𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

And she feels like home

Jason Todd x Reader

It’s nearing midnight when the rhythmic tapping on the window pulls you from the quiet comfort of your book. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. That sound is familiar. Rising from the couch, you pad softly to the window. Pulling back the curtain, your heart sinks.

There he is—Jason Todd—leaning against the window frame, a silhouette of leather and exhaustion. His helmet dangles loosely from one hand, the other clutching his side. Blood trickles from a cut above his brow, streaking his face.

“Jason!” you gasp, hurriedly unlocking the window and helping him inside.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice strained but laced with the wry humor you know so well. “Miss me?”

Your worry turns into a flurry of activity. You guide him to the couch, muttering something about stubborn vigilantes. He winces as he settles down, his usual confident demeanor dimmed by pain.

“What happened?” you demand, kneeling before him to inspect the damage.

“Bad night,” he mutters. “Some gang thought they could take me out. Clearly, they didn’t succeed.” His smirk is fleeting as he winces again.

“Jason, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Your voice cracks, tears threatening to spill. “You scare me every time you show up like this.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the apology in his eyes far deeper than the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Your chest tightens. You can’t stay mad, not when he looks at you like that. Gently, you remove his gloves and begin cleaning his wounds. His shoulders relax under your touch, tension melting away as you care for him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this alone,” you say softly, wrapping a bandage around his arm. “You can lean on me, Jason. Always.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he reaches out, pulling you into his lap with surprising strength.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.

“Maybe not,” you tease, your lips quirking into a small smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough but filled with warmth. His arms tighten around you, and you feel his breath against your skin.

“Thank you,” he says after a long pause, his voice barely audible.

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the only sound your steady breathing as you hold each other. In that moment, nothing else matters—just the quiet promise of your love and the hope that, no matter what, you’ll face the chaos of his world together.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: It was fun while it lasted, huh?

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

First time parents

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The glow of the morning sun filters through the nursery curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. You stir awake, feeling the weight of exhaustion mixed with an overwhelming sense of joy. Beside you, Carlos shifts, rubbing his eyes as he hears the faint whimpering of your newborn.

"I'll get her," he murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

You watch as he moves with surprising gentleness, scooping your daughter into his arms. His hair is tousled, his T-shirt slightly wrinkled from the restless night before, but there's a softness in his gaze that makes your heart clench. He walks back to the bed, cradling the tiny bundle between you.

"She has your nose," he teases, brushing a finger over her delicate features.

"And your stubbornness," you counter, remembering the way she refused to sleep unless she was held—much like her father, who couldn't stand being still for too long.

Carlos chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before placing another on your daughter's tiny hand. "We're in trouble, aren’t we?"

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder. "Completely."

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind—late-night feedings, endless diaper changes, moments of pure bliss mixed with sheer exhaustion. Yet, through it all, Carlos has been your rock. Despite his intense schedule, the races, and the media appearances, he’s always here, always present.

Last night, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, he had walked around the house for hours, humming softly in Spanish until she finally fell asleep. You had stood by the doorway, watching the man who commands speed and precision on the track move so patiently, so lovingly, as if time had slowed just for the two of them.

"Do you ever miss the quiet?" you ask now, watching as your daughter grips his finger in her tiny fist.

Carlos shakes his head, smiling. "Not for a second. This—" He gestures between the three of you. "This is the best race of my life."

Tears prick your eyes, and he notices, tilting your chin up with a teasing smirk. "Are we getting emotional?"

You laugh, swatting his arm, but he only pulls you closer, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that speaks of every late-night whisper, every shared dream, every moment of love that led you here.

Parenthood is messy, unpredictable, and utterly exhausting. But with Carlos by your side, it’s also the most beautiful adventure of all.

Something about you

Miles Morales x Reader

The city hums beneath you, a melody of honking cars and bustling crowds blending into the kind of rhythm you’ve always loved. From this high up, perched on the edge of a rooftop, you can see everything—the glowing skyline, the pulsing heart of Brooklyn, and him. Miles Morales. Spider-Man.

You’re not supposed to be here, but then again, neither is he.

“You come up here often?” he asks, pulling his mask off just enough to reveal his face. His brown eyes gleam with something warm, something curious, and it makes your chest tighten. You don’t know how he does that—how he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, even in a city as loud as this one.

