AnonyMousey @anonymouseyswall - Tumblr Blog

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ripdrhomo

wasn’t sure on who to choose for today..

helga-grinduil

screencap redraw

nyash-nyash

стадик со скрина

эван, я набью татуировку на лбу............

cpt-bulletferbrains

Some evan studies

mintchipmalt

More Habit

Idk guys

tsp-k

stupid Evan from magma

antrop0fagia

shitty aaa sketchbook scan but omggg habit hiiii

heartz4himiko

waitimcomingtoo

Brand New, Full Throttle

Pairing: Peter Parker x athelete!reader

Synopsis: Peter can’t stop going to your basketball games, despite a rumor going around about you

Masterlist

“This is the last time you get to pick the group hang activity.”

“I think us watching women’s college basketball together can be fulfilling and make us grow closer as friends.” Ned replied between the sound of sneakers squeaking on the court. MJ just shook her head in response.

Peter wasn’t paying attention to the conversation at all by this point. His thoughts were occupied entirely by you. You had captured his attention from roughly the moment he sat on the bleachers and held it without even trying. His eyes were playing ping pong as he watched you travel back and forth across the court. A sport he had never paid much attention to was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world to him. Peter only knew where the ball was if it was in your hands, which was always followed by you making a basket and the other girls on your team patting your back. You seemed to be pretty well known among the crowd, because Peter could hear your last name being chanted even when you didn’t have the ball.

m4c4ronii

A Tale of Stars and Steel | Masterlist

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Fleeing the Empire and grappling with the loss of her homeworld, the daughter of two decorated military officers struggles to rebuild herself on the desert planet of Arvala-7 until a lone Mandalorian arrives, and two worlds collide among the stars.

Warnings: Slow burn romance, sexual tension, eventual smut, fluff and angst, emotional hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of violence, minor character death, Mandalorian language and culture, emotionally constipated Din Djarin, strong-willed reader

Word Count: 5 chapters, 16k (ongoing)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

franklyspencer

Just Hold Me - Damien x reader

Description: When Damien accidentally crosses a boundary that y/n didn't know how to set with him, she learns two things. One, the importance of communication in relationships. Two, she would always be safe with him.

Warnings: Intimacy issues and fluff

Notes: So I got a request a little while ago for a Damien version of No Touchy. So here it is! Hope you like it :)

________

cinemaken

♱ DRY HUMPING ft. Adrian Chase ♱

╰➤ prompt one of my kinktober schedule. 2k words.

╰➤ INCLUDES: desperate Adrian, whining, sprinkle of dacryphilia, established relationship, sappy, codependency vibes, hurt/comfort

briidoriingo

Fate of The Duke’s Aide

Damien Haas x GN! Reader

[Historical Transmigration AU]

Summary: You were previously a modern-life historian, now you’re a second-born noble that escaped a dreadful political marriage by becoming the close Aide to the powerful Duke, Damien Hasmont. You two soon realize both of your modern genius stems from the same secret: you are both transmigrators, communicating your shared absurdity through subtle slips of internet jargon and geek culture. As you assisted him to revolutionize the kingdom together, your intellectual connection ignites an intense, forbidden romance.

Warnings: Victorian-era lingo and Attempted Assassination.

Word Count: 7,300 ish

Author Note: I got inspired to write this after listening to Fate of Ophelia by Taylor Swift. It’ll make sense why as you read! I really tried to make a gender neutral reader in a historical setting so I hope it's somewhat accurate but I've also read too much manhwa😗

******

The heavy damask curtains of the Eldridge estate felt less like protection from the sun and more like the drapery of a cage. You, sat staring out the window, tracing the intricate patterns of the frosty glass.

A month.

Exactly thirty-one days until your father, Baron Eldridge, and your overbearing older brother, Lord Alistair, marched you down the aisle and forced you into a political marriage to a Cygnus noble.

In the modern world—your real world—you had been a history buff, a museum curator who found solace in the meticulous details of past eras. You had scoffed at the historical inaccuracies in period dramas, knowing the true customs, fashion, and political structures. That knowledge was now your only shield.

You had transmigrated a few days ago, landing in the body of the Baron’s second child, conveniently with the same name as you, whose soul had passed away under unexplained sickness. The initial shock was paralyzing, but their memories were instantly transferred into your brain. Right now, this body’s past memories and your deep historical knowledge quickly became an invaluable asset. You understood the feudal system, the etiquette of the court, the proper way to address a minor noble versus a Duke.

The only thing your historical knowledge couldn't fix was the present disaster, the Cygnus noble. From what you discovered in your research about this family, they were a powerful, land-rich noble whose family alliances were highly coveted, but whose personal reputation was utterly ruinous. They were known to be cruel, possessive, and had a string of former partners who had mysteriously either vanished or been sent back to their families in pieces—mentally, if not physically. Your marriage was meant to consolidate your family's failing finances, a transaction of your freedom for gold and influence.

The deadline loomed like a guillotine. You had to run. But where? And with what? Your meager noble allowance was strictly monitored, and every servant was essentially an informant for your brother. You had no contacts, no place to hide, and no currency recognized outside the city. Running away with no resources was impossible; a noble vanishing act would lead to your swift capture and a worse fate awaiting you. You needed political cover, an unassailable patron, and a new, legitimate identity.

