#me: i should practice armor!

[the-owl-tree]

*holds out hands like pitiful starving Victorian child* please sir, may I have some bluestar?

#warrior cats #bluestar #deer scribbles #me: i should practice armor! #me afetrwards: if i ever see armor if in my life im killing everyone

[thequeenwechoose]

Daemon Targaryens armor in House of the Dragon 

#daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd spoilers #asoiafedit #armor #don't get me wron i understand the practical armor they had in got #but this is what armor should look like in a medival fantasy show #the dragon helmet looks so good #all the little details with the rubys #reminds me of rhaegars in the book

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ

Summary: Your arranged marriage to the na-Baron is something that you look upon with a sense of dread and reluctance. His violence, brutality and cunning are something that haunts you. You should fear him. You do. But for some reason, you can't seem to stay away.

Warnings: 18+ content. MDI. AFAB, she/her pronouns. Reader is a virgin but not entirely inexperienced, virginity loss. Hints of morally gray reader. Oral (F!Receiving), biting and blood, PinV, non-protected sex, Canon typical violence (blood, death, gladiator fights). Feyd. Not proofread.

Notes: 20.4k words. The essence of enemies to lovers. The reader is an Atreides but not a daughter of Jessica. IDK ya'll, something about seeing Austin Butler bald and deranged has altered me.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. 

Your heart is in your throat. It feels as though it's lodged itself in place between the cartilage and flesh to choke your windpipe, making each breath snag and tremble. You can practically feel it pulsing along your pharynx. You try to focus, steeling yourself by lacing your fingers together until you fear you might break them. Not even the litany that has been engrained in you since childhood serves to center your thoughts, but still you try. Chanting lowly in your head and quietly under your breath as not to be heard. As not to reveal your anxiety, but you know that the evidence of your distress must be more than obvious. And it had been very apparent since this morning, as you prepared for your travel to Giedi Prime where you will be married. 

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

The looks that Lady Jessica had given you were harsh and piercing. The eyes of a teacher. You had found no forgiveness in her arms even though she has done her best to take the place of your mother. But she is a Bene Gesserit first. Always. Just as you must be. But you must also be an Atreides. Duty is your purpose. It runs in your blood. It's the very reason why you pull air into your lungs. It's why you were even born. You have to honor that. Even if it requires sacrifice. Even if fear trembles down each and every notch of your spine; even when your thoughts are scattered and wild; even with the entire trajectory of your life being placed into the palms of some of the most ruthless beings in the universe. You will survive. 

I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

You swallow harshly, trying to force down your nerves with it but the way that the craft shudders and trembles with the strain of breaking through the foreign planet's atmosphere doesn't help. It only serves to make your inner turmoil worse. Your gaze sweeps around the cabin, a hollow thing meant for military, not comfort, and the presence of a small squad clad in their combat armor reminds you of the strained relationship that your family has nurtured with this house for several millennia. A reminder that you aren't supposed to be here on your own. Nearly clawing at your own hands and struggling to center yourself as the cold, dark walls of the ship tremble and shake like the stomach of starved animal. Your wedding was supposed to take place on Richese, a neutral planet that no longer governs political alliances with neither Caladan nor Giedi Prime. That is what had been negotiated long before you were even born, with both Houses having been too paranoid to allow both products of their lineage onto enemy territory. But a month before the wedding, the Baron had sent word. An invitation of sorts, that he wished to encourage the House of Atreides to allow the union to commence on his soil as a token of good faith. As a signal that all of the bad blood and the violence shared between each party could finally be laid to rest.

But as with most houses, it was more than just an invitation. It strengthened the Harkonnen image to place forth the olive branch and if Duke Leto refused it could be seen in bad light. A sign of weakness or distaste. The summoning could not be refused lest it smear the Atreides name in the eye of the Emperor, always a fickle and superficial man. Even with that logic, you can't help the spike of anger that rouses in your chest and threatens to burn. It's because of that sense, no matter how correct it may be, that you're sitting in this damned ship, breaking into the polluted atmosphere of a dead planet when you could have had just one more day on soil that wasn't obscured and marred by heavy cities and volcanic rock. 

Selfish. You're just being selfish. 

Even though she is not here to guide you, the image of Lady Jessica's eyes flash within your mind, sharp and exacting despite their light shade; amplified by the delicate, embroidered fabric that framed her head just this morning.  School your face, her expression tells you. And she - or at least the mental image of her, is right. You can't let yourself fall to your emotions, no matter how strongly they want to eat you alive. You've prepared for this moment since your first breath. You've spent nearly every waking moment practicing in the ways of the Bene Gesserit under the guidance of Lady Jessica. You'vee spent countless hours poring over the history and politics of both houses in preparation for your future role; what must have amounted to months of studying the culture and customs of the Harkonnen. All of them seem to be rooted in violence and savagery in some way or another. Aggression and cunning are prized traits. Bloodshed is coveted. The people according to old texts and educational filmbooks are just as severe as their environment. An environment that they had cultivated from their brutal and avaricious nature, tearing up all of its resources until nothing was left. 

You can't help but wonder if you will suffer the same fate. 

But if you are going to be honest with yourself, it isn't the toxic hellscape or even the idea of marriage that puts you on edge. It is him. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is someone who is notorious for his violence. Stories of his conquests and cruelty echo out across the houses, Minor and Major; there is not a soul who hasn't heard of his reputation. And despite having been promised to him since before your birth, you haven't met the na-Baron once in your life. Both houses had been too stubborn to schedule an interaction between the two of you. Most likely due to mistrust. Plus, a meeting isn't necessarily required for a marriage to commence, not one amongst houses, at least. But the fact that you haven't so much as seen the na-Baron's face has always left you feeling horribly vulnerable. Like you have been left to navigate you footing in the dark and the slightest misstep might leave you to tumble into the void. It had been another reason why you have always been so adamant on learning of the Harkonnen people; some desperate venture to discover as much about your soon to be husband as possible. You've tried to paint some sort of image of him in your head with the information provided by word of mouth and old filmbooks. Gurney had been one of the first people to warn you of Harkonnen ruthlessness. Their proclivity towards greed and violence. A violence that they don't even spare their own people from. 

"You will have to be strong," he told you just before you had boarded onto the star craft, eager to speak to you before you left forever. It was his worry you knew. He was panicked inside despite being the picture of composure. The look in his eyes had kept you frozen in place, locked onto him even with the mild thrum of chaos and bodies clamoring around you, servants and soldiers alike working to prep the ship for your flight, loading trunks and chests full of your personal belongings onto the carrier. It was firm; the type of resolution that is brought from experience. From a personal sort of pain and the glint of it left you feeling empty; gutted. The only thing that kept you centered was the grip of his hand on your forearm, firm and warm in its hold like it may help to drill his words better into your skull. "Every moment will be a fight for you. Harkonnen sniff out weakness like dogs. You cannot yield. Ever." 

You've heard words like that about them all your life. Horror stories from Atreides soldiers who had encounters with opposing Harkonnen forces. Tales of stark, pale skin and the glint of snarling blackened teeth before they deliver a killing blow. Features that a younger version of yourself never would have imagined for her intended. But those naive, wistful fantasies that you used to entertain as a child are long gone now. Replaced by the harsh realities of war and bloodshed. When you were a girl, still ignorant to the true depth of your duties, you had imagined someone with kind, intelligent eyes as your future husband. Someone patient and understanding; even with the whispers of the Harkonnen's true nature lurking over you like leaping shadows. But back then you were young enough to have hope. Back then, you would dream of him too in the flashes of deep, piercing eyes; you'd hear the low rumble of a voice while blades flashed and carved through pale air. 

 And on some nights visions still torment you. But now they taunt with the sensation of phantom touches and the mirage of balmy skin that sears against you own so intently that sometimes it tears you from your slumber with ragged breaths and a humiliating heat between your thighs. 

You can feel the pressure in the cabin shift around you, weighing over your head and bearing down on your shoulders as the ship continues its descent. Your ears pop, and the sound has the awful, paranoid visual of snapping bones and tendons projecting across your mind. You pull a heavy breath into your lungs, holding it there while you try to shift your thoughts onto something less violent. Escaping to fond memories to try and soothe yourself. For a just a moment you pretend that you are not here at all, but back home on Caladan. You can see the ocean. The long stretch of crystalline water, glittering underneath the cast of the balmy sunlight as trawlers coast along the current to capture netfuls of fish, looking like dots along the distant horizon. But it's always the wind that you love the most. Even when the skies are clear, unmarred from the blot of heavy rainclouds, you can always smell the presence of a storm in the air, perfuming the breeze with the earthy musk of petrichor and the fresh salt of the ocean. You can practically feel the brush of lush grass sweeping along your palms, prickling along the sensitive skin with the damp hint of the dew that seeps from the rich ground. 

Your reverie is shattered to a million pieces when the metallic hum of the craft's engine reverberates across the walls and floor of the cabin, signaling that it is approaching the ground; preparing to land. Each pulse of the sharp groan sounds like the pound of a nail in a casket. You can just barely focus around the wild patter of your heartbeat in your ears and for a moment you think that you might become ill. You could still feel the warmth of your brother's arms around your body. The way that he had clung to you. Like he was afraid to let go; to watch you slip from his life. In turn you had latched onto him, hesitant to unwind your arms from him, trying to claim the feel and scent of him to memory. But you couldn't have remained that way forever, and when you had pulled away from each other, the corners of his mouth were perked up into a smile. But it was too dull, too forced to be truly happy. You saw something mournful peeking through it, even while he tried to appear composed for your sake. You know how much he opposes of your intended matrimony. You have eavesdropped on the arguments he has shared with your father behind closed doors, attempting to fight for your sake even though it was a lost cause. His fear that you might not survive the ruthlessness of the Harkonnen, his misguided guilt for you taking his intended place. It had made you sorry for him the first time he had confessed that remorse to you. That he felt as though he was the one to blame for your marriage because it was his initial future to wed into the Harkonnen House had he not been born a male. Even with your near constant insistence that it was not his burden to bear, he refused to shed the weight of his self-imposed guilt. Always so damn stubborn. 

You had done your best to return his smile, softly squeezing his hand to comfort him and center your mind while the briny Caladan wind swept across the landing pad. But the memory cannot keep your heart from plummeting down to your gut when the craft finally touches the ground, shuddering lightly as it lands with a deep whir. 

You're here. You are actually on Giedi Prime now. 

There is officially no turning back. 

You feel like a ghost when you are drawn to rise, and you hardly register the fact that you haven't moved from your place on the seating to stand on your feet once the ship is still. You feel like an empty vessel, seeing but not registering as everyone moves about the empty space with practiced ease to stand before the hatch. The small unit of four soldiers have all built a formation around you and your own handmaidens, who stand diligently behind you. On any other occasion, they would have lined themselves in front of you all as well. Especially during affairs with the Harkonnen. But this is not a regular affair, and as trivial as it may seem, something as simple as guards posed in front of the Duke's daughter could be viewed as an act of distrust. A blight on your wedding and the union of the houses. 

Despite the way that everyone holds themselves; the images of discipline with perfect posture and heads held high, the apprehension that taints the atmosphere could be mistaken for a tangible thing. You could still see glimpses of tension set in the soldiers' shoulders; you could see the rigidity in their necks, anticipation and worry hidden underneath their armor.

Your father should be here too. Your family. But you know that they can't. A matter of ill, convenient timing that required them to board their own ship to leave for Arrakis. The Emperor had passed the fief to the House of Atreides, calling them to abandon their position on Caladan - to abandon your ancestorial home - in favor for the desert and the production of spice. It was an unexpected development, but one that your father would not turn down. As angry as you would like to be, you know how difficult this is for him. You have wanted to blame him for so long. And for a while you did. He's your father. He is supposed to protect you. To keep your happiness and security in mind. But because of the perspective, it is also easy to forget that he is more than just your father, he is also a Duke, with countless lives to defend and shelter. He is an Atreides. 

You are an Atreides, and there is no call you do not answer. 

You had shared one final look with him on Caladan, underneath the golden rays of the morning sun.  You didn't flinch or waver underneath his gaze. You remained firm, and some sort of understanding passed between the both of you, melting away the hatred and betrayal that ran thick in your blood stream. In that split second, you saw so much pass through his eyes: determination, acceptance and something like a bare shred of loss before it was quickly masked by unwavering resolve. A resolve that you too had to master. 

A dull jolt sounds out across the dark, metallic space and with it the large hatch of the ship begins to open, exposing a sliver of pale light. Butterflies erupt inside of your gut at the sight of the glow, brushing along your stomach and threatening to overcome you with a rush of nausea. But you hold yourself still, attempting to swallow down the unease but suddenly your throat is bone dry and stuffed with cotton. Perhaps the only thing that keeps you in place is the promise the Feyd-Rautha will not be present at your arrival. A small respite that your father had been able to secure you in the form of a Caladan wedding custom; that your husband should not be able to see you before your ceremony, lest the matrimony fall to bad luck. And in truth it is a tradition. One that has trickled down through the ages from Old Earth, so it was not necessarily done by means of deceit. Even so, the Baron had apparently been less than thrilled by the prospect of keeping you and his nephew separated once on the same soil, though it seems that your father still had managed to persuade him regardless. A small victory for you at least. 

Now all you can do is hope that the Baron has stuck to his word. 

You watch with ice in your veins and frozen lungs as the ramp continues to lower, yawning open akin to the jaws of an animal that threatens to discard you at the feet of starving beasts like scraps. More of that harsh light flows into the dark of the cabin, spilling over the heads of the soldiers, eating up the floor until it slips over your body, rising up over you until it reaches your eyes like a blaze; threatening to blind you with its intensity. You wince from the brightness of it, blinking rapidly until your eyes adjust to the absence of shadows. The surprised, low hiss that erupts from behind you, tells you that one of your handmaidens has also been taken off guard and blinded. 

With the continuation of its descent, it begins to reveal a blackened skyline of buildings that rise like slopping monoliths. Massive structures eat up the ground and cast stretching shadows across the dark platform. It strikes you that the little bit of the visible sky is a pale, as though a flat storm cloud had consumed the heavens. It isn't blue like the skies back home, or even orange or anything. It is simply a white void. It's all monochrome. Devoid of color and life. Everywhere that you look is either a piercing black or a violent white that almost burns to behold, and it is with a quick, almost hesitant inspection downward that you discover that the emerald hue of your silk dress has turned a shade of a deep smoky black from the strange illumination. 

But you don't get time to dwell on the discovery for long before the ramp meets the ground with a dull groan. It might as well as be a death sentence. You just barely catch sight of the of the figures that are lined along the platform, silently waiting for you to step out into the light. In your stupor, you have noticed that the number of Harkonnen that wait for your exit is a rather small group. It is not a massive procession with banners or celebration; there is no intrigued crowd of citizens awaiting to evaluate you. No more than five Harkonnen stand out on the platform, focusing on you with the distance the separates your parties with clasped hands and heads held high. The Baron it seems, holds no excitement for your arrival and has made no effort to welcome you on Giedi Prime. The message has been made clear of what he thinks of this union. Of you. 

The bastard. 

The world has gone hush. Dead silent as everyone awaits your move. And it is with that thought suddenly that you realize that everyone is waiting for you to take action. You are no longer expected to follow. You aren't allowed the crutch of following after your father or Lady Jessica's footsteps. They aren't here to guide you anymore. You steel yourself with a deep breath, drawing up your shoulders as you will yourself to step forward. Your legs are suddenly heavy like they have been strapped down with boulders and iron, but you force them into a stride regardless. Even when each move forward feels like a motion closer to your demise. 

You can hear the gentle clink of your Handmaidens heels as they dutifully trail after you. It gives you some comfort, no matter how small, that you have some familiar faces amongst you. That you aren't completely alone here. 

Still, you try to distract yourself. And in some mad scramble, your mind latches onto some old passage that you had read back on Caladan during one of your distant studies. It has you daring to sneak a few glances upward to the pale sky in between your focus forward, squinting through the glare, ignoring the way that the delicate chained veil draped across your face nudges against your eyelashes in your search for the sun. You had heard of its description countless times, seen holograms of it before, but none of them had managed to do the true thing honesty. In its blaze, it is claimed to cast an infrared shine which explains the bleak, washout coloration of the planet. But seeing the source of said lighting was entirely different. You do your best not to openly gawk at. To not stare at it for too long. The last thing that you want is to go blind; your fortune is terrible enough as is. But you're unable to stop yourself from stealing fleeting peeks at the star. If you didn't know any better, you could have mistaken it for a sort of eclipse. It looks like a black hole has torn through the heavens, gaping like an open wound, and you would have no idea that it was burning if not for the streams of light radiating from its rounded edges like a halo. 

Even with the remnants of your hatred smoldering through your body and turning your muscles rigid, you can't deny that there is a kind of odd beauty about the star. It's strange to see something that you had learned about so many years ago, and there is some detached part of you that has not fully accepted that you are even truly here. That small piece is still safely tucked away on Caladan, admiring as the sea meets the cliffside in a rolling crest of foam and froth. 

But that still is not enough to keep you from your reality. 

You all come to a unanimous halt, standing to leave a decent breadth between you and the Harkonnen. You have heard many things of the Baron of Giedi Prime. His guile. His hedonism. Whispers among the houses claimed him to be a gargantuan man. Someone whose intensity and mannerisms alone command attention and make men cower. The Baron, you quickly deduce, is not here. It seems that he has sent his advisors and servants in his stead. Whether that be from arrogance or indolence, or hatred, you are not sure. 

The man who stands at the in the center of the greeting committee holds himself with an air of importance. Back straight and hands clasped as he analyzes your small party. He is awfully pallid, just as his other companions are, a product of being denied ultraviolet rays that could be found in your planets own sun. The hulking black star cradled in the sky above you is hardly able to provide a proper tan it seems. The stark, unforgiving light casted from the solar body bathes you all in a layer of an achromatic hue, and it glints across the rounded skin of his bare scalp. They are all bald, you have easily observed, and you can just faintly recall reading a chapter in regard to Harkonnen beauty standards. Their proclivity to remove every ounce of hair from their bodies as a sign of cleanliness and purity; the means to extract themselves from their meek beginnings and perhaps, to a degree, a way to separate themselves from humanity. But the dark vertical strip that stretches across the expanse of his bottom lip signifies his position as a Mentat. 

"Lady Atreides," the Harkonnen advisor greets, voice deceptively placid and monotone. "We are grateful for your arrival. I trust that the trip was respectable." His words are kind, but the expression on his face is decidedly neutral. There is something about him that instantly unnerves you. Be it the unrushed nature of his mannerisms or the sly look in his eyes, you are not sure, but he sets you on edge. 

You force yourself to speak, calming your features into something just as blank and fixed as his own. "It was fair," you answer truthfully, before pointedly scanning the surrounding area. "It is a beautiful planet." A lie is you have ever said one, and the Mentat does not appear to be ignorant to your sad attempt at charm. Even with the unmoved aura that radiates from him, you are sure that you spotted a small glimmer of amusement pass through the dark of his eyes. 

"I am pleased you think so," he replies easily. "In any case, I have my orders to deliver you to the Baron as soon as possible. An event is being held in the honor of your union to the na-Baron. You shall not want to miss it." 

The confession feels as though it has doused you with ice water, but you refuse to show your distress. You're not stupid. You know that at some point, you would have to face the Baron. You were just hoping that it would not have been so soon. You should have known better, you suppose, that the Baron would give you single moment of reprieve once on his planet, and now you are suddenly not so sure that you want to have to attend a celebration of any sort. 

"Wonderful," you force a smile, one as polite you can manage while making sure to keep your voice gentle and inviting. 

"Leave your soldiers here. They won't be necessary." 

The request leaves you troubled. For a moment you stand there silently, a little dumbly even. That last thing you want to do is leave your only form of proper protection outside on an unfamiliar world. Especially one as hostile and deceitful as Giedi Prime. But you do not have many options here. You are in no true form of power. You are not yet married to the na-Baron, you are lightyears away from your own planet - which doesn't belong to your family anymore by the Emperor's decree - and your father must be on Arrakis by now; even farther away. You are now the one who dictates your fate and survival, and although promised to the na-Baron, your life is still not secured. You must be tactful. 

You turn your head to look over your shoulder at the soldiers who diligently stand behind you and your handmaidens. Your focus meets the unwavering stare of the lieutenant; his hardened countenance, his lips pressed into a firm line. The nod you give him is subtle, but it is still a command, and with it, he and his men silently step back. 

When you return your attention back on the Mentat it is difficult to tell if he is pleased or not with how blank he keeps his features. It's unnerving but then he spins on his heels without any more fanfare and his fellow Harkonnen are quick to shadow him. Hesitation bears heavy in your gut, but even with your instinct telling you to run; to flee, you steel yourself. Drawing in a deep breath to clear your mind, you follow. 

You are not sure what you had expected to find when you had allowed the Mentat to lead you. Some wild, senseless part of you feared that he may have taken you to your death. Led you to a trap to be slaughtered. But no dagger has been raised to your chest. He has not summoned soldiers from the shadows to pull you away and toss you into a tomb. Or maybe in a way he has. 

The doorway that you stand before is daunting. Affixed in front of you like a rival. It is such a trivial, ordinary thing. You have passed through thresholds millions of times in your years, twisted knobs and guided doors open to pass through them. But suddenly, such a mundane thing seems to stand out like a hazardous sign - a bad omen. You know who lies beyond it. Who you must face. Now your bravery threatens to allude you. To leave you abandoned and flailing. It does not help that your handmaidens had been dismissed for you. Guided away by Harkonnen servants, and when you had asked the Mentat as to where they were being taken, what intentions lie ahead for them, he didn't answer. His silence on the matter has left you disturbed; fueled your mind to wonder and theorize about the worst. That they may be harmed. 

He stands next to you now, just as silent as before, watching you expectedly. 

No. You cannot flounder here. You cannot cower or cry. Your duty - your lineage will not allow it. 

With a newfound determination, you step forward with your chin raised proudly. Activated by the motion, the dark door slips open, beckoning you enter, and you answer the invitation without wavering. The Mentat doesn't follow after you, but you hardly pay that any mind, too focused on analyzing the room that you now stand in. The space is open and capacious, and you spot a line of servant girls rowed up to the right with their backs against the wall. They don't glance up when you look at them, even though you can tell that they are aware of your presence. They remain silent, eyes trained on the floor and posture rigid. There is fear in them. 

As if drawn by a magnetic pull, you attention leaves them to wander to the opposite end of the room. His back is facing you, but even then, you are certain that all of the stories you have heard of him will not prepare you for this moment. Even as he perches - lounges on the support of his seat from fully across the room, his presence commands your attention. The order that his being silently instructs is only amplified by the cool, harsh light that pours down around him from the viewing window, highlighting his shape as he sits like a gargoyle poised. The gossip was true, it seems, he is a corpulent man and shares the same ashen complexation as the other Harkonnen that you have seen thus far. And suddenly as curiosity burns in you to see the face of the person who has harmed so many, who has left his blight on the galaxy. 

