Hiya! My name is Saturn, I suppose this is my masterlist? Can it be considered one? I think so, I hope this helps you to navigate around to read my works from this side blog to my amazing crew blog, I love you my solar system!
Steven Grant
1. Sounds Like A Date 💕
2. Lunch Box ❤️
3. One In A Billion ❤️
4.) Mirror Mine ❤️
5.) Amatory 💕🔥
6.) Nuturing ❤️💕
Jake Lockley
1. Study Break
2. Miel 🐝🍯💕👀🔥
3.) Alleviation 💞🔥
4.) Never again 🌩💓
5.) Late Night Rendezvous ☁️💓
6.) Home For Christmas
7.) Mon Amour 💗💞
Marc Spector
1.) With You 💞💕
2) Thunder Storm 🌩 💓
3) Sunday Afternoon 💞
4.) Bath Time 💞💕
5.) Altruism 💜
6.) Haven 💕💗
7.) Waves 💞💕
8.) Papillon 💕💗
9.) Abode 💕❤️🔥
10.) Company 🌧💕
11.) Bag of Treats 🎃🍭💗
Layla El-Faouly
1.) It Won’t Change A Thing 💞🌩
2.) A Trick & A Treat 🔥🎃
3.) In A Little While 🔥💕
Natasha Romanoff
1. Freedom ☁️💞
Jack Russell
1. Perdoname🌩
Loki Laufeyson
It's Not You 💕🌩
Bucky Barnes
Gone 🌩💞
Look After You 💞
Jack Daniels
1. One Chance 💞 (Part two coming soon!)
Tim Rockford
1. Gone Missing 💞
Javier Pena :
1. I'm Here 💞
Frankie Morales:
1.) Memento ☁️🎃
Joel Miller
Leaves 💞
Miguel O' Hara
1. Thank You -> 1b.) It’s My Pleasure 🔥👀
2.) Between Us 🔥👀
3.) El Vestido 🔥👀
4.) Ache 🌩🌧
Santi 'Pope' Garcia
1. One Day 🔥
2) Can We Talk? 🔥 🎃
Poe Dameron
Lullaby 💞
Llewyn Davis
The Hues of Blues
After The Party 🎃🔮
William Tell
Between The Sheets
Laurent LeClaire:
Too Close 💞🌞
Rydal Kenner
1.) Iris Beauty 💓
Jonathan Levy:
Between Two 🌩⛈
Angel & Devil 🔥🎃
Fondle ❤️💕
Leto Atreides
Your Essence
The Haunting of Hill House
1. It's Just A Game 🔪
Midnight Mass
- Coming Soon-
Midnight Club
-Coming Soon-
Haunting Of Bly Manor
-coming soon-
Headcannons {Multi-Fandom}
1. How The Boys React on a Bad Day (Moon Knight)
2. Characters Preparing You For Halloween (MCU)
3. Miguel O’ Hara as Your Boyfriend Headcannon (ATSV)
4. Haunted House Headcannon 🎃👻
(Moon Knight)
5.) Headcannon : Soothing You On A Sad Day 🌧💕 {Moon Knight)
Poe Dameron returned from his mission later than usual, his boots heavy on the ground as he strode into the medical bay. He had no injuries, no bruises, nothing that would warrant a visit to Dr. L/N. But after every mission, it was protocol—routine check-ups, no exceptions. He was already halfway through the door when he heard the soft, familiar voice call out to him.
“Poe, you’re early today.”
Poe turned and smiled at Dr. L/N, feeling a flutter in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain. There was something about their presence—how they moved so effortlessly, how their smile lit up the dimly lit room—that always made his heart race just a little faster.
“Guess I’m just trying to avoid the paperwork, Doc,” he said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe casually.
Dr. L/N chuckled softly, shaking their head. “You know I can’t let you off the hook that easy. Come on, take a seat.”
Poe followed them over to the exam table, trying to shake the strange, excited feeling that bubbled up inside him every time they looked at him. They were just doing their job, right? Checking his vitals, making sure everything was in order. He’d been through this plenty of times before.
But today, it felt different.
As Dr. L/N took his wrist, pressing two fingers to the pulse point, Poe felt something shift in his chest. His heartbeat seemed to pick up pace, a little faster than it should be. He hoped they wouldn’t notice.
“Everything okay?” Dr. L/N’s voice was soft, a hint of curiosity in their tone as they looked up at him, brow furrowed. They were always perceptive, always paying attention to every little detail.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Poe said quickly, trying to downplay the sudden nervousness creeping up his spine. “Just a bit of… mission adrenaline still wearing off, I guess.”
Dr. L/N raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. They moved to the next part of the exam, asking him to breathe deeply as they listened to his chest. Poe did as instructed, but the longer they stood so close to him, the harder it became to ignore the electric charge that seemed to hang in the air between them.
Their fingers pressed gently against his ribs as they listened intently to the beat of his heart. Poe’s breath caught, and he had to steady himself, the feeling of their touch making his stomach twist in an unexpected way.
Dr. L/N noted something down on the datapad, their brow furrowing in concentration. Elevated heart rate, slightly flushed skin… It was all so normal after a mission, but something didn’t feel quite right. They’d seen Poe before, plenty of times, and his usual post-mission symptoms weren’t this pronounced. There was a certain energy in the air—a buzz that felt entirely different.
They glanced back at him, catching him with a quick, almost shy look. Poe’s gaze darted away, his face flushing deeper, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. Dr. L/N’s mind started to wander, and a small seed of realization planted itself in their thoughts. Could it be?
Poe’s hands were slightly clammy as he shifted in the seat, a subtle but obvious sign of nervousness. And that smile... it wasn’t just exhaustion from the mission. There was something more behind it, something that wasn’t as easily explained away.
Dr. L/N took a quiet breath and glanced down at their datapad again. No physical injury, no fever, no signs of anything out of the ordinary except… this.
It was impossible to ignore how Poe’s demeanor had changed when they were near, how his voice had dropped a little lower when speaking to them. How his eyes had lingered a fraction too long.
And suddenly, it clicked.
Dr. L/N’s pulse quickened in their own way, but it wasn’t the same as Poe’s racing heart. It was the realization that Poe Dameron—always so confident, always so composed—might actually be feeling the same things they were. Could he possibly… like me?
They felt a soft blush spread across their own cheeks, and they quickly cleared their throat, pushing aside the rush of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm them.
“Your heart rate’s a bit elevated,” they said, their voice a little softer than usual as they met his gaze again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Poe swallowed, his gaze flitting nervously to the side. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said again, but this time, his voice was less certain. It was clear that something was going on between them, something neither of them had yet to address.
Dr. L/N gave him a small, knowing smile, trying to suppress the growing awareness between them. They took a step back, their mind racing with a thousand unspoken possibilities.
“I guess I’m just… happy to be back,” Poe said, his voice almost a whisper, as though he were trying to convince himself of the lie.
And that was it. Dr. L/N couldn’t ignore it any longer. The way Poe’s hands were slightly trembling, how his eyes kept darting away, the way his voice held an edge of vulnerability. It wasn’t just the mission—there was something more. And suddenly, they weren’t just his doctor anymore.
No, this wasn’t just about physical symptoms.
“Poe,” Dr. L/N said softly, breaking the silence between them. They hesitated for a moment, unsure, but then the words spilled out. “You know, if you ever need someone to talk to... or just some company while you’re recovering... I’m around. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
The offer felt almost casual, but underneath it, there was a deeper current, one that neither of them could ignore. It was a small invitation—one they weren’t sure would be accepted, but one they felt compelled to give anyway.
Poe blinked at them, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t know how to respond—his body, his mind, everything was so overwhelmed by the sudden weight of their words. For a moment, he thought about saying something flippant to cover up the warmth spreading across his cheeks, but instead, he just nodded.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said quietly, his voice somehow quieter than before. “Thanks, Doc.”
Dr. L/N smiled gently, giving him a reassuring look as they stood up. “Good. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
As they walked toward the door, Poe stayed seated, watching them leave, and the realization hit him like a wave. His heart was still racing, but now it wasn’t from mission adrenaline. It was something else entirely—something far more personal.
He wasn’t sure what this all meant, but he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to back away from whatever this was.
And for the first time, he didn’t mind the uncertainty.
Your Father’s Rival!Leto Atreides x Pregnant!Wife!Reader
Read the prequel (but this can be read alone) - Your Father's Rival!Leto Atreides x F!virgin!reader
Word count: 3.9k
NSFW MDNI. AU in the sense that there's no mention of Lady Jessica or Paul Atreides. Not beta'd, angst, smut, p in v, creampie, fingering, choking-ish, angry sex, tiny bit of thigh fucking, nipple play, breeding kink, pregnant sex, Leto is possessive af
✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧
Your husband’s heated breath falls warm and heavy on your neck. Broad hips push into you from behind, his cock sheathed in your slick, wet channel.