One frigid night, as you were sneaking out of the Eldridge manor, scoping any new information that could help you in any way, you found a crumbled piece of the prominent national newspaper on the cobblestone ground that had a section title that caught your eye. The tidy cursive handwriting that marked the the seemingly insignificant paper reads:

His Grace, the Duke of Hasmont in the Northern region, seeks a Confidential Aide. Must possess expertise in managing estates, foresight in affairs, and knowledge of political finance. Discretion and unwavering loyalty paramount. Apply to the Northern Annex by proxy.

The Duke of Northern regions, Damien Hasmont.

Your memories knew of his name, he’s a figure of legend and fear in equal measure. He controlled the mineral-rich, frozen territories, maintained an enormous, well-trained private army, and was notoriously isolationist. He was also rumored to be brilliant, having single-handedly modernized the infrastructure of the North in a few short years. Your historical brain supplied the profile: a quintessential frontier duke, too powerful for the King to touch, and too busy to care about petty court politics.

And he was recruiting a knowledgeable aide. That description might as well have been pulled from your modern LinkedIn profile. Logistics, strategic planning, economic theory—that was all modern corporate knowledge, translated into this era’s terms.

You spent the next week, operating under the guise of an invalid nursing a headache, secretly preparing your application. You dictated a scathing, yet politically savvy, economic policy brief to a low-level, sympathetic clerk you bribed with a precious piece of inherited jewelry. The brief was a calculated risk—it contained ideas that were structurally impossible for this era's understanding like modern supply-chain concepts, but phrased in classic language fitting of this era. It was either genius or could be considered treason.

A week later, a reply came, delivered deep in the evening time by a messenger disguised as a wood merchant: an invitation for a secret, late-night interview at a private manor on the edge of the city.

The 'interview' was less a formal inquiry and more an interrogation. A tall, grim-faced man with the bearing of a general, identified only as Commander Elias, sat opposite you. He didn't care about your family name; he cared about the words in your brief.

"The concept of 'Just-in-Time' resource deployment," Elias read, his voice flat, "is utterly foreign to our military commissariat and supply. You speak of reducing warehousing costs and reliance on seasonal cycles. Explain how a strategy that requires immediate, precise deliveries over hundreds of leagues of unpredictable terrain is not, in fact, an absolute suicide mission."

You took a deep, steadying breath. This was it. This was the moment where you put everything on the line.

"It is, Commander," you admitted, your voice hushed but firm. "It is suicide under the current infrastructure. But the Duke’s North is known for its discipline and its recently upgraded road networks. This concept—a Lean System—is not focused on supply transportation; it’s about trust. Trust in the procedure, trust in the planning, and trust in the competence of the people running it. It requires centralized information and analyzing the possible future outcomes. It can save a fortune and halve the risk of spoilage and theft. It requires a mind capable of seeing five steps ahead."

Elias stared at you, his expression unreadable. You had just used terms and concepts that should not exist in this world. But you had explained them in a way that resonated with the military need for efficiency.

You knew you had impressed him enough with your mind. Now, you had to appeal to his heart—or his orders.

Leaning forward, you lowered your voice further, the sound thick with a desperation that was completely genuine.

“Commander Elias, I have presented you with the mind you require. You may think my suggestion is preposterous, but heed my words that you will not find a more suitable candidate other than me. You will regret it immensely. Now I offer the loyalty that His Grace, the Duke, demands. I am currently a second-born noble of the Eldridge family, but I am to be wed in one month to a Cygnus noble. Surely you are aware of their heinous reputation. I will not survive being wed into that family. I already have one foot in a grave with their betrothal, and my family is pushing me down to quickly tie the knot. I have no wealth to offer the Duke, only my knowledge and my complete devotion to his cause. My family will disown me, I will be declared dead to this high society—I will have nothing but the Duke’s protection."

Tears, real and hot, pricked your eyes.

“I beg you, please convey my oath to His Grace. Relay to him that I will serve him until my last breath. I will manage his entire operation for him single-handedly if necessary. Just… extricate me. Take me away, the latest, on the day of my wedding. Tell him I am already bound to him, a servant already contracted. I will sign anything in advance, if need be.”

The Commander finally broke his silence. He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of… respect?

"The Duke of Hasmont does not involve himself in family disputes, Eldridge. Especially not political marriages."

"I believe from his vast reputation that His Grace is a shrewd man. He gains a formidable, loyal aide for a single, timely action, and he acquires the prestige of rescuing a lamb from a political wolf. He would be saving my life and I’d owe my whole life to him in return. He also obtains an asset whose entire legal existence depends on his patronage. No distractions, no loyalties but to him. It is a bargain of unparalleled value," you countered.

Elias steepled his fingers. "I shall present your case. Wait for my communication. Do not fail to be ready to commit treason against your own family when the time comes."

You stood, bowed deeply, and whispered, "I am already prepared to commit treason against this entire era if His Grace commands, Commander Elias. Tell the Duke of Hasmont that I am his devoted pawn.”

******

The wedding day arrived, bringing with it a chilling heavy silence that blanketed the cathedral. It was a grand, lavish affair, a clear indication of your father's desperation to secure the Cygnus alliance. You stood at the altar, draped in white wedding attire and gold thread, feeling every seam as a shackle. The Cygnus noble stood opposite you, a wrinkly personification of oily indifference, their lecherous eyes promising a future of misery that made your stomach churn.

You kept your gaze fixed on the central rose window, praying not to any god, but to the improbable miracle of a transmigrator's fate. You had received a single, coded message: a small, dark feather from a secret messenger pigeon.

Be ready.