"Are you joining me, or are you intent on staying in the shadows?" 

The voice is so rough and crude that it shocks you, prickling over your skin with the all the coarseness of sandpaper, and you just barely refrain from showing your displeasure at its harshness. It's graveled as it passes into your ears, but it seizes one's attention instantly, causing the hairs scattered along your body and at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Still you move forward, by the impulse of your own intrigue or the authoritative quality of his voice, you aren't certain, but you cross the breadth that separates you all the same. Each step reveals more of his face to you. The slope of his nose, the crow's feet that cluster around the corners of his eyes, the prominent frown that weighs upon his face. He doesn't spare you a glance as you stop beside him; intently focused on what lies outside of the balcony. 

"Lord Baron," you greet, nodding your head down and bending your knees in a curtsy. 

His hand raises up in a manner than almost seems reprimanding, and it causes you to freeze still, staring at those fingers like he might mean to strike you. But the curl of them is far too lax to deliver a proper blow and it is enough to give you some relief. 

"There is no need for formalities, " he speaks. Then his stare is on you: flaying you open, evaluating, weighing, searching your worth. But underneath the judgement of someone like him, you cannot waver. "We are family now, are we not?" 

The mere implication has you fighting off the urge to shudder in disgust. Instead, you straighten yourself and manage a polite smile. Or you hope that it seems polite at least. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for your answer. He casts a brief glance to the vacant chair close you, and you need no verbal instruction on what he wants, even though he still gives it. 

"Sit," he offers. Commands really. 

 It pains you to comply, to follow the will of the man that you have been guided to resent since you realized consciousness, no matter how small the order, but you swallow your pride. 

Carefully you turn on your feet, being mindful not to nudge the small table that is posted beside the chair, and you make note of the pair of theater binoculars that are displayed on the counter, waiting to be used. Gathering the light pull of your skirt to sit without crumbling the fabric, you allow yourself to recline in the seat and try to ignore how close you are to the Baron. But you suppose that you should learn to come to terms with it. He will be a permanent fixture in your life, whether you like it or not. Though it does not make it any easier to swallow down the bitter taste of loathing on your tongue. Desperate for a distraction your eyes are quick to look out past the boarders of the balcony and the sight that greets you latches onto your focus instantly. It is a wonder how you had even managed to miss the view upon your entrance. But in your defense, you were a little preoccupied. Now you are hardly able to look away. The sheer mass of the structure leaves you captivated. Great, sweeping, walls rise; climbing up towards the blank heavens with rows of seats secured between the hulking barriers. Pale, shifting shapes roar and cheer inside the stands in a fervent display of excitement and anticipation. People you quickly realize. All of them chanting loudly. But the distortion their voices all layered up into a chaotic stream makes it difficult to understand it. The walls that hold them and the very room you sit in encircle a massive plot of bare earth. It is an arena. 

You have seen a few of them in your lifetime. Visited the old coliseums on Caladan. The same ones that your very ancestors had fought wild bulls in. You walked along the ancient, stone walls and pillars, cupped the golden sand within your palm and allowed it to run through your fingers. But the sheer scale of this structure is mindboggling and the number of people that have all massed together to bear witness to its exhibition is even greater. The Mentat had promised you a celebration in the honor of your marriage, and you had been left to wonder what that said celebration may have been. But now you have your answer. There is the evidence of a ferocious fight having taken place in the arena. The face of the white sand bellow has been disturbed. Blemished and smudged by footprints and the clear sign of a struggle; that the fighters had rolled along the ground and tussled for their breath. But even more damning is the dark stains that are streaked and pooled along the course earth. Even with the coloration altered black by the dark sun above, you know that it is blood. 

"A gladiator fight," you conclude aloud, and there is even an edge of scornful humor on your tone. "If you truly wanted a spectacle, you could have me thrown down there. I'm sure your people would love to watch an Atreides be slaughtered." You are not sure where the comment comes from. A sudden burst of confidence or perhaps defiance. You regret your snark as soon as you register the words, but it is too late for apologies now. You simply squeeze your clasped hands together tighter, even while your head is held high. A raspy, amused sound erupts from beside you, like air escaping a puncture, and you just vaguely realize that it is a chuckle. The Baron is laughing even as the smile hardly reaches his face. It is a small sound. Barely even qualifying as a laugh, but it eases you still. 

"A spectacle indeed." He says it as though he is in on a secret that you are not privy to. Part of a joke you might never know, and it immediately snuffs out the small sense of composure that you had achieved. "But I have no use for you dead." 

"Then what use do you have of me?" You pry. 

He hums, a hushed, guttural sound. "Do you know why you are to be married to my nephew?" 

The question gives you pause. There are many duties that you are required to perform in the union with the na-Baron. It is a political alliance first and foremost. A joining of two rival houses, meant to put to rest the animosity that has burned between you both for over 10,000 years. But it is also much more than that. You are to give him an heir as well, the continuation of his lineage. But the Harkonnen are not the only ones who intend for you to produce a child: the Bene Gesserit also demand a progeny of your union (though the Baron must remain ignorant to that design). It is why your mother had been sent the Duke in the first place, to correct Lady Jessica's mistake and birth a daughter. To birth you. So much is dependent on this marriage to flourish. Much that you yourself probably are not even privy to, but it is your duty to perform regardless. If you fail, your family name will forever be smeared and the possibility of the Kwisatz Haderach may be lost to eternity. And you will not allow your mother's death to be in vain. 

"Yes." 

Once more he turns his head to face you and his eyes glint with a deadly intensity. "Then you know of your purpose. "

It is a plain sentence, but it speaks volumes in its simplicity and its intent is not lost on you. It is a warning. A set of instructions that you are meant to follow. Keep your head down, your mouth shut and fulfil your function as promised and you may make it out of this arrangement unscathed. It has anger flaring in the pit of your stomach, prickling over your skin and heating up your face. The desire to say something in defense of yourself rises up high, but you know that you must hold your tongue. You are sure that he can see your opposition in your eyes as much as you try to control it, but he does not mention it. His vision roves over your visage like he is studying you and your reactions, in search of weakness. 

"Now watch." He says and returns his attention back to the bloodied sand beneath. 

Your eyebrows furrow, openly showing you confusion. What the Baron desires you to see, you don't know. You can hardly imagine what he has in store for you but given the nature of the arena and the Baron himself, it surely won't bode well for you. You don't dare to question him or ask that he elaborate. Your mouth remains fixed shut as you survey the colosseum with your breath locked within your lungs. An unwanted type of anticipation prickles at your fingertips and toes; spurred on by the way that the crowd rouses into a frenzy and the vibrations of their riotous cries strike across the atmosphere. The sound of their shouting spikes until it is thunderous, and you can hear the blunt sound of their fists beating against the stadium like a hammer striking down on an iron nail. Despite the many voices overlapping and yelling to be heard of the others, somehow in their clamoring, their words have become clearer. And it is not just words that they are spouting. It is a name. 

Feyd-Rautha. 

You are certain that your lungs cease to function. That they die inside your chest while you still live. The na-Baron is going to fight. You're going to see him. Despite wanting to slip your eyes closed, your body betrays you, leading you to scour along the dark sweeping walls of the arena in a terrified search that does not stop until your vision lands on what looks to be a massive entrance built into the bordering wall of the colosseum. Your heart flutters like a startled bird, quivering wildly like a pair of wings would. "I thought my father said that we would not see each other before the wedding?" 

"He said that he could not look at you. But there was no discussion of you witnessing him," the Baron answers. 

You do not know why the prospect of it makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat, wishing that you could sink into the cushion and vanish. Perhaps it's because seeing him would truly sink the severity of your new reality in. There would truly be no avoiding it once you do. All you can think of is all of the rumors and gossip that you had heard over the many years. The horrible tales of a psychopath. A man unhinged. No better than a rabid dog on a frayed rope. People spoke of a remorseless monster that delighted in blood and was unflinching in delivering death. Other's claimed that his appearance is just as terrifying as his actions. That he's gaunt and hideous to behold with awful, jagged teeth and bloodshot eyes. 

That is not a truth that you are ready to face, and your desire to remain ignorant to the possibility of his unsightly features burns in your gut. You are so caught up in your own anxieties that you hardly register the blaring of the announcer's voice sounding across the stadium, warbling over the sound system to praise and declare the arrival of the man who you have been dreading. You're entirely conflicted; transfixed as the entrance on the far end of the arena begins to slip open, even though your instincts tell you to turn your focus elsewhere. The floor, your hands, the crazed crowd. Anything. But is like watching a great fire or a calamity. The entire time your consciousness warns you not to look, but you are unable to. It is almost as if you have been casted under a horrible spell. Bewitched to see him even though you don't wish to. 

You stare helplessly at the threshold of the arena, and for a moment you wonder if it might be the entrance to the underworld instead. A dark, consuming void for a demon to come crawling out of. But this demon does not crawl. He marches. 

A figure strides out from the gateway wielding two recurved blades and the crowd erupts in an exhilarated cry. From the distance and height, you are unable to discern his features, but the way that he carries himself is already more than enough to give insight to his personality. His steps are long, eating up the ground in quick, measured paces; his shoulders are raised and straight, exuding pride. It's the saunter of someone confident in themselves and their abilities. Someone who is not just in their element but basking in it. He raises an arm high in the air, brandishing his fist and the weapon he clutches in it to address the masses, pointing the tip of the blade to sky as it erupts in a flurry of strange fireworks that burst and flourish like blots of heavy ink. The crowd punch their own arms up in turn and shout his name like an impassioned prayer. 

The apprehension chilling your chest begins to thaw, giving way to a strange sort of curiosity and before you know it, you're reaching for the theater binoculars placed on the table beside you. Anticipation thrums in your veins, nearly making your fingers shake around your grip of the handle as you lift the device up to your face, lining it up to peer into the eyepieces. It takes a moment for your brain to process what it is seeing. Who it's seeing. It's surreal how his once distant, blurred features have become clear and amplified underneath the optics of the binoculars. The familiarity of him strikes you like an unforgiving wave despite never having met him before. But everything, from his gait and the shape of his face seems as though you have gazed upon it a thousand times, ran your fingertips across the rise of his cheek bones and the plains of his face even though you haven't. The familiarity terrifies you, but it also keeps your attention firmly locked onto him. 

What catches your attention first are his eyes. It is difficult to tell their shade from underneath the monochrome emittance of the sun - they seem dark but some buried, distant instinct whispers that they're truly blue. A light shade akin the ocean, glittering in shades of pale cerulean and teal. It strikes you how they burn with a calculated excitement. A dangerous, fervid type of delight as he gauges the crowd with rapt attention. Even with the intense light bathing most of the scenery shades of white you know that the pale complexion of his skin is natural. Paired with the sharp angles that create his features it makes him seem as though he could have been cut from marble; a statue gifted with life and will. His lips, you shamelessly notice, are plush, and are set into a soft pout. 

Even with resentment for the Harkonnen still fueling your heartbeat you're unable to deny that the stories and claims that you had heard about his appearance were awful exaggerations. Absolute lies. You don't want to admit it, but there is a kind of beauty about him. Not one that you would have found on your home planet, but he's quite attractive in a way that is almost lethal. It strikes you in a way that it shouldn't. 

You continue to watch him as he comes to halt in the center of the arena, twisting his feet in a circle to look upon every section of the crowd before facing the direction of the balcony. He begins to lower himself to the ground, resting a single knee onto the sand in a sort of bow. All the while his eyes are trained upward, dangerously close to where you sit and you know that he's looking towards the Baron, kneeling to show his respects. All you can do is pray that he will pay your presence no mind. That he won't care enough to acknowledge you. 

It seems that the universe has no desire to answer your prayers this day. 

His dark focus flickers onto you so suddenly that you hardly have time to register it. As your eyes meet through the glass of the device, you suddenly feel as though you have been laid bare. The deafening cries of the masses fade down into a distant hum as all of your focus centers down onto him. You've never felt so exposed in your life. Like all of your every part of you has been spread open and seen; the darkest facets of you are held forward. It's like he's actually seeing you somehow. Peering at you through the distance that keeps you apart. But it's impossible for him to truly make out your features underneath the guise of the decorative chains that drapes over your face. He can't properly see you from your place this high. Still it feels as if he is looking directly at you, past the distortion of the distance and the cover of your veil and peering into your soul. 

You drop the pair of binoculars away from your face, severing the image of his focused gaze and the odd connection that had been created. Still you can't drop your attention from his figure down in the arena, but the loss of the close, magnified image of the device offers you some type of reprieve. He had felt too close, too near with their usage and the distance helps to soothe you. And with your regular vision provided to you, you are able to notice the other entrances posted along the walls are opening. 

The na-Baron realizes this as well. His head cocks in the direction of the open threshold to his far left, rising up from his crouched stance to properly assess it, eyes trained on the dark gapping gateway as a man ambles out from the shadows. Two others emerge from separate doorways on opposite sides of the colosseum, and Feyd-Rautha shifts his body to appraise them both in their slow approach. The three of them all but shamble towards the na-Baron, feet dragging lethargically across the sand like they caught under a drunken stupor. The realization dawns on you easily, and you are unable to stop yourself from turning to face the Baron with bewildered scowl. "They're drugged?" You accuse, sparing no judgement in your tone. 

"We cannot risk the safety of the na-Baron," he explains without shame, and draws a deep drag from a smoking pipe clutched within his hand. "Measures must be taken." 

You want to argue. But what use would that be? There is not an ounce of remorse or shame in his body. You've known this for years; you didn't have to meet him to realize that. You have heard countless tales of the Harkonnen's selfishness and deceit, so it should be no surprise that they're underhanded enough to rig a fight to the death in their favor. That they couldn't even do their slaves and prisoners the respect of dying in a fair fight. And the na-Baron stands so proudly in the center of that ring, holding himself high as though the scales have not been tipped in his favor. You knew that you were to wed a sadist. A violent, venomous man. It was a shame that you had to marry one that is also dishonorable. 

In the prisoners' approach, blackened figures seem to materialize from the walls of the arena looking like creatures out of a twisted fable. There is a great number of them, six you believe, if your hasty count does not fail you, all clad in a dark skintight material. But even more strangely are the horned headdresses that they all wear; it extends over their countenances to make them appear faceless and inhuman. They vigilantly wander along the border of the arena, and some even dare to skulk close to the slaves as they near the na-Baron, wielding some sort of weapon within their hands like they are prepared to strike the fighters if necessary. They must be referees of some sort, but their costumes make them look like dark spirits instead.

This game truly is devised in Feyd-Rautha's favor. 

The gladiator-slave that approaches from the left is the closest, covering the distance that separates him and the na-Baron quickly despite being lamed by the hinderance of drugs. With the raucous roar of the crowd resonating across the air, the suspense is palpable, hanging heavy and almost painful like a breath that has been held for too long and the people are desperate for release. You can't help the way that you watch expectantly, holding onto the handle of the binoculars like it might help keep you grounded while you observe Feyd-Rautha from the safety of your perch. 

He faces the approaching fighter. And for a moment you think that he is going to make the man hobble to over to him entirely, too cruel or perhaps even lazy to meet his competitor head on. But when the fighter brandishes his sword in an overreaching arch Feyd lunges forward on spry feet, cutting up the small remaining bit of distance with two massive strides and blocks the blade with his own. The arc that the prisoner had raised his weapon in was far too high. It left his most vital organs exposed to be gutted, and the blink of an eye the na-Baron takes the opening, deftly shoving the tip of his opposing weapon into the man's stomach and driving it in deep. The fighter's body goes limp near instantly, the hand holding his weapon slackens and when Feyd-Rautha pulls his sword from his opponent's stomach, he stumbles back on weak legs before tipping back onto the sand, lying belly up in a dead weight to bleed out on the ground.

You have heard of death all your life. Soldiers of your house have shared their stories of gore and anguish to you before. The horrors of the battlefield. And you yourself are no stranger to blood and bruises, having been trained by the best of your father's ranks and even Lady Jessica herself in the ways of fighting and hand to hand combat. Your teachings were meant for survival. Defense. But this is senseless murder set in the guise of entertainment. Cruelty.

Feyd-Rautha does not share the sentiment. He twists around to face the remaining fighters, mouth twisted into a feral snarl, muscles tense, ready to deliver another killing blow. He is clearly on some type of rush after claiming his first kill and his eyes dart between the pair of gladiators, gauging which one to attack first. Both of the prisoners have synced their steps as best as they can, with one coming towards the na-Baron from the front while the other nears from the back, intending to slay him together. 

But Feyd does not appear to be stressed by the prospect in the slightest, in fact you are sure that even from your elevated height you can still make out the presence of a smile on his lips. Delighted and fueled by the rush of adrenaline and the hope of slaughter. He evaluates them both carefully, waiting them out. He doesn't have to wait long though, because suddenly the one who stands behind is rushing towards him in a move that is entirely too impatient, the lapse in judgement probably brought on by the influence of the substance coursing through his veins. The other fighter is still too far from Feyd to offer any assistance, making them both fail in their effort to overwhelm him and attack at once. The na-Baron deflects the strike of the prisoner's sword easily, shoving the man back with the union of their blades to create enough space to deliver a harsh bone rattling kick to the man's bare chest. He stumbles back a few feet, dust spraying in his flounder as he struggles to collect himself from the soiled earth. 

Feyd doesn't have time to strike him down while he is vulnerable, because the second fighter finally reaches him, dipping his body low with the intent to strike his sword into the na-Baron's unguarded back, aimed for the spine. But Feyd is unsurprised by the attack; smooth and effortless in his movements as he rotates around on his feet to slip from the blades course and with the glint of silver the man's throat is sliced as he passes the na-Baron. You hardly would have realized that his neck had been cut at all if not for the way that rivulets of black have begun to pour from the wound, slipping down the pale hue of his skin and dripping to the bleached sand below before he collapses. 

The crowd somehow manages to erupt with even more passion to goad their na-Baron on dispatching the last man. But Feyd doesn't move on prisoner while he's still down on the ground, up righting himself on sluggish, weak knees. It is hard to stomach the sight of it, and you're certain that you can feel the oily, distant impression of nausea bubbling in your stomach. It urges you to look away, but you can't. You are frozen still. Locked into place as you watch Feyd pace around the arena like a predator stalking the bars of its enclosure. He's impatient in his wait for the fighter to finally get up on his feet, and you find yourself a little disbelieving that he would even allow the prisoner that little bit of respect, instead of slaying him while he was down and unable to properly defend himself. Maybe there is some honor in him after all. It's buried and diluted, but it seems there may be a shred of it still. 

The gladiator finally raises himself to his feet, spreading his legs wide to distribute his weight between his feeble legs. You can see resolve slip across the man's body, straightening his shoulders as best as he can to secure the grip he has on his weapon.  But it only prompts more of that amusement to flicker over Feyd's features before he springs towards his opponent. They meet in the clash of lethal blades, and their bodies twist and move like well-oiled machines. Even being drugged and exhausted, the prisoner's movements are powerful and practiced, but you doubt that it will be much of a match for Feyd. He has too many aspects in his favor. The game has fully been fabricated for his victory. But even with that in mind, you would be foolish not to acknowledge the way that the na-Baron uses his body. It is truly a sight - hypnotic almost. The slices he takes with his sword and the strikes that he bares down at his rival are tight. Swift, calculated blows that are charged with raw strength. He acts with pure, practiced confidence. It's clear that the art of combat comes as easily as breathing to him; second nature. The sight of him dodging and deflecting jabs underneath the extreme shine of the dim sun is an impressive display, and you can't help but wonder how well he would fair under the pressure of a fight with real stakes.

Maybe it was the controlled vehemence of his maneuvers and how skillfully he brandishes his blade, but you think that he would thrive. 

The gladiator is still alive, outlasting all of his fellow prisoners and it's honestly a wonder that he has made it this far. But you don't miss the casual way that Feyd holds himself, the security in the slices he delivers and how easily he dodges and moves around his opponent. Often dipping low into the man's space to nick his flesh with small, annoying cuts before dancing out of his field of reach. He's playing with him. Drawing out the fight like a bored cat toying with a wounded mouse. You can see the hope and determination dying in the gladiator with each passing second; it melts from his limbs, giving way to a venomous, mindless agitation. It makes him sloppy. 

He leaps at Feyd with little thought, desperate to get a decent lick in but the timing is once again ill and his body too open. The mistake does not go ignored and the na-Baron uses the mishap to sweep his opponents legs out from underneath him. And curiously, he casts one of his blades aside, banishing it to the sand. But you don't have to wonder for long before his hand strikes out like a serpent to grip ahold of the fighter's hair, using the leverage he has on the sluggish prisoner's head to harshly force him down and secure him on his knees. You can see the way that the man's face twists into a pained grimace, teeth gnashed together to fight off his agony as he pants raggedly, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Feyd stands behind him like some sort of figure of death. A creature sent to drag weary, tortured souls to their end. 

You see the gladiators loose grip twitch around the handle of his sword, struggling to build up the last remaining scraps of his energy to swing the blade back and drive into the na-Baron's ribcage. But he doesn't have time to deliver the blow. Feyd raises his own weapon, hitching his arm back to build up tension in his hold. In that exact moment, you are certain that your eyes meet. That somehow, between the distance, his gaze reaches your own, focused in its intent like he is looking for your approval, like he is gifting you a sacrifice in your honor. You hardly have time to think of the implications of it before he drives the sword forward into the back of his victim's neck, severing the man's spinal cord and shoving it forward until the tip of the blade peeks through his throat. It is a horrid display of brutality. The violent sight almost forces a gasp from you, and you can feel your body shudder at the presentation of it. Your mind has long since gone blank, too rattled and shocked to form a coherent thought and the frenzied way the masses arise and breakout into a rapturous applause fills you brain like a haze with the wicked, rhythmic chanting of his name. 

He extracts the blade from the captive's body, spraying a dark splatter of blood across the pale sand with the pull and lifts the gore-soaked weapon up into the air in a silent claim of his victory. 

"Is he everything you had imagined?" 

The Baron's course timbre breaks you from your daze. Your head swivels to him like a doll, but the challenge proposed in his tone rouses your focus to the center. He wants you to be afraid. To shy away from his nephew. Why you aren't sure. Perhaps he simply enjoys the idea of an Atreides cowering, but you will give him no such pleasure. You harden your gaze before you speak next, making sure to project your resolve clearly when you answer. 

"He's perfect." It scares you because it doesn't even feel like a lie. It leaves your tongue too easily, like the compliment belonged there. Like your body and soul held it as a truth that you aren't ready to accept, and you're not sure how to cope with that. But what you say next surprises you even more. 

"I want to meet him." 