Hands grasping at you possessively, he cups your breast and spreads his other palm protectively over your growing abdomen. He groans, rutting into you faster, tracing the rounded shape of you.
The way he’s stretching you, filling you, sends your back arching, breathy moans steadily growing louder as he thrusts faster and deeper.
A delicious pressure builds deep in your center. Leto's thick fingers inch lower, strumming at your sensitive folds until your gasps of pleasure escalate into cries ecstasy.
Your tired, swollen body seizes in pleasure, liquifying in his arms as he loses himself inside you, groaning on your ear.
As you come down together, his nose brushes along your jawline. He holds you against his chest, urging you to give into your exhaustion and rest.
✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧
The next day, you are summoned to an official meeting. Your husband sits in the center of a large, stone conference table, with his advisors flanking him on the right and left. He greets you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, motioning for you to stand while everyone else takes an oddly intimidating seat.
"We have some questions for you, Duchess," Thufir Hawat, the head of Leto's security begins after clearing his throat.
"Questions?" Your gaze flies to Leto's, whose eyes flicker away. He strokes his beard pensively.
"Indeed," Hawat continues. "Some communications between you and your father have...raised concerns."
You shake your head. "What communications?" Attempting to catch your husband's gaze, to read anything about what is going on, your throat goes dry. He won't even look at you.
"Leto?"
"The Duke would like you to enlighten us as the nature of some of these messages."
Smoothing your hand over your abdomen instinctively, you bristle. "What messages? I haven't been in contact with my father."
The gentlemen at the table with your husband exchange glances, readjusting uncomfortably in their seats.
"We have a number of transmissions using your personal code," Hawat went on. "But you're claiming you haven't spoken to your father?"
"Leto, what is this?" You approach your husband boldly, placing both hands on the table top, which prompts Duncan Idaho, Leto's swordmaster, to his feet.
"Let's keep this formal," Hawat instructs, motioning for you to step back.
Your throat tightens, pulse racing as Duncan stares you down coldly.
He's...defending Leto. From you.
"For fuck's sake, stand down," Leto orders, his tone clipped. You aren't certain, at first, if he is more frustrated with you or with Duncan.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, land on you. "When did you last contact your father?"
Is this really happening? Leto is actually interrogating you.
"To give him our happy news," you desperately utter, both hands wrapped around your rounded belly. "Weeks and weeks ago. And nothing since, I swear it."
"Yes, we have that message here," Thufir Hawat confirms as Duncan takes his seat. "It reads, 'We can rejoice. It is done. I am with child.'" His eyes narrow pensively. "What did you mean by, 'it is done'?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," you scoff, glancing between Hawat and your husband in disbelief. "My father knew Leto and I wanted a child and I let him know."
"'It is done' sounds more like a task: a chore, or an assignment," Hawat argues, "not like 'happy news'. Was this your goal all along? Marriage to House Atreides, to the Duke of Caladan, to carry an Atreides heir, to gain a foothold here? To report back to your father?"
"How dare you?" You hiss, eyes brimming with tears. "I have not been communicating with my father."
"I have the messages here - "
"They weren't sent by me," you insist. "I haven't spoken to him."
"But this is your personal code. Who else would have sent them?"
You glare at your accuser defiantly. "Now you're asking the right questions."
"Give us the room." The voice of your husband, smooth and steady, sends his trusted council scurrying as he stands. Fingertips pressing against the tabletop, he sighs, realizing Duncan hasn't left his side.
He pats the taller man on the shoulder and nods for him to leave. With a final glare your way, Duncan complies.
As soon as you are alone with your husband, you cover your mouth with one hand to try to stifle any more of an emotional display than you've already given. But it's too late since tears are streaking down your cheeks.
"Forgive me," Leto says quietly, fidgeting with his ducal ring before easing around the table to stand in front of you.
Wiping your eyes, you try to control the waver of your voice. "Did you really have your high council question me like a suspect or a criminal?"
"A criminal?" One of Leto's dark eyebrows arches wryly. "Duncan would not have behaved himself if you were a criminal."
"Nice to know," you spat. "You couldn't have asked me yourself? Was that really necessary? It was humiliating. And frightening."
"I apologize, truly, my love," Leto softly insists. "The communications were brought to my attention, and yes, I could have asked you myself, but a brief, formal questioning quickly showed everyone that there is nothing to hide."
"I do have nothing to hide," you insist. "I've spoken with my father maybe three times since I arrived here."
"There are at least a dozen messages transmitted with your code," Leto reiterates. "Talking with you is the first step in what will need to be an investigation."
Moving into your personal space, he peers deeply into your eyes and gathers your hands in his. "If you say you didn't send the messages, I believe you, but you're right. We need to find out who did."
"I swear to you Leto," you tell him, meeting his gaze openly. "I'm not spying for my father. Or sending him anything."
He nods, but the wrinkle on his forehead deepens. "But...he asked you to. Didn't he?"
You swallow hard, wondering how your marriage could possibly benefit, or even survive your father's initial directive: to seduce the Duke and provide him with an heir. But spying was never part of it.
"I just thought...after what I admitted to you," Leto went on, "How I wanted you for myself, to take you away from you father - I thought maybe he'd shared a similar idea. Hatched a plot, for you to come here and undermine my position."
You could lie now. Deny everything, swear utter loyalty to Leto - let him believe you were an innocent, doe eyed virgin, who had fallen for his trap. He likely preferred to think of you that way. Most men would.
But the thing of it was - you truly loved him. And after he'd confessed to you, you found yourself unsure of how to live with anything other than honesty with him, when he was directly questioning you.
"It was the same for me, at first," you slowly admit. "My father encouraged me to...show interest in you. To entice you to warm to me."
Leto's jaw clenches, his face stiff as his starched uniform. "So I am a part of your father's game. His play for power."
"That's what he wanted when he arrived here, but after that gala, and especially after the first time in the garden, I knew it would be the easiest thing in the world to fall in love with you."
Reaching for his cheek, you rake your fingers through his beard. "But he never asked me to spy on you, I swear it. Even if he did, I would've said no because I truly love you." Squeezing your joined hand, you kiss his knuckles. "My sweet husband. I could never hurt you." Your gaze locks with his. "I haven't sent any new messages."
His jaw shifts pensively as he wrestles with doubt. "Why didn't you tell me the truth before, when I confessed to you? You made me feel like I did this wretched thing, but you did the same thing to me. Why didn't you admit it?"
"Because you would've sent me away," you emphatically insist. "And it was too late because I was already in love with you. I couldn't let my father's stupid rivalry poison any more of my life, or take away the one good thing in my life."
"But you've admitted that you were sent here for a reason, and now these messages we've found... Thufir won't let this go easily. You should've told me."
"We both played a rival's game, Leto, but we won it," you say with conviction, pushing his hand over your swollen abdomen. "You, most of all, because you have my devotion and my loyalty. I am Atreides. This child is Atreides."
He nods, his eyes softening with understanding, but you see doubt lingering there. "You are your father's daughter. Nothing can change that. You love him. You love your home."
"This is my home," you utter wholeheartedly as his forehead drops to yours. "You are my family."
"I am unsure I deserve to be," Leto murmurs against your cheek. "You are not mistaken about the rivalry with your father and myself. And both of us used you like a game piece."
"But you didn't," you refute, locking your arms behind his neck. "You told me the truth before we married. I could have walked away. I wanted to stay. It's true, I wanted to please my father, because that's the way I've had to survive. Caladan has given me a way out of that life. I would never betray it. Especially not now."
Leto embraces you and you melt against the warmth of his chest, grateful, praying he believes you.
Only, a moment later, Thufir Hawat appears.
"Are you satisfied?" Leto asks the older man, who nods once, and retreats.
Tears burn your eyes as you back away, horrified. "You were still interrogating me? A-are they all listening?"
"I promised them you would be questioned fairly and thoroughly, to clear your name," Leto explains, "So that they would be sure to see you the way I see you."
"Those words were meant for your ears, Leto," you cry, shaking your head, wrapping your arms around yourself.
Duncan appears and Leto grants another infuriatingly calm nod. "Escort my wife to her chambers. Guard her with your life."
Your face crumples, heart dropping to your stomach as you're ushered away to what feels like house arrest. You adore Leto, but if he wants to exert the control your father is famous for, you're going to put up a fight.
✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧
Your husband comes to your chambers after lunch, dismissing your staff with a wave of his hand.
You glare at him before bowing deeply. "Your Grace."
He smirks. "Duchess. I trust you are comfortable."
"As comfortable as any caged bird ever was, I suppose."
"You are angry. I understand."