The High Priest began the final vows, his voice a drone of ancient ritual. Cygnus reached out a hand, their ring—a heavy, brutal-looking piece of gold—glinting in the candlelight.

That was when the commotion started.

The heavy, ornate doors of the cathedral burst open, slamming against the stone walls with a crack that echoed through the silence.

Standing silhouetted against the bright, midday sun was a man who commanded the attention of every noble, every guard, every priest. It was the Duke of Northern regions, Damien Hasmont.

He wasn't dressed for a wedding, but for a campaign. He wore a high-collared, deep indigo coat lined with dark fur, leather gloves, and boots that looked like they had marched over a thousand miles. His expression was a perfect mask of cold, controlled fury of a man who fears nothing. He was handsome, but in a way that suggested danger and immense capability.

Damien advanced calmly, like he didn't just barge into a wedding, his leather boots thudding on the marble floor. Behind him stood Commander Elias and a retinue of Northern guards, whose silent, disciplined presence was more terrifying than a hundred shouting men.

Baron Eldridge, your father, sputtered. “Your Grace! What is the meaning of this unprecedented intrusion? A holy sacrament is taking place!”

Damien stopped just short of the altar railing, his eyes—a striking, intense hazel—landing first on your wretched betrothed, and then, finally, on you. He didn't look like a savior; he looked like a force of nature demanding tribute.

“The meaning, Baron, is that you are attempting a breach of contract,” Damien stated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that carried perfectly.

The Cygnus noble sneered, annoyed. “An attempt to poach my intended spouse, Duke Hasmont? Pathetic. The Eldridge family owes us. This marriage is the payment.”

Damien’s gaze shifted back to Cygnus, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“This person,” Damien gestured to you with a slight nod of his head, “is already bound to me. For the past three weeks, (Y/N) Eldridge has been undergoing a confidential, highly sensitive contractual arrangement to serve as my personal and confidential Aide in the Northern Territories, effective immediately. As my current Aide, I presently acquire the full custodial rights, political and legal, including the authority to sever any prior, unconsummated agreements.”

A low murmur swept through the assembled nobility. An Aide to the Duke of Hasmont was a position of massive political power.

Baron Eldridge stammered, “Nonsense! My child has been ill in their room! They have signed nothing! This is slander!”

Damien reached into his coat and produced a folded piece of parchment, thick and sealed with the Duke’s own black wax. He handed it to the priest, bypassing the family entirely.

“The contract is legitimate, drawn up by my own solicitor. It grants me the exclusive right to (Y/N)’s intellectual services for the next fifty years, with an immediate commencement clause due to the urgency of my military commissariat review. Furthermore, it stipulates that any attempted marriage, cohabitation, or binding arrangement from another party that I am not aware of constitutes a breach of the terms, incurring a penalty of ten million gold to be paid by the Eldridge family.”

Silence. Ten million gold was more than the Baron's entire estate was worth.

“This is absolutely absurd!” Alistair shouted, moving towards Damien but was quickly held by your father.

Damien didn't even look at him. His eyes were only on you. He held out his hand.

“(Y/N),” he said, his tone shifting from cold demand to an oddly reassuring invitation. “The North requires your immediate presence. I trust you recall the terms of our agreement.”

You didn't hesitate. You stepped down from the altar, ignoring the screech of protest from Cygnus. You placed your hand, cold and shaking, into Damien’s. His gloved grip was warm, solid, and utterly professional.

As you passed the furious Cygnus, Damien spoke quietly, but loud enough for all to hear. “I advise you, Cygnus, to refrain from any further attempts to interfere. The North is not forgiving of political maneuvering directed at its people.”

He escorted you out of the cathedral as if you were merely running late for a business meeting. The entire company of the Duke’s guards formed an impenetrable wall, allowing no one to stop your departure.

The journey North was long, beginning that very night. You found yourself tucked into a plush, heated carriage, sitting across from the Duke of Hasmont, Damien, who was now calmly reviewing a financial ledger.

“I apologize for the dramatics of our first meeting, (Y/N),” Damien said, not looking up. “My Commander, Elias, insisted we make a statement. The Eldridge family needed to know this was absolute.”

“You are very thorough as the rumors dictate, Your Grace,” you replied, feeling a strange lightness in your chest. “You’ve cleanly cut me off from my family.”

“Indeed. I had Elias deliver a second contract and a substantial compensation—far more than the Cygnus alliance was worth. Your contract terms grant me exclusive domain over your labor and well-being. By accepting the compensation, your father has legally signed over his paternal rights concerning your political ties and marriage prospects to me. You are now, essentially, my vassal, bound to me by a labor contract and monetary exchange. You are safe, but you are also irrevocably mine to command for the next five decades.”

He finally looked up, those sharp hazel eyes meeting yours. “This arrangement is a business transaction, (Y/N). Remember that you are compensated well. I expect loyalty, competence, and absolute discretion. Your knowledge is invaluable. Do not disappoint me.”

“You saved my life, Your Grace,” you said simply. “I am yours to command.”

“Good. Now, about that Lean System brief you submitted. I found the concept revolutionary, though the terminology was… unique. We’ll start with tracing the goods and funds tomorrow. Get some rest. We’ll reach the fortress by sunrise.”

You looked at the man who had just dismantled your life and rebuilt it in a single day. He was a ruthless, brilliant Duke. You felt a surge of respect. And a flicker of something else—he felt… normal, in a way no one else in this world did.

