Memento. But who is this new villain who set the blaze that threatens to disintegrate the Dynamic Duo, why does it replicate an infamous, century-old tragedy from Gotham’s history, and what is Memento’s connection to the Dark Knight’s past? Nothing can prepare you for the answers to these questions, so join us and bear witness to “Memento,” part two.

DC VS. VAMPIRES: WORLD WAR V #4 of 12

11/13/24

Written by Matthew Rosenburg and Matthew Manning

Art by Otto Schmidt and Acky Bright

Cover by Otto Schmidt

Variant Covers: by Stephen Segovia and Homare

Gorilla Grodd and Aquaman have had little luck capturing the elusive Damian Wayne, but a mysterious figure arrives bearing a whispered prophecy that could turn the tide of war in their favor. Elsewhere, John Constantine might well be the human resistance’s last hope…just a shame he can’t remember what it was he was meant to be doing. Enter The Spectre to help guide his way! And in the shadows, a new Batman lurks…but what’s his connection to Bruce Wayne?

BATMAN/SANTA CLAUS: SILENT KNIGHT RETURNS #1 of 5

11/27/24

Written by Jeff Parker

Art by Lukas Ketner

Cover by Bernard Chang

Variant Covers: Dan Mora, Dan Hipp (DC Holiday Surprise Rub & Sniff variant), Kevin Wada (1:25), Erica Henderson (1:50)

Horrors haunt the Christmas season as life-drained bodies litter the countryside, each marked with a strange symbol. The Justice League responds—but it’s a trap! The heroes are pulled from our world, but not before Batman helps Robin escape. Now Damian Wayne must seek out Zatanna and the one and only Santa Claus if there’s any hope of saving their friends and family. Santa comes to the aid of the DCU heroes in the crossover-event sequel you wished for! And you must have been extra good because a wintry mix of DC’s wildest characters arrive this time to face a powerful foe… the Silent Knight!

*Clayton Henry Main Cover appearance

ACTION COMICS #1077

11/27/24

Written by Mark Waid and Mariko Tamaki

Art by Clayton Henry, Michael Shelfer, and Meghan Hetrick

Death to the Phantom Zone! Superman and Mon-El are reunited at last, but are our heroes too late to stop the impossible threat of Aethyr?! The mad wizard has breached the realm and begun decimating planet Earth…the Super-Family and the Justice League are holding on as best they can, but this sounds like a job for Superman! Plus, can Kara put her feelings aside and carry out the mission Superman gave her?