A part of you had hoped that the Baron would refuse your request. That he would stick to firm to your father's traditions and prohibit you from seeing the na-Baron until the wedding ceremony. But you know better than to think that he would honor or be controlled by old superstitions.  All too soon you find yourself being led by timid servant who wordlessly guides you deep into the inner depths of the arena. The look that the Baron had spared you before you left had been unsettling and sharp, and it made you wonder if you have agreed to go to your own execution. In your descent, the rabid cries of the masses fade into a distant warble, and with it, the corridors become dim and chilled like the walls of a forgotten crypt. The caution in your gut churns with that treacherous sense of anticipation and you struggle to concentrate past the separation in your emotions. You're not sure if you should be fearful or intrigued and it leaves you caught between a confusing sort of purgatory. 

The little bit of suspense hanging over you reminds you of when you used to dream about meeting him when you were both young. Nearly longed for it even, when you'd lose yourself to childish flights of fancy and daydreamed of love and adoration. It scares you to think that the sense of pining you had once entertained for him may have never truly gone away. Even with the stories of his brutish conquests, a blemish on your naive yearning. A stain of red; soaked with the scent of iron and viscera.

The sight of his violent display down in the arena seemed to confirm all of the horrid rumors that you have heard throughout the years. His indifference towards death, how casually he is able to take a life. It should all disgust you. And to a degree it does. It coats your tongue with something acetous and tart. It makes a shiver threaten to tremble down your spine. But as much as you wish to hide from it, you can't deny that he intrigues you. That the sight of him gazing upon you from the ashen sands of the colosseum like you were an ambiguity that he desired to unravel made your body thrum. You wonder if he would look at you so openly in the same way once you are both on even ground. Or if perhaps, some pathetic, traitorous part of you had simply imagined it. 

The servant stops suddenly before a wide threshold, forcing you to still in your tracks to watch as she steps to the side and bows silently without so much as meeting your eyes. And then she leaves, turning sharply on her feet with the gentle echo of her feet pattering along the obsidian floor while she skitters away. 

You're on your own now. 

You're not sure what you will find when you cross this barrier: pain, misery . . . pleasure. A primordial type of anxiousness wells up inside of you, screaming at you to turn heel and run. You could do so easily. Escape these dismal, tenebrous chambers before he even realizes that you're here. But you're quick to squash that wild impulse. It is a dangerous thing to entertain. You must eliminate that urge all together. You're not an animal. You are an Atreides. A Bene Gesserit. You have survived the Gom Jabbar. You passed the test. And you will survive this. 

With no further hesitation you step forward, focusing on sound of your dress whispering over the floor as a means to center yourself. As soon as you cross the threshold it opens up into a massive space, but the shadows are so thick and vast here that it is difficult to see where the walls truly begin or end. A pair of servant girls stand in the corner, just as rigid and silent as the others that you've seen so far, standing with their backs to the wall like they mean to merge into the shadows and hide. The only light to speak of pours from the ceiling, broadening in its descent to encapsulate the massive round pool that sits in the center of the room like a spotlight. And there, lounging along the far end of the bath with his arms draped along the border, relaxed in the murky, steaming water, is the na-Baron. 

When your eyes meet you have to wonder if this is what prey feels like when locked within the gaze of a wolf; poised to lunge and jaws longing to bite. The way that he had gazed upon you in the arena had been appraising and seeking. Like he was sizing you up and searching for your favor all at once. But something in his stare has shifted since then and dipped into something searing and stifling, and it serves as an obtrusive reminder of who you've willingly confined yourself alone with. But you're unable to stop yourself from admiring him as he does to you. Roving your examination over his face, and you find your attention captivated there. The glow of the florescent lighting reveals a delicate cream undertone in his skin, and the light blush in his lips that had been hidden outside, stunted by the black sun. It breathes a sense of life into him, and nearly separates him from the otherworldly image that had been crafted by the violence he had basked in earlier.

"You must be lost." 

The voice that speaks abruptly is husky and inflected with an accented lilt that blends into the rasp of it. It buzzes over your skin, and you can feel it murmur across your fingertips, but it is not enough to distract you from the confusion that sparks in you from the comment. He must notice the perplexed look that crosses your face because you don't even get time to ask him for clarification before he speaks next. "We're not to see each other. Or was that a lie?" 

If you didn't know any better, you would have thought that he sounds insulted. Like the mere suggestion of you not meeting each other before the wedding had been a great offence. But surely it simply came from a place of ego and not genuine rejection or hurt. That would require affection. And that is an emotion that you're certain the na-Baron is incapable of. Still, regardless of if he truly harbors a sense of fondness for you are not, keeping this relationship as cordial as possible is in your best interest for both of your sakes. 

"It wasn't a lie," you finally answer, clasping your hands together in front of yourself. "But I wanted to congratulate you on your win. . . And to finally see the man that I am intended to marry." The final admittance comes out somewhat reluctantly. But it catches his attention still. You can see the intrigue openly flit through his eyes and he tilts his head while he surveys your from across the room in a curious manner. 

"And what do you think?" 

You are not sure if the question is in reference to himself or his performance in the arena. Either way, your answer still stands. Though you find yourself reluctant to reveal it, even while it burns in your throat. But the way that the na-Baron watches you with a glimmer of restrained vehemence in his heavy stare almost rips the truth from the depths of your chest. But your eyes pointedly flicker back over to the servants in the corner before moving back over to the na-Baron. The question hangs heavy in the air, silently exchanged between the two of you. 

"Leave us," he dismisses firmly, without removing his gaze from you. They nearly spring forward on their feet, vision casted down on the floor as they cross the room and vanish past the threshold like a pair of phantoms. You catch the subtle nod of his head as he watches you, and it is hard to tell if it is done with disinterest or an air of mocking.  "There. You may speak freely now." 

You don't hold in your answer now. "Disappointed," you say firmly, and you're thankful that your voice comes out stronger than you feel. A palpable shift rushes over the room. It is frigid. Moving over the blackened walls like a cold front and seeping into your bones; brought on by the subtle vexation that shifts across his features. You can see the muscles along his shoulders and the plains of his chest ripple underneath his pallid skin, tensing in his ire. It has you stuck in place like the bottoms of your feet have been glued to the floor. It doesn't feel like you're in a room with a man but sharing the space with a hunter that has its teeth and claws poised to slice. But you know that you can't cower. Not with men like him. If you give him and inch, he'll take a mile. And if you are going to make it out of this arrangement alive, you're going to have to try to stand on even ground. "That fight. It was supposed to be in my honor. But it isn't much of a victory if your opponents are impaired with drugs." 

"It was out of my hands," comes his answer. It nearly could have been overtly defensive if he hadn't delivered it so steadily and direct. It's a knee jerk reaction to assume that he is lying. It has been instilled in you since birth to be wary of the Harkonnen and their words. And perhaps it is simply a dangerous form of hope, but the intuition in your gut promises you that he is telling the truth. But even then, it is difficult to find forgiveness. 

"And you fought anyway." 

"Careful." His voice cuts across the atmosphere like a sharp growl. He bares his teeth with the warning, letting you catch a glimpse of that dark snarl and for a moment your mind treacherously imagines what it would be like to feel the sharpness of it grazing along your skin. "I've taken tongues for less." 

The threat does not strike fear in you like it should have. Like you expected it to. The longer you spend in Feyd-Rautha's presence, the more that your initial caution begins to ebb away. For better or for worse, confidence seeps in to take its place. You shock yourself for the second time today by moving towards him instead of backing away like someone with common sense would. Though if you're being honest with yourself, you have always flirted with danger. The temptation towards things that you should not want has always taken you to places not meant for you, and it is a trait that your family and teachers alike had struggled to dissuade. That you yourself have always fought. But you can't resist the urge to close the distance between you and him, following after it blindly like you're being tugged along by an invisible string. 

He trails your approach with that calculated sort of interest, fully invested on your form as you carry yourself up the pair of steps. You continue to move even once you reach the final platform, but your feet do not stop moving. It is like some subconscious part of you is determined to cut as much distance between you and the na-Baron as possible. He doesn't tear his attention from you once. It's fully fixed to you as you saunter around the boarder of the bath like he couldn't bear to look away from you, and it fuels you to keep moving forward, only stopping once you stand beside him. He turns his head to gaze up at you from his position, studying you as he lounges. 

"I'd save that for after the wedding, it may be difficult to say my vows otherwise." You level him with a firm stare as your tone shifts from subtly sardonic to hardened, and possibly even disappointed. " Though I'm glad to know where we stand." 

You see something harden in his gaze. What, you are not sure, but the ferocity of it makes you breathless and something heated stirs in your gut. 

"I mean you no ill will," he assures you, as if he had not just threatened you just a moment before. But the gravelly tone of his voice is distracting. It courses over your skin like an electrical current, humming and warm across your body. "I will bring you the heads of a thousand men if it pleases you." 

It's not the admission itself that shocks you. You know that slaughter comes naturally to the na-Baron. You have witnessed that firsthand. But the sincerity and passion that cradled his words made it sound like a promise. A vow. And you know for certain that he is being purely honest. It floods you with disbelief. The way that he watches you is raw. Vulnerable but not weak or insecure. He said it with the zeal of a devout follower speaking of their faith. Full of hunger, reverence and sincerity. It makes your knees weaken and the oxygen in your lungs is suddenly useless. The devotion burning in the dark hold of his stare is something that you never imagined Feyd-Rutha could be capable of. You know that it is not love. That you are not naive enough to believe. But it is admiration. Consuming and wanting. It is almost frightening how he looks at you. Like you are an oasis, a banquet, and he is a man parched and starved. It only draws you to him even more. Like a moth fluttering closer to an open flame; hoping to be burned in its welcoming, vicious warmth.

"Why?" Your voice comes out weakened. You nearly pant, trying to breath around the fit of your bodice. It has suddenly become too tight, squeezing around your ribcage and sweltering against your skin. 

He does not answer immediately. Instead he rises from the depths of the dark water, shifting to turn his body to yours, causing the water to ripple and gleam underneath the light. You can smell the perfume of the oil on his skin, fresh and warm like amber. A scandalous part of you is tempted to glance downward, even though you know that the height of the dusky liquid still hides the most intimate parts of him, but you are unable to tear your eyes away from his. They look like heavy black chasms, drawing you in and stealing your focus until he is all you can see. You can just vaguely register that he's stepping closer to you. He angles his head as he draws near, and you feel the point of his nose brush over yours through the chilled chains of your veil; the warmth of his body seeps past the barrier of your dress and sinks in deep, settling between the cradle of your hips. 

"You and I; we belong together." He says it like it is a fact. A creed. To him it is. He beholds you like you are something worth worship. And the thought of having such a formidable man observing you as though you were an answer that he has been seeking makes something in you burn. It is scorching. Powerful. It knocks you breathless. "I dream of you." 

The admittance makes you gasp. You briefly wonder how he could possibly have been touched by the sight of visions. Much less ones of you. How he had managed to see you in his sleep just as you had seen glimpses of him. But your marveling is quickly flooded and overruled by images of your own past dreams dancing and flashing in your mind. Pale hands sweeping across your body and leaving white-hot trails in their wake; the sting and glide of teeth and tongue; the musk and salt of sweat in your mouth. It rouses a heady sense of curiosity inside of you. And when he raises a hand and slips it underneath your veil to cup your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the shape of your lips, it makes your interest burn hotter. When you speak next your voice nearly catches in your throat. "What do you see? In your dreams." 

The weight of his stare pulls you in and grips you tightly, heavy with a wild sort of hunger that might eat you alive. When he speaks next, the smoky rumble of his voice courses over you and clouds your head with a low mist. "Let me show you." 

You are not sure when he had slipped the veil from over your face and off of your head, but you hear it fall behind you. Hitting the floor with a sharp, twinkling clatter. But you hardly pay it any mind. Too entranced on the heat of Feyd's palm cupping your face, holding you close while his heavy, heated stare bores into your own and in your haze, you admire that they are truly a shade of blue, just as those old visions promised. A gorgeous splash of color caught in a world of black and white. He shifts closer to you - as much as the low edge of the bath will allow, and with it you feel the sultry impression of his body heat glides over you. The cradle of his hand on your face slips from its place, traveling downward until it reaches your neck. Your heart skips a beat when the hold of his fingers reaches around your throat, and you're sure that he could feel the wild pulse of it fluttering against his palm. A flicker of amusement passes through his gaze, and suddenly it feels like some kind of test. He wants to see if you'll crack and flounder while he holds your life in his grip. But you find that the urge to flee has vanished. It's been wrung from you as though it had never been there, and suddenly you can't understand why you had ever wanted to run in the first place. 

The pressure of his hand tightens like he means to squeeze the air out of you and to block your breath. Fear doesn't rise up to greet you. This isn't a challenge that you have the desire to shrink away from. You want more of it. Of him. You lean into his touch instead, tilting your chin back to bare your throat to him, and you see a ravenous type of delight pass over his expression when you do. The weight fixed around your neck; the heady scent of the rich ointment wafting from his skin dips more of that intoxicated haze over you. 

For a moment you wonder if he might actually rip the oxygen from your lungs and attempt to send you to your death. The tight hold of his hand and the dark look glittering in his eyes imply that he might. But then his hold goes light, and you nearly mourn the loss when he allows his fingers to slip from around your neck. Disgracefully, you almost feel a low whine rising to the tip of your tongue. A desperate plead to have his touch on you again. But like an answer to your silent prayer, his hands unanimously run down your body, roving dangerously close to your breasts, leaving your skin tingling in their wake as they trail down and past your ribs to settle on your hips. 

Time seems to slow when his fingers pluck at the smooth fabric of your skirt, bunching the material up into the cradle of his palms until it starts to slip up and over your legs, gradually revealing more and more of you. He doesn't stop until its rucked up enough to slip his hands underneath your dress, and you silently gasp at the warmth of his palms blossoming over your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin harshly enough that you know it'll be tender tomorrow, but you welcome the sting. 

You can see the silent question glimmer in his eyes. The whisper of his nose gliding over your own and the nearness of his lips beckon that you come closer. He steps back just enough to allow you space, and without further prompting you lift your legs over the lip of the bath. The water is nearly scorching when you slink inside, nearly sweeping up to your waist and encapsulating you like melted wax. His grip on you didn't waver or weaken as you moved. If anything, it grew stronger, like he was worried you might slip away from him, even though the idea of escaping is a faint memory for you now. 

When he tilts his head closer to yours, you think that he finally might kiss you and satiate the restless hunger that's been buzzing between the both of you. You feel the low brush of his breath against you lips when he speaks, and the throaty rasp of his voice curls out in one word: 

"Beg." 

It gives you pause. As soon as you hear it something defiant rises inside of you. But it isn't aggressive or wildly so. It's languid and playful. Testing. Despite the shred of desperation that you had nearly caved into earlier, you have no desire to give in so easily now. You aren't going to roll over so quickly. Not without good reason.

"No," you answer calmy, resisting, even when lust burns in your veins. "Give me a reason to." 

In truth, you aren't sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your experience with things of this nature - the touch of a man and pleasure, isn't nonexistent. You've indulged in a few nights tangled in the arms of a random temporary lover. Secretive kisses exchanged in dimly lit corridors, the ecstasy of a mouth between your thighs. But the art of it is not something that you have fully grasped onto. Flirtation and conviction in regard to sex doesn't come naturally to you. So you aren't sure why you feel inclined to tease him like you know what you're doing. But you want the challenge. Some twisted, perverted side of you wants to see the glint of the psychotic excitement that he had displayed in the arena. You want his hands on you while his eyes burn with that unrestrained ferocity. It's dangerous to goad him on. To taunt him like you understand him. You're playing a dangerous game. Like prodding at a wild animal in its enclosure, or waving a blazing, red flag in front of a pacing bull. 

A fearful part of you expects for him to get angry. That he might lash out and punish you assuming that you could toy with him so freely. Maybe he'll remind you of your intended place and tell you that you aren't equals. That you mean nothing to him. But he doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he sinks down to his knees, lowering himself until the water rises up to his chest. His eyes don't stray from you once, and the hold on your hips remains firm. The intent and hunger in his eyes nearly make you lightheaded. He watches you in a way that's starved. It has you wondering if you're going to make it out of this alive. But a stronger part of you can't wait to be torn apart. 

His hold on your hips gently nudges at you, guiding you to lower yourself until you're seated on the edge of the bath. You spread your legs without him having to ask, and you can see the hint of an arrogant smile perking at the corners of his mouth when one of his hands sweep down to your knee, prying it open. Anticipation simmers inside of you, searing deep inside of your gut like a hot ember. You feel his fingers sweep along your undergarment, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric to tear the delicate scrap of clothing from your hips as though it was made from paper. It stings against your skin when it snaps free, breaking with a sharp hiss as it rips apart. 

You watch in awe when he lifts the frayed fabric up to his nose to draw in a heavy inhale. Embarrassment prickles at your face when you realize that he's breathing in the arousal that had soaked your underwear. It's vulgar. Filthy. But it has excitement buzzing over you and seeping into your bones. You hardly pay attention when he tosses the tattered fabric somewhere across the room, too transfixed as he leans himself forward between your knees, making a space for himself around the cradle of your thighs, hovering dangerously close to where you need him the most. 

His stare pierces yours, digging a place for himself in your mind and soul, and latching on as he delivers a promise. "I'll make you scream." 

Coming from anyone else it would have made you scoff or roll your eyes and cringe. Despite your inexperience, it's a line that you've heard before only to be met with utter disappointment. But you can feel the determination rolling from him, and you know that it isn't a lie. Still, you're prepared to say something snarky. To try and knock him down a peg or two before he's even started, but you never get the chance. 

His head is between your thighs in an instant, spreading you open with his tongue, hot and sweltering against you. It wrenches a startled cry from your chest, and your hands scramble blindly to support yourself, clinging onto the chilled edge of the bath and the damp warmth of Feyd's shoulder so that you don't tip over. He's only just started, and his enthusiasm already leaves you suspended in disbelief. He works his mouth against you with a ravenous intensity, swiping his tongue over you before dipping it deep inside of you in a way that has liquid pleasure pouring over your body; making your nerves light up like wild, hot sparks. Your hips lift up in a mindless roll, grinding over his mouth to chase after the curl of his tongue, and he follows after the sway of your body, unshaken by your desperation. 

Already you feel like you've been lit on fire. Dipped in a pool of nectar and bliss. It has your legs quivering, tensing and flexing with every suck and stoke from his mouth. It pulls ragged gasps from your heaving lungs, and you just faintly register the airy, punched out breaths lightly echoing off of the walls of the room. You can hear the wet drag of his lips and tongue licking at your cunt, tipping you closer and closer to euphoria. It's filthy. Utterly debauched. The very notion of the daughter of a Duke sleeping with a man before her wedding - fiancé or not - is scandalous, and you should be entirely ashamed that you've even wound up in this position at all. But you can't manage to find a single ounce of humiliation in your body. You're in too deep now. Nothing else matters but this moment. Nothing except for him. 

Your head rolls down on your neck, and you're immediately insnared by the sight of him watching you. Most of his face is hidden by the skirt of your dress bunched around your waist, how your thighs frame his head, but you can see his eyes clearly. A haughty sense of excitement dances in them, clearly pleased with the mess that he's already made of you. You want nothing more than to wipe that arrogant look from his face, but it's almost like he can sense the quip that you're prepared to use, because the wet heat of his mouth licks over you before he closes his lips around your clit and your mind glazes over. He drags the hint of teeth over you, lighting up fire in their wake and then he sucks. Your back bows tight, breasts heaving underneath your dress, and you openly sob. But he offers you no reprieve, no chance to breathe. 

With little warning he slips a finger into the wet entrance of your cunt, forcing your walls to stretch around the width of it as he curls it deep. You've touched yourself before. Used you own fingers to pleasure yourself, and you've only ever felt the hand of one other man before. A random soldier amongst the Atreides ranks, but that had been some time ago. The width of Feyd's is much bigger than your own. Thick and long enough that a single one has you gasping. The stretch of it nearly burns. But it builds a heavy ache between the apex of your thighs, rooting itself so deeply along your spine that it tears another watery cry from you. The motion of your hips turns choppy, losing your rhythm in your desperation to reach the scorching pleasure that looms over you like a wall of fire. He barely gives you time to adjust to the first finger before he's inserting another in alongside it, making the muscles of your abdomen contract and wildly. The walls of your cunt flutter around the thickness of his fingers; your body desperate to fall into the throes of release. 

The fullness of it makes your mouth drop open in a silent scream, forcefully teetering you along the edge of something all-consuming and debilitating. You can taste it searing on your tongue, feel it on your fingertips and all the way down to your toes. Uninhibited moans and broken mewls of his name have begun to spill from your mouth. Punched out of you by the ceaseless drag of his tongue and weight of his finger inside of you, crooking along your walls with nasty, wet squelches to shove you closer and closer to that shattering precipice. It forces out a gutted cry that nearly stings on its way out, and you can feel Feyd's pleased laughter reverberate over your flesh in response, and the low tremors only inject more rapture into your veins.  It's so close. Welling and foaming up like boiling water; a rising tide that threatens to sweep you and drown you. 

All at once it stops. 

You cry out like you've been wounded when he tears his mouth from you and removes his fingers from your cunt, leaving you empty and aching. You don't even try to hide your betrayed scowl as you glare down at his face, which looks entirely too delighted for your liking. Your lungs struggle around a ragged gasp, making your voice catch in your throat. "Wha- why you did sto-" 

The question hardly has time to leave you before he turns his head and sinks his teeth into the plush skin of your inner thigh. It sears across your nerves, molten and white-hot, ripping a pained yelp from your chest. The smile on his face is pleased, stretched wide into that dark, impish grin. Your attention is stuck on him as he drops his jaw open, holding your scolding glower as he slips his tongue out to glide it along the sore bite mark that he left with his teeth. The wet warmth of his tongue laving over your skin, soothing the sting that he had made has your brain splitting between pain and pleasure, merging the two sensations into a muddled, delicious blur. 

"Feyd." You meant for it to come out reprimanding and harsh, but instead it sounds thin and panting. You see the satisfaction spark in his eyes at the weakened tone of it, and seeking more out like a glutton, he reaches his hand forward to roll one of his knuckles over your clit. It's pure torture how he's keeping you hung along the edge of bliss. You're still sensitive from your ruined orgasm and the simple graze from the back of his hand has you doubling over like you've been struck in the gut. He tilts his head back to nuzzle his face against your own when you lean in close enough. An action that's deceptively sweet for someone so violent. It has something that feels a lot like affection bubbling up inside of your chest; dulcet and soft. You tear it away and burrow it deep before it can grow. 