******

The Duke’s Northern Fortress was less a dark, forbidding castle and more a colossal, state-of-the-art administrative center carved into the granite slopes of a mountain range. It was less a medieval keep and more a modern corporate headquarters—efficient in its use of space, and run with the precision of a military operation mixed with a tech startup.

Your office was adjacent to Damien’s own study. You were his right hand, his personal Aide. Your duties were exactly what you’d promised: managing his schedule, coordinating between various household heads such as the Steward and Marshal, synthesizing complex reports, and, most importantly, translating Damien’s sometimes-unorthodox visions into actionable plans for his loyal subjects.

Damien was demanding but fair. He worked eighteen-hour days and expected the same dedication. He was also surprisingly easy to work for, provided you delivered results. He was essentially a brilliant ruler, but you kept feeling he was hiding something underneath the cold facade. Nevertheless, the first few weeks for you were a blur of work, punctuated by small, unsettling moments.

A month later, you were discussing a difficult political situation with Damien about a troublesome Southern Baron. The man was being deliberately obstinate and slow to comply with a trade agreement.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Honestly, Your Grace, his entire letter is just not clicking for me. There’s no substance to his complaint, just a lot of grandstanding and implied menace. He’s trying to manage your perception of him, not the facts.”

Damien leaned back in his great, leather-backed chair, a slow smile spreading across his face—a genuine, un-Duke-like smile. It transformed his whole face, making him look less like a Northern Warlord and more like... a normal, relaxed man watching an interesting show on his TV.

“‘Not clicking’?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice. “That is quite an unfamiliar term for me, here I thought I had been given more than adequate comprehensive education by various expert tutors throughout my childhood. Please enlighten me, what is the meaning of this term?”

“Oh,” you blurted out a term that wouldn’t make sense in this era. You quickly racked your brain for an acceptable explanation. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. It is a saying circulating in my previous household. It… It refers to the simple sound of a lock or latch engaging—the satisfying click one hears when a gate is shut neatly and the mechanism falls neatly into place.”

He stared at you in genuine curiosity, waiting for you to continue like a king towards his jester.

“So, um, we use it as a metaphor for clear precision and order. When something is not clicking, it means it has not settled into its proper place; it's still obscure or misaligned, like a lock that refuses to turn. The Southern Baron’s letter lacks any clarity as the contents are unclear to my mind. We should just expose his pretense. He has no legitimate reason to delay.”

Damien actually chuckled—a short, sharp bark of amusement. “I have to say, (Y/N), I think I prefer your terminology to the formal court lexicon. ‘Not clicking.’ I’ll remember to refer to that term in future discussions.”

You glanced at his face, you can’t explain it but it feels like he can see right through your excuse and decided to humor you about it. You shook the impossible thought away as you looked to your feet, nearly choking on your breath. That was close. You wondered if people of this era found out about your real identity, surely they would claim that you’re an occult heretic possessing this body and burn you in a pit of fire until only your charred remains are left. It was safer to not say any terms resembling modern slang from now on. That was your resolve, alas, intention and reality are often unsynchronized. Your lips keep making occasional verbal mishaps here and there, all in front of Duke Hasmont.

******

On a particular evening, you accompanied Damien in his study to review and write reports on the state of his business. Sitting on a dark mahogany secretary desk near his document cluttered writing desk, you analyzed and worked endlessly, feeling like your brain is utterly fried but there’s nothing you can do about it as the Duke hadn’t finished working for the day. The tall-case clock in the corner of the room loudly ticking away, seemingly taunting your overtime work.

“This is such NPC behavior, I just want to jump into my comfy bed…” You muttered to yourself, your writing becoming more sloppy and slightly incoherent.

THUD!

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. The sleepiness immediately leaving your mind as you watched Damien slam his hand to the surface of his desk, his actions also startling himself. Then he immediately puts his hand that was slamming the desk to his mouth, coughing loudly.

“Ahem, my apologies. It seems I’ve lost my focus, it is late into the night. Let us continue tomorrow, thank you for your assistance. You are excused, Y/N.”

Slowly standing from your desk, you bowed to him. “Very well, Your Grace. I bid you a restful evening.”

As soon as you closed the door to his study, you forgot about the desk slamming and skipped happily to your quarters to rest for the night. Unbeknownst to you, Damien stared at your figure leaving his sight, lingering at the closed door. He either heard it incorrectly because of his sleep-deprived condition, or he had a fleeting suspicion that you were the same as him.

******

You found that your favorite modern comfort was humming old, familiar tunes. One cold afternoon, while organizing the quarterly reports in Damien’s study, you briefly remembered about your previous situation at the church altar, reminding you of a Panic! At The Disco’s song you listened religiously in your previous life. You were lightly humming a fragment of their incredibly famous song, one known globally from the mid-2000s—a slightly melancholy yet upbeat melody.

Damien was reviewing a complex diplomatic treaty. He was stressed, running a hand through his wavy dark hair repeatedly. He heard the tune, stopped, and listened intently.

“Aide (Y/N),” he said, his voice flat. “Is that… a traditional folksong from your region?”

You stopped humming, your heart giving a fearful thump. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace. Yes, my nursemaid sang it to me as a child. A sad tune, I believe she said it’s about a lover’s betrayal.”

Damien closed his eyes for a moment, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “I see. It is an odd choice of tune to sing to a child, but I suppose it’s better to face these kinds of things from a young age. She must have been a nursemaid with a sense of poise and rationality to teach that lesson to you.”

He opened his eyes. He didn’t question your humming. He just supported the core thematic moral of the song being taught to you as a child.