You’ve known him for a while now. At first, just the regular run-ins, where you didn’t even know he was Spider-Man. Then, it was late-night conversations over coffee at your favorite bodega, stolen moments in crowded streets, the way he started to show up more often, his hoodie pulled low, trying to act like he wasn’t waiting for you.

Now, here you are—on a rooftop under a bruised-purple sky, where the air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

“You tell me,” you shoot back, your voice lighter than you feel. “Spider-Man probably has all the best views, right?”

He grins, and it’s like the city lights get caught in his smile, making it brighter. “Yeah, but this one’s different.”

You tilt your head, your brows furrowing. “Different how?”

Miles leans back, his arms propping him up as he looks out over the city. The golden glow of the setting sun brushes across his face, painting him in warm light. And when he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing something more than just your face. Something deeper.

“Because you’re here,” he says, his voice softer now. “You look... I don’t know. Like a dream or something. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen...”

“Wow,” you interrupt, laughing despite yourself. “That’s cheesy, even for you, Morales.”

His laugh joins yours, a sound so easy and real that it makes your heart stumble. But then his gaze softens again, and the weight of it pins you in place.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You don’t see it, but you’re... everything. Like, when I’m out there—swinging around, doing the whole hero thing—it’s your face I think of when things get tough.”

The words catch you off guard. You’ve never had anyone talk to you like this, like you’re more than just another person in the crowd. Like you’re something worth remembering. Worth fighting for.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Miles…”

Before you can say anything else, he’s standing, holding a hand out to you. “Come on,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate for only a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip is warm, steady, and when he pulls you closer, you don’t even think about the drop below. With a quick flick of his wrist, his web shoots out, catching onto a building across the way.

“You trust me?” he asks, grinning.

“Do I have a choice?” you tease, but your heart races for a completely different reason now.

“Nope,” he says, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into his arms and leaps.

The city blurs into streaks of light and color, the wind rushing past your face as you hold onto him. His laughter rings in your ears, and for the first time in a long time, you feel free.

When he finally lands on another rooftop, you’re breathless. Not from the swinging, but from the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“See?” he says, still holding onto you. “Best view in the city.”

And as the last rays of sunlight fade into the horizon, you realize he’s not talking about the skyline.

I can't read your mind

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The low hum of the Madrid evening wraps around you like a gentle embrace, broken only by the murmur of distant voices and the occasional clink of glasses. You stand on the balcony of a sleek penthouse, your sequined gown catching the moonlight as if it were meant to. Tonight had been a triumph—the premiere of your latest film—but your thoughts are tangled, a script with too many subplots to follow.

Behind you, the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your reverie. You turn to see Carlos Sainz, his tailored suit catching the light as effortlessly as his smile catches your breath. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets, and his eyes, dark and mischievous, carry that infuriating glint that always seems to find your weak spot.

“You’ve been hiding out here,” he says, his voice teasing as he leans on the railing beside you.

“I needed air,” you reply, keeping your tone even, neutral.

This isn’t the first time you’ve crossed paths. For months, it’s been the same: fleeting encounters at festivals, galas, yacht parties in Monaco. There’s always been a pull between you, something unspoken but electric. Tonight, though, it feels like the air between you has shifted.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, tilting his head. “Not like you.”

You grip the railing, searching for the right words. “Do you ever feel like… you can’t figure someone out? Like no matter what they say, their actions keep contradicting their words?”

His brow lifts, intrigued. “Sometimes. But I usually don’t waste time trying to figure people out. They show you who they are, one way or another.”

You let out a soft laugh, tinged with frustration. “That’s easy for you to say. You live life in the fast lane. No time to overthink.”

“And you?” he counters, his voice dipping lower. “You’re always overthinking, aren’t you?"

The way he looks at you makes your heart skip. You glance away, but the weight of his gaze lingers. Finally, you admit what’s been gnawing at you.

“I just… I don’t get you, Carlos. One minute, you’re charming and attentive, and the next, you’re distant. You say you want to keep things casual, but then you look at me like this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and the silence makes your pulse quicken. Then, he takes a step closer, his presence radiating warmth.

“I didn’t think someone like you would slow down for someone like me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink, startled by his candor. “Why not?”

“You’re a star. Everyone wants a piece of you. I didn’t want to add to that. But now…” He pauses, his fingers brushing yours on the railing. “Now, I’m starting to think I’ve been wrong.”