Guided by instinct, in a scramble to replace that unwelcome hint of tenderness, you tilt your head to join your lips to his. You can taste yourself on him, earthy and mildly sweet, and just the thought of you marking him with something so intimate - so filthy, makes you weak. He's quick to respond, meeting you eagerly with tongue and teeth. It's nearly bruising. Just as harsh and impassioned as the way that he fights, and it has you moaning into his mouth. But it isn't enough. Your hands turn greedy, sweeping over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, and in retaliation for teasing and his earlier bite, you sink your nails into the skin there, meanly dragging them until your reach his clavicle bone. But he doesn't hiss or wince in pain. The groan that spills against your lips is one of pleasure. The sound has your body thrumming and winding up tight, and paired with the steady circles he draws on your clit it has you dangerously close to tipping headfirst into the throes of melted bliss. But his touch is too light, the rhythm too slow to fully guide you into it. It leaves stuck on the edge of a torturous limbo, and you nearly whimper against his mouth. 

You break the kiss in an effort to regain a sense of clarity, but he's quick to chase after you, nipping at your lips and alleviating the sting with the point of his tongue. "Feyd," you repeat, and this time it sounds horribly close to begging. You can feel your resolve cracking. Splintering down the center and melting with every glide of his finger against your clit. 

"I already told you, Atreides," he murmurs it like a taunt and promise all at once. "All you need is ask." 

He makes it sound so simple. So temptingly easy, but you try to cling onto your pride with a shaking grip. You know that he can see the conflict openly reflected in your eyes. The urge to fight. He moves his face from yours just enough to tilt his head as he evaluates you. It feels so condescending and the low, patronizing way that he tuts at you has a small whisper of determination peeking through the cloud of lust that fogs your mind. But he presses his knuckle against your clit in a mean drag, making your body clench and twitch like it had been stung with a live wire, and with it all cohesive thought blanks out. 

"Why are you fighting?" He asks, leaning his head to run his teeth along your ear, and then the wet blaze of his tongue trails up your throat to lick the salt from your skin. "It could be like a dream." 

It's such a simple sentence, but it reminds you have of how you've gotten here in the first place. The promise of pleasure, the feel of skin under your teeth, the rough grip of his hands on you. In truth, you aren't sure what you're resisting for. What game you're trying to play and win. You're just torturing yourself at this point. Holding yourself back from what you truly want needlessly. It's because of pride. The trait to endure, to remain resolute underneath the call of a challenge or opposition has been instilled in you. You've been taught to be unyielding, to hold yourself back from temptation. Especially when facing an adversary. You cannot show weakness lest you bring humiliation to your house. But you're quickly learning that you don't have much shame anymore. Being in Feyd's presence seems to drain every ounce of it from your body, shifting you into something debased and wanting. And you want him. 

"Please, Feyd, I need you touch me," you beg, panting against his lips. "I need you to fuck me. I need - " 

You aren't certain who moves first. If it's you who slips down from the edge of the bath or if he's the one that takes ahold of you by the hips and tugs you onto his lap. The murky water splashes and ripples from the disturbance, bathing over the lower half of your body in a warm rush as you meet in a desperate sweep of grabbing hands, and the passionate exchange of lips and the harsh graze of teeth. You follow after him as he shifts so he's leaning against the boarder of the bath, allowing you both to focus on the press of your bodies grinding against each other without the worry of falling into the water. His hips roll upward, tearing a surprised gasp from you when you feel the hard weight of his cock nudge between the apex of your thighs, brushing over your clit in a slow drag. 

The feel of it is jarring almost. Dousing a small chill across your body with the reminder that you're beginning to reach the point of uncharted territory. You've never gotten this close with anyone else before. Had never entertained the idea or even desired it. Your explorations of the male body had never gone past you taking them into your mouth or vice versa. This is completely out of your depth and all of the efforts that you had taken in preparation had done little to soothe your nerves. You had spoken to your chambermaids and Lady Jessica alike about sex before, the art of love making and what you should brace for, and they had all warned you of pain. A deep tearing pain and the blood that comes with it. It had given you hardly any inclination to anticipate losing your virtue. 

But even with worry tensing your gut the fervent, burning desire that's consumed you hasn't released you from its snare. Still, Feyd seems to have noticed the rigidity in your body, the way your muscles have coiled in your internal distress. He tips his head back to part his lips from yours so that your eyes can meet, and you can see amusement glittering in the darkness of them like your nervousness is humorous somehow. 

"You have nothing to fear. I'll be gentle, just this once." The reassurance (or threat, you aren't quite sure) skirts over you, rough and enticing within the gravel of his voice. One of the hands that he has on your hips softly grips around your wrist, and you're left to watch curiously as he guides it down into the inky water. You gasp when he slips your palm around the weight of his cock. He's rigid and smooth in your hold, and when you inquisitively stroke your hand up the length of him, it's a little intimidating to discover the substantial girth of him. You swallow nervously around the saliva that pools in your throat. It's difficult to focus around. It's like your own body is confused, thrumming with an electrical sort of anticipation, and the clutch of anxiety that stubbornly burrows deep underneath the influence of your lust. 

But there's something about the arrogant glint in Feyd's expression that makes you bristle. It gives you a touch of confidence; small, hardly there at all, but it's enough. You grip him before your determination can falter, holding him steady as you line him up to the soaked entrance of your cunt. It takes you a moment to notch him against you - a combination of your nerves and lack of practice. But when you finally do, you have to draw in a deep breath to center yourself. He's thick and warm against you and it's such a foreign sensation. A side of you still hasn't caught up with the fact that you're well and truly here, tangled up in such a scandalous position with the na-Baron - your enemy. Your rival. But it's even more shocking with how little the fact is beginning to bother you. It should frighten you. It should sicken and repulse you. But you find that it doesn't in the slightest. You only feel the damning lick of desire, the urge to chase after your pleasure and to feel the na-Baron come undone underneath you. 

With a deep inhale you begin to sink yourself down on him before your nerves can get ahold of you. The stretch stings from the head of his cock working inside, the muscles between the junction of your hips straining from the effort. It's already intense, splitting you open with a fullness that you have yet to feel before even though he isn't even halfway in. Every shred of oxygen has been punched out from your lungs, and your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as you continue to slip yourself down onto him, forcing your body to accommodate to the width of his girth. Liquid, molten honey drips down the length of your spine, blurring with the raw sting rooted deep inside of you, nearly making you double over from the intensity of it. 

"Easy," Feyd hums suddenly, reaching up to cup the side of your face. When he swipes his thumb underneath your eye, you just vaguely register the dampness there. Tears. You hadn't even realized that you had begun to cry from the overwhelming nature of it all, and even though it's expected, it's a little irritating to see how unbothered he appears to be while you feel as though you're coming undone at the seams. But the warmth of his hand against your cheek pulls you from the searing, electrical pressure of your muscles giving around his length, a beacon in a storm. It's another oddly, sweet gesture from the someone so brutal, and combined with the soothing weight of his hand on your waist, it has another bout of that horrendous affection rising up inside of you. Even when he lifts his tearstained thumb to his lips to lick the damp salt from his finger. 

It's all too overwhelming. The sensation of his body on yours, his eyes on you, the push of his cock filling you up. It has more desire building up inside of you and it guides you to sink even more of yourself down on him, eager to take every inch. You feel it when the crown pushes past the tight ring of your cunt. The abrupt pop sends heavy tremors across your body, making your spine bow forward like a melted candlestick. It's like every bit of your energy has been sapped from you by a single motion and you have no choice but to let your head prop against his shoulder as you collect yourself with a trembling sigh. But you don't bother giving yourself any reprieve, discarding his earlier advice and bearing your hips down to force more of him deep inside, and your jaws drops open in a silent, punchout scream when your walls stretch to accommodate him.

Your mind has all but melted underneath the intensity of it, shifting to a blank with each inch that you take. By the time that the back of your thighs meets the support of his lap you feel like pure, useless mush. Reduced to pliant mess by the sudden fullness that's been stuffed into your cunt. You swear that you can feel him in your throat, shoving your lungs tight against the walls of your ribcage, keeping you breathless. 

"I told you to go easy." The rumble of his voice breaks out, bleeding past the clouded over haze in your mind in a deep rasp. It's difficult to discern if he's mocking you or chiding you, but knowing what you've learned of him already, it's safe to assume that it's probably both. 

You distantly feel you shake your head against his shoulder, more of that defiance rearing up. "I don't want to go easy," you counter. It takes you a moment to build up the strength and coherence to pull yourself back, tilting your chin up to assess him. His eyes are like burning pits, a yawning void that wants to eat you alive. But you don't have it in yourself to shy away from it. Instead you lean forward, slipping your hands around to grip the back of his neck, supporting yourself has you brush your nose along his. The press of his body underneath you is unflinching, his expression relaxed, but you are certain that you feel something in him waver. The hint of a vulnerability. A fleeting glimpse of it. But that's all you need. It's more than enough to tell you that if you want to, you can just as easily have him wrapped around your finger.  

You angle your head closer, pressing soft kisses along the plush of his lips and the sharp cut of his jaw. "Please," you beg softly. 

His mouth is on yours in an instant, hot and hungry, pulling you into another frenzied kiss, licking into your mouth to taste you. Just the glide of his lips against yours is enough to have that heated coil in your stomach already winding up tight. You feel like you're drowning. Caught up in a torrent of heat and bliss. It has your hips rising up mindlessly, instinctively working yourself on the length of his cock in a desperate need to chase after your pleasure. Stinging aftershocks trickle across your muscles with each short drag, but it only serves to make your nerves hum; aching so wonderfully deep that your eyes nearly roll back. 

His lips leave yours to trail along to corners of your mouth, sweeping down your jaw to nip and bite along the delicate skin of your throat, intent to leave his mark on you. It distracts you. Pulling your focus onto the sharp cut of his teeth on your neck, that it completely catches you off guard when he secures an arm around your waist, pinning you close to his body before he thrusts his hips up into yours like he's determined to carve his place between your them. The pace that he sets is grueling. A merciless rhythm that strikes the air out of your lungs with each pronounced roll. He fills you in a way that hurts, stretching you open with every plunge of his cock. But it's an exquisite type of pain. It feels like it's tearing you apart just to piece you back together again. 

You struggle to meet his pace. Your movements aren't as coordinated; choppy, and he doesn't wait for you to catch up and figure out the greedy movement and rhythm he's set. The sway of the water around your bodies seem to stifle and aid the motion of your hips simultaneously, dragging them down and lifting them all at once. You're practically useless above him, forced to sit and take it. But he doesn't seem annoyed or undeterred in the slightest with the way that he pounds himself into you. It has your brain going fuzzy, glazing over with the impression of his veins gliding along the walls of your cunt. His chest rubs against your breasts, shifting the smooth material of your dress over your nipples, and the added friction makes your back pull taut. 

The heat of his mouth closes over the vulnerable stretch of your throat and you can feel the tip of his tongue glide over your pulse like he's tempted to sink his teeth in deep to drink the flow of your blood. Your cunt clenches down on his girth at the thought, and you're rewarded with a low, guttural groan that reverberates across his chest from the inside out. It makes you eager to hear more from him. To make him just as broken and debauched as you are. 

You can hardly recognize yourself anymore. The way that he's practically turned you into an animal; wanton and gluttonous. You can hear the sound of your own voice, unrestrained and loud as it cries out in pleasured moans and whimpers. You don't think you've ever heard yourself this way. So uninhibited and sinful. None of your past lovers, as satisfactory as they had been, had ever been able to pull reactions like this from you. It nearly makes you feel like a stranger in your own body. Unfamiliar with your skin. But it's irresistibly good, unprincipled and shameless. But it feels like pure release, untethered by expectations or rules. And like a starved thing, you want more. You want more of him. To hear him, to feel more of him, to taste him on your tongue. 

In a wild craving to hear the throaty sound of his pleasured breaths, you slip your throat away from his mouth, ignoring the disgruntled snarl that stretches across his lips to grip the nape of his neck. You lean forward before he can question you and press your teeth into the smooth flesh that stretches over the junction of his shoulder, careful not to break skin but enough to cause the sting of pain. It's like a prize when a deep groan rips out from his chest, but the sharp, bruising thrust that follows closely behind nearly dislodges your teeth from him. He must have noticed the grip of your jaw waver because he slips a hand up to cradle the back of your skull, securing you in place. 

"More," he demands in a thick rasp. 

The sound of the request has liquid fire dousing over you, and you don't have the strength or desire to resist. You sink your teeth down even more until it threatens to split skin underneath the weight of your bite, stopping short before you could do any actual damage. But the irritated, almost forlorn sigh that greets your ears catches your attention. His fingers flex around the back of your head like he wants to shove you closer. But surely he doesn't want that. Your teeth will tear right through him if you apply any more pressure. 

"Harder." The insistent order comes out like pure gravel, and matched with another wild thrust, it has your teeth clamping down on his shoulder. The muscles in your jaw squeeze tight until flesh breaks and something iron and strangely bitter spills across your tongue and threatens to pour down your throat. The noise that leaves him is gutted and wanton. Your body clenches around him as soon as you hear the ragged panting that trickles from his lips, setting you alight with even more ardency, and the sting of your bite searing across his nerves somehow manages to fuel him with even more vigor. He rams his cock into you with heavy strokes that are debilitating. You nearly feel like a doll, nothing more than a being for his pleasure, if not for the reverent way that his hands begin to glide along your body. Clutching you to him like might slip away. 

It pulls you close to him, and the position has his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. Unable to hold in the string of moans and whimpers that beg to slip from your chest, you have to slip your teeth from his skin to pant and cry against his shoulder. It's like the sun is eating at your body. Warmth, and heat, and rapture scorching you from the inside, threatening to burn and tear you apart. You can taste it, warm and sweet on the tip of your tongue, mixing with the dark tart of his blood into an intoxicating flavor. It makes you lose all sense of yourself with your mind slipping under a blank mist. Your body is so distant from you now and the only thing that keeps you connected to it is the pleasure and ecstasy soaking your limbs and filling your lungs; the thickness of him stretching you open and stuffing you full.  

"Feyd," you gasp like a warning and a plea, blindly clawing at his arms and shoulders to keep you tethered down and present. But each relentless thrust just hurtles you closer to that yawning precipice. The head of his cock brushes against something deep and devastating inside of you and that's all it takes for you to split apart with a ragged scream. You hardly have time to brace for it when it finally reaches you. Bursts of white and piercing stars explode behind your eyes like a kaleidoscope; fire and electricity seize you tight, forcing every muscle in your body to wind up tight like you've been shocked. All of the air has been snatched from your lungs making your feel as though you've blacked out; lightheaded and sluggish. 

You can hear Feyd grunting in your ear, but his pacing has turned messy, losing the pronounced, steady rhythm he once had in his desperation to reach his own end. Thrusting into you in a manner that's almost wild. Both of his hands find your waist and his fingertips dig in deep enough to tear a weak cry from you. With a long, guttural moan he reaches his climax, burying himself deep into your cunt as he fills you with a flood of pulsing warmth before sagging back against the boarder of the tub. 

You aren't sure how long you stay like that for, suspended in a space tucked between your body and thrumming, pulsing heat. When your breath comes back to you, it's labored and deep, drawing in the scent of perfumed oils and the heady salt of sweat. You've gone limp, limbs lax and useless as your full weight drapes across the firm press of Feyd's body underneath you. It's soothing to have him close, even though it shouldn't be. There should be fear in your chest. Self-disgust and betrayal should hang over you like a cloud, but there's nothing except for satisfaction and peace. Maybe it will leave you once the influence of pheromones and the high of sex dissipate, and reality will come hurtling down on you with the conviction of a calamity. But as of now, you have no desire to entertain any of those anxieties. You nuzzle closer to Feyd, tucking your face into the crook of his neck with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times, even while a faint part of you worries that he'll shove you away. That he might push you from him and rise from the bath to leave you abandoned in water turned tepid and soiled to remind you of your true place here. But he doesn't. He lets you settle over him, idly running his fingertips up the divot of your spine from over the cover of your soaked dress. 

You feel the thrum voice of his vibrate across his chest before you hear it, and a part of you expects some sort of scathing remark.

"Did I still disappoint?" 

Your eyebrows furrow at the question as your slow-moving brain struggles to follow the question, and the near flat quality of his voice doesn't assist you any. But when your finally grasp onto the realization, you can't fight off a light smile that perks at your lips from the notion that he might be teasing you. The affection is back with a vengeance. Blossoming in your chest, saccharine and warm. But now you don't have the strength to try and shove it away or to distract yourself. 

"Hmmm," you hum lowly, feigning consideration as you draw in a deep sigh. "I suppose you've redeemed yourself." 

The scent of something strongly metallic fills your nose, settling deep and pulling you from the gentle fuzz that's stuffed your skull. It draws you to pull yourself from the cradle of his chest to evaluate him. Your eyes are quick to scan his pallid skin and you immediately notice the rivulets of black that pour down his shoulder, streaming from the angry bitemark that has been cut into his flesh. Guilt spreads through you at the sight even though he had commanded - begged, really, for you to do it. You're sure that his blood is still smeared across your lips in a dark stain. More proof of the pain you had eagerly inflicted on him. 

"I'm sorry," you apologize softly. You reach down to cup some of the murky water into the divot of your palm, it has healing properties you remember reading, and lift it up to gently pour it over the wound. Even though it must sting, he doesn't so much as flinch underneath the feel of the medicinal liquid flowing over the gash. 

"Don't be," he assures. He glides the pad of one of his thumbs across your bottom lip, and you distantly gather that he's collecting the glaze of his blood there. His eyes follow the motion like he's entranced, and the intensity behind it could have sparked another bout of lust in you if you weren't already so spent. He lifts his black-stained fingers between you both, rubbing his fingertips together as he watches the smear of blood glitter underneath the cast of the pale lighting. "I'll wear it with pride." 

There it is again. More of that odd, unwavering devotion. Perhaps you should be suspicious of it. It could be some sort of ploy to lull you into a false sense of security, but instinct tells you that he's being purely honest. And that might be even more frightening. If he's already so committed and consumed by lust and entitlement now, then there's truly no idea what could happen if his admiration were to evolve into something deeper. Darker. Less restrained. Horrendously, the prospect of it intrigues you. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to bask under the attention of Feyd-Rautha's obsession. An even sicker side of you might hope for it too. 

You snap that thought shut and bury it deep before it can flourish. You concentrate your mind on your surroundings instead, like the dark water lapping along the edge of the bath, soaking the expensive fabrics of your dress, now damaged and defiled, and the musk of sex and fragrant oils hanging heavy in the air; the press of his flaccid cock still stuffed inside of you. But the weight of Feyd's stare cuts through all of it, gravitating your own to raise to him in turn. You can see the pale hint of blue reflecting in them, just as gorgeous as the expanse of a wild ocean. It draws you closer to him and he angles his head to join his lips to yours. For the first time this night this kiss is something soft and gentle. It feels like reverence when the plush of his mouth parts against yours. Drawing in the taste of you on the tip of his tongue, exchanging a mix or your arousal and his blood with the glide of your lips. It's a kiss that pulls you down into his orbit. It makes everything fade it an unclear background until the only thing that matters is the warmth of him underneath your hands; the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming steadily within his chest. With another delicate nip of his teeth and the sweep of his hands around you, temptation rings throughout your bones and begs you to fall into him. 

And without any resistance, you do. 

#feyd x reader #feyd rautha x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha #feyd oneshot #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune part 2 #dune imagine #dune oneshot #dune 2024 #dune x reader

[quartzalynlove]

Puns

Pairing: smoke, scorpion, and sub zero x reader (separately)

Summary: telling bad puns about their powers to the Lin Kuei brothers

Warnings: none

A/N: so many thoughts about so many mk1 men

Smoke

You had been waiting to see Tomas all day. Both of your duties in the Lin Kuei so frequently keep you apart, and finding each other at the end of the day is a delight. Sometimes, before going home, the two of you would simply take in the sights at the grounds. It was well into winter, and snow was falling over the palace. In complete silence, you and Tomas held each other in your arms. As time passed you heard him sigh and looked up to see Tomas blink slowly. Placing a hand on his chest, you smiled softly before resting your arms around his neck.

"The cold always did make you tired, my dear." You swayed slowly in his arms.

Tomas' hands found your hips as he gazed at you lovingly, and speaking so softly. "We should go home and warm up, my love."

Smiling, you moved closer to Tomas until your lips ghosted the shell of his ear. You felt him exhale slowly against your chest while he held you tighter.

"Yes," you whispered. "But we shouldn't let the heat be too intense tonight. You know where there's smoke, there's fire."

You felt Tomas hesitate against you, his hands still on top of your back. Pulling back slightly, with an innocent smile, you his face and the curious crease between his brows.

"Did you seriously just say that?" He gave an incredulous laugh.

"What?" You feigned the sincerity of your answer, but your doubly wide smile always gave you away.

You couldn't help laughing due to the look Tomas was giving you, and he soon joined you. Huddling together from the cold, you began walking home.

"Your puns continue to get more and more ridiculous, my love." Tomas looked at you.

You looked back at him, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sight of the crinkled in the corners of his eyes. Smilling, you nuzzled into him further.

"They make you smile."

Scorpion

Ten minutes. That was all the time you had to steal Kuai Liang from his duties at work, but he was wasting that precious time. The man couldn't be taken away from the reports he scanned with that furrowed brow of his. Behind him you whined.

"Kuai Liang," you pouted, throwing yourself over his strong back. "Did you forget this was our time?"

He didn't mean to keep you waiting, the mission reports were just giving him extra stress to process for some reason.

"I'm sorry, my precious. I won't make you wait much longer."

But he did. It wasn't really Kuai Liang's fault, he was hardly paying attention to the time. However, only five minutes remained, and you couldn't bear to wait until the end of the day to be with him again.

Kicking you feet boredly in the corner, and idea came into your head. Your lips curled as you sprang to your feet, approaching Kuai Liang from behind. Quietly, you stepped closer to him until you could throw your arms around his torso. It was more like a hug from behind at first.

"Kuai Liang," you called again in a sing-song voice.

You knew that act on its own wouldn't get him to budge, so you began tugging him towards you playfully. The final pull, however, had a bit more strength to it.

"Get over here!" You commanded with the faintest rumble in your voice.

Kuai Liang found himself stumbling back, forcing him to grab onto you for support. You were laughing to yourself as he quickly realized you had pulled another one of your schemes. Giving in, he let his body relax against yours.

"Are you mocking me?" He chuckled, bringing a warm hand to cup your cheek.

"Mocking you? Why, beloved, I'd never." You gasped dramatically before a fit of laughter gave you away.

Not wasting anymore time, you brought your hands to Kuai Liang's chest, lingering only for a moment before you pulled him by his armor. The distance between your faces was closed, and you could practically taste his ashen kisses on your lips.

"Come here." You tugged him, impersonating your lover once more.

Sub Zero

Bi-Han was angry. Again. Although he would easily frighten most people with the frozen aura of his rage, he seemed to thaw whenever he lost his temper near you. Often you wondered if he was aware of it or not.

Although it was what he wanted, you wouldn't let Bi-Han find a quiet place for himself. The last thing he needed was to be alone to ponder his angered thoughts.