"How perceptive, Your Grace. It is no wonder the Emperor favors you so."
"Are you finished?" He snaps, dark eyes flashing. "You can be angry with me if you wish, but there is protocol to be followed here. The evidence against you carries the penalty of death for treason. Do you understand that?"
"I understand that something is terribly wrong here. Someone has accessed or stolen my personal code and transmitted messages in my name - messages I know nothing about. And instead of protecting me, you're interrogating me."
"I came here to check on you and the baby," he says sincerely.
"Your heir and his mother are healthy and functioning properly in their assigned roles, I assure you."
Leto’s nostrils flare, his lips pulling into a thin line. “You’ll want to remember who your allies are, my lady. You’re a stranger in a foreign land.”
With a glare as cold as ice, he traces the shape of your cheek with his fingertips.
You flinch almost imperceptibly, swallowing thickly as you realize your own husband has all but threatened you.
✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧
The ice in your veins seeps into the halls of Castle Caladan, sending servants scurrying with whispers of intrigue and espionage.
You expect your husband to leave you in your rooms, locked away and guarded by Duncan, but he joins you later, after you've washed and readied yourself for bed.
Without a moment's hesitation, and acting as if you are in his chambers, where you normally both sleep, he undresses, washes up and climbs into bed with you.
Your body tenses as his arm slips around your waist, his breath ghosting the back of your neck as he presses his chest against your back.
"Sleep well, my Duchess," he murmurs, palm spreading protectively over your abdomen.
Jaw clenching in fury, you shrug him off. "Perhaps Your Grace has failed to realize these are my chambers, and not your own."
"All of this castle belongs to me, as do you, my lady," he breathes lowly on your neck, teeth nipping at your flesh as he slips both hands under your silky gown, running both hands over your thighs and stomach possessively.
"I am not your property," you hiss, squirming in his hold. Your backside rubs against his cock, alerting you the the fact that he is completely naked, hard and leaking already.
He groans, rutting against the round curve of your ass, hands tracing over your rounded shape to cup your heavy, swollen breasts. A breathy moan rushes out of you as he teases your tender nipples, pausing for a moment to tug your gown over your head and toss it aside.
His tongue swirls in your ear as one hand slides down to the wet, weeping core of you. You almost hate your body for responding to him so eagerly.
"Remember the first time I slipped my finger inside you?" He goads, stroking your clit with a featherlight tease. "You were so tight I could barely get my knuckle into you."
He plunges two fingers inside, swirling them into the spongy softness he feels there.
Despite your worry and anger over the day's events, your hips find a familiar rhythm rocking against your husbands dextrous digits, coaxing you toward mind-shattering release.
"I couldn't believe you let me touch you like that," he grunts, working his hand in and out of you faster. "I thought you were so innocent. So sweet." His thumb finds your clit and your back arches as you moan out his name.
He cinches you closer, back against his bare chest, one hand working you open, furiously fingerfucking you while using his hold on your breast to pinch your nipple punishingly. He keeps you there, stroke after stroke, for several quiet moments, rubbing his cock against you hungrily.
"But it was all an act," he growls, hand moving so fast, your body starts to vibrate with an all-encompassing bliss.
"You were on your father's errand," he spits, rutting into you, his cock slipping between your spread thighs. He moans as your slick drips down and coats him as he thrusts faster and faster. "And I've been nothing but a fool."
With that admission, he yanks his fingers away from you, leaving you teetering on the edge of a life changing orgasm. You cry out at the loss of stimulation, clawing through a haze of lust to determine why he's rolled away from you completely.
"L-Leto," you pant, blindly reaching for him, emboldened, rather than deterred as he shrugs you off.
Taking a moment to catch your breath, you push yourself up into a sitting position so you can peer down at him. Still panting, you trace the shape of his muscled arm, if only to see if he'll flinch and withdraw from your touch.
He does not.
So you trace over the lines and planes of his beautiful body, fingers dancing temptingly along his inner thigh until you wrap around his length and tug.
He swallows hard, desperate for your touch, but his eyes flash with the betrayal from the secret you've kept.
"You know," you begin, climbing over him, which takes some doing with your distended belly, "I think I've been in love with you my whole life."
With arms braced on either side of his head, you plant your knees beside his hips, lowering your dripping cunt to tease the tip of his cock. With a shift of your hips, forward and back, you let him glide through your folds, lowering yourself a little more with each pass.
"I wanted you since I was old enough to want a man," you tell him, rubbing your folds up and down his full length, gasping as he tilts his hips to meet your thrusts.
"You're the first man - the only man I ever fantasized about, when I touched myself, alone at night."
He groans as you line yourself up with his fat tip and slowly sink down seating yourself on him, taking him deep inside you. "Once I was a proper age, I would try to find the most discreet ways to ask my father when we could visit Caladan again. Just for a glimpse of you. So I could see the thickness of your beard, hear the deep cadence of your voice. So I could renew my fantasies of ever being with a man like you."
Leto's hands grip your hips, pushing and pulling you, moving you faster. He's panting now, sweat beading on his noble brow, licking his lips at the sight of your breasts, ripe and round, bouncing deliciously as you ride him.
"It's a nice story," he grounds out, thumbs digging into your hip bones bruisingly as his hips meet your thrusts. "I think you flatter me too much, Duchess."
"It's true," you growl, boldly wrapping one hand around his throat. Although you've never initiated a dominating move like this with your husband, something in you wants to make him snap - so he'll stop you or claim you or something. So he'll listen.
You squeeze gently. "Every word I've ever spoken to you has been the truth." Your grip tightens and you hear a sound from him that makes your pussy quiver and clamp down on him. "I'm yours. This body is yours. My heart is yours. My devotion, my life..." Your voice fades away, replaced by a long, breathy moan of ecstasy as you come, cunt fluttering and gripping and soaking his cock as he spurts inside you, erupting and filling you with his warmth.
You collapse against him, exhausted as the day's tension drains out of you. Leto rolls you gently to the side, allowing your heavy limbs to rest against the soft bed.
Curled up beside you as you lay on your back, he strokes the side of your breast, the swell of your tummy, the round shape of your hip, up and back again.
After a moment he feels your breath stutter. Reaching for your face, he finds your cheek wet.
"Will you try to send me away?" You brokenly whisper. "After the baby is born? Will you try to take him from me?"
"Oh my love," he breathes, easing over you gently, hand cupping your jaw as he gazes down at you. "As if I could tear you away from our child. I don't think any force in this universe could."
You tearfully smile as he presses a kiss to your cheek. "My pride is wounded by your secret plot. But you are my wife. I could not bear to be without you."
"Because of our child?" You question, your voice sounding small.
"Because you are mine."
✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧ ˚ · .✧
The tension of what you admitted to your husband - that you initially followed your father's directive to seduce him - slowly fades away over the next few days. And any...frustrations Leto seems to feel are released privately as he bites and presses and fucks them into your body each night.
Quiet whispers reveal lingering doubts and fears, confessed between lovers in the still of the night. His favorite thing to hear you say when he's inside you has become, "I am Atreides, this child is Atreides."
Leto decides to throw a ball for your father again. It's been about a year since the last one and he declares that it could be a tradition of sorts - a sign of peace between your two worlds. So instead of secrets and plots, with each of you seducing the other, he intends to show the galaxy that your love and your union have truly united bitter rivals at long last.
The planning of the gala will hopefully bring to light who is sending the messages, or at least if communications are still being sent to your father. Leto begs your indulgence as he temporarily has you guarded.
You argue that your people - your new people, here on Caladan won't trust you if they see you guarded like a spy - if they see Leto's doubt of you. But he makes sure that it is made clear that threats have been made against his Duchess and she is well protected.
You agree to the terms, only until your father arrives for the gala. The concessions you make win back the council's trust, for now, at least. You are given a new security code to transmit personal messages. Leto sends a formal invitation from House Atreides to invite your father's household to the gala.
Leto asks for your indulgence in one final detail. He wishes to oversee the construction of the gown you will wear. It will bear the deep greens and blacks of House Atreides. Your gown will be fitted to show off the swell of your abdomen and ample breasts, accented by a handcrafted House Atreides hawk emblem necklace.
"You will be the jewel of all Caladan - their true Duchess," he declares. You find you have no objection to his claiming of you in this way. You love your father, but you're weary of the rivalry with Caladan and House Atreides, and your heart is now and forever with Leto, and your unborn son.
The night of the gala arrives and you are dressed, perfumed and adorned like an Empress. Your gown is a stunning statement of Leto's ownership over you. Your pregnant body is a banner of his accomplishment in winning his rival's most cherished prize.
He almost finds himself relieved that he is not a young man - that he has a modicum of control over his urges, and can resist, at least for a little while, the desire to tear the dress from your ripe body and claim you in a dark corridor before the gala even begins.