Better to face these kinds of things? With a sense of poise and rationality?

You deduced, he definitely knew the song you were humming. That deduction was impossible if he was a Duke born in this era, unless he wasn’t.

Damien and you both stared into each other’s eyes, silent understanding was almost a confession in itself. The suspicion was now mutual and palpable. The air between you, once professional, was now thick with shared, unspoken possibilities. Neither of you dared to speak the truth. The risk of being wrong—of exposing yourself as an insane person from another dimension—was too great.

The tension was becoming unbearable, mixed with a growing, confusing romantic attraction. Damien, despite his Duke status, had great kindness underneath his serious exterior. He genuinely cared about the people in the North, and his intellect was frighteningly sharp. You found yourself watching his hands as he worked, the way his dark hair fell over his brow when he concentrated. The fact that he could be the only person in this world who seemed to get you, even silently, made the attraction ten times stronger.

******

The annual Autumn Hunt was a tradition in the North, a necessary exercise for the military and a way to stock the winter larders. You were expected to accompany the Duke, dressed in surprisingly comfortable Northern hunting leathers, acting as his logistics coordinator and observer.

It was a cold, bright morning. The ground was slick with early frost, and the air smelled sharply of pine and damp earth. Damien, a surprisingly skilled hunter, moved with quiet confidence through the densely packed forest. You trailed slightly behind him and Commander Elias, taking notes on the terrain and the effectiveness of the hunting party’s coordination.

They had been tracking a large stag for nearly an hour. The tension was high, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves and the distant calls of the hunting horns.

Suddenly, a massive brown shape—a wild boar, far larger and more aggressive than a stag—burst from a thicket not ten yards away, snorting and charging directly at a young, inexperienced Northern guard.

The guard froze, paralyzed by fear.

Damien reacted instantly. He raised his crossbow, but instead of firing the heavy bolt, he pulled out a small, weighted throwing knife—a specialized hunting tool— with a poisoned tip and hurled it with impossible speed and accuracy.

The knife struck the boar not in the head, but precisely in the upper shoulder, just missing the spinal column. The boar shrieked, its charge momentarily interrupted and unbalanced. It swerved, giving the paralyzed guard just enough time to stumble aside.

Damien immediately drew his hunting sword and moved into a defensive position as the boar regrouped. The moment before the others closed in to finish the beast, Damien let out a loud, frustrated, almost theatrical groan.

He lowered his sword slightly, looking at the stunned guard, then back at the wounded, snorting boar. He shook his head, looking completely exasperated by the situation.

Then he mumbled under his breath, a stream of consciousness directed at no one, a specific moment of utterly modern gamer exasperation, but loud enough for you, standing just behind him, to hear.

“Ugh. Always the worst when you press to attack something, and the hit is just ‘not very effective.’”

The world stopped.

Not very effective.

It wasn't a historical phrase. It wasn't a literary allusion. It was a direct, three-word quote from the combat log of the original Pokémon video games.

A rush of cold adrenaline and wild, hysterical relief flooded your system. You knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what he was.

You dropped what you're holding with a clatter. Damien’s head snapped towards you, his face pale beneath the frost. He knew you had heard.

Elias was already barking orders to the surrounding guards to finish the boar, distracted by the melee.

Damien stared at you, his professional Duke facade utterly shattered, replaced by a look of sheer, panicked recognition—the same panic you felt mirrored in your own eyes.

You didn't speak. You couldn't. You simply pointed, very slowly, to the fallen boar, and then whispered one word, a desperate, hopeful challenge:

“Mamoswine?”

Damien's shoulders sagged in relief and shock. His lips quirked into a nervous, disbelieving smile, and he completed the thought, his voice choked with emotion.

“...Ice/Ground type. Resistance to poison.”

That night, after the hunt concluded and the feast was underway in the Great Hall, both of you excused early.

“I require a private consultation with my Aide to discuss the logistics of the winter patrol routes,” Damien announced to his staff, his face perfectly impassive.

In the Duke’s private study, the door locked, the fireplace blazing, you both simply stared at each other for a long moment. It was the longest, strangest, most meaningful silence of your life.

Finally, Damien threw himself onto a leather sofa, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, muffled. “Oh my absolute god. I can’t believe I just said that out loud. I thought you were just a historical genius! I thought I was crazy! I’ve been living in mortal fear for three long years that I was going to drop a Smosh reference in front of the King and get my head taken off!”

You walked toward him, a huge, slightly manic smile breaking out across your face.

“Smosh?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly. “Wait, you worked at Smosh? The one on Youtube? In my case, I was an Assistant Curator working on an exhibit on the geopolitical structure of late 17th-century European feudalism! I was somewhat prepared for this, but I wasn't prepared to actually live through it!”

He dropped his hands, revealing a face streaked with tears of laughter and relief. Right now, he looked like the man that had posed countlessly for hundreds of YouTube thumbnails, not the cold Duke of North.

“That’s why you knew what ‘not clicking’ meant! And the Lean System! I thought you were some kind of hyper-advanced genius who accidentally invented the future! When you hummed the tune of ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies,’ I had to stop myself from singing along!”

The dam of suppressed emotion broke. You both began talking at once, interrupting each other, sharing the impossible details.

He explained his transmigration—a freak accident involving an ancient, rusty prop sword he’d found in the Smosh basement during a skit, touching it at the same time as a weird storm was passing over.