Your breath catches. In his eyes, you see something raw, unguarded—a glimpse of the man behind the charm.

“Maybe I don’t want casual,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Maybe I’m just scared you don’t want anything more.”

The honesty in his words cracks something open in you. You’ve been holding back, too, afraid to show him just how much he’s gotten under your skin.

“I don’t need you to read my mind, Carlos,” you say, your hand turning to intertwine with his. “I just need you to be honest with me.”

His smile, the one that always weakens your knees, softens into something real. “That, I can do.”

The city lights shimmer below as he leans in, his lips brushing yours. The kiss is unhurried, sincere, and it drowns out the doubts that had clouded your mind. In that moment, the world falls away, leaving only the quiet truth of what you’ve both been searching for all along.

Nightmares

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You wake to the sound of soft, hurried footsteps padding across the polished floor, barely audible over the hum of Coruscant’s distant nightlife. The warm body beside you shifts—Anakin, his breathing even and steady, blissfully unaware of the disturbance. You smile faintly, brushing away a stray strand of his tousled hair before turning toward the door.

Two small figures appear in the doorway, outlined by the dim light from the hall. Luke and Leia, clutching their blankets, their wide eyes filled with fear. You’re on your feet in an instant, already kneeling to their level before they can say a word.

“Another nightmare?” you ask softly, stroking Leia’s dark curls as she nods, her lower lip trembling. Luke burrows into your side, his tiny hands gripping your nightclothes tightly. You exchange a glance with Anakin, who’s now awake and sitting up, concern etched across his face.

“Come here,” he says, his voice warm and soothing as he pats the space beside him on the large bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

Leia hesitates, her little brows furrowed, but Luke is already climbing up with your help, wriggling under the blankets. You scoop Leia into your arms, kissing her temple as you carry her to the bed. She sighs, her small frame relaxing against you.

The four of you settle in—a tangle of limbs and blankets, the children nestled between you and Anakin. Luke curls against his father, his small hands gripping Anakin’s tunic as though it’s the only anchor in his stormy dreams. Leia clings to you, her fingers twining with yours as you stroke her hair, whispering reassurances.

“They’re safe,” Anakin murmurs, his voice barely audible as he watches them with that soft, vulnerable look he reserves only for his family. “We won’t let anything harm them.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the galaxy shrinks to just this—your children’s quiet breathing, Anakin’s steady presence, and the love that binds you all together.

Leia stirs, her voice a sleepy murmur. “Daddy, can you tell us a story?”

You glance at Anakin, who raises a brow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I think your mother tells better stories than I do,” he says, his tone playful.

Rolling your eyes, you lean closer, your voice soft and soothing as you weave a tale. Anakin chimes in now and then, embellishing with dramatic flourishes that make the children giggle despite their exhaustion.

By the time your story ends, Luke and Leia are fast asleep, their nightmares forgotten. Anakin reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he whispers, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You smile, your heart full as you glance at your sleeping children. “It’s not just me,” you whisper back, your gaze meeting his. “It’s us.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his warmth chasing away any lingering shadows. For tonight, the galaxy can wait. Here, in this moment, you have everything you need.

𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓘'𝓶 𝓪 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵, 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓮𝓻

Leon Kennedy x Reader

The flashing red and blue lights make everything feel like a dream—one of those slow, dizzy ones where the world tilts under your feet. The pavement is too cold beneath you, the night air sharp against your bare arms, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

Leon S. Kennedy.

It’s almost unfair that someone so good-looking is also the one snapping the handcuffs around your wrists.

“You’re drunk,” he states, his voice annoyingly even.

You blink up at him through heavy lashes, lips curling into a slow, practiced smile. “Nooo,” you drawl, “I’m just…happy.”

He exhales sharply. Not quite a sigh, but close. He looks good like this, under the glow of the police cruiser’s lights, jaw tight, grip firm as he helps—no, drags—you to your feet.

“Come on.” His voice is firm, but there’s no real anger in it. “You’re going downtown.”

You let yourself lean into him, just a little, your head tilting as you peer up at him. “Do you have a girl, officer?” you purr, eyes flicking to his hands. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

Leon stills for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. But you don’t. You notice everything.

“That’s none of your business,” he replies, guiding you toward the car.