You feel proud and so in love with Leto. You truly have adored him your entire life, and once you were of age, your feelings for him began to deepen and mature into more than a childish crush. It was no chore at all to fall in love with him.
Tonight there will be no doubt in your father's mind that you are Atreides.
Your husband will be proud. Your mission is accomplished. And it cost you nothing. Because you have the love and family your father used against you your entire life.
part 3? completely up to you, i could go either way, kinda like the symmetry of this ending
Thank you for the tag Bee! Your room has a lot of cute stuff to steal! I went for your Djungelskog! I could never take baby Ken from you! 💞
Steal something! Go!
blue notebook of my unhinged (and often gay) poetry
basket of pain meds, heat pads, and other disabled necessities!
books! three random piles and two separate bookshelves worth of books
a desk drawer of pens and buttons, one of many unused notebooks will be there!
framed film poster collage
vegan lip balms in a boob shaped jar
Voting ended onFeb 9, 2025
No pressure tags: @taissasspidergirl @bruce-slutsteen @megamindsecretlair @starbunnyonfilm @lovelikeafuneral @starwarskawaii @my-secret-shame @pygmi-cygni and anyone else that sees this and wants to join in! 🫶
Summary: You might feel alone and unloved but you aren’t. That’s the tragedy of life, you will never know how much you are loved ❤️
Warning tags: fluff + a little Fomo
You hadn’t meant to be gloomy, but here you were, curled up on your couch, staring at the soft glow of your phone screen. The flood of happy couple photos on social media was enough to make your heart ache a little. Valentine’s Day was everywhere. On every corner, in every store window, it felt like a reminder of what you didn’t have. It wasn’t a big deal, not really, but you couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that tugged at you.
The sound of the front door opening caught your attention, and Layla stepped inside, a smile brightening her face. She’d made her usual entrance, the one that made everything seem like it was going to be okay. She looked at you, paused, and then her smile softened.
“What’s going on with you?” Layla asked, sitting beside you without a second thought. “You’ve been quieter than usual today.”
You shrugged, trying to act normal. “It’s nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. I know that look. Come on, spill.”
You let out a small sigh, fingers nervously tracing the edge of your cup. “I don’t know. It’s just... Valentine’s Day, I guess. It’s everywhere, and I’m here, alone.” You swallowed, feeling the sting in your chest. “Everyone’s with someone, and I’m just here.”
Layla tilted her head, her expression softening with understanding. She wasn’t one for platitudes, and you appreciated that. Instead, she grinned, that mischievous glint returning to her eyes.
“Well, if you’re going to be alone on Valentine’s Day, then I’m here for you. It’s Galentine’s Day, now.”
You blinked at her, confused. “What?”
“Galentine’s Day!” She was already bouncing off the couch, moving like she had a plan. “It’s what best friends do. We’re going to make this day fun. No more moping around. I’m not letting you sit here feeling sorry for yourself.”
You watched, a little stunned, as she grabbed her purse and tossed you a set of keys. “Come on. We’re going out.”
Before you could protest, she was already pulling you up, leading you through the door.
First stop: dessert. The café smelled like warm chocolate and fresh pastry, and Layla was already ordering two mugs of the richest hot chocolate they had. “This is mandatory,” she declared, handing you yours. “Valentine’s Day or not, we’re doing it right.”
You couldn’t help but smile, the comforting warmth of the drink melting away some of the tension in your shoulders. It wasn’t so bad after all.
“Okay,” Layla continued with a wink, “next, we go find the tackiest Valentine’s decorations and wear them with pride. A heart-shaped necklace? A giant teddy bear?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly daring you.
You laughed despite yourself. “Are you serious?”
She grinned. “Absolutely. It’s Galentine’s Day. We don’t follow the rules.”
You both ended up in a thrift store, Layla pulling out the most ridiculous clothes she could find: glittery hats, neon pink scarves, a plush red dress that was clearly more Halloween than Valentine’s. With each ridiculous outfit she handed you, your laughter grew louder. By the time you’d tried on the most absurd combinations, you were almost crying from laughing.
“This is the best day ever,” you said between giggles.
Layla beamed, her eyes sparkling. “That’s the spirit. You’re not alone today. I’m here. And I’m not letting you forget it.”
Later, you found yourselves on a quiet rooftop, the city spread out before you like a sea of twinkling lights. Layla had brought along a couple of drinks, and the two of you settled into the cold night air, comfortable in each other’s company.
“You know,” Layla said after a while, breaking the silence, “Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be just about romance.”
You glanced over at her, feeling the weight of her words.
She shrugged, casually kicking her legs out as she leaned back. “Love is a lot of things. It’s friendship, support, showing up when it counts. That’s what today is about—us.”
You felt a warmth spread through you, a quiet kind of peace.
“So, technically,” Layla added with a teasing smile, “you do have a Valentine. Lucky you.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning your head on her shoulder. “Lucky me.”
Warning tags: the boys being manies, Steven is trying his best, cuteness
Summary: Have no fear, Marc and Jake are here 😉
Steven stood in the middle of the store, lips pressed together, shifting from one foot to the other as he stared at the shelves. He had been here for twenty minutes. Maybe more. Maybe they were going to kick him out soon.
Chocolates? Too generic. Jewelry? A bit overboard for their first Valentine’s together. A book? What if they already had it? A plushie? That might be too childish.
His fingers twitched as he reached for a small, elegant box—only to freeze midair and retract.
“Mate, just pick something.” Marc’s voice cut through the static in his head, sounding like he was rubbing his temples. “You’ve been staring at that shelf like it insulted your mother.”
“I want it to be perfect,” Steven muttered under his breath.
“Perfect? Hermano, you’re overthinking it.” Jake this time, his voice like a smirk behind a cigarette. “They’ll like whatever you get. Pero, if you want my advice, get something personal. Something that makes them think of you.”
Steven perked up slightly. “That’s a good idea, actually. Maybe I could—”
“Not the poetry book.”
“What? Why not?” Steven frowned. He had been eyeing a collection of love poems for the past few minutes.
“Too much,” Marc grumbled. “You’re not some 19th-century poet pining in a candlelit room.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Marc,” Steven quipped. “Sounds quite romantic, actually.”
Jake sighed. “If you’re gonna do a book, write something in it. Make it special.”
Steven brightened. “Oh, that’s brilliant! A little note in the front, maybe a date on the inside cover…” He picked up the book, running his fingers over the spine. It felt right. It felt like them.
Marc hummed in reluctant approval. Jake simply chuckled.
Finally, decision made, Steven exhaled and made his way to the register.
"Took you long enough, cariño," Jake muttered, amused.
"Seriously," Marc added. "That was painful to watch."
Steven rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the small smile tugging at his lips
Summary: through the rubbles and collapsed stones there is still hope to be shown.
Warning tags: war setting, political topics,
A/N: I created this because A) May Calaway (our beloved scarlet scarab) is Palestinian and Egyptian. B) A lot of you guys like the idea of Layla but rarely ever write about her or even care about the actress as well. And C) FUCK Benjamin Netanyahu. D) You can be for Palestine and not be for Hamas. That’s like saying I can’t stand for the US unless I also accept the KKK. Don’t be a bird brain.
The air smelled of dust and salt, the scent of the nearby sea carried through the streets of Gaza. It mixed with the warmth of fresh bread, the sharp tang of antiseptic, the earthiness of sand kicked up by running feet. Despite everything—the wreckage, the loss, the exhaustion—life continued.
Laughter echoed in the open lot where Marc had been roped into a soccer game. The ball, worn and barely holding together, bounced unevenly against the cracked pavement, but the kids didn’t care. They shouted, darted, and tackled with fierce determination.
“Come on, old man!” one of the older boys taunted, grinning as he stole the ball from Marc with impressive footwork.
Marc put his hands on his hips, catching his breath. “You calling me old? That’s just rude.”
The boy laughed and kicked the ball toward a makeshift goal—two rusted cans spaced a few feet apart. The other kids erupted into cheers. Marc groaned dramatically.
“Alright, alright,” he said, hands up in surrender. “I admit defeat.”
One of the younger boys, barely five, tugged at his sleeve. “Again?”
Marc glanced at the medical tent where Y/N was working. He should probably go help, but—
He ruffled the kid’s hair. “Alright, one more.”
The game continued, and for a little while, nothing else existed. No war. No fear. Just dust rising beneath their feet and the simple joy of play.
---
Nearby, Layla stood at the food station, rolling up her sleeves as she handed out warm loaves of bread. People lined up patiently, murmuring greetings, their hands calloused but steady as they accepted their rations.
An elderly woman, her face lined with years of resilience, took her portion and paused. “You remind me of my daughter,” she said softly.