Quickly, you stood by Bi-Han as he stared out of your living room window with that signature scowl on his face, "Sweetheart, your brothers mean no harm." You said as softly as you could.

You had been trying to calm him for some time, but that seemed to do it. With a sharp sigh, Bi-Han finally started to relax, though still slightly upset. He turned away from the window, but did not look at you.

"It's just so frustrating when they don't realize what we could make the Lin Kuei."

Slowly now, you walked towards Bi-Han, carefully taking his hand in yours and placing the other on his chest. Finally, he looked at you, softening even more.

"Perhaps it would help all of you if you listened to them once in a while." You suggested.

Bi-Han broke your shared gaze once again, clearly against the idea. His hand started to grip yours, but you wouldn't let it, tracing slow circles on the back of his hand.

You smiled as you stared at the side of Bi-Han's face. "For a man able to wield ice, you do have such a fiery temper, my sweet."

Bi-Han halted as he registered your words. Then he looked back at you with such indifference in his face. Your lips twitched as you smiled, trying to hold back laughter. Taking his hand out of yours, Bi-Han turned, beginning to walk away from you.

"Puns at a time like this." He said more to himself than you.

Hopelessly, you tried to catch up with him, "Please, there's no need for the cold shoulder." You couldn't contain your laughter at that point.

Bi-Han kept walking, not even looking back at you. "I'm going to bed."

#mk1 2023 #mk1 #mk smoke #mk1 smoke #mk1 sub zero #mk1 scorpion #mk1 bi han #mk1 kuai liang #mk1 tomas vrbada #lin kuei #sub zero x reader #sub zero x you #sub zero x y/n #sub zero #scorpion x reader #scorpion x you #smoke x reader #bi han sub zero #bi han x reader #bi han mk #bi han #kuai liang x reader #kuai liang x you #kuai liang #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas vrbada x you #tomas vrbada x y/n #tomas vrbada #mk1 fanfic #mortal kombat

[analog-kidd]

If Fire Emblem Had Tumblr

🪄child-of-elimine Follow

This is a reminder that practicing dark magic will always be dangerous, evil, and very problematic!

🌑purplegaymagic Follow

Oh fuck off,, NOT ALL DARK MAGIC IS INHERENTLY EVIL!!!

Yes certain types of dark magic can be dangerous but ITS NOT EVILL!!

🖤the-elder-mage Follow

First of all op, you're from elibe so you should know that the preferred name for dark magic here is elder magic.

Second, op is a dragonphobe and supports the g*nocide of all dragons.

(4,322 notes)

❤️️crimsonrider Follow

henlo,,,

👼talyspeggy Follow

henlo!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(25,434 notes)

🪚sidecharater121 Follow

Me watching my friend getting warped to Zenith for the 5th time in different clothes cause they were popular

(1,547 notes)

🌪wimdymagey Follow

wdym you dont need a tome to summon magic in fodlan and valentia??????

🌪wimdymagey Follow

Im over here flipping thru the pages of my book for my life hoping my head doesnt get caved in by a hand axe!!

(3,957 notes)

🌘nohrian-cum Follow

Wait... weapons can break????

⚔️myrmigone Follow

YOUR WEAPONS CANT BREAK!?!?!?!?

(122 notes)

🪵chopinheads Follow

Hey guys! I'm a fighter about to promote!

Should I promote to warrior or hero?

(23 notes)

🗿the-real-axe-man Follow

Godssssss

pegasuses are such misandrists. wtf did i do to you flying pony??

Pegasuses arent even usful, they litterally get one shotted by an archer with 5 strength.

👼talyspeggy Follow

Literally not every pegasi breed "hates" men.

Go to Hoshido if you wanna see men riding pegasi.

I'm so sorry that certain pegasi were born not wanting a man to ride them.

(344 notes)

😷helpfulheals Follow

Hey guys @/begnionianloverss is a laguzphobe and supports the s*renes m*ssacre saying that "they deserved it"

😺ran-the-catboy Follow

Oof,, thanks for informing us, I have friends who follow that account, gonna tell them that info immediately!

(99 notes)

🏰armored-general Follow

Can myrmidons shut up abt their crit rates???

Yall cant even do 1 damage against me, how tf that crit rate gonna help you???

⚔️myrmigone Follow

Flame Sword

Levin Sword

Wind Sword

Runesword

Sonic Sword

🏰armored-general Follow

with YOUR 3 MAGIC???????? LMAO!!!! stop coping and admit that myrmidon is a shit class

(649 notes)

🏹no1-archer Follow

Heard that @flameempire was hosting a bbq at belhalla, very excited!

🏹no1-archer Follow

THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ THAT WASNT A BBQ--

🐉divinedragonfanclub Follow

wtf is happening in jugdral

(2,038 notes)

🚫anti-crest-revolution Follow

Gods I hate people with crests

Privileged mfs

⚡️zapanddash Follow

Brooooo my crest literally randomly summons a thunder storm whenever im around.

I was in khadein (a literal desert nation) a while ago and in the middle of THE HOT DESERT DAY A FUCKING TORENTIAL RAIN STORM APPEARS!!!

That is not a privilege

🌑purplegaymagic Follow

OP you literally have a crest! how can you say you hate crests when YOU HAVE ONE YOURSELF!!!! SMH

(34,667 notes)

🧙‍♂️gotohs-big-naturals Follow

I can fix him

💐eirika-erica Follow

No you fucking can't

🐎expthiefseth Follow

No you fucking can't

🐲frenofdragon Follow

No you fucking can't

🪨the-obsidianrock Follow

No you fucking can't

🔱lancemaster22 Follow

No you fucking can't

(2,331 notes)

🥷ninja-paint Follow

pets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets youpets you

😺ran-the-catboy Follow

gets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets petgets pet

(776 notes)

🪙annablr-staff

This website was a waste of money

(933,720 notes)

#analog’s logs #unreality #fake dashboard #dashboard simulator #fire emblem #fire emblem engage #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem echoes shadows of valentia #fire emblem heroes #fire emblem fates #fire emblem awakening #fire emblem new mystery of the emblem #fire emblem shadow dragon #fire emblem radiant dawn #fire emblem path of radiance #fire emblem the sacred stones #fire emblem the blazing blade #fire emblem the binding blade #fire emblem thracia 776 #fire emblem genealogy of the holy war #fire emblem mystery of the emblem #fire emblem gaiden #fire emblem shadow dragon and the blade of light #fodlan #tellius #magvel #elibe #jugdral #valentia #archanea

[bunny584]

For I Have Sinned

“Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God’ For God cannot be tempted by evil.” James 1:13.

But Father Geto can be. 

Newly appointed Chaplain of the Noble Court, Suguru is a reformed sinner. Sanctity, discipline and celibacy are commandments of his choosing. A devout servant of the Lord. Armored with the Breastplate of Righteousness, the Shield of Faith. 

This should be sufficient enough to withstand temptation. 

Right? 

Pairing: Geto x Female reader 

C/W: Religious themes, dark romance, eventual filth. 18+. MDNI. 

A/N: Holy hell. Anon, you sick, twisted genius. You, the puppeteer. Me, the puppet who writes. This one — this story might be the one. Frothing at the mouth to know what you guys think. Going on AO3 for sure. I haven’t decided if I will keep this long fic series here, but since it was an anon ask its only right to honor them with the first chapter. 

Art credit: @ potchi_jpg on X

Music: Garden Kisses x Giveon (this was on a manic repeat for at least an hour. It wrote the chapter. I implore you to listen and levitate like I did).

CHAPTER I. Hello, Duchess.

Andesite. Dacite. Schist. 

Gorgeous. 

Suguru takes a mental note of the rock formations whizzing by just before he spears the Aegean Sea. Tailwind force trailing his feet in an elegant whirl.

Eh, mediocre landing. He’s out of practice. 

It’s true. Seminary did not allow for too much idle time in between biblical studies. Devil’s playground, and such. 

And it’s not in his nature to half-ass any life endeavor, whatever it may be. 

Suguru deftly levels out in the welcoming waves. Loose-limbed and fluid. Choosing to hover below her surface for a few moments longer. The tail end of his thick, singular French braid undulating behind him.

His body flows in tandem with the current. Swimming deep enough to scatter a pool of Fagri. He instinctively captures one in his large hand — not quite as out-of-touch as he thought. 

‘Make it to shore! If Poseidon calls, don’t answer Him, son!’

The gentle fisherman called out each time Suguru dove off their vessel. Still two or three, sometimes up to five miles from the coast, he’d plunge into the waters. Regardless of her mood, Suguru craved to be surrounded by her embrace. 

To be baptized by her tide. 

Showered with her salt of the earth. 

A dampened smile blooms across Suguru’s terse lips. Oxygen bubbles float about, from the muffled chuckle escaping him. 

His father’s voice rings between his ears. A little less clearly, nowadays. 

He always dove deeper than his fellow seafarers. Without the restraints of gear or protective equipment. Unnaturally comfortable in an element more labile than human nature. 

Suguru’s father mused about his Stormborn boy’s true lineage. 

‘Everyday, I prayed for you. Begged for you. And the God of the Ocean delivered a precious gift. Don’t return to His storms too soon.’

Fond memories, a little yellowed now. Callouses from those days have faded. 

Suguru is a different man. Born again. In a new country. With a new home, a new purpose. 

Even still, it’s comforting to know the world is 70% water, 30% land. And the Great Majority has always welcomed him with open arms.

No matter the iteration of his life, he’ll always find a home at Sea.

“Father Geto!”

What? 

Suguru begins his ascent. He is still by the cliff edge. Not nearly far enough for the Sirens to beckon. 

“Chaplain! Are you out there?”

Not even the saltwater penetrates his ears like this melody. 

An ethereal crescendo. With all the grace and beauty of a summer swan. Light enough to lull stoic men to a peaceful, permanent, slumber. 

More alluring. More disorienting than the songs at sea he’s heard and resisted. Potent enough to drown a warship. 

Who is calling for him?

Suguru chases the lethal sound. Careful pauses at each depth-level. To avoid returning to Poseidon’s storms too soon, as his father would say. 

“Father Geto!” 

Ahh, a voice he recognizes. His alter boy, Noel, at the peak.

Helios is kind, today. Because the Sun kisses Suguru as he breaks the surface. If the Ocean is his home, the Sun is certainly his lover. 

“What is it, Noel?” He calls in between strides to the volcanic edge.

“You have a visitor!” A tremble to Noel’s tone. Suguru cant help the low chuckle that leaves him.

Adolescents are always so anxious. Nervous about the most inconsequential, meaningless things. He was once the same. 

Who could be visiting? His schedule is supposed to be cleared today. 

Suguru laments leaving his clothing at the peak of the cliffside. Tossing a glance over his left shoulder - memories of his past life tattooed in various symbols. His back, covered in a sprawling trident. 

A permanent stain from the life he lived before this. It’s unbecoming of a priest to be seen this way. 

Latching onto the unforgiving rocky edges, Suguru scales the steep terrain in long steps and short holds. Serrated earth digs into his damp palms with each grasp.

He savors the pain. It’s familiar. An indication that he’s spent some time in the only other place he finds unfettered peace. 

“Noel, my schedule was cleared. Who could be—“

“Pardon my intrusion, Father Geto.” You seep into Suguru’s sentence, effectively answering his question. 

Music. 

Suguru nearly falls backward off the ledge he just set foot on.

Rumors about your beauty pollenated the compound for weeks. Anxiously anticipating your arrival. Hushed voices between maidens. Whispers within the walls of parlors. Bellowing gossip between court officials. 

All the words, all the speculations roll around Suguru’s skull. Louder than glass shattering in an empty room. 

They were wrong. 

Liars. 

Not even a tenth of the truth can be found in the frivolous ‘she’s a beauty’, ‘what a pretty face’ and comments of the like taking root in the compound. 

No, no. 

You were sculpted by every single Deity Suguru has ever studied.  

Because the One he has chosen to worship couldn’t have possibly crafted you alone. 

The good Lord is simply without the means.

Suguru will have to repent for that blasphemous thought later. 

…but God granted him eyesight, no? 

Eyes that can see underwater with the same clarity as a cloudless day. He trusts his eyes more than any part of his body. 

And they aren’t deceiving him. 

Flushed and turned away, Suguru takes a moment to soak you in, while patting himself dry. Maybe taking a little extra time to step into his khaki slacks and white button up. 

His wind pipe threatens to spasm with each sip of you he takes. 

Exquisite woman. 

You could convert a non believer in an instant. 

The gentle slope of your nose, those warmed soft, high cheeks deserve to be cherished in a museum. 

That dress. 

The tailor must’ve sewn it to your body in real time. Rolling hills and dips of your feminine curves. So quick to surrender to the ride your frame is taking him on. 

Suguru could fall to his knees and praise the Gods right here and now for their attention to detail. 

“Duchess? I’m embarrassed. Forgive my attire, I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

Still damp but fully clothed, Suguru walks forward with a steady hand outstretched. Intentionally skipping eye contact with Noel, who would’ve interpreted the glance as anger. The boy is practically vibrating in his periphery. 

Concerned about possibly making a mistake, sure. But if Suguru were still a betting man, he’d bet your presence is driving Noel’s rattled nerves. 

“I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness!” Unveiling your face to him with a gorgeous smile, you offer a delicate hand that drowns in his. 

Well.

To call it just a gorgeous smile makes him no better than the rumor mill and its grave underestimation. 

The air around him is sliced to a fraction of what it was. Suddenly gossamer thin and inadequate. 

You are breathtaking. 

“Please.” A deceptively even tone and casual wave of his hand. You wouldn’t know that words taste like sandpaper. 

“How can I serve you, Duchess?” 

“You do not have to address me as such, Father. I’m not wed, yet!”

Bunny lines along your nose deepen when you laugh. Heat scorches Suguru’s ears and you both are presently under shade. 

Do. Not. Covet.

“It’s all the same.” With a restrained smile, Suguru peels his eyes away from yours. 

Resting them on his rectory in the distance. He gestures his hands forward. Noel scrambles ahead of you two, undoubtedly to go tidy the chapel (that is already spotless). 

“You’re quite the swimmer.” 

You could assassinate him, you know. 

With that voice of yours. The way it stuns his senses. Far more dangerous now that it isn’t dampened by unrelenting waves. 

Suguru is a strong swimmer. He knows it. Noel knows it. The whole court knows it. Great Whites know it. 

So why is his spine unraveling at its seams when you say it? 

Why is his heart knocking against his sternum like it’s on the run from something? 

From someone, rather. 

“Mmm.” Suguru hums through closed lips. 

Unable to acknowledge the compliment with decorum. He opts for diversion instead. 

“Duchess, if I may. What prompted your visit to the chapel? How can I serve you?” 

The two of you take lazy strides along the cobblestone path. You ogle at a white rose bush that Suguru is particularly fond of. 

“I was touring the compound and noticed the garden surrounding the Church.” 

A distracted response, while nestling your nose in a pretty bloom. Sun rays fanning your face as if to showcase that you’re God’s favorite. A biblical example of how flowers should be enjoyed.

Is it just the roses? Or are you this beautiful no matter the plant?  

“Ahh. Come, then.” 

You’re being indulgent, Suguru. 

Maybe so. But the Chapel Grounds are his domain. The greenery lives and breathes under his fingertips. He adamantly refused a groundskeeper for the garden. Taking pride in nurturing its needy existence. 

Second only to his eyes, Suguru trusts his hands fully. They’re intelligent. Fast. Expansive. 

Definitive. Firm when the situation calls for it, yet gentle. Quick to learn. 

Attentive. 

He’s never gotten a shortage of compliments on his hands—

“Wisteria!” You torpedo through Suguru’s rapidly disintegrating spiral. And he couldn’t be more grateful. 

Regaining a shred of control, he leads you under the oak archway. Draped in curtains of Wisteria. The billowing lilac petals sway romantically in the sea breeze. 

Your lips hang open in a pretty, shocked ‘Oh.’ Eyes wide, gazing up at him in wonder. Adoration woven into those beautiful features slams hot and heavy into his lower abdomen. Remnant embers warming below his belt line. 

Suguru coughs to reset his over-sensitive senses. A futile gesture because you knock him right back down to his knees. 

“Oh, Father…..please?” A soft plea rolls through the slit in your lips. Pulling his eyes down to your pout.

Fuck. 

The rock formation Suguru took note of earlier suddenly materializes in his throat. You coated his honorific in a new tone. Breathy and desperate. As if he is the only person who could satisfy your needs. 

His skin is half a degree away from melting clear off his skeleton under those big, warm eyes of yours. 

“Specify your request, Duchess.”

Both hands jam into his pockets so he can dig his nails into his thighs unnoticed. The searing pain tethering him to this dimension. 

A deep rose blooms over your cheeks. Realizing you hadn’t actually asked him a question before begging. 

So, prettily. 

“May I please tend to your garden? It’s…I’m far from home and gardening brings me so much joy. Please, Father Geto—“

“Yes.” 

His agreement comes well before Suguru is ready. Or, thought it through. 

Should a noble woman be seen doing tasks as menial as gardening? 

Should you be seen without your fiancée on his grounds? 

What will you look like? 

Kneeling over a bed of sunflowers? 

Kneading the soil with your delicate, small hands—

“How can I thank you?” Your lips curl into an intoxicating smile. And Suguru no longer has the capacity to be in your presence. 

“No need, stay as long as you like. I have to take my leave.”

Suguru offers a curt wave and terse smile before spinning on his heel. Leaving you, a work of art, beneath the masterpiece that is his arc of wisteria. 

He barrels down the Chapel corridors at light speed. The pews, confessional, meeting rooms whirl by his periphery in a drunken haze.

Cold water. Cold water. 

The wooden bathroom door creaks and wails beneath his harsh touch. Suguru fumbles with the two-level lock.

He nearly strips down naked. The fire incinerating him from within is unbearable. If there were scissors within grasp he would’ve cut his braid completely off. Because even the familiar sway of his waist length mane along his back is too much. 

You are too much.

Suguru’s fingers unravel his braid and reposition his locks into a tight bun. Off the damp skin along his neck. 

‘Father….please?’

Your voice echoes from Suguru’s incapacitated brain down to his drooling cock. Icy water splashes against face. 

Suguru’s length has been weeping since you first revealed your face to him. Twitching and thrashing with every single word that came out of that pretty, sinful mouth. He’s never been so grateful that today he chose to swim with compression gear, rather than his usual bared skin. 

Are you doing this on purpose?

Wide eyed and demure. But with a voice more beautiful than any siren that has tried to lure him to his watery grave. 

Is this a test?

Suguru’s fingers desperately grasp the golden cross around his neck. Digging the symbol into his palm. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” He starts. Ignited, smoldering violet eyes staring back at him are unrecognizable. 

They are not of God. 

They are dark. 

Lust filled. 

“Now. And…and at the hour of our death.” Words slip through his gritted teeth. His other hand grips the sink edge. 

‘May I please tend to your Garden?’

“God. Please.” Suguru is the one pleading. To anyone above.

For self-control. For reprieve from the shape of your lips when you beg. His cock bucks against his inner thigh. Demanding attention to the ache between his legs. 

Are you Eve? 

Have you come to destroy his Eden?

Your delectable mounds barely hidden beneath that fucking dress as the Apple?

“Holy…Holy Mary, Mother of God…pray for us sinners.” His vice grip around the cross tightens. Babbling words he hopes can provide him with some restraint, some clarity.

They don’t.

Because his other hand now hovers over the pulsating bulge in his slacks. His manhood starved. Especially having been deprived of touch. Of warmth for longer than Suguru remembers.

“Holy…Mary…fuck.” Blasphemy rolling off his tongue. 

Scorching heat radiating from his hovering palm pierces his clothing. Encasing his cock like a warmed blanket. Enticing him like the soft sex of a woman. Every single muscle is under wire tension. Forcing space between his need and his hand. 

His hands. Don’t forsake him now. He trusts his hands. 

“Father Geto? Are you alright?” Noel’s call from the other side of the door startles Suguru still.

“I’m—“ Suguru clears his dry throat “I’m alright, Noel. What do you need?”

“I saw you run in here and—“

“I’m okay.” Suguru replies, more softly this time. The boy is almost too tender-hearted for his own good.

He doesn’t miss the small sigh of relief. 

“I left your updated schedule on your desk.” 

“And what would I do without you?”

Suguru can almost hear Noel smiling across the barrier. Gleefully padding away. Completely unaware that his presence was the saving grace from disgracing himself. 

Another splash of cold water on his face and multiple deep breaths later, Suguru finally gains enough composure to emerge. 

Curious about the updates to his schedule, he strides to his office. A leather folder awaits with his itinerary.

Saturday: 0800 - 1000- Youth lecture 

Saturday: 1800 - 2000 - Evening mass

Sunday: 0700 - 0900 - Morning mass

Sunday: 1300 - 1400 - Pre-Marital Counseling [CONFIDENTIAL] 

“High court, then.” Suguru muses to himself. Pulling out the envelope with a matching demarcation. Meant for his eyes only. Should the seal be broken en route to the recipient the offender could be sentenced to death for treason. 

And at this moment, Suguru finds that fate less painful than the spear currently piercing his lungs.

His eyes burn into the names written at the bottom of the page.

The Duke Ahriman  & The Duchess-to-Be.

Chapter II

E/N: Hello from [redacted]. I am literally losing my shite. I’m already in love with the plot before it has even fully materialized. And prince-of-the-sea-Suguru? This headcannon has me in a chokehold I fear. Thank you for reading 💋

#jjk fanfic #jjk x reader smut #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto x you #suguru geto smut #geto smut #suguru smut #jjk suguru #geto suguru #suguru fluff #jujutsu suguru #jjk x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk angst #priest smut #jjk geto #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jjk fanart #jujutsu kaisen suguru #geto suguru x reader #jjk fic #geto angst #suguru geto #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x y/n

[theminecraftbee]

Tango makes a terrible, terrible face as he walks into Grian's new creation. Bit rude, he thinks that is, but whatever. Grian waves his arms out, getting ready to show Tango more than he'd shown him when the practice room was still in-progress, when Tango says:

"What did you do to it?"

"Huh?"

Tango shudders. He folds his arms over himself and looks at Jellie the ravager. "What did you do to it. To this place. Why is it... warm?"

"I mean, it's not really warm, see it's all white so it actually doesn't retain heat very well, even with the froglamps, so I had to do some work to make sure the temperature was appropriate for heavy physical activity while not risking frostbite the way the actual dungeon does, and..."

Grian trails off.

"The point is that it's mostly just, I don't know, mild temperature? Unnoticeable temperature? The fact you commented on it is weird."

There's a strangely echoing quality to Tango's voice as he steps back again, against the door to the practice room. "It's clean."

"Yeah. I mean, that's the aesthetic, isn't it? Wiped clean of everything but the ravager, the water, and the drowned. None of the distractions. Good for practicing, you know?" Grian squints. "You should like it. You said you'd like it. Wanted people to be able to practice so they'd do better at the dungeon."