You explained yours—a simple fall down a marble staircase in the museum, right onto a cursed-looking Roman coin you’d been examining.

For the next four hours, you didn't talk about logistics or dukedoms. You talked about the modern world where Damien lamented the lack of Wi-Fi and missing his great streaming services so he had to rewatch his favorite anime scenes in his mind. You complained about the difficulty of maintaining modern hygiene standards without proper plumbing that Damien quickly agreed with. Since it is implied that both of you were familiar with Pokémon, you debated the best game series and still hadn’t found a common middle ground on it.

Damien paused, his expression softening as he looked at you—truly looked at you, with no Duke persona, no fear of discovery.

“You have no idea, (Y/N),” he said quietly, running a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. “I have spent the last few years pretending I know what a ‘Peregrination’ is, but my vast bird knowledge cross-referenced it with the Peregrine Falcon into meaning a long wandering journey. I had to navigate this historical environment, where I suddenly had ducal responsibilities and people’s livelihood all depending on my sole decision. And then you show up, in the middle of a political disaster, and start talking about supply chain transparency in 17th-century terms. You’re the only person who speaks my language, literally and figuratively.”

You felt your cheeks flush. The relief of being understood was overwhelming, and it intensified the romantic feelings that had been bubbling beneath the surface. He was the one thing you missed about the modern world—a real genuine connection.

“I feel the same, Damien,” you whispered, finally using his first name without the title. “I thought I was alone, forever trapped in a world where everyone thinks a paperless system is witchcraft. Thank you. For the contract, for the rescue. For… everything that you’ve done.”

He smiled again, different from his usual stoic smirk. Now it was a genuine, wide, infectious smile that could light up a room. “The contract was a formality, (Y/N). I was simply leveraging my Duke-level resources to get what I wanted: the smartest person I’ve ever met, and the only person in this current world who would understand a reference to Squirtle Squad.”

From that night forward, your relationship changed. Professionally, you were the Duke’s trusted Aide. Personally, you were two modern outliers sharing an impossible secret. You used subtle modern slang and references in private notes to each other, a secret language that deepened your bond. You would often catch Damien watching you, a tenderness in his hazel eyes that was completely unrelated to logistics or strategic planning. The romantic tension, once confusing, was now electric and obvious to both of you.

******

The Duke of Hasmont was powerful, but he was not without enemies. His modernization efforts, his vast wealth, and his refusal to bend to the King's more corrupt advisors had created powerful opposition in the South and in the capital.

A few months after the Pokémon revelation, you were in the capital, accompanying Damien on a necessary diplomatic mission. It was a cold, formal event—a masked ball hosted by a powerful, nervous Marquis who was desperate to stay in the Duke’s good graces.

Damien hated these events. The event was held in a large, crowded hall, filled with suspicious nobles, rival diplomats, and, most dangerously, numerous shadowy retainers whose loyalty was questionable. He kept a hand discreetly on the hilt of his dress sword and stood near the wall, while you, looking elegant in formal noble attire, stood close by, running through a list of guests he needed to placate or pressure.

“Baron Valerius is making a beeline for you, Your Grace,” you murmured, adjusting your mask. “He wants to renegotiate the iron tax. Be firm, but offer him the illusion of negotiation. We need his loyalty, even if we don't need his iron.”

“Got it,” Damien replied under his breath. “Soft words, hard lines. Looks easy, but the underlying structure is rigid. We will not lose this mini boss battle.”

You chuckled quietly. Mini Boss battle. Another modern slip. It was such a comfort that only you and him can understand.

Just as Baron Valerius approached, the event exploded into chaos.

It started with a shattering sound—a high-pitched projectile fired from the rafters. It wasn't a bullet as this world hadn't invented reliable firearms yet, but a high-velocity, steel-tipped dart, undoubtedly dipped in fast-acting poison. It was aimed with terrifying precision, not at Damien’s covered chest, but directly at his unprotected neck, where his high collar ended.

Damien heard the sound, the faint whoosh of air displacement, a fraction of a second before anyone else. He froze, his head snapping up.

In that micro-second, your history-nerd brain, now operating on pure, desperate instinct, didn’t calculate the historical implications or the political fallout. It calculated the angle, the velocity, and the distance.

You didn't think; you just moved. All the desperate, self-sacrificing love you felt for the only piece of home you had left surged to the forefront.

With a guttural cry, you threw yourself forward, shielding Damien. The movement was fast, desperate, and imperfect.

The dart missed Damien entirely. It struck you—not in the neck, but sinking deep into the flesh of your left shoulder, the force of the impact knocking the air from your lungs and sending you both crashing to the marble floor.

You barely registered the searing, immediate pain before the poison began its brutal work. A terrifying coldness spread from your shoulder down your arm and into your chest.

Damien’s gasp was a mix of shock and pure horror. Chaos erupted. Guards shouted. Tables overturned. Swords were drawn. The ballroom was now a scene of screaming nobles and clashing swords as his guards retaliated against the shadowy assassins in the rafters.

He didn't move towards the fight; he moved only for you. He ripped off his glove and, with a terrifying strength, grabbed the dart and yanked it out, heedless of the gushing blood. As your lungs struggled to draw breath, he removed the mask on your face to help you breathe.

“Elias! Cover! Find a physician NOW!” Damien roared, his Duke persona returning, laced with a raw, desperate fear.