You press closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling your senses. “I’m a good girl, Officer Kennedy.” Your voice is syrupy sweet, laced with false innocence. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, more exasperation than amusement, but you swear you see the corner of his lips twitch. “Yeah? A good girl wouldn’t be getting arrested right now.”

“Arrested?” You feign a gasp, placing a hand against your chest like he just accused you of something awful. “But I’m too pretty for jail.”

“Then maybe,” he says, finally pushing you into the backseat of the cruiser, “you should stop breaking the law.”

The door shuts, locking you in. The night is cold without him close, and you watch as he walks around to the front, slipping into the driver’s seat.

You smirk to yourself, resting your head against the seat.

This night just got way more interesting.

dreamgirl

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

You had always known that love could be complicated, but nothing had prepared you for the whirlwind of emotions that Alexei Vronsky brought into your life. He was everything you had ever imagined in a partner — handsome, charming, and filled with a passion that both exhilarated and terrified you. You were engaged to him, but somehow, that commitment only made your feelings more tangled.

It was a quiet afternoon when you found yourself alone with him in the garden, the golden rays of the setting sun casting a soft glow over the petals of the flowers. Alexei stood beside you, his usual composed demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable, more real.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re meant for something more than this?” he asked, his voice soft, but laced with intensity. You looked at him, feeling the weight of his gaze on your face, his eyes filled with longing that you couldn’t deny.

You had always admired Alexei’s ability to mask his emotions, but in that moment, it was clear he was torn. Torn between the life you had been planning together, and the undeniable pull he felt for something else — someone else, perhaps. You didn’t need to ask. The tension between you both was enough.

“I don’t know, Alexei,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, as you gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “I thought I knew what we had, but sometimes, I wonder if we're just holding onto the idea of each other.”

His hand reached out, his fingers grazing yours. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine. His face softened, as though he understood.

“Maybe we’re afraid to let go,” he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. “Afraid of what it means to love someone completely… to lose ourselves in them.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions that swirled within you. Everything was so uncertain, yet when you were with him, the world outside seemed to disappear.

“I don’t want to lose you, Alexei,” you said, your voice barely audible. “But what if we’re not the people we thought we were when we made these promises?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence enveloping you as he gently cupped your face with his hands. His thumb brushed over your lips, and for a moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

“We were always meant to be more than the promises we made,” he murmured, his lips grazing your forehead in a tender kiss. “You and I… we are meant to write our own story. A story that is not bound by expectations or duty, but by what we feel, here and now.”

His words sent your heart into a frenzy, but you knew deep down that this was the truth you had been avoiding. Your engagement with Alexei was built on expectations, on what others had hoped for you, not on the uncharted path of real, raw love that pulsed between you.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you realized that you couldn’t keep pretending to be someone you weren’t. With Alexei, you were not bound by the future, but by the present — the shared moments of passion and vulnerability that connected you both in a way that was impossible to deny.

In that garden, with the world fading around you, you knew that your love story with Alexei Vronsky would never be simple, but it would always be yours. And no matter what the future held, you would always remember the day when you let go of the promises you thought you had to keep, and embraced the love that was waiting for you both.

𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Peter Parker x Reader

You lean against the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like a thousand stars caught in the web of concrete. The wind ruffles your hair, but you're not bothered by it. Not when you're so focused on the one person who’s been messing with your mind lately—Spider-Man.

He's perched on the edge of the building, eyes scanning the streets below, looking for trouble. But the moment you step into his line of sight, everything shifts. He straightens up, his posture alert, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a challenge, maybe even a glint of something else. He knows who you are, and you know him. You've crossed paths more times than you'd care to admit—fighting, teasing, bickering.

And yet, there's always that tension. You can feel it in the air, like the charged buzz before a thunderstorm.

“So, what are we doing tonight, Webhead?” you call out, deliberately leaning closer as you speak, making sure he notices the sway of your voice. You see the way his jaw tightens, how his body stiffens, and it's almost enough to make you smirk. Almost.

“You know,” he says, voice low and steady, but you can catch the edge of something more, “I’m getting kind of tired of you showing up just to cause chaos.” He flips himself into a crouch, ready for anything.

“Cause chaos?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a playful smile. “I’m just here to have a little fun. You should try it sometime.” Your eyes meet his, and there's an almost teasing energy in your stare, the same electric current that always seems to pass between you two.