Tango shudders again. "You've wiped clean the ravagers, too. I can't... touch her."

"What?" Grian says, baffled.

"What have you done to this place," Tango says.

"Listen, I won't have you insulting my clean room," Grian says. "I cleaned it of all the dungeon bits. It's nice and easy and white and understandable. I won't have you corrupting it."

Hm. Not sure where that one came from, he realizes. Probably a bad sign. He'd certainly guess as much from Tango, who is staring at him with something akin to horror.

In a voice that echoes like a card readout, Tango says: "You won't do this in the dungeon. You'll feed us what's left from this. Or I'll have to ask you to move it."

Grian rolls his eyes. "Geez, yeah, I won't touch the actual dungeon! I already broke the sound test room, I'm not breaking any really important redstone. Now, do you want to see the drowned dodging room or not?"

"I'm horrified to find out what happened to the drowned, if this is your ravager."

Grian looks between Jellie's blank stare and Tango and throws up his hands. "Nothing! I did nothing to her! I have no idea what you're on about!"

"It's like you bleached their insides," mutters Tango. "Bleached everything. It's not natural."

"Not natural? Like you're one to talk!"

"I need to know. Show me," Tango says.

"Right then. Take off your armor first, I don't want Jellie getting thorned or something, then let's practice some dodging and get in there. Then you'll see this is a perfectly normal set of eerie white rooms and leave me alone, right?"

Tango makes a face.

"I don't know why I bother. Honestly. You'd think I'd done something weird," Grian says, and then neither of them talk much, on account of the ravager trying to chew their faces.

#hermitcraft #decked out 2 #a bee fic #grian #tangotek #tango voice: what the fuck. how did you do this to the dungeon. what the FUCK #grian voice: what could i have possibly done. i just bleached the entire thing of everything that gave it life and made it hollow. #tango voice: WHAT THE FUCK #anyway i love how OPPOSITE the aesthetic of the practice room is to the actual dungeon #and how that is still somehow terrifying #also this one’s funnier if you read it as being in the universe where tango was COMPLETELY eaten because then it’s decked out itself #just going ‘what the fuck’ real quietly on repeat #but you can also read it as a universe where decked out and tango are more mutually the same thing or communicate or whatever you want

[rosieofcorona]

A Light To Break All Shadows

Just a fluffy little Halsin x Tav fic to keep the darkness at bay. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading! 💕

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Tav is eyeing Halsin suspiciously from the opposite end of Art’s bedside, where he’s been keeping watch over the sick man for days. At least, Halsin thinks it’s been days– perhaps three (or maybe four?) at the most. It is difficult to keep track in the Shadowlands.

At any rate, he cannot answer her immediately, which means his answer is insufficient.

“If you have to think about it,” Tav continues, “It’s been too long.”

She has a point.

He is exhausted, as they all are, but cannot bring himself to rest. They are so close– he is so close– to finding the child that will save them, to ending the hundred-year darkness, to restoring light and balance to the land. 

And Art Cullagh, ill as he is, is the key that will unlock their victory, so Halsin feels as though he must protect him every moment, must stay by his side in case he should wake, or take a turn. 

For days, he has persisted, spurred on by his stamina and willpower. For days, he has waited and watched. Now the idea of sleep falls on him like a spell. 

“It is my duty.” He protests. “I will see this through.” “You will,” she agrees, “When you wake. These people will need you in the days to come. And they will need you to be rested.”

She is playing to his sense of responsibility, he knows, but he is too tired to argue. Reluctantly, he nods his agreement. 

When he rises from his chair, it seems that all his centuries of existence catch up to him at once, his joints and muscles burning. He feels old and sore and weary as he drags himself toward an empty bed.

“Go on,” Tav commands gently. She feels like a mother nudging a child off to sleep. “Even the greatest leaders need rest.”

“Then you ought to rest yourself.”

She laughs at that, though Halsin means it. He knows so few who are so capable, so resilient, so kind. She has already accomplished so many things that he could not, not in hundreds of years of practice.

“You flatter me,” Tav smiles, but Halsin shakes his head. 

“You are extraordinary.” 

His gaze is on her when he says it, on her eyes and mouth and hands, the way her armor cleaves to her, the way her weapon rests against her hip. In another place, another time, another life, he would have had her already, would have known her inside and out if she asked him to. 

And she had asked him to, once, before they came here. He remembers. At the time he had denied her as gently as he could, in the knowledge that what was growing between them, if cultivated, could later prove a distraction, a weakness. 

But gods, he had wanted her then. He wants her still. 

Yet such urges, much like sleep, must be suppressed. At least for now.

Tav stares back at him with wide eyes until she feels a flush come over her cheeks. She turns her face away, just slightly, so that Halsin will not see. 

“Well.” She clears her throat, and redirects. “I’ll rest before we go scouting tomorrow. And I’ll watch Art while you sleep.” 

“As you say.” 

**********

In his dreams, he is back in the Shadowfell, that sunless, cursed place. 

At his feet are bodies, Harper and druid and shade alike. He knows their faces, their names, their stories. Here is Atlan, a boy from his own grove, no more than eighteen years of age. Halsin had cured him once of pox, had later mentored him in the healing arts. 

And here, Jehan the Harper, who had just received word that his wife was expecting. Twins, he’d announced, over a round of drinks at Last Light. 

And Moranna, the Selunite priestess who had blessed them again and again on their journey, had prayed over them and shielded them to the best of her ability. 

All lost to the shadows, corrupted beyond recognition. All dead, cut down by his hand. 

Halsin does his best to avoid stepping on them as he presses onward, each step a battle of its own. The weight of darkness seems to crush him, seems to drain the very life out of his body. 

His god is nowhere here. 

There comes a voice through the black night, distant, disembodied. Halsin, the shadows whisper, and whisper again, closer. Halsin. 

Wildly he turns and swings his glaive, hitting nothing, the panic rising in his throat, and–

“Halsin!” Tav exclaims, blocking a swing of his fist with her forearm. 

She is sitting at the edge of his bed looking concerned, frightened even. His skin is slicked with sweat, his breathing heavy, his body tangled in the bed linens. 

Immediately, a white-hot shame rushes over him, that he should be the one to cause her fear. 

That he should strike at her, even unconsciously, his savior, his ally. His friend, though that is too weak a word for the feeling that grows within him, wraps around his heart like wild ivy. 

“Forgive me,” he pants, “I was–” 

I was lost in the darkness, he means to say, I was frightened and alone, but the words stick in his throat like flies in honey.

Yet Tav seems to know already, a tenderness softening the furrows of her brow. Not pity, he notes. Understanding. 

She has seen equivalent horrors, has seen friends fall and foes flourish and still, and still, keeps fighting toward goodness, toward light. He aches with the thought that she might have such nightmares, that she might know firsthand how he feels now. 

But she soothes him, reaches out to wipe the sweat from his brow, her touch as light and cool as an evening breeze. 

“It’s alright,” she promises. “You don’t have to explain. You are safe here.”

Halsin lets out a breath he’s been holding for too long. It has been many years since he was last comforted, truly comforted. He is so accustomed to doing the comforting that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end. 

Tenderness is no stranger to him– many of his lovers have been gentle, have been sweet– but none have ever known his burdens, none have carried them, taken them on as their own. Here is one who has, who does, who will, if he will let her. 

He takes Tav’s hand in his and guides it, flattens her palm over the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, breathing deeply, willing it to slow. He wants to say, Thank you, then, I love you, but it’s too soon, he thinks, too desperate, no matter how true. 

“Thank you,” Halsin allows, and swallows the rest. 

Tav smiles at him then, a soft, bright thing, like a single star in the night sky. The true last light in the Shadowlands. 

“Shall I stay with you?”

“Art–,” Halsin starts, but she shakes her head calmly, knowingly. “He’s sleeping soundly. Seems his bad dreams have come to visit you.”

“I do not wish to burden you with something so trivial.”

“You could not burden me,” Tav says quietly. “But I will leave, if you prefer.” 

Her thumb strokes over his chest, her hand still pressed against him. His pulse quickens again at so intimate, so innocent a touch. Halsin wonders if she can feel it.

“I prefer your presence, always. But you need your own rest.” 

“Very well.” 

Her palm slips from him as she rises to her feet, and he thinks for a moment that he’s made a mistake, has waved off her kindness, dismissed her.

Rather, she motions for him to move over and climbs slowly, wordlessly into the bed next to him. He finds himself lifting the sheets for her, inviting her in without hesitation. 

She’s changed, he realizes as she comes close, her armor cast aside for the day. Her nightclothes make her look, make her feel smaller, softer. He wants so badly to slip his hands beneath the fabric, to see how soft she is beneath. 

“Is this alright?” Tav whispers, looking earnestly into his eyes. Her fingertips flit over his cheek, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. “Are you alright?”

The bed is small and Halsin is not, and she is pressed against him like a flower between the pages of a book. He can only nod. 

“I will rest here then, with you.”

In the gentlest act he can or will ever remember, she leans forward and kisses his eyes as if bestowing a blessing upon them, a ward against the darkness.

**********

Halsin wakes again in near-total silence, save the gentle inhale-exhale of Tav’s breathing beside him. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and for the first time in a long time, doesn’t mind. 

Instead, he is aware of how peaceful he feels in this moment, sheltered from the dangers beyond the inn, aware that at one point or another he had let go of his worry and settled deep into dreaming. The earlier tension in his muscles has melted into a tired ache, as if he is returning from a very long walk in the Grove. 

And she is here, wrapped in his arms. A light to break all shadows.

He can’t be sure when it happened. The shift had been imperceptible, like the feeling of falling asleep, or falling in love.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #halsin #halsin x tav #my fic #halsin x reader #halsin x fem! tav #fluff #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #but mostly just so soft #like it was a delight to write something so sweet #my writing #bg3 fanfiction #halsin romance #bg3 halsin #halsin fanfic

[dirtyvulture]

Darkest Knight - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You meet a pretty woman in a bar...

Word count: 4954

AN: Click here for Part 1!

Thanks to everyone who read and interacted with Part 1. Things get a little wild in this one...

“I should have never come here,” Natasha cries. “You don’t deserve this, after everything you’ve done for me–”

“I can help you,” you insist. “Please, Nat. Just tell me who they are–”

She looks up at you, and even in the darkness the fear in her eyes is unmissable.

“The Red Room.”

The words send physical shivers down your spine. They weren’t ones you had expected to ever hear again, and you were shocked that this woman knew of its existence, let alone escaped. Now, you can fully sympathize with and understand her fear.

“Put your shoes on. We’ll go out the back door. Hurry.” You speak in short but commanding sentences, directing Natasha into the kitchen. The pounding on the door escalates to heavy, inconsistent thuds, and you know the “officers” are using their battering ram now. Luckily, you had assembled this cabin yourself, board by board, with the door built of solid oak, so that would buy you some precious time.

You stop at the freezer to grab a plastic bag that Natasha doesn’t even look at. She’s staring at the back door, practically shaking with fear, and anger fills you so suddenly you can’t see. But you can’t slip into one of your rages now, not with Natasha being in such close proximity and having no idea what you’re actually capable of. If she knew who you really were, what you were, she’d run happily into the Red Room goons’ arms and beg them to take her away from you. 

On the other side of the back door, you hear the crunch of boots on fresh snow, the anxious heartbeats, and the pump of a shotgun.

You don’t have any time to warn Natasha before you jump in front of her, shielding her body with yours just in time as a round of buckshot blasts through the door into your chest. The pain is like an explosion that takes your breath away, but luckily darkness engulfs you before it becomes overbearing.

Natasha screams when your weight falls back into her. You are ridiculously, unexpectedly heavy, almost pinning her down, but she manages to scramble back in time, leaving you to thud onto the floor. She stares at your body in shock, where lead pellets are buried in your chest, blood seeping out to soak your layers of shirts. Natasha instinctively gravitates for you, trying to find an area to apply pressure so she can slow the bleeding. 

“Y/N, Y/N,” she whimpers, ignoring the fist punching through the weakened door and opening the lock from the outside. 

“Hey, I found her!”

“And you took out the other one!”

“Natalia…” someone says in a mocking voice. “Natalia, come home to us…”

Natasha’s head snaps up and adrenaline fills her veins as she blindly launches herself at the soldier who killed you. She tears the shotgun out of his hands and clubs him on the head with it, knocking him down and smashing the butt into his helmet’s face shield until it cracks. She hasn’t felt fury like this in a while, putting her in an almost euphoric state, but her focus is a concentrated pinpoint, and she doesn’t see the second soldier behind her pointing a gun at her head.

“RAHHHHH!” 

Natasha ducks, wondering if someone let a large animal into your home. She catches a flash of silver as the muzzle of the soldier’s gun falls harmlessly to the floor as if sliced right off. You’re back on your feet all of a sudden, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, three silver, knife-like claws protruding from your knuckles. You slash at the soldier, tearing through his body armor effortlessly and puncturing his heart. He crumples next to his partner, who’s shaking in complete terror while crawling away from you.

“Don’t look, Nat,” you growl and she turns away, flinching when she hears the man’s cut off scream. She jumps when you grab her shoulder, afraid that she’ll find herself on the other end of your knives, but you shake her gently. When she looks at you, your knives are gone and so are the buckshot holes in your chest. 

“How are you–What did you–” Natasha stammers.

“It’s okay,” you say, taking a step back from her when you sense her overwhelming levels of stress. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Natasha slips her hand into her pocket, where your stolen pocket knife is. It would be like trying to fight you off with a toothpick, but Natasha Romanoff wasn’t one to go down without a fight.

“Nat, please. We can get away on my motorcycle. Come on.”

You’ve made no move to hurt her, keeping your hands where she can see them. Even though you had turned the Red Room soldiers into shish kabobs, you hadn’t let them suffer, taking them down with deadly accuracy and efficiency. Deep down, Natasha knows she can trust you, but her body is having a very resistant physical reaction to going with you. After all, anyone’s natural instinct would be to run very fast and far from away from a person who literally came back from the dead and mowed down two grown men with knives built into their arms. 

“Nat?” you prompt a final time, not sure what you’re going to do if she refuses to go with you. 

“Okay,” she says, wringing her hands together frantically. “I trust you.” 

It means more than you can explain that she’s put her faith in you and you lead her out of the bloodied kitchen. You race to the shed, where you tear off the padlock with your bare hands. There’s only one helmet, which you clasp around Natasha’s head. You throw one leg over the seat of your motorcycle and it sinks considerably under your weight. Natasha slides on behind you, wrapping her arms around your muscular torso, unable to resist the waves of body heat coming off of you.

She hardly notices the blistering wind as you take off into the forest, somehow finding your way around trees and rocks despite keeping the headlights off. Her fingers are clenched, almost frozen, to the plastic bag you had made such an effort to retrieve from the freezer. She has no interest in its contents now, clinging to you desperately and closing her eyes, hoping that when she opens them she’ll wake up from this nightmare.

You eventually turn the motorcycle onto a road and careen on. 

*********************************************************************** It’s probably not the wisest idea to stop at a motel, but you’re certain Natasha is still exhausted from the long night that’s not over, and you need some time to collect yourself. You park your motorcycle in the dirt lot and shake Natasha awake.

“We’ll stay here for a few hours, then keep moving,” you say, gently prying the plastic bag from her. Her hands are freezing and you feel awful for not taking care of her better. 

“But the men…they could catch up–”

“You need to get proper rest,” you interrupt. You’re not sure how many hours she had been awake before she met you at the bar, and while she’d already been looking better after dinner, you didn’t want to push her.

“This is too dangerous–” Natasha protests.

“They know you’re with me,” you say, and this quiets her. “So they’ll need to come up with a new plan if they want you.” You untwist the plastic bag, pulling out a soggy wad of cash. Her eyes grow wide. “This should keep us covered for a few days.” Then, you notice the rusty red splotches of dried blood splattered across your shirt. If you walk up to the front desk like this, the manager would call the cops. “Uh…shit.”

“Here.” Natasha takes her jacket off, despite your protests for her to keep it on, and she wraps the sleeves around your shoulders, carefully draping them in a way that hides the blood splatter. She fights back a visible shiver. “Much better.”

“Thanks. Let’s go quick,” you say, herding her into the tiny front office that barely fits the two of you side-by-side. “Two rooms,” you tell the pimply boy behind the dusty desk who smells like energy drinks and weed. 

“Huh?” he responds, blinking slowly at you.

“Two rooms. Please,” you say through your teeth, pulling out a few bills to show your commitment.

A long pause as you stare each other down.

“Uh, yeah we don’t have two rooms,” the boy says. “Just one–”

“That’s fine, then,” Natasha intervenes, as you can consider hefting the kid over your shoulder and dragging him out to the dumpster around the corner. “We’ll take whatever you have left.”

“Sure.”

You reluctantly hand over the deposit and he disappears into the back room to find the keys. Mumbling under your breath about the lack of hiring standards, you rub absently at your chest and Natasha looks at you in concern.

“You okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah.” You drop your hand back to your side. “Probably gonna cough up some buckshot later, to be honest.”

Natasha doesn’t know if she should laugh or leave. “How did you…” she trails off, searching for the right words.

“Heal so fast?” you supply. “Always have. I was literally just…born that way.”

“And the…” Natasha gestures to her own hands and forearms. 

“Claws?” you finish. “Been with me since the beginning, too.” Your answers are vague, almost useless in the new number of questions they spark, but Natasha knows now is not the time. The boy finally returns with a key hooked to rabbit’s foot, which you accept with a very judgemental scowl, but are very glad to finally be on your way to some privacy for the night.

***********************************************************************

Natasha startles awake, trying to piece together the traumatic memories of the past eight hours into a coherent storyline. She’s alone in the motel room, her anxiety skyrocketing at the thought that you might have ditched her, when the door creaks open and you step back in. You’re wearing new clothes and holding a crumpled white bag stained with grease. 

“Did you sleep okay?” you grunt, tossing the bag onto the bed by her feet. “I got you some breakfast. It’s probably shit, but everything else nearby is closed.”

“Thanks.” Natasha reaches for the bag, despite having almost no appetite. She takes out one of the sandwiches, but can’t bring herself to take a bite. “Y/N, I think we need to get moving again. We’ve hung around for too long–”

“Eat your damn sandwich, then we’ll leave,” you gruff, and it’s almost endearing to Natasha how grumpy and thoughtful you can be at the same time. “But you know, we can’t keep running forever.”

“We can run far enough,” she insists. You don’t respond and Natasha realizes you’re waiting for her to take a bite of her egg and sausage sandwich. Fighting back a smile of amusement, she nibbles off the edge of the dry muffin and you nod in satisfaction. 

“Look Nat, I want to help you. You know that, right? But I’m…familiar…with these Red Room goons and–” Her eyebrows shoot up as she keeps chewing. “That’s another story for another day.”

“Did you escape from them, too?” Natasha asks, her eyes wide. 

“Well, not exactly. But I know who they are. What they are. And what they do to women like you.”

Natasha tenses suddenly, sensing judgment from you. She’s ready to defend herself, that she didn’t let them break her or keep her hostage, when you add, “They should be burned to the ground. Just a bunch of psychopathic perverts.” She laughs out loud, startling you because you weren’t even trying to make a joke, but you let out a snort. 

“But they’re a damn smart bunch of perverts,” you continue. “And you know we can’t take them alone. I have some old friends that can help us. I’ll take you to them.”

“More old friends? Like the one who’s clothes I’m wearing?” Natasha says, wanting to join in on the lighter mood, but she immediately regrets so when she sees the sadness cloud your face.

“Not like that,” you murmur. “She would’ve helped us, though. But she’s gone now, so…”

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, guilt gnawing at her stomach for making such an unnecessary joke.

“They’re in New York. It’s been a while since I last saw them, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us stopping by,” you say to break the silence. “They’d help us without question.”

“Even against…the Red Room?”

“They’d have those Red Room schmucks for breakfast,” you chortle, the mood lightening once more. The knot in Natasha’s stomach loosens, and she takes another bite of the sandwich. “But it’s gonna take us a while to get there. And we’ll probably need a car…”

“I’ll handle it,” Natasha volunteers.

You look at her with a raised eyebrow, challenging but curious. “Okay. We’ll go when you’re done eating.”

***********************************************************************

While you clear out the motel room of all your tracks, Natasha triumphantly returns with the keys to a large blue Ram truck. You’re sad to leave your motorcycle behind, but it’s served you well, so you take it for one final ride to a strip mall, Natasha following in her menacing blue truck. You park in a shaded corner, saying good-bye with a caress to the faded leather seat, then join Natasha in the truck. 

With good weather and little traffic, the drive would take about 40 hours. And even though you’d be able to make the entire drive yourself with minimal stops, Natasha won’t let you. It’s a long first day, stopping for more junk food and bathroom breaks. You buy a phone from a gas station to text your contact in Westchester, and in the few responses you share, they seem eager for your arrival despite your circumstances. 

Another night is spent at a shoddy motel, and this time you don’t automatically ask for separate rooms. Natasha seems comfortable in your presence–tolerant, at the very least–and you’re starting to enjoy her company too. She keeps to herself for the most part and even though you can feel her studying you sometimes, she doesn’t ask anything inappropriate. She also tries to take care of you, though you think of yourself as the last person who needs it, but it’s cute how she picks up on your favorite gas station snacks (the jerky and Snickers bars) and buys you extra packets behind your back, and she offers to drive almost every time the two of you get back into the truck.

So on the third and final day of your trip, when Natasha begs to make a stop at a mall in Ohio, you agree, mostly because you know how happy it will make her. While the mall itself is disappointingly unimpressive, Natasha has the biggest smile as she drags you around under the pretense that she wants to find some clothing that wasn’t bought from a gas station, but she tries to browse every store, commenting which retailers have taken the old spots of familiar locations from her childhood. 

“Try this one on,” Natasha says, thrusting yet another checkered flannel shirt at you.

“They all look the same,” you grumble, feeling that you may be colorblind because you can’t tell what’s different about the prior three she’s made you try. 

“No, this one goes better with your eyes,” she says, her cheeks suddenly turning red when she realizes what she’s said.

You grin at her. “Then I’ll buy this one.”

You proudly wear the shirt out of the store, sneaking a glance to see Natasha’s expression and she does seem even more excited than when you first arrived at the mall. For lunch, you stop in the food court, and while you’re wolfing down a triple-patty burger with frightening intensity, Natasha suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your hand.

“What?” You stop mid-bite.

“Behind you,” she hisses.

Wiping grease off your chin, you drop your shoulder and turn your head subtly. But you know immediately who Natasha’s referring to. A woman with long black hair tied into an immaculate ponytail, not a single stray hair flying about, wearing a black overcoat and gloves, strides towards the food court with purposeful, powerful steps. You recognize her posture, her outfit, and the cold, emotionless expression on her face. 

“Holy shit,” you mumble. “They sent a Widow after us.” 