“No! (Y/N)! Look at me! Stay with me!” he screamed, a sound of absolute, unadulterated devastation. He sat on the ground, cradled your head against his chest, pressing a thick cloth from his cloak against the deep puncture wound. You could hear his heart hammering frantically beneath your ear. The cold, sickening sensation was creeping further into your body.

The world was spinning, graying at the edges. You felt the poison taking hold, paralyzing your limbs and tightening your chest. You knew this feeling. You weren't going to make it. This was the end of the line.

You reached up weakly with your good hand, your fingers sticky with blood, and grasped the collar of his coat, pulling him closer until your mask-uncovered face was inches from his. The blood in your mouth tasted coppery and metallic.

“Damien…” you whispered, the name a ragged sound.

His eyes, frantic and tearing, stared back at you. “Don’t talk, (Y/N)! You’ll be fine, just hold on! I’ll get you the best help—"

“No. Listen. I have to tell you. I knew that handling this Age of Empires game with you comes with some risks,” you gasped, using the final, most desperate modern term you could think of to convey the gravity. “But I can’t go out without saying it. I love you, you big nerd. I’ve fallen in love with you ever since that day you rescued me at the altar. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, in either life.”

The words were a desperate rush, your final, honest truth. The world was tilting. Damien’s face was swimming above you, his hazel eyes overflowing with tears and horror, registering the confession, the terror, and the absolute finality of your words.

“No! Don’t you dare leave me alone here, Y/N! Don’t close your eyes!” You faintly heard his screams.

Then, blackness.

******

You woke up to warmth. A soft, clean warmth that smelled of pine needles, sterile herbs, and expensive linen. You opened your eyes, blinking against the soft light filtering through a window that overlooked the snow-dusted Northern mountains.

You were in a massive, four-poster bed that wasn’t your usual bed in your small quarter. It seemed to be Damien’s private bedchamber. Your left shoulder throbbed with a deep, dull ache, but the overwhelming coldness was gone. You were alive.

A figure was slumped in a chair beside the bed, asleep, his dark hair falling over his face, a hand firmly holding yours for comfort. It was Damien. He looked utterly exhausted, his dress clothes replaced by simple, comfortable Northern attire, but his face was lined with the unmistakable stress of days without sleep. He looked haggard—unshaven beard, his hair messy, his fine clothes wrinkled.

You made a small noise, a quiet catch in your throat.

Damien was instantly awake. His hazel eyes—red-rimmed and bloodshot—flew open and fastened onto you.

He didn't speak. He just stared, his chest heaving with profound relief. He was the first one to break, the strong Duke persona momentarily obliterated to the vulnerable geeky soft man he is inside.

“(Y/N). You’re awake. Oh, thank the heavens. You’re awake.” His voice was rough, raw with relief. He leaned over, pressing his face to your neck, his body shaking with silent, relieved sobs. He was no longer the Duke of Hasmont; he was just Damien, your fellow time transmigrator and currently a crying man on your shoulders.

“I… I’m alive,” you managed, your throat dry. “What about the poison?”

“It needed the strongest antidote that a mountain physician could procure. The man is a medical genius. It took days to purge it from your system. Days, (Y/N). You were hovering on the edge for two weeks.”

He pulled back from your neck, took your hand—your good, right hand—and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then burying his face in your palm. His body shook with silent, overwhelming emotion.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, his voice thick and broken. “When you fell. When you said you loved me, thinking you were dying. You used your last breath to tell me, using a reference only I would understand. It was perfect, yet the timing and situation made it such a painful confession to hear.”

You gently squeezed his hand. “I was telling the truth. I thought it was my final save point, and I hadn’t backed up my data.”

Damien laughed, a desperate, watery sound. He finally raised his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears and something much, much deeper.

“You absolute idiot,” he said, his voice now strong, filled with a power that shook you to your core. He didn't use a title; he spoke as the man who knew your deepest secret.

He leaned down, closer than he ever had before, and brushed his lips gently against your forehead, then your temple, before finally pausing, his gaze locked on yours.

“When you protected me, I realized what I would lose. Not an Aide, not a co-conspirator, but my other half. The only person who saw me as more than just a title. I should have told you sooner. I should have protected you better. But now, you need to hear this, while you’re fully awake. You’re my home. You are the only person who sees the real me, the nerdy guy who worked at Smosh, not the cold Northern Duke the world sees. The world we were born into is gone, but I don’t care, because you are here. I love you, and I need you. Not just as my Aide, but as my partner, my equal, my family. I want to build a better version of this world with you. I want to build our own, new life here as long as you’re here with me.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning with intensity. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears that had escaped your eyes.

“I won't let you leave. Not now, not ever. The contract is irrelevant. You saved my life. I will spend the rest of this life ensuring you are safe, happy, and cherished. Will you stay with me, (Y/N)? As my partner? My equal? My love?”

You smiled, tears finally spilling onto the pillow. “I thought I was too tired for a sequel, Damien. But yes. I’ll be your partner. I’ll stay.”

“Perfect,” He smiled, a final, perfect, relieved smile, and closed the distance, sealing the confession with a soft kiss that tasted of warmth, relief, and a promise of a future together, two modern souls against an ancient world. The Duke of Hasmont and his extraordinary Aide, finally a team in every sense of the word.

******

Life in the Northern Fortress settled into a new, comfortable rhythm. You recovered fully, thanks to the physician's expertise and Damien's relentless care. The political storm from the assassination attempt was managed ruthlessly by Damien, who used the near-tragedy to solidify his power and silence his critics.