His eyes narrow. “Are you flirting with me or starting a fight?”

You let out a soft laugh, a laugh that dances between confidence and something far more dangerous. “Why not both?” You take a step closer, watching the way his breath catches. You know he’s trying to keep his cool, but the way his gaze flickers down to your lips gives him away. You’ve seen that look before. He’s not entirely immune.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that teases at something deeper. Something almost… dangerous. You both know you're enemies. You've fought on opposite sides countless times. But there’s something about this game you play. It's like a constant tug-of-war between attraction and animosity.

Spider-Man lunges toward you with a speed you barely manage to sidestep. The playful tension slips into something more intense, more urgent. He spins around, keeping his distance, but you can feel his presence pressing in on you.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want that,” you tease, taking a slow step forward, daring him to make the next move.

His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something—maybe even flirt back—but then he stops himself. It’s almost as if he’s wrestling with his own reaction, weighing the consequences of letting this thing between you two slip into something more. Something… personal.

But then, in a flash of motion, he’s gone. No fight. No words. Just the whisper of his webbing as it disappears into the night.

You stand there for a moment, watching the empty space where he used to be. A soft laugh escapes your lips.

This isn’t over. You both know it.

And deep down, you both know it never will be.

Are we allies or enemies?

Paul Atreides x Reader

You stand across the grand, austere chamber of the Arrakis Palace, the heavy silence broken only by the faint sound of desert winds. You feel the weight of your Bene Gesserit training pressing against your every thought, a constant reminder that this union was never meant to be one of choice, but of necessity. Politics, power, survival—they had all converged into this moment, binding you to Paul Atreides.

His eyes, the piercing blue of spice saturation, meet yours. He is inscrutable, as always. You can sense the storms within him, as vast and unknowable as the sands of Arrakis. The Kwisatz Haderach. A man destined to transcend, to lead, to destroy. And you—trained for obedience, manipulation, and control—now stand as his equal in name, though neither of you believes it.

“Are we allies or enemies? ” His voice cuts through the stillness like the cry of a crysknife drawn from its sheath.

The question startles you. You’d expected another day of brittle silence, the uneasy truce that defines your every interaction. But Paul is not one to avoid confrontation.

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture of feigned curiosity masking the churn of your emotions. “That depends, doesn’t it? On whether you see me as a tool of the Sisterhood or as… something else.”

He steps closer, his expression unreadable. The weight of his presence is suffocating, a reminder of why he inspires both reverence and fear among his followers. “You were sent here to control me. To influence my choices. But here you are, bound to me. Tell me does that not make you my prisoner?”

His words strike a nerve, but you do not flinch. Your training does not allow it. Instead, you let your gaze harden. “A prisoner, perhaps. Or a key to your survival. The Bene Gesserit do not act without reason.”

“And what is your reason, now?” he presses.

You hesitate. You have spent so long guarding your thoughts, hiding your true self behind layers of calculated responses. But here, in this moment, with his intensity boring into you, the truth slips free.

“I don’t know.”

The admission feels like a crack in a dam, letting loose a torrent of emotions you’d sworn to suppress. You hate him for this—for unraveling you so easily. For making you feel.

Paul’s expression softens, just barely. “Neither do I,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This… this was not my choice, either.”

The vulnerability in his words surprises you. For a moment, you see not the Emperor, not the god-like figure revered by the Fremen, but a man caught in the same web of fate as you.

“All is fair in love and war,” you murmur, the words bitter on your tongue.

Paul chuckles, a dry, mirthless sound. “And this is both, isn’t it?”

You nod, the truth of it hanging heavy between you. This marriage is a battlefield, each of you wielding words and glances as weapons. Yet, beneath the tension lies something else. A fragile, unspoken connection that neither of you dares to name.

“I can’t fight with you anymore,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

Paul studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, to your astonishment, he extends a hand. “Then don’t. Let us… find another way.”

You stare at his outstretched hand, your heart pounding in your chest. Trust does not come easily to a Bene Gesserit, and yet…

Slowly, you place your hand in his. His grip is firm, steady, and for the first time, you feel a glimmer of something that might one day grow into trust.

It will not be easy. The path ahead is fraught with danger, betrayal, and loss. But as you stand there, hand in hand with the man you once saw only as a rival, you dare to hope that perhaps, together, you can forge a different destiny.

One where love and war do not have to destroy you both...