“We have to go!” Natasha tries yanking up but she isn’t strong enough. “How do you think she found us?”

“They’ve probably been tracking us the whole time,” you say, sad to leave the remainder of your meal. “They were just waiting for the right time to strike.” It’s hard to walk fast without making it obvious that you’re running from someone. You offer Natasha your hand and she takes it without hesitation. You drag her along a little, urging her without words. “It’ll be fine, Nat. We’ll take care of her and keep moving.”

“We shouldn’t have stopped here. This was all my stupid idea,” she says. 

“It wasn’t a stupid idea. I liked it.”

If the two of you weren’t running from a Widow, Natasha would have stopped and hugged you. Although she hasn’t known you for more than four days, she feels completely safe with you and has a deep admiration for you. You’ve never prodded about her past, you’ve never judged from where she came from. While you’re not such an open book yourself, Natasha can see how much you’ve relaxed around her from your first meeting. She likes your calmness, your willingness to drop literally everything in your life for her, with no expectation of anything in return. She’s never met someone like you before but hopes that you’ll let her stay around even after this mess is cleaned up. 

“Go this way,” you say, nudging Natasha into a maintenance corridor, having seen a sign for roof access on one of the walls. At least you could take care of the Widow without worrying about innocent casualties–assuming there weren’t more hiding up there. “Take the stairs,” you instruct Natasha, pushing her into the stairwell.

“I hope you don’t expect me to jump from the roof,” she replies.

“Well, if we have to, I’ll jump first and catch you,” you quip, but there is no time for her to linger on your comment. She dashes up the three flights of stairs with lightning speed, while you lumber up behind her.

“The door’s locked,” she says, stopping in her tracks.

“Move.” Your middle claw rips out of your hand and you slide it between the jamb and wall to cut the lock. Throwing your weight against the door, it pops open easily and you stumble out into the unusually bright outside. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Just hide somewhere and wait.”

Natasha is skeptical of your plans, not wanting to be caught in a dead end with another Widow, but she hurries towards an air conditioning unit. When she turns around, she sees you’re not following her and are facing the roof access door, your claws sliding out as the Widow makes her appearance, now wearing a gas mask.

“Y/N!” Natasha screams with no other way to stop you.

The Widow tosses a metal canister that immediately releases a thick, white fog. It hides the Widow and worse, burns your eyes until they water and destroys your sense of smell with a piercing, peppery odor.

“Shit.” You drop onto your belly, searching for a breathable pocket of air. You hear another canister clang to the ground, spreading the white fog farther and farther. As you crawl to where you think Natasha is taking cover, the unmistakable pops of gunfire ring through your skull. 

Your sense of sight, smell, and now sound are completely unreliable and fear ices your veins as you think about Natasha’s safety. But she’s also a Widow herself, so you’ll have to trust that she can handle herself while you figure out the way to her. You force yourself up, wiping snot on the sleeves of your new flannel and hunkering down, focusing hard to feel the vibrations of movement on the roof. You pivot left, inching forward cautiously. The faint click of a rifle trigger alerts you and you lash out with your claws, slicing uselessly through the fog. But it was nothing but a ruse, as the Widow comes up behind you and stabs you in the neck with a pronged instrument that sends hundreds of volts of electricity through your body. Your muscles seize and you collapse to the ground, seizing uncontrollably.

You’re pretty sure you’ve bitten your tongue off as blood fills your mouth and you start choking, unable to roll to your side to cough it out. The Widow points the muzzle of her at your face, pressing the cold metal tip to your forehead. You bare your teeth in a vicious snarl, wishing you could will control back into your body to slash her throat out.

“Good night, mutt,” the Widow says. 

***********************************************************************

Natasha tucks her mouth and nose into her elbow, charging into the fog while wielding the tiny pocket knife she stole from your apartment. She tackles the Widow with her full bodyweight, puncturing the blade through her vest deep enough that the Widow screams, dropping her gun.  Knocking off the Widow’s mask and pulling her into a tight headlock, Natasha squeezes her arms as tight as she can, counting the number of seconds it takes before the assassin finally stops struggling and slumps to the ground. With watering eyes from the gas, Natasha strips the Widow of her equipment, despite knowing that at her peak, her bare hands would be deadly enough weapons. The gas starts to spread further and further and Natasha can finally see your convulsing body. 

She runs over to you, tentatively yanking the taser out of your neck. You take a huge breath of air, rolling to your side and coughing hard. 

“Thanks,” you mutter as your tongue grows back. Shakily you get to your feet, touching the side of your neck and feeling the jagged openings left by the taser slowly closing. “Where is she? I’m gonna–”

“No. Let’s go,” Natasha intervenes, grabbing onto a handful of your shirt to stop you, like you’re a dog on a leash. You push her away, stomping over to where the Widow is lying motionless. Your claws pop out. She won’t feel anything. 

“Y/N, STOP!” Natasha yells and you freeze, turning to glare at her. 

“They sent her to kill us,” you seethe.

“But she’s not herself,” Natasha begs. “She’s being controlled. You know that. Please don’t kill her. She was just…She was just following orders.”

You clench your fist, the muscles in your forearm rippling as you retract your claws. Natasha gulps and takes a visible step back from you. She’s never seen such rage in your features before, not that it would be unwarranted, but it almost seems like you’re on the verge of completely losing control. Your expression twitches when you smell the fear rolling off Natasha in waves. She’s not afraid of the Widow anymore. She’s afraid of you. 

“Fine. Sorry,” you grunt, backing up. You want to put your claws down your throat for scaring her like this. Your whole life you had fought to convince everyone that you were more than the animal you were born to be. It always felt like a losing battle. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Natasha says. “I said something that upset you.”

“Is that mine?” You’re suddenly distracted by the sight of a small knife poking out of the Widow’s side.

“Uh…” Natasha glances at you sheepishly. “I thought it would come in handy eventually.”

“Hmm.” You don’t dwell on it though, having other things to worry about. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

The parking lot is a jumbled mess as people hurry to leave as emergency vehicles enter the premises. You keep your head down, hoping you’re moving fast enough for no one to notice the few stains of blood on your collar. Natasha races to keep pace with you. She’s barely able to jump into the truck in time before you have it in drive, speeding out of the parking lot. 

“Thank you,” Natasha finally whispers as you merge onto the highway.

“For what?” you grunt, your knuckles clenched tightly around the steering wheel.

“For not killing her.”

You make another grunting noise.

“You know she doesn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not about what she deserves,” you snarl. “She was there to kill me and take you back to the Red Room. Which she failed to do. So if anything, the Red Room will probably kill her–”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Natasha interjects. “The Widows are huge investments. That’s why they want me alive.”

“Well, they don’t really seem to care if you get in their crosshairs of trying to kill me.” You don’t like how your words come out, but it’s too late to take them back now. You know none of this is Natasha’s fault–you were the one who willingly came to her aid, who insisted on driving her across the country, who offered your own friends to help. 

“You don’t deserve this either.” Natasha’s voice drops. She sounds small, and when you side-eye her, she’s curled up in her seat in a way that makes her look small too. You frown. “You were just trying to be a decent person, and now you’ve had your life threatened several times, you had to leave your home, you’re being chased across the country–”

“Stop it,” you interrupt. “If this is the consequences of my actions, then so be it. I’d do it again a thousand times for you. Because you’re worth it.”

“I am?” Natasha looks at you in disbelief, partially because this is the most emotional she’s ever heard you and partially because she wonders if this is you admitting you have feelings for her.

“Yes,” you confirm, giving her a slight smirk before focusing on the road. 

***********************************************************************

The final stretch of the drive is rough, but you make it. It’s nighttime now and exhaustion weighs on your shoulders from the entire day’s events. You shake Natasha awake as you park on the driveway.

“We’re here,” you say, cutting the lights and turning off the engine. Natasha gets out of the car, gaping at the enormous mansion you’ve stopped in front of. As you walk with her up to the front door, she stops to read the plaque.

“‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters,’” she says. “Hang on, this place is a school? Why would you bring us here? You’re putting children in danger, Y/N–”

“Hold on,” you cut her off. “The kids and staff here? They’re just like me.”

“Just like you? Meaning–” Before Natasha can finish her sentence, the front doors swing open and a woman with spiky gray hair appears, throwing herself at you.

“Y/N!” she cries.

“Hey, Ororo,” you mumble, returning her hug with a little less passion. “Sorry to arrive so late. Ran into a little trouble earlier…”

“You made it safely and that’s all that matters.” She pats your shoulders affectionately. “Hi there. I’m Ororo,” the woman introduces herself to Natasha, awkwardly standing off to your side. “But the kids around here call me Storm.”

“I’m Natasha.”

“Please, come in. It’s freezing and I know you’ve both been on the road for days,” Ororo invites. “Your room is all prepped, Y/N.”

You hadn’t even thought to ask her for another guest room, but you have a feeling Natasha won’t mind sharing again. You gesture for her to enter the mansion first. She seems in awe, and a little overwhelmed, that this building had been converted into a boarding school. Maybe later you’ll take her to the basements to show her the other half of the school. 

A man wearing ruby sunglasses despite the midnight hour stands at the bottom of the staircase, a beautiful red-headed woman by his side.

“Jean,” you breathe, almost frozen in her presence.

“Hi, Y/N,” Jean says in a sultry voice that makes your heart beat embarrassingly faster. Natasha feels a prick of jealousy when she sees the way you’re looking at this new woman. 

“Y/N!” the man barks.

“Good to see you too, Scott,” you add, not noticing the way Natasha moves closer to you, almost brushing against your arm. “This is Nat. She’s been traveling with me for the past few days, and–”

“You’re the one who escaped the Red Room,” Scott says, and Natasha cringes.

“Yeah, she is,” you answer, annoyed by his tone of voice.

“And how do we know that we can trust her?” Scott asks.

“Because I trust her.”

There’s a pause while Scott accepts this answer. 

“I just finished heating dinner up for you two. It’s in the kitchen,” Ororo interrupts. She’s the only one thrilled to host guests, you think. 

“Thanks, Ro,” you say.

“Well now that you’re back, Y/N, we actually need a substitute P.E. teacher tomorrow morning,” Scott teases, his arm going around Jean’s waist. “How about filling in, for old time’s sake?”

You raise your arm, extending the middle claw only. Everyone howls in laughter.

“Put that away,” Ororo chastises. “Come and eat now, before the food goes cold.”

You and Natasha start walking after her, but you stop when you hear the whir of wheels, an older bald man zipping up to you in a wheelchair. 

“Professor,” you greet, for the first time taking the initiative to hug, leaning down to embrace him. “Thanks for helping us out. We really appreciate it.”

The man smiles, a twinkle in his eye. “Of course. Welcome back, Y/N.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Click here for Part 3!

Hopefully, going to the X-Men was a wise decision on R's part...

Let me know what you think. :) Please leave likes, comments, and reblogs.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader

[ghouljams]

god pls tell me medieval ghost gets readers parents approval or imma throw up in sadness i need them to be happy forever

You take a moment to collect yourself after your disastrous meeting with the duke. Your eyes are hardly watering but Ghost hands you a handkerchief at the slightest sigh, dutiful as always. You often wonder what he thinks of you for being so emotional over these little sorrows. It's hardly worth getting worked up about, a less than ideal man, a practically perfect knight. Yes, hardly worth the sniffles.

"I'm alright," you tell Ghost, glancing up at him. His gaze is fixed on you, watchful as you dab your eyes with his handkerchief, press the soft fabric against your lips and imagine him doing the same, before holding it out to him. He holds a hand up in refusal. You settle it in your lap, fingers playing with the hemmed edges of the fabric, you can't bear to look at him like this. "I should tell my mother that the Duke's fled," you stand, hear the shift in Ghost's armor behind you.

"Pathetic fool," Ghost grumbles.

"Agreed," you hum, swiping your hands over your skirts to be sure they've fallen back into place, "I hope I never marry if that's the sort of men I have to look forward to." Ghost hums, deep and dissatisfied. It's not him you're talking about, you hope he knows that. No, you hope he doesn't know, it's worse if he knows. He mustn't know.

"Queens have ruled before," he says. Ghost follows a step behind you as you exit the sitting room. You're sure your mother is in her quarters, if she hasn't already heard word of your prospective suitors hasty exit.

You spot her in the foyer, your dissatisfied guest walking away from her. You turn on your heel to avoid the shit show and nearly bump into Ghost. His hands grip your shoulders to keep you from bouncing off his armored chest, and you wince a little at the picture you two must make. Your mother's voice calls to you and Ghost spins you to face her. She looks cross.

She motions for you to follow her and the three of you make your way to her drawing room. She holds a hand up to stop Ghost from entering. He gives a short bow and moves to the side to stand with the other guards. So, it's going to be that sort of conversation.

Your mother pulls your aside as the doors close firmly behind you, eyes searching yours. You feel significantly smaller than you are under her gaze. "The Duke left in a hurry," she says plainly, "apparently he was concerned about-" a sigh "-living up to your expectations."

"Should I not expect anything of my future husband?" Sarcasm drips from your voice, you know you're pushing it. The queen's voice seems more steeled when she speaks next, a tone that makes you flinch.

"He had other concerns about you and your knight. Concerns which seem to be shared by many, I'm told." Her voice softens, falls gently into your mother's, not the queen's, questions. "Tell me honestly, have you and him..." she winces, her gaze darts to your skirts. You feel your anger boil at the insinuation, not for yourself but for Ghost.

"No! No, he would never-" You try to swallow the bitterness rising in your throat, the painful truth of your situation, "Ghost would never touch me."

Your mother looks relieved, you wish you could feel the same. "Good," she nods, "good."

"Is that what people are saying? What people think? That he would-" you can't stop the anger that bleeds out of you, the shock on your mother's face as you raise your voice, "Ghost is an honorable man, he has been loyal to me for years. How dare you- How dare anyone even think to imply that he would be such a- a brute! That he would ever do anything to harm me or my reputation as your-" you spit the words at her, "-perfect princess."

"Oh," your mother's face falls, understanding written clear over her features, "oh my sweet child, you love him."

"Of course not," you look away from her, "what would be the point? He wouldn't lay a finger on me even if I did."

"If you said that he-"

You cut her off quickly, quietly, "I won't sully his reputation for my own selfish desires." Your stomach clenches, your throat scratching hot as you swallow down the lump in it. A princess does not let her emotions get the best of her, especially when it comes to trivial ones like love.

Your mother turns your chin with gentle fingers so you're facing her again, and leans forward to bump her forehead against yours. You take a deep shaky breath as her hand cups the back of your neck, warm and comforting in a way she could never be outside of her private rooms. You close your eyes and enjoy it, enjoy the shared space, the joint inhale and exhale. It calms you.

"I'll stop the suitor meetings," she tells you finally. You pull back, shocked.

"That's not-" She raises a hand to stop your refusal.

"There are no suitable candidates currently on the list anyway, it would be a waste of your time to meet them all." She speaks with the conviction of a queen, waving off the roster of well established gentleman with the affection of your mother. You smile, weakly.

"Thank you, I'll- I'll try to quell the rumors in the meantime."

"Why? I see no reason to bother with petty falsehoods, continue as you were." You nod, and your mother cups your face, her eyes sad, almost nostalgic. You wonder what she's thinking, you know better than to ask.

Ghost stiffens when you exit the Queen's rooms, the other guards snapping to attention as well. For all the yelling you'd done, you hardly look upset. Though that was nearly two hours ago. Since then a maid had been in and out with afternoon tea and you'd been much quieter in your conversation.

Honorable you'd said. Honorable. As if the thoughts of you that ran through his head were so... honorable. Though you were right, he wouldn't lay a finger on you. In his dreams he holds you tightly in his arms, spreads you with both hands, caresses you with his mouth. One finger is nothing, he needs all of them. Needs to run his hands over you, hold your face between his palms, feel the give of your soft skin where he touches and God if he didn't need every point of contact he could get. He wants to feel your breath against his lips, taste the last sip of wine on your tongue. He wants to hear you say his name, his real name, with such desperate wanting it would make an angel blush. He wants, and it is not an honorable thing.

An honorable man. How highly you must think of him. If you knew how he thinks of you late into the night you'd shun him in the morning.

"Ghost are you still here?" You ask, peaking your head out of your changing room.

"Always, my lady," he answers on instinct, watching your smile with growing unease. You nod and brush off your maid's entreating hands to exit the safety of closed doors.

He is just a man, worse than a man, really. The way his breath comes short seeing you in your dressing gown, the soft white fabric hanging so delicately off of you, your silhouette illuminated through the linen by the flickering candlelight. You bend to pick a novel off your table. A dog. He's no better than a dog. His eyes rake over your exposed flesh, his fingers itch to grab, to touch, to ruin you for anyone else.

"I thought you might like this one. I know its not your usual fair, but-" You come too close to him, hold out your book too innocently. Youre too warm, too tempting, tried too hard to defend him. His fingers grip the back of your head, tight in your hair, tipping you back as he leans down before he can stop himself. Your eyes are wide with something he doesn't recognize --he knows all of your expressions but this one it seems-- his breathing comes heavy, panting in the short distance between your lips.

"Simon," you whisper, soft, honest, questioning. Is it fear in your eyes? He's worked so hard for so long to keep you from ever feeling that, and now you can only turn it on him. He hasn't heard you say his name in years, he doesn't want to hear it like this.

Ghost all but throws himself away from you. His own disgust with himself giving purpose to his actions. Your face falls, lips downturned and brows furrowed. This expression he knows, you're upset, and it's his fault.

"What's wrong?" You ask, he can't look at you, can't stare down his own shame. "I'm sorry, did I- I shouldn't have called you that." It twists like a knife in his chest to hear you apologize. You're right, you shouldn't have called him that, all you ever do is fill his head with delusions of something better than this daily torture.

"Nothing, I- that was a mistake," he growls, not even bothering to look at you. Your heart pulls so tight you think it might stop. A mistake, is that all it was? You reach out to touch his armor, to beg him to say it wasn't, and he jerks away from you again. "Forget that ever happened," his hand is tight on your door, "please."

Your heart jumps in your throat, you can see your maids watching you from the doorway in your perifery, watching it all unfold. You pull your hand back. One must always remain poised when observed by gossips. Even when they want nothing more than to fall apart. A mistake. "Of course," you steel yourself behind the voice of a princess, "its forgotten." You turn back to your maids, back to being dressed for dinner, "You're dismissed, see if you can't find someone to check your head. We wouldn't want you making any more mistakes."

"My lady," you hear the creak of his armor as he bows, the open and shut of your quarters' door. You're a fool to think he'd fight for you. To think you're more than just his duty. His mistake. Of course you are. Ghost wouldn't lay a finger on you.

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley #x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #cod ghost #knight!ghost #medieval au #poking the bruise and poking the bruise and #i meant to finish this earlier but this weekend has been so busy #i wrote most of this at like midnight on friday bacause i literally could not stop thinking about it #where do duty and love meet? where do they mix and where do they so painfully diverge #just KISS HER you pathetic man #princess!reader

[neonghostlights]

Hi i love ur work i wanted to ask if maybe you could do a eddie muson x reader but like with a practical magic au (if you didn't see the movie you should its great) where the reader makes a spell for true love like sally did in the movie🎀🎀🎀🎀

I LOVE THAT MOVIE AND ITS BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I’VE SEEN IT!!!!

“He’ll listen to loud music only,” you said as you picked the flower petals and dropped them into the bowl.

“He’ll have wild hair and only dress in black.”

You sprinkled in some of the herbs.

“He’ll tell stories so imaginative that’ll it’ll feel like you’re really there.”

“He’ll have brown eyes, so large and beautiful that it’ll feel like you’re melting when you’re looking into them.”

“He’ll have a heart of gold and will stand up for those who need it.”

“He won’t fear me or my magic,” your young voice cracked, remembering the mean kids at school.

You were imagining your perfect knight in shining armor to protect you from your bullies. You were leaving soon, going away from Hawkins to a town where no one knew you or your sister so you could have a normal life.

You moved around the greenhouse, plucking your supplies and putting them in the bowl.

It was a random idea, mostly out of curiosity and boredom after you found the spell in your aunts spell book.

“I thought you didn’t believe love spells were ethical,” your sister said, face scrunched as she took in what you were doing.

You shrugged, “It’s more like a wish. He probably doesn’t even exist anyway.”

-

You were letting the sun soak into your skin, humming as you flipped through the pages of your book.

This town had been turned upside down when you arrived back home after over fifteen years away. You were now into your adult years and kept to yourself but people still treated you like a villain.

People shot you dirty looks as they passed by you in the park. Your family and it’s history ran deep and people in small towns didn’t tend to forget.

The quilt underneath of you was something your mother’s mother had made and it pulled you into sleep, especially with the cushioning of the grass underneath.

You woke up with a gasp. You were drowning, just like this town had drown the witches before you in lovers lake, or so the stories go.

“Hey!” A voice cut through your gasping. “Why’d you do that, you fucking asshole?!”

You cracked your eyes open, hands grasping the quilt that was still underneath of you. You were still in the park, very much on dry land. But your face, hair, and front of your white summer dress were soaked from the water the snickering kids had dumped on you.

“She didn’t do anything to bother you, you little shits!” The voice yelled, coming closer.

The group of kids paled, running when they saw you had opened your eyes.

Every one is brave until the witch looks their way.

“You okay?” The man asked, leaning down and putting his face near yours.

“I’m okay. Sorry, it just scared me,” you said, breath hitching as you looked into two brown eyes.

You were melting, floating away by how intoxicating the chocolate and gold of his iris mixed together.

He’ll have brown eyes, so large and beautiful that it’ll feel like you’re melting when you’re looking into them.

He looked dazed as well, blinking a few times.

“I, uh, sorry.” He said awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“No, no. It’s okay. Thank you for coming to my rescue,” you said with a smile.

“No problem. I’m not gonna just stand around when there’s a damsel in distress.”

He’ll have a heart of gold and will stand up for those who need it.

“Well, I’m sure this damsel in distress was gasping like a fish out of water,” you joked.

“I almost didn’t hear it sent my music was playing so loud,” he said as he gestured to his earphones.

He’ll listen to loud music only.

You sat back on your wet quilt. He stayed knelt in front of you. Not saying anything but still not wanting to leave quite yet.

You took in his appearance, the way he wore his hair and dressed.

He’ll have wild hair and only dress in black.

He blushed when you realized he was examining you the same way you were examining him.

“What’s that?” You asked, looking at the black journal he had tucked under his arm.

“Oh, that’s just stories that I write. It’s kind of lame but-”

“I don’t think that’s lame at all,” you interrupted.

“Did you want to read some?” He asked shyly, holding the journal out to you.

You took it, setting it on your lap as he sat next to you on the quilt, so close that your legs were touching.

He won’t fear me or my magic.

Younger you would be amazed.