You remained Damien’s Aide, but the job title was now a thin veneer over a true partnership. You sat beside him at council meetings, not just behind him. You shared meals, late-night strategy sessions, and long, private talks by the fireplace, often using your secret language of modern references and inside jokes.

One chilly evening, you were reviewing a budget for a new Northern school—your idea, based on modern public education models.

“The infrastructure looks good, but the cost projection for the initial run is… insane,” Damien noted, tapping a finger on the line item for paper and ink.

You leaned over, resting your head briefly on his shoulder before returning to the ledger.

“I know. We need a more sustainable model. If only this world had invented affordable tablets and a decent cloud storage system,” you sighed dramatically.

Damien chuckled, pulling you closer with his arm around your waist. “Patience, my love. We’re in Creative Mode now. We have money, power, and future knowledge. We can get through it. We just need time, effort, and to grind for the resources.”

He tapped the paper again, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Speaking of grinding for resources, I managed to secure an entire shipment of exotic wood from the Eastern traders today. I think it’s finally time for us to craft a full-size, historically accurate, oak-carved, four-player Pokémon Stadium game board. You think we can teach Elias to play?”

You laughed, the sound bright and free in the quiet room. “Elias? He'd probably think the Pokédex was a state secret and try to interrogate the Squirtle figure.”

Damien kissed the top of your head, the action completely natural, completely in love.

“Well, we have decades ahead of us, (Y/N). We’ve got all the time in this new world to make it our own. Better buckle up, because it's on like Donkey Kong!"

You looked around the warm, safe study, at the man who is your destiny in two different lifetimes. You had escaped the horrible fate tied to this body and found a throne, not of power, but of loving partnership.

“Game on, Your Grace.”

The two modern souls, disguised as the powerful Duke and his genius Aide, stood together, ready to face the long, prosperous, and beautifully weird future they were building, one subtly modernized law, one shared inside joke, and one loving kiss at a time.

******

A/N: Should I make a bonus little chappie about them reuniting in the modern world and thinking this world was a lucid dream?? 😏

Masterlist

kuromi-but-evil

Thanks For Picking Me Up

Cosmetics: divider by @plum98

Pairing: Adrian Chase x reader

Summary: The task of picking Adrian up from jail when John gets him released falls onto you. When you see him so defeated, you take him out to get his mind off things, which progresses into him taking your mind of things.

Tags: 18+ MDNI, implied sex, fluff, cuddling, accidental first date, 11th street kid!reader, sad Adrian :(, cheered up Adrian :D

A/N: DONT HATE ME but I left the smut mostly out because I wanted to focus on the interactions.

starburstbarnes

gym buddies

Summary: Trying to keep your relationship a secret from the rest of the New Avengers, you and Bob use the team’s new room reservation system to your advantage. But how secretive can you be, really?

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x New Avenger!fem!reader

Content: no smut but some spicy content + a make out seshhh. Bob’s touchy. friendly reminder that his eyes turn gold ;) established secret relationship, lots of fluff! Bob and reader think they’re slick (spoiler alert they’re totally not). some uses of y/n, but mainly bc your name is written down. close Thunderbolts dynamics + John is constantly getting ragebaited. reader has no specified body type btw — you’re exercising for the endorphins only, you are beautiful just the way you are muah

Word Count: 9.7k

A/N: fun fact this was actually the very first fic I started writing for this blog! there was a week where I stayed up until like 3-4 am every day working on it lol. I also saw kali uchis live (mami) and listened to this song on loop one night while getting hype for the concert — the lyrics might’ve motivated bits of the spice idk🙈anyways in conclusion this was way too much fun enjoyyy!

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆

lewmagoo

some dance to forget | miles miller

description: in which two soulmates survive against all odds

w/c: 8k

pairing: miles miller x f!reader

warnings: canon typical violence, gun use, murder, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of ptsd, hospital/medical talk, angst with a hopeful ending

🕷️ part of fictober 🕷️

—fictober masterlist | consider supporting me on ko-fi !

The room was cold and sterile, laced with the tang of antiseptic and hospital grade cleaning products.

Beneath you, the old vinyl chair was stiff and uncomfortable, and your lower back had long since begun to ache from sitting for so long. But it didn’t matter how much pain you were in. Nothing could bring you to leave that seat. Not even the end of the world. You would remain here, seated at your beloved’s bedside, even if the hospital crumbled around you.

Leaving Miles’ side was not an option. You needed to be here when he woke up.

If he woke up.

#miles miller #miles miller x reader

inlovewithquestionablecharacters

Adrian Chase X Reader: Caution: Hot Mess Ahead

a/n: i would be concerned for the love i have for him if it wasn't a me comum occurrence for me to love chaotic characters

Warnings: smut, explicit sex, messy/chaotic sex, she/her pronouns for reader, teasing, rough-ish sex, cowgirl, nipple play (f receiving), penetration (p in v), unprotected sex (let's not guys), whimpering, desperate/greedy Adrian, Adrian being Adrian, soft ending, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3,3K (well fuck me gently with a chainsaw)

He’s crazy. Absolutely insane. You should be afraid of him—frankly, he should be considered a big threat. But the thing about Adrian is that even though he’d murder a bunch of people without so much as a second thought, he’s also the one who passes out on your couch after drinking too much and wakes up bugging you with random owl facts.

So yeah, you’d be afraid of him if he were anyone else. But he’s Adrian, and you’d never find it in yourself to be scared of Adrian Chase.

You could, however, find him fine as hell.

#adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader #adrian chase smut

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