Layla smiled. “Then I must be very lucky.”
The woman squeezed her hand before moving on, leaving behind a warmth that settled in Layla’s chest.
As she turned back to her work, a group of children ran past, giggling as they chased each other through the narrow alleyways. A teenage girl lingered near the station, watching them wistfully. Layla recognized her—Hadeel, sixteen, who had once wanted to be a doctor before the war had taken too much.
Layla handed her an extra loaf, nudging her gently. “You don’t have to stop dreaming, you know.”
Hadeel hesitated before offering a small, almost shy smile. “Maybe one day.”
Layla met her gaze. “One day comes sooner than you think.”
Hadeel clutched the bread to her chest and nodded before walking away.
---
Inside the medical tent, Y/N moved quickly, sorting through supplies. The box of gauze was running low again. They made a mental note to restock it later.
A woman entered, holding her daughter’s hand. The little girl, no older than seven, had a bandaged arm. She peered up at Y/N with wide, curious eyes.
Y/N crouched to her level. “What’s your name, habibti?”
The girl hesitated before whispering, “Amina.”
Y/N smiled. “That’s a beautiful name. Can I see your arm?”
Amina glanced at her mother for reassurance before nodding. Y/N carefully unwrapped the bandage, revealing healing stitches.
“You’re very brave,” they murmured, cleaning the wound with careful hands.
Amina didn’t flinch. “Are you a doctor?”
“Not exactly. Just someone who wants to help.”
Amina considered this. “That’s like a doctor.”
Y/N chuckled. “Maybe a little.”
They finished rewrapping the bandage and, after a brief moment of hesitation, pulled out a small piece of chocolate from their pocket. One of the last.
Amina’s face lit up as she took it.
Her mother pressed a hand over her heart. “Allah yihfazik. Thank you.”
Y/N returned the gesture. “We take care of each other.”
---
As the sun dipped lower, the city bathed in a golden hue. Families gathered near the food station, sharing meals. The hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air.
Marc finally dragged himself over, breathless and sweat-damp from soccer. Layla passed him a bottle of water, smirking. “Look at you. Outrun by a bunch of kids.”
Marc took a long swig before wiping his mouth. “You try keeping up with them.”
Y/N sat beside them, stretching their sore shoulders. “We restocking the medical supplies tomorrow?”
Layla nodded. “Yeah. And we need more water filters.”
A small group of children gathered nearby, still buzzing with energy. One of them pointed at Marc. “Come play with us again tomorrow?”
Marc exhaled but grinned. “Yeah, yeah. But only if you let me win this time.”
The kids giggled and ran off.
Y/N watched them disappear into the crowd, their laughter lingering. It was moments like this—fleeting, yet powerful—that reminded them why they were here.
Marc exhaled. “It’s easy to forget how strong people can be.”
Layla nodded. “They don’t have a choice.”
Y/N glanced toward the children, the families, the old men sitting together with cups of tea, murmuring about the past and the future.
“We are all human,” they said softly. “All connected.”
Layla looked at them, then at Marc, then back at the people they had spent the day helping.
“Yeah, we are,” she murmured. The three of us stared out into sea, hoping that the waves could carry our message that Palestine will be free.
Summary: In a glittering hall of power and intrigue, you, a mere shadow, stand at the edges of a grand gathering, silently admiring the Duke. Your love for him—unspoken and unacknowledged—blooms in the silence, as you watch him, and the world, from afar.
Warning tags: Minor angst, yearning, unrequited love
A/N: Enjoy!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆
The hall was nothing less than a painted canvas of grandeur—a space where the air seemed heavy with the perfume of gilded opulence. The chatter of a thousand voices swirled like fine music, a dissonance that played in perfect harmony, filling every corner of the room with noise and light. And yet, in the midst of all this grandeur, you found a silence within yourself. You were a whisper, a breath against the sea of voices.
Your gaze, however, was not upon the sea of elegantly dressed courtiers or the haughty faces of the imperial elite. No, it was drawn, as it always was, to the man who stood with his son just beyond the crowd.
Duke Leto Atreides.
You stood at the edge of the room, hardly more than a ghost, unnoticed by most, least of all by him. The Duke, who commanded armies and ruled vast lands, was oblivious to the quiet presence of someone in the back, silently drinking in every detail of his being.
A pang of longing twisted in your chest, but you quelled it quickly, hiding it behind an expression of indifference. After all, what could someone like you—nothing more than a humble observer—ever offer to someone like Duke Leto Atreides? A wallflower, content with the sun's rays never touching one of your welting petals, where no one could see the longing in their heart.
But you still watched. It was impossible not to.
As he spoke to the Emperor and his guests, your eyes followed every movement. The subtle shift in his posture as he offered a smile, the faint flicker of amusement in his gaze as he conversed with a few of the higher-ranking members of the court. His son, Paul, stood by his side, less at ease but still, undeniably, carrying the same strength in his blood. But it was Leto’s quiet confidence that kept you rooted in place, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, even though you knew you could never get close enough to burn.
How you adored him. It was not love in the manner that the poets describe, for you were no fool to think such feelings could bloom where there was no soil. This was a different kind of love—one that could only thrive in the shadow of impossibility. You loved him as one admires a beautiful painting—knowing you could never touch it, never hold it, yet forever haunted by its image.
And yet, for all the distance between you, there were moments when his eyes would flicker toward you—just a brief glance, as fleeting as the breath of a ghost. In those rare, exquisite seconds, you could almost convince yourself that he saw you. But then, as though the very notion were too much to bear, his gaze would slip away, leaving you stranded in your own reverie, your heart undone by the very thought that perhaps, just perhaps, you had been noticed.
But it was not to be.
You knew better than to mistake these moments for anything more than mere happenstance. How could you, who stood in the shadows like an uninvited guest at a feast, ever think your presence could matter to him? No, you were the observer, the silent witness to a life you could never touch.
Your fingers tightened against the fabric of your sleeve, the soft material offering little comfort as you looked down at the ground. The weight of your emotions pressed down on you, but you didn't dare to let it show. You had become quite good at this—hiding what you truly felt. The years of watching him, of being a silent presence in his orbit, had taught you the art of observation, the quiet kind of longing that no one ever saw. No one but you.
Leto was a man of iron will, his thoughts far beyond the reach of your longing heart. He moved with an elegance that belied the ferocity within him. His voice, when it spoke, was smooth and measured, like the calm before a storm—soothing and sharp all at once. To those who could claim his attention, he gave a part of himself that was both a gift and a burden. But to you? To you, he gave nothing but a glance that passed over your form like the wind over the sea—never lingering, never truly seeing.
Your hands, delicate and trembling, fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, and you took refuge in the softness of your own thoughts. Why do I love him so quietly? you wondered. Why do I take such pleasure in this hidden adoration, in this ache that will never be fulfilled?
It was an indulgence, this quiet sorrow. Perhaps the only indulgence you had ever known.
You watched as he spoke to the Emperor—his words deliberate, his gestures calm. Even now, you could see the weight of his mind, the careful consideration behind every sentence. How often did his thoughts stray to places where you could never follow?
And then, for a moment, the sun dared to allow his rays reach to you.
It was but a brief flicker—a moment too short for anyone to have noticed. His gaze passed over you like the merest touch of a bird's wing, but it was enough to stop your breath, to send a shiver down your spine. For an instant, you felt as though the whole world was held in that gaze, as though the barriers of the universe had momentarily cracked open, and he had seen you, truly seen you.
Your chest tightened with the sudden weight of that reality, the tenderness of your feelings now a dull, aching throb. You had loved him in silence, and you would continue to love him in silence. This was the nature of your devotion—the love that is pure because it is untainted by the world’s demands, the love that will never ask for anything in return, for it understands that it can never be fulfilled.
There was a quiet beauty in that, wasn’t there?
The moment passed, and you returned to your quiet place in the background, the ache of unspoken affection heavy on your chest.
Perhaps it was enough to love him in silence, to observe from the shadows where no one could see. Perhaps that was all you could ever do.
But oh, how you wished you could just once... step out from the edge of the crowd and let him see you. Even if only for a moment.
You shook your head, allowing heart to be weighed back down but the stones of your love to the bottom. You sipped on your glass of wine, and decided to go outside for a fresh of breath air.
Duke Leto Atreides would never know your name, that much you knew.
And perhaps even with that reality, it was for the best. For in loving him from a distance, in never truly being seen, you could preserve that secret.
It would be kept as a secret between you, your heart and the stars. But as they say, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.
Summary: Of course the moon will always be there, how could you not know?
Warning Tags: Fluff, sweet fluff. Dear god FLUFF.