Not only did the man you wished for exist but his name was Eddie Munson.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x witch!reader #eddie munson au #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #eddie munson series #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x female!reader #Eddie Munson practical magic au

[comatosebunny09]

Stuck on this royalty AU in which you’ve rejected King Astarion’s advances too many times.

You’ve been his bodyguard for years. One of the few people who’s seen the man beneath the crown, stripped bare and bleeding. Naturally, you both grew to care for each other more than a king and subject should.

Astarion’s come dangerously close to confessing his feelings for you. But you’ve always staved him off, believing you’re unfit to be anything more than one who serves him. Never his equal.

Cue you sabotaging your budding romance by suggesting he pursue people of his caliber.

He humors you if only to make you jealous. Even the maids know how this man pines for you.

One day, he takes the hand of a beautiful young woman to tour his garden, whispering things into her ear to make her giggle. He perches a hand at the small of her back. Smiles in that charming, boyish way that he typically reserves for you. He puts on a show just for you, his gaze often flitting over his shoulder because he knows you’re following dutifully behind.

Try as you might to mask your ire, he can practically hear the gears whirring in your head. You’re so blinded by your jealousy that you go stumbling into a pond. How comical a sight you pose, the king’s professional and stone-faced guard dog, sputtering and flailing about like a wet cat.

You’re mortified as his servants scramble to get you out, your cape and armor waterlogged. Astarion instinctively moves to assist, wriggling out of the young woman’s hold. You lock eyes with your king as he reaches for you. Over his shoulder, you watch his guest stifle a giggle behind her gloved hand.

Your heart plummets into your stomach. You could only hope to be someone as beautiful and titillating. The king deserves someone cut from a similar cloth as him, not a lowly dog with calluses on their hands and scars littering their body.

You dismiss yourself with a curt bow, your dignity bruised, your eyes burning with the threat of tears. Hardly notice Astarion briskly excusing himself from his guest to follow you.

You stomp into the servant’s quarters, a few maids scuttling about with towels to dry you off. You’re so embarrassed you don’t even have the voice to tell them you can do it yourself. Astarion cautiously wanders in, quietly dismissing the maids to fetch you a change of uniform.

You can’t meet his eye as he kneels before you, trying vainly to hide his smile whilst he towels you off.

“I’m not even sure what you’re jealous of. You’re the one who told me to move on, remember?” the king softly scolds.

You scoff. “Jealous? Me?”

Astarion gives you a deadpan look. “Darling, you practically drowned yourself trying to get an earful of our conversation.”

“Did not.”

“Right. I suppose the pond stepped into your way, then?”

Another scoff accompanied by heat blooming into your cheeks.

“Come now, darling. As lovely as you are, green just isn’t your color.”

You cut your eyes at him in warning, to which he chuckles something deep and alluring.

Astarion pats your knee, standing to his full height. He offers you his hand, insisting you take it with a look after you refuse him. He pulls you to him, uncaring if his doublet gets wet, pilfering the breath from your lungs.

The king gazes down at you with all the tenderness of the world, his hand splayed at the small of your back. The proximity of your body causes your mind to whirl and your lips to part with a gasp.

“Let’s get you changed, hmm?”

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth. “What about your date, Majesty?”

Astarion shrugs, rolling his eyes dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll find someone else to occupy her time. I’ve more…important matters to attend to,” he says, his gaze simmering like a low flame.

He ushers you into the hallway, steering you towards his room to get you cleaned up. A luxury only you know, no one else having been allowed to see his room as often as you have.

You shiver, still soaked to the bone. Astarion tucks you close into his side, rubbing your arm to ward off the chill. You smile triumphantly quietly, knowing you’re the only person he’s touched like this in years.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #royalty au #let me dream #king!astarion #astarion romance #astarion fluff #astarion imagine

[fatkish]

I can’t get this idea out of my head so I’m gonna share it and feel free to use it. We know that Heteromorphs (people with mutant quirks) can have a very diverse appearance and abilities. Well my idea is kinda NSFW-ish, so here it is: a living armor quirk. Basically the character has a shapeshifting and transformation ability that allows them to become a living bodysuit that can protect whoever wears them. For example: if someone was wearing them, the wearer could ask the character to grow wings so they can fly. Since the character would have to be touching the skin of whoever is wearing them it can get kinda steamy.

The character is basically made up of microscopic wires and strings that weave together to make up their body. These wires can be bulletproof, fireproof and other proofs but it would depend on how healthy they are in mind, body and spirit. If they’re sick for instance, they won’t be able to hold themselves together enough to protect the wearer. The character can control each individual microscopic wire and re-weave them around the wearer’s body. The reader would of course need to eat and drink just like anybody else but their body is evolved to digest quickly and turn excess food and nutrients into energy. (So basically they don’t need to shit as much, since any excess materials they consume are quickly broken down and stored as fat or excess wire for when they take on damage and need to repair themselves)

The NSFW part and the part i can’t stop thinking about is how heroes who have the character as a sidekick would more than likely wear the character as opposed to their hero suits.

Imagine Aizawa learns about this character and decides that having them transform into a suit for him would be time saving and more practical. This would mean that Aizawa would only wear the absolute bare necessities since the character only has so much wire to work with. This also means that the character can feel every part of the wearer’s body. Which means the character can feel Aizawa’s dick and has to wrap themselves around it to support it. Now Aizawa could wear his regular suit over the character and just use them as an added layer of protection.

Or Endeavor hears about this character and decides that they would be perfect for him. We all have seen how big he is in height and musculature. This would mean the character has more space to cover making the suit thinner compared to someone like Aizawa. Now since the character has the ability to be fireproof Endeavor’s flames won’t hurt them but they can get really hot. (Imagine if endeavor had the character become a jockstrap or cup like article to help hide his bulge)

Or how about Dabi? What if he had the character act as a second layer of skin? Overtime the character would be able to build up a resistance to Dabi’s flames kind of like exposure therapy. Now Dabi basically wears them all the time since they help keep him from burning his skin.

And what about Edgeshot? With his quirk the reader would be the perfect sidekick (or should I say sidestick) literally, because the reader would be worn by him and literally be as his side.

Basically I’m a horny mess and I just want hot dudes to use me

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha #mha aizawa #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #bnha #aizawa smut #aizawa sensei #aizawa x male reader #endeavor #enji todoroki #mha dabi #touya todoroki #dabi todoroki #dabi x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #endeavor x reader #enji todoroki x reader #endeavor smut #dabi smut #bnha original character #mha oc

[suashii]

୨♡୧ YOU SHINE LIKE STARLIGHT— dan heng x reader. sfw. fluff.

note! this is my first time writing for the fandom + dan heng so pls be kind! enjoy ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

dan heng's limbs feel heavy when he boards the train. he offers himkeo and mr. yang a short nod before making his way to the passenger cabin. his body is practically screaming for him to get some much-needed rest but there are a few things he wants to review in the data bank before he does so.

the door to the archive room opens with a quiet whoosh. dan heng sheds himself of the armor on his shoulder and leans his spear in the corner while he slips out of his shoes. he inhales a breath of air through a yawn, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he walks up the two steps to get to the computer.

"hey." the unexpected sound of a voice makes dan heng's shoulders jerk up in surprise. he whips his head in the direction of it to find you situated on the floor with a book in your hand. but you aren't just in just any spot on the floor—you've gotten comfortable in his makeshift bed. "how'd it go?"

he doesn't think it should, but the sight makes his mouth go dry. for a moment, all the man can do is stare with parted lips. you've been in and out of here plenty before but he can't say he's ever seen you so snug—not in the desk chair and never under his blanket. dan heng isn't sure why the view makes his palms sweaty and his cheeks warm.

he clears his throat and continues on his path to the desk, answering your question with one of his own. "what are you doing here?"

"reading." you gently wave your book in the air to emphasize your statement. "you said i could stop by whenever."

he did tell you that and he meant it but dan heng never expected that the invitation would have extended to his sleeping quarters. he doesn't bother elaborating on the context of "here" in his query, only nods and taps away at the keyboard in front of him in a poor attempt to stop thinking about how cute you look in his bed and the strange way it makes him feel.

a beat of silence passes before you speak up again. "you dodged my question."

lithe fingers dancing along keys still for a split second with your statement. dan heng hums as he continues with his search. he should have known you wouldn't let that slip; for as long as you've been on the express you've been perceptive. it's an admiral trait, he thinks, although, during moments such as these, your keen eye seems to be working against him.

"you didn't run into too much trouble, right? no injuries or anything?" you ask.

there's a heavy thump against dan heng's chest that follows your voiced concerns for him. he's still getting used to that—someone asking about him, worrying about him. it's foreign, the care you seem hellbent on showing him, but he'd be lying to himself if he said it didn't make him feel warm inside. still, dan heng hasn't found an effective way to express his gratitude quite yet. "you really consider little of me if you think i walked away with anything more than a scratch."

you close your book with a cheery laugh that drifts through the air and kisses dan heng's ears. the sound is light and sweet and one the man doesn't hear nearly as often as he'd like. even now, you're readying to leave.

he turns in his chair to watch your rise from his mat and stretch your arms above your head. you meet his sparkling blue eyes as you do so, offering him a sleepy smile. "well, make sure you get a bandaid on that scratch."

dan heng can't help the quiet huff of air that comes from his nose at your words. he appreciates that too, the way you entertain his dry humor.

"and maybe think about sleeping in an actual bed tonight instead of on the floor." you gesture to his setup as you comb the bookshelves for the empty spot where you pulled the leather-bound journal from. the next part of your sentence comes while you carefully return the book to its rightful place. "your muscles will thank you."

the door to the archive room slides open with your prompting. before you take your leave, you turn back to the man and raise your hand in a wave. "good night and sweet dreams."

the room is blanketed in silence after your departure. dan heng's mind wanders back to you and your presence as he wraps up his research. the cabin felt much more lively and far less cold with you in it. tranquility has never bothered him but he's slowly beginning to learn that he prefers the illumination that radiates from you. he'd choose that over the stillness any day.

less than an hour passes before the fatigue catches up with dan heng. as he stands from his chair, he glances at his mat on the floor. he hasn't considered touching the room set aside for him since he boarded the express but, at your suggestion, he just might.

thanks for reading! consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed ❤︎

#₊˚ପ⊹ signed: honkai star rail #dan heng x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng x you #hsr x you #dan heng fluff #hsr fluff #honkai star rail fluff #hsr imagines

[hopelesslyromanticshark]

Oh but hear me out, frank and a daughter of Aphrodite. The children of the mars and Aphrodite, of war and love. What ares and Aphrodite wish they were. Make poor baby frank feel so loved and appreciated completely unconditionally

⋆⭒˚.⋆ frank zhang x daughter of venus! reader hcs

content: frank zhang x daughter of venus! reader hcs warning: not any that i can think of!! author's note: i know i know you said aphrodite, but we keepin it roman here fr fr hope you don't mind!! also I KNOW IT'S THE SAME PIC AGAIN BUT IDK WHY MY BRAIN DIDN'T EVEN CONSIDER DAUGTHER OF VENUS SHIT AND THAT PIC IS JUST SO PERFECT THAT I CANNOT FIND IT IN ME TO CARE-

how you managed to stay soft through all that camp jupiter put you through, frank had no idea but he loved it

you were badass in a fight but the moment training was over, you were using someone's breast plate as a mirror to fix your hair and lipgloss

that's actually how you met frank

reyna called the end of practice and you turned to the closest person and inspected yourself in their armor, reaching up and dabbing at your lip gloss with your ring finger while pushing away fly aways with your other hand

frank refused to move, standing still as statue while you did this

you realized what you were doing, popping but up into a stand position and offering frank a honey-sweet smile

"oh, sorry! thanks for letting me use you as a mirror," you mused, the attractiveness of the guy not lost on you

cutest mirror ive ever seen, you thought and mentally giggled at

"a- any time," replied frank, sort of lost in a daze as he took you in

"im gonna hold you to that," you joked, winking before someone called your name

you were scampering away, throwing a glance and wave over your shoulder at the boy before leaving the arena

frank waved back but far too late, still caught up in just how pretty you were

from that moment on, frank had a plan

what can i say? son of war?? he's gotta know how to strategize sometimes

his big master plan?? seek you out and ask you on a date

i know i know, it sounds kinda a crazy but you gotta trust the process here guys

frank's just a wild, crazy guy i dunno what to tell you

but everyone wanted him to do this as fast as possible

bc they were sick of his yapping about you

"did you see y/n's block today? yeah...she's so cool...and pretty...and-"

"frank...we know. shut up, please."

"did you see y/n's hair today? she definitely was trying something new. should- should i tell her i like it?? is that weird or-"

"frank, she put it in a ponytail. she didn't revolutionize hair-"

"TO ME SHE DID!!!"

his bunkmates are encouraging him to ask you out, simply because if they hear one more thing about you, they're gonna kill frank

little do they know, you guys dating makes it worse

there is no escape from a boyfriend who loves his girlfriend and loves to talk about her

first date? just walking around new rome with coffee

you judge frank for his straight black coffee as you take a sip of your rainbow swirl, whip-cream-crapped-in-a-cup, with spinkles monstrosity that is like three stories high and has cookies stuffed in it...somewhere

frank just takes the teasing, hiding his blush behind his cup

at some point, you grabbed frank's wrist and dragged him towards something, excitedly rambling about whatever it was

and...you just never left go??? your hand slipped from his wrist to his hand and it just...it clicked and it fell into place and it felt right

and now both of you are blushing for the rest of the date but also refusing to let go

big big big fan of walking on the side of the sidewalk with the cars??? ya know what i mean???

like will literally stop the two of you, walk around you to the side with the cars, and then allow you to keep walking

every time he does it, all you can think is that he would rather die to keep you safe

and then you wrapping your arm around his and squeezing into his side with this mushy-gushy smile

he's your number one fan (stalker but in the sweetest way)

oh did you mention one singular time that you hated a certain kind of lip gloss??

oh yeah, no the store that sells that one looking like a pin cushion of arrows is completely unrelated don't even worry about it

will find out your favorite animal and wait until the second or third date to just slip into conversation that he could turn into it, shrugging like its no big deal

it is, in fact, a big deal

your squealing all excitedly before asking quietly if he'd be willing to do it

bro pretends to think it over like he was gonna say no

bffr

look at his lovesick ass and tell me he's not gonna do it

please, don't lie to me rn

within seconds, he's flying around as a bird, or he's flopping around in a fountain as a fish, or he's rubbing into your side as a dog or whatever else

and you're cheering, reaching out to pet his fur or his feathers or his scales

and he's grateful that animals can't blush or stutter out words

will write you love letters and actually sends them in the mail

he pays POSTAGE for the mailman to walk down the street

that mailman always gets so pissed, grumbling about stupid boys in love and slamming the mailbox shut

that's how you know frank sent you something, which leads to you jumping out of bed and running to the mailbox, excitedly ripping it open and stealing the letter before returning to your bunk

and it's always just the sweetest things anyone has ever said another anyone else

rivals shakespeare and jane austen and all those bitches

and it's for your eyes only

you repay frank with romantic gestures

"what are these?" he asked as you presented him with new arrows

"oh, you were complaining about the weight being off so i whittled them down!" you beamed a smile at your awestruck boyfriend

"y/n, there's like fifty of these-"

you polish his arm, remove the feathers and dog hair from his clothes, press kisses to his cheek at every opportunity

you just gotta make sure your boy knows he's loved

and boy does he know when youre around

tbh, i just know frank was always sort of worried love wouldn't find him

what if he's too much like his father?? too rough?? too war-stricken?? too damaged??

what if he's not enough like his mom?

what if-

then you came, showing up without so much as a 'hello' and began wiping away at these thoughts

you showed him that frank zhang is worth of love, esspecially your love

the son of war and the daughter of love together in the softest way

history is a circle fr fr

they just like their mommy and daddy but so much better

to surmise, just a boy who's in love with love's daughter and a girl who's in love with the softest son of war

#postcards from covey ౨ৎ #all my love ౨ৎ #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus x reader #frank zhang #frank zhang x reader

[kaminocasey]

In the Tide

Summary: A soft moment is shared between two commanders on a beach.

Pairing: Jedi!Reader x Wolffe

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Partial nudity? Soft!Wolffe, reader gets self conscious about body, Jedi!Reader

WC: 1.5K

A/N: I didn't write this with a part 2 particularly in mind, but lemme know if I should write one! Obviously this isn't for everyone, and that's alright. <3 :) (pics from pinterest)

TAGLIST FORM │Wolffe Playlist

For the first time in weeks, you get to feel the sun kiss your skin once again. It’s been so long since you’d gotten to bask in any sort of sunlight. And now, since you have a few days of rest, you’ve gone trekking through the woods until you’re met with an endless blue on blue. A cloudless blue sky and an ocean so turquoise, you could cry. What a gorgeous sight. 

Closing your eyes and reaching out into the force around you, you make sure that you’re safe and there are no threats, but nothing makes itself known. As you drop your pack, you pull out a blanket and set it down on the warm sand, kicking off your boots first, smiling at the feel of it trickling between your toes. Then, you take off your robes, and your under clothes until you’re in just your undergarments. As you start walking toward the ocean, you feel a familiar presence and you stop, turning toward him.  

“Commander?” Wolffe stands in front of you, eyeing your nearly naked form. 

You cross your arms, slightly self conscious. “Oh, Commander Wolffe. You found me.” 

He notices the change in your body language and looks away. 

“Is everything okay? Am I needed back at base?” You ask, prepared to throw your robes back on. 

“No, ma’am. I just… wanted to make sure you were safe.” He stands awkwardly with his arms at his side, but his hands fidget slightly, like he’s not sure what to do. 

“Oh. That’s nice of you. There’s nothing threatening on this beach.” You smile, teasingly. “Except perhaps yourself.”

You don’t miss the slight huff of a laugh that he’d never let anyone other than his brothers and Master Plo Koon hear. It’s a nice sound and you like his smirk. 

“Did Plo send you?” You start to wiggle your toes in the sand again. 

“No, he didn’t. I came on my own.” He looks at you again and you can’t help but grin.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might care about me, Wolf- Commander.” You tease, sitting down on the blanket and pat the spot next to you.

He looks back toward the treeline, perhaps to make sure no one else was coming, and then starts to unclick his plastoid armor. Slightly entranced, you can’t seem to look away. And when you look up at his face, you find his eyes never leaving your face. A heat that’s hotter than the sun creeps through your veins at the realization. 

Your mouth goes dry the moment he strips down to just his briefs, causing you to quickly look away toward the horizon as he sits next to you on the blanket. You’d never seen a clone without clothes before, but you know you’re never gonna forget how toned Wolffe is. How his tanned skin practically gleams in the bright sun. 

There’s always been a sort of trust between you and Wolffe. He didn’t find you incompetent like a lot of the Jedi. He’d never say as much, but he didn’t trust many of them. Perhaps just you, Master Plo Koon, and Master Kenobi. But you always felt there was possibly something more than trust between the two of you. It could just be in your head, though. 

“I wish I could see this every day.” You murmur, crossing your legs. 

“I hate the ocean.” Wolffe tells you, honestly.

“Why’s that?” You ask, looking at him.

His eyes, one brown, one cybernetic, are focused on yours. 

“Reminds me of Kamino.” He shrugs.

You suppose that’s understandable. You’d only heard rumors of the extensiveness that the higher rank clones had to go through. 

“So, swimming with me is off the table?” You ask, smiling. 

His face is serious as ever as he looks out at the calm waves. “Not safe.” 

“Can you see that with that eye of yours?” You tease. 

He smirks, amused. “Sure.” 

You let out a disappointed huff and fall back on the blanket, letting the warm sun wash over you. When you open your eyes, landing on Wolffe, you notice him staring at your bare stomach. Immediately self conscious, you cross your arms over your stomach but his hands stop you. 

“Don’t.” He murmurs, softly. 

“What?” Your mouth goes dry again.

“Don’t cover up…” He whispers, placing your wrist to your side. “You don’t need to do that. Not with me.”

“O-okay.” You can’t look away from him now. 

You sense desire roll over him and if you weren’t already laying down, you’re pretty sure the full force of his desire would be enough to knock you over. Does he know that you can sense these things? Surely with Plo Koon as his general, he does. 

“Wolffe?” You whisper, softly. 

He’s looking at your lips now and the absolute fire that was coursing through your veins only moments ago makes its way much, much lower. With parted lips, you reach up for Wolffe, ghosting your fingers down his muscular bicep. He stops your hand with his own and holds it there. 

You’re not sure how long you stare at each other like that. Can he sense the desire radiating from you? Does he know you well enough by now? You hope so.

A beeping comes from both your comms, indicating you’re needed back at base. With a breathless, yet annoyed, huff, Wolffe lets go of your hand and pressing the button on both of your comms to let them know you both got the message. 

He stands up and hands you your clothing, turning around to give you a moment of privacy while he also dresses and clicks his armor into place. The intimate moment between you is long gone as you realize you have to go back to reality. 

As you pack the blanket back up, grabbing your pack, you look back out at the ocean for another moment and when you turn around, you find Wolffe staring at you again. 

“Wha-” You start but he cuts you off by running his hand around your lower back to pull you against himself. 

You look up into his eyes and realize he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop, but you want this just as bad, if not more. 

“Please…” You whisper, glancing at his lips.

That’s all the confirmation he needed as he gently brushes his lips over yours. It’s not exactly what you were expecting. You were expecting quick roughness. Like his fighting style. This is… leisurely soft. Like he has all the time in the world to do this. You wish you did. Finding yourself kissing him back, you drop your pack back into the sand and wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him. To this moment. 

“I’ve… wanted to do that for some time now… Commander.” He smiles ever so slightly. 

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it as well.” You smile up at him, cupping his cheek, softly. 

He rests his head against yours for just a moment and then lets go of you. “We should head back.” 

You nod in agreement and pick your pack up as he picks his helmet up out of the sand, dusting it off and tucking it under his arm as you start your trekk back through the woods. 

Then, Wolffe surprises you again. He offers his free arm and you can’t help the little flip in your stomach as you hide your smile and take it, wrapping your hands around the cool plastoid. How is it so cool after being in the sunlight? 

You want to ask him so many things. But you know he’s a man of few words, and you definitely don’t want to annoy him. 

“Can I ask you something?” He surprises you again and asks. 

“Oh. Of course.” You nod. 

“Did you know?” He asks, looking down at you.

“Know what?” You give him a confused look.

“About my feelings for you?” He stops to stand in front of you. 

“I um… had my suspicions… in a way.” You smile up at him, taking his hand. 

He nods. “I’m not used to this…” 

“I know. It’s okay. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Wolffe.” You start walking back toward the base, seeing it just through the treeline. 

He falls in step next to you again. “Maybe… we could continue our moment later tonight?” 

“I’d like that very much.” You can’t seem to stop smiling.

When you return to base, you’re needed immediately in the briefing tent and yet… your mind can’t help but linger on that moment with Wolffe on the beach and what tonight could hold for the two of you. 

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