Author’s note: I missed Haya Spector
The evening was calm, the quiet of the house settling around them like a soft blanket. Haya,, lay tucked in her bed with her favorite stuffed bunny nestled close to her chest. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight casting gentle shadows across the walls. The soothing hum of the night was barely audible, and Marc stood by her bedside, brushing a lock of curly hair from her face.
"Papa?" Haya's voice, small and sleepy, floated through the air, tugging at his heart.
Haya’s voice was quiet but filled with that soft excitement only a child could muster. “Can you tell me the Moon story again?”
Marc chuckled, settling down on the edge of her bed. “The Moon story, huh?” He paused for a moment, thinking back to the days when she was smaller, when she asked for this every night, her little eyes so full of wonder. “I guess you never get tired of that one.”
Haya smiled sleepily, her eyes starting to drift closed but still holding on to the story she loved.
Marc’s heart warmed. This story had become a little ritual, something that always calmed her down after a long day. Something she could rely on. He nodded, adjusting her blanket to make sure she was snug.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Marc began, his voice soft and steady. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful, glowing Moon. And this Moon wasn’t just any Moon—it was special. It wasn’t just up there to look pretty. No, it had a job.”
Haya, still holding onto her bunny, shifted slightly, her big brown eyes focusing on Marc’s face, eager to hear more.
“This Moon, see,” Marc continued, “was a protector. Every night, while all the children were asleep, the Moon would shine down on them, keeping them safe from the shadows and bad dreams. It made sure nothing could hurt them. The Moon didn’t just shine for everyone—it shone brightest for the children who were loved the most.”
Haya’s eyes were wide with wonder, her little hands clutching the bunny tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like me?”
Marc smiled softly, reaching out to brush a curl from her forehead. “Yes, sweetheart. Just like you. The Moon watches over you every night to make sure you’re safe while you sleep.”
She beamed up at him, her small fingers curling around his hand. “The Moon loves me?”
Marc nodded, his smile full of affection. “The Moon loves you. And so do I.”
Haya’s eyes softened, her small face lighting up with a sleepy, contented smile. “And the Moon keeps me safe?”
“Always,” Marc said, his voice low and tender. “The Moon wraps you in its light to chase away the dark, so you don’t have to be scared. You’re never alone, little one.”
Haya smiles as she slowly blinks, the warmth of her father’s words draws her near to sleep.
But, for a moment she had energy.
Her tiny hand reached out, finding his sleeve. “Papa?” Her voice was soft, almost a question. “Will you always protect me? Even when I grow up?”
Marc’s chest tightened at the question. He bent down, kissed her forehead again, and whispered in that calm, steady voice he always used when he wanted her to know he meant every word. “Always. No matter how big you get, I’ll always be here to protect you.”
Haya smiled sleepily, her eyes half-lidded as she drifted closer to sleep. “I love you, Papa.”
Marc felt a lump in his throat, but he smiled, brushing a gentle kiss to her temple.
“I love you too, my little moonbeam.”
He stood up slowly, watching as her small form relaxed into the comfort of her bed. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only sound in the room now, steady and peaceful.
Marc lingered for a moment longer, taking in the sight of his daughter, her face soft with sleep, her little hands tucked beneath the blanket.
He stood there, his eyes tracing every small detail, from the way her curls framed her face to the way she cuddled closer into the blanket like it was a hug.
Marc lingered by the frame of the door, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. Haya Rose Spector was growing up, and even if time as not slipping through his fingers, he didn’t want this moment to pass him by. This singular moment, was a reminder of what he fought so hard for.
Meanwhile he stood by, he whispered, hoping that Haya’s dreams could send his words to her
“I’m knighted to protect you, my little moonbeam,” he whispered softly, the words a quiet vow, a promise he would carry forever.
The room was still, the only sounds the soft rustling of the wind outside, whispering through the trees. With a final glance at Haya, he quietly clicked the door shut, his heart swelling with love and pride.
As he flicked the light off, leaving the room bathed in moonlight, Marc felt a deep, quiet certainty: The Moon might watch over her, but he would always be right here, protecting her—now, and forever.
Synopsis: Khonshu has ordered Marc Spector to complete his task. Y/N is a threat to society especially since they tend to lurk in the shadows. Will Marc Spector catch her?
Warning tags: paranoia, slight stalking skills, and Prey vs Hunter themes.
Word Count: 4K ish
The rain hit the cobblestones in a rapid staccato, a relentless downpour that drowned out all sound but its own. Y/N’s breath came in quick, shallow bursts, each exhale fogging up the cold, damp air. Her body moved instinctively, her feet carrying her down twisting alleyways as the familiar weight of panic settled in her chest.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was out there. Somewhere. Watching.
Every footstep felt too loud. Too clumsy.
But she couldn’t stop. She had to keep moving, keep ahead of him. Her mind screamed at her to think, to outsmart him. She had trained for moments like this, fought on the edges of survival before.
But Marc Spector wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t someone she could outwit with her instincts alone.
The city’s narrow streets twisted in on themselves, the rain-soaked walls and dim alley lights making it feel like the world was closing in around her. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed, only that the deeper she ran, the harder it was to escape the feeling of being stalked.
Every now and then, she caught a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye—a shadow darting behind a pillar, a flicker of white disappearing into the fog. But each time she turned to face it, nothing was there.
Just the storm. Just the city. Just him.
--
Marc’s POV:
Marc followed in the shadows, allowing her to think she still had the upper hand.
She was quick. That much was obvious.
The way her body weaved through the narrow alleys, her feet barely touching the ground, every step calculated. She knew how to disappear into the night, how to make the world bend around her.
But Marc wasn’t fooled.
He watched her with a stillness that mirrored the coldness of the night, his gaze sharp, picking apart every detail.
There was tension in the way her shoulders hunched before she turned a corner, a slight tremor in her hand as she gripped a broken piece of glass, the fleeting look of fear in her eyes whenever she thought she had lost him.
She wasn’t just running from him—she was running from herself, from her own doubts.
He could almost hear the thoughts racing in her mind: This way, this way, I can lose him. I know this city. I know these streets.
But he knew them better.
Her movements were precise, but there was an undercurrent of hesitation.
A quiet moment where she had to choose—left or right, up or down—just a second where her instinct failed her. And Marc was there, feeling the weight of her miscalculations.
It was easy to see how she was trying to keep her distance. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her pulse quickening with each step.
She was looking for an escape that didn’t exist, running into the same corners again and again, hoping for something different, but it was all so predictable.
Marc’s lips twitched. Is this really the best you’ve got?
She was good, yes he wouldn’t deny that.
She fought with the raw precision of someone who had spent years surviving. But there was something incomplete about her. Something off, like a puzzle missing a piece.
Her heart beat faster. He could hear it, that rhythmic thud that betrayed the calm she was trying to maintain. She wasn’t breathing steadily anymore. It was frantic, shallow.
Desperate.
He slowed his pace, savoring it. Enjoying the moments of how Y/N was so close to escaping the moonlight but so far from escaping him.
He saw the way her silhouette flickered against the dim light, knew that when she ducked down an alley, she would pause just long enough to catch her breath. He knew when she would falter.
He watched her again, taking note of the way she shifted her weight, just for a moment, right there.
Yes, right there.
A smile tugs against Marc’s lips, he saw it—the slightest misstep. But did she see it?
She was so focused on outrunning him that she missed the turn ahead, and just like that, she was boxed in.
Marc’s smile faded away as he took a single step closer, barely making a sound. She hadn’t noticed him yet.
He could hear her heartbeat, wild and uneven.
The way her eyes darted around, the panic flashing behind them.
She’s still trying to find a way out. She’s still pretending there’s a way she can win this.
But there wasn’t. Not anymore.
—-
Y/N’s POV
Y/N’s body trembled, the chill from the rain sinking deep into her bones. She turned, her eyes wild, scanning for anything that could save her. She was breathing too fast, too shallow, her mind clouded with fear.
And then one heart beat to the next
She felt him.
The air shifted, and she froze, the world going still. Her throat closed in on itself. The footsteps. They weren’t a blur anymore. His was here. Getting closer.
Her heart thudded in her chest like a hammer, each beat so loud it drowned out everything else. Her legs shook as if her knees were about to buckle beneath her, but she forced herself to stand. She turns slowly to face him.
Those eyes, the brightness of the eyes.
Almost human, almost a man. Almost a God. Almost a myth. Too bright. Too cold. Too close to her.
Her pulse spiked, her chest tightening as the figure of Marc Spector stepped into view. His silhouette was dark, shrouded in shadow, with only the glow of his eyes cutting through the storm.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The moon behind him framed him like a god of darkness, casting an eerie glow over his figure.
His face was hidden, but those eyes—those glowing eyes—were all she could see. All she could feel.
She wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t.
The world seemed to narrow. The space between them vanished.
Her heart raced louder than ever before, the sound deafening, drowning out the storm, the rain, the world.
Marc’s shadow loomed over her, a suffocating presence that swallowed the light.
Y/N could hear his thoughts
“I got you”
Y/N held her breath as she whispered to him
“I know”
Marc nods his head, of course she knew but she didn’t know better.
Summary: time may have passed but this fleeting moment won’t.
Warning tags: bittersweet, nostalgia, right person wrong time.
author’s note: I wasn’t sure who to tag since I don’t know which followers like Pedro. 😭
ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩
The palace was alive with opulence, sunlight streaming through the marble columns, bathing the gardens in a golden glow. General Marcus Acacius walked through the grounds, his heavy cloak trailing over the stone pathway. Duty had brought him here, but the gardens called to him, offering a rare respite from the weight of command.
As he passed a row of blooming laurels, his gaze caught on a group of Vestal Virgins. Their white robes fluttered softly in the breeze, and their hushed voices melded with the rustling leaves. Marcus’s steps slowed, his dark eyes lingering on the serene scene.
Then, he saw her.
Y/N stood slightly apart from the others, her hands brushing over the petals of a nearby flower. The years had softened her features, but there was no mistaking her. Time had not dimmed her presence, nor erased the memories she carried with her.
She glanced up as if sensing his gaze, her eyes locking with his. The world seemed to still, and for a fleeting moment, neither moved. Marcus’s chest tightened, the flood of nostalgia almost unbearable.
Y/N’s lips parted slightly, but before he could step closer, she turned away. Her movements were swift but unhurried, her retreat deliberate. Marcus watched her disappear into the palace, his jaw tightening. He hesitated for only a moment before following her, his footsteps steady and measured.
The corridors of the palace were quiet, the muffled hum of life echoing faintly from the distance. Y/N’s figure was a whisper in the shadows, her white robes blending with the pale walls. She moved with the grace he remembered so well, though now there was a fragility to her, a weight she carried that hadn’t been there before.
“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice low but firm.
She froze, her back to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robe. Slowly, she turned, her expression a careful mask, though her eyes betrayed the emotions swirling beneath the surface.
“General,” she said, her voice calm, though there was a tremor in it that Marcus didn’t miss.
Marcus stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them. “You left before I could speak to you.”
“It wasn’t my place to stay,” she replied, her tone quiet but steady.
He tilted his head, studying her. “And yet you lingered long enough for me to see you.”
Y/N’s gaze faltered, and she looked away, her fingers brushing against the stone wall. “It has been a long time, Marcus.”
“Yes, it has.”
Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken words. Marcus’s eyes softened as he took her in, the memories of their past weaving through his mind like threads in a tapestry. They had once been inseparable, their bond forged in a childhood spent under the same Roman skies. But life had pulled them in different directions—him to the battlefield, her to the temple.
“Why did you not write?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Y/N’s shoulders tensed. “What would I have said? That I missed you? That I wished things had been different?” She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. “I had no right.”
Marcus’s brows drew together, his expression pained. “You always had the right.”
Her breath hitched, and she turned away, staring out of a nearby archway into the sunlit garden. “It doesn’t matter now. Our paths were never meant to cross again.”
“And yet here we are,” he said, stepping closer until he was just behind her.
Y/N closed her eyes, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her like a cloak. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet intensity that had always unnerved and comforted her in equal measure.
When she finally turned to face him, the vulnerability in her eyes cut through him like a blade. “Marcus, we can’t change the past.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice low and steady. “But we can acknowledge it.”
He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek. The touch was feather-light, as if he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard. Y/N’s breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest. The years melted away in that moment, leaving only the two of them, bound by a connection that time could not sever.
“You kept me with you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “Even when we were apart.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t look away. “You never left me, Marcus. Not really.”
He nodded, his forehead resting lightly against hers. The palace, the garden, the world—they all faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of their breaths.
“What do we do now?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Marcus smiled faintly, his hands falling to her shoulders. “We take this moment, and we hold it.”
Y/N nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She leaned into him, allowing herself, for the first time in years, to feel the warmth of his presence.
The moment was fleeting, like a petal caught in the wind, but it was enough.
When they finally parted, there was no bitterness, only a quiet understanding. Marcus bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect and affection, before stepping back. Y/N watched him go, her heart heavy but her soul at peace.
As he disappeared into the corridors, she turned back to the garden, the sun warming her face. The past was a weight they both carried, but in that moment, she knew they had found something more—a solace that could never be erased.
—-
tagging list: (you can ask to be removed or added)
Summary: Javier Peña wasn’t a jealous man, or was he?
Warning tags: Pinning emotions. Slight jealously.
A/N: You voted and I am delivering. Enjoy.
Y/N sat hunched over her desk, the clutter of case files and evidence spread out before her. It had been a long day, and even longer nights, preparing for the court report on the latest drug bust.
Every detail had to be perfect, every piece of evidence neatly organized. If there was even one mistake, it could cost them the case. And Y/N had no intention of letting that happen.
Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she pushed through it. She had to. The case was crucial, and it was up to her to make sure the work was airtight.
Javier Peña sat a few desks away, working through his own set of papers, but every now and then, his gaze drifted toward her. He didn’t let it show, not to anyone — not to her, not to Steve — but he couldn’t help but notice the way she worked so intently.
Y/N had been on edge all week, and it was clear it wasn’t just the case that had her stressed. He’d seen it in the way she tucked her hair behind her ear or rubbed the back of her neck when the workload felt too heavy.
It wasn’t that he wanted to help. He wasn’t the type to get involved in someone else’s work. But it bothered him, in a way he didn’t understand, that Y/N seemed so... distant lately. Not from him, exactly, but from everything.
She’d been asking Steve Murphy for help more than usual, and there was something about the way Steve seemed to make her laugh, something about the easy way he offered feedback, that rubbed Javier the wrong way.
It’s nothing, he told himself. You don’t need to worry about it.
But as Steve approached her desk again, this time offering to take a look at the final report, Javier’s grip tightened on his pen. He forced himself to focus on the papers in front of him, trying not to let the subtle discomfort creeping up on him show. It wasn’t jealousy. It was just... distraction.
“Hey, Steve, can you look over this for me? Just a second opinion?” Y/N’s voice broke through his thoughts. She sounded tired, but there was a softness to her that made Javier’s chest tighten.
“Sure thing,” Steve replied easily, taking a step closer to her desk, leaning in as Y/N explained a few details about the evidence.
They were too close, too comfortable.
Javier bit back a sigh, feeling that old, familiar feeling of being left out. He didn’t want to acknowledge it. It wasn’t like him to care. But it nagged at him, especially as Steve made her laugh with some joke about the case.
The rustling of papers seemed louder now, the room too small, too quiet. Javier glanced up once more, just as Y/N met his gaze. For a split second, there was a flicker of something — recognition, maybe — before she looked away, returning to her conversation with Steve.
Pull it together, Javier thought, though it didn’t make him feel any better.
Later, as the office began to clear out, the soft clink of Steve’s chair scraping across the floor broke through the silence.
“Thanks, Y/N. Looks good. I’ll catch you tomorrow,” Steve said, giving her a brief smile before heading out the door.
Y/N stretched, letting out a small sigh of relief. She didn’t notice Javier’s eyes on her as she shifted the papers around, trying to make sense of the final draft.
It was then that Javier couldn’t hold back anymore. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t approach her desk. But his voice was quieter, more direct than usual.
“So, looks like you’ve got all the help you need,” he said, tapping his pen against the surface of his desk. His tone wasn’t angry, but there was something there — a shift, a weight that wasn’t normal.
Y/N paused, looking up at him with a frown. Her eyes narrowed slightly, picking up on the change in his demeanor immediately. Javier wasn’t one to get caught up in small things, so this... this was something.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice gentle but probing, trying to gauge if there was something more.
Javier shrugged, looking back down at his desk, though his hands didn’t quite look busy. “Nothing. Just—looks like you’ve got it all under control.”
Y/N’s gaze softened. She knew better than to let his defensive posture fool her. It was rare for Javier to show any sign of weakness or emotion, but this… this was different. He wasn’t being his usual detached self.
“You know you can help, too,” she said, her voice warm, but not pressuring. “I wouldn’t mind a second set of eyes on it.”
He didn’t look at her. “I’m not exactly good with the details,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. But his tone was quieter now, and Y/N could feel the shift in the air.
For a long moment, they stayed silent, the tension hanging between them, unspoken yet palpable. Javier wasn’t good at this — wasn’t good at expressing what he really felt. But in that instant, Y/N understood something he hadn’t said aloud. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but she knew that this moment wasn’t about the report anymore.
“Javier…”
He looked at her then, finally meeting her eyes. It was brief, but it said everything.
Y/N felt a flicker of something in the air, a shift between them. The words she wanted to say were stuck, tangled in the same web of unspoken thoughts. She understood now — Javier wasn’t asking to help because he thought she couldn’t handle it. No. He was asking because there was something else, something beneath the surface. Something that he wasn’t going to come out and say.
But before the silence could fully settle in, it was Javier’s turn to speak. His voice was low, but there was a rare sincerity in it that made her heart skip.
“You’re not alone in this, Y/N,” he said quietly, his gaze soft but steady. “You know I’ve got your back. But if you need to talk, or even if you just need a break… I’m here.”
Y/N’s heart gave a small flutter at the offer, something about it just... felt different than usual. The weight of it sank in, and she realized that despite his tough exterior, Javier cared in ways he didn’t always show.
She smiled softly, feeling the tension lift just a little. “Thanks, Javier. I think... I think I could use that break,” she said, her voice more playful now.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Yeah? A break from paperwork?” he said with a small, almost teasing grin.
“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, leaning against her desk. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab a drink? My treat — to make up for keeping you in the dark all afternoon.”
Javier seemed to hesitate for a moment, his eyes scanning her face as if weighing the offer. It was clear he wasn’t used to this kind of invitation — wasn’t used to people looking out for him.
“Alright,” he said after a beat, his voice gruff but sincere. “One drink. But I’m not making promises about stopping at just one.”
Y/N grinned, feeling that familiar, comfortable ease return. “Deal,” she said.
As she grabbed her jacket and gathered her things, Javier stood up as well, his movements casual but for a moment he had the urge to place his hand onto her back
Stop. Javier told himself as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough retraining that he could do, for now.
Warning tags: Protest, f*ck ICE & Fuck Trump, Political topics, a bit of violence.
Word count: 3k-ish
Summary: Chicago is burning—not from fire, but from fear. ICE raids have torn through the city, leaving families shattered. Y/N has been fighting on the frontlines, organizing protests and underground networks to protect undocumented immigrants. What they don’t know is that their cab driver, Jake Lockley, has been working the streets in his own way—gathering intel, passing messages, and keeping a close eye on them.
author’s note: I created this because A) A lot of you guys forget that MCU Moon Knight is Latino. B) He is played by a Latino. C) I said what I said, fuck Trump and ICE. And lastly because as an Afro-Latina, I know both of my communities are I n pain but we are strong. We’ll get through this together. ❤️
The cold Chicago air burned in Y/N’s lungs as they marched, their voice hoarse from chanting. Thousands of people flooded the downtown streets, moving as one mass, fists raised, signs high. The scent of sweat, street food, and the acrid bite of flares filled the night as the energy pulsed through the crowd.
"No more deportations!" The chant rolled over them like a battle cry, defiant and unyielding.
Y/N gripped the strap of their messenger bag tightly, feeling the constant buzz of their phone against their hip—text chains tracking ICE vans, lookout updates from Little Village, emergency contacts in case of arrests. The air crackled with tension, but Y/N had been through this before. They knew how to move, where to be. They also knew that tonight felt different.
Jake Lockley sat in his cab a block away, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel as he watched. He had driven them to protests before, never asking for payment, never pressing for details. But this wasn’t just any protest. His sharp eyes scanned the restless sea of people, picking out the ones who didn’t belong—the ones who moved too purposefully, eyes locked on something—or someone.
ICE. Not in riot gear, not making a show of force. These men were hunting. Jake had seen it before, but never this bad. He recognized three of them immediately, plainclothes, stiff postures, trying to blend in. They weren’t here for just anyone. They had names, targets.
And Y/N was one of them.
"Shit," Jake muttered under his breath as he swung open the cab door and stepped into the street.
Y/N felt the shift before they saw it—a ripple in the crowd, something too focused, too intentional. Then, movement. A man in a heavy jacket pushing through the mass of protestors, his gaze locked onto them.
They turned to slip into the crowd, but a hand closed over their wrist. Firm. Official.
"Y/N L/N?" The voice was low, controlled. "You need to come with us."
Their pulse slammed against their ribs. ICE didn’t arrest people at protests. They disappeared them.
Before Y/N could yank their arm free, another hand clamped onto the agent’s wrist—rough, calloused, and unrelenting.
Jake
"Lo siento, amigo," Jake’s voice was thick with his Spanish accent, smooth yet dangerous. "But they’re with me."
With a sharp, brutal movement, he twisted the agent’s arm and sent him sprawling.
Y/N barely had time to react before Jake grabbed their hand and pulled them into motion.
"Move, cariño!"
The crowd blurred around them as they ran, boots slamming against wet pavement. Behind them, shouts rang out—ICE agents barking orders, protestors screaming.
Jake navigated the streets like he had a map in his head. They ducked down an alleyway, slipping past dumpsters and fire escapes. The blue and red flash of sirens flickered against the brick walls, but Jake didn’t slow.
"Where—?" Y/N gasped.
"Shut up and run."
A chain-link fence loomed ahead. Jake leaped first, landing solidly before turning to catch them as they scrambled over.
Behind them, an agent vaulted the fence just as fast.
Jake swore. "Dame paciencia."
Bolting into the street, they nearly collided with a rush of honking cars. Jake weaved through traffic effortlessly, dragging Y/N along with him. Their pulse was a hammer in their ears.
Then he saw it—a delivery bike, abandoned on the curb.
He smirked. "Get on."
Y/N didn’t have time to argue before he hauled them onto the handlebars and pedaled like hell. The city blurred past, ICE agents chasing behind them. A gunshot cracked the air, shattering glass somewhere nearby.
Jake growled, "I hate this city sometimes."
Up ahead—his cab. A sanctuary wrapped in peeling paint and a busted taillight.
But just as they reached it, an agent lunged, tackling Jake off the bike.
Jake hit the pavement hard but was already moving before the agent could pin him. Y/N scrambled back, their breath ragged, as Jake’s expression shifted into something other.
The agent threw a punch. Jake dodged. With terrifying precision, he grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it back. The agent screamed.
Jake grabbed him by the collar, voice low and venomous. "Dile a tu jefe que esta ciudad no es suya."
Tell your boss this city isn’t his.
Then he slammed the agent’s head into the pavement.
Breathing hard, he turned to Y/N, eyes flashing with something feral. "Get in the damn cab."
They obeyed.
The city blurred past the window, the glow of streetlights casting fleeting shadows across Jake’s face. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was Y/N’s shaky breath and Jake’s fingers drumming against the wheel.
After a long silence, Y/N finally asked, "What the hell was that?"
Jake exhaled sharply. "That was me savin’ your ass. Again."
"You—" They swallowed. "You just took out a federal agent."
A smirk tugged at Jake’s lips. "Did I?"
Y/N turned to him fully now, heart still racing. "You knew they were coming."
Jake nodded. "Yeah."
"Why?"
His jaw clenched. "Because I’ve been watchin’."
Silence filled the cab like thick smoke. Y/N’s fingers curled into their lap. "Are you working for them?"
Jake actually laughed, short and bitter. "No, cariño. I’m working against them."
He glanced at them, dark eyes unreadable. "You think you're the only one fighting this war? I’ve been in this city longer than you have. I see the people they take. The families they rip apart."
His hands tightened around the wheel. "I help where I can. I pass messages. Get people out before the vans roll in. And when I need to, I do worse things."
Y/N’s breath hitched. "And me?"
Jake hesitated. Then, softer, "I couldn’t let them take you."
A lump formed in their throat. They turned to the window, watching the city pass. The people, the lights, the life still fighting to breathe.
This was really impactful, and thank you for writing it. I wish I could put it into better words, but I guess the closest feeling I felt was a mixture of hope and tenacity. That we can fight this to the best of our abilities.
thank you for reading this, I genuinely was a little nervous to post this but I am glad that I did. We all deserve a voice, especially with times like these. Thank you. And we will totally fight this to the best of our abilities.
I haven't read a fan fiction in a long time. I stopped immediately and dropped everything while scrolling to read this because its important. This is something Jake would do. This is an important point of view for a lot of people. Especially people like me. I'm white, I'm from the middle of the country in South East Michigan. I don't live in a place where ICE is working yet. I have no way to protest as I am in seclusion out here, and ironically too poor to get to places. This shows a point of view people like me don't see. That we need to see - to understand and to empathize at the very least. I'm sorry I can't do more from where I am, but I can do this. I can read this and I can forward it on to more people like me so we can expand outside of our own point of view.
knowing that you are aware, and somehow you are helping makes all the difference. Honestly, my story could be whatever but the message is: Fuck ICE, Fuck Trump and fuck this administration for harming each and every one of us. Thank you for even given this a second of your day. 💜
