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modern-vellichor · 11 days
Note
alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.
reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.
The Death of a Star
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Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a star starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.
Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.
Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.
A little after. (Same universe drabble!)
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There is something about motherhood that has changed you.
Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.
You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’
Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.
Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?
You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.
Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.
Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.
“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”
He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”
He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”
You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”
“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”
You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?
You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.
“Lady Wife!”
Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.
You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”
“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”
Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”
“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.
Oh, you like him.
You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”
“Emmett, My lady.”
You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”
Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”
Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.
It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.
You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…
You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.
You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”
Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”
Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”
Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?
Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.
'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'
The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.
Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”
Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”
“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”
Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.
Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.
Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”
He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”
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“How is she?”
Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.
Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”
It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”
Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”
He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.
When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”
The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”
The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”
Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”
“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”
“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”
“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”
Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.
There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”
And he's at a loss for words. “What?”
“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”
She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”
“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”
Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.
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It is hard to play dumb but…
“Higher, my lady…”
Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”
Whoooosh! Thunk.
The arrow misses.
Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”
“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”
He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”
You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”
This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”
Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.
“Do you?”
Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.
But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.
“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”
The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”
“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”
“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”
The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.
Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”
“Leave.”
Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”
He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”
That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”
The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”
“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–
“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”
Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”
“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”
He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”
“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”
He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”
You don't look at Paul as you go.
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Duncan stands beside you.
It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.
It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.
You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.
You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”
“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”
He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”
“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”
“Fine.”
He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”
Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”
“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”
You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”
“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”
“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”
“I would like it if you cried.”
You flinch back, “What?”
“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”
“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”
“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”
“That doesn't matter.”
Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”
Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”
Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”
“You are not that much older than me.”
He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”
You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.
And yet…
You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”
“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”
“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”
“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”
When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”
“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”
“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”
You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”
“And then?” You murmur.
Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”
“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”
And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”
You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”
“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”
“What?”
“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”
“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”
“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”
And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–
Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.
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The next few days are… odd.
Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.
Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.
Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.
You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”
Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.
Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”
Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”
“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”
Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.
Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”
“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.
For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”
Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.
“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.
The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.
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When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.
To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.
The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.
“For how long?”
Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”
Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”
Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”
Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”
“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”
Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”
Duncan's heart drops. “What?”
“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”
Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.
Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.
He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”
Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”
Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.
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You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.
It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.
Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.
You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”
You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”
Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—
“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”
The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.
“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”
Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”
“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.
“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”
You blink. “What?”
“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”
Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”
Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”
You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”
“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”
Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”
“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”
You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”
“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”
You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”
“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”
You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”
“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”
“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”
“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.
“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.
Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”
You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.
You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”
You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.
“Oh, f-fuck!”
The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.
His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.
And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”
You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.
Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.
Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”
Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.
“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”
Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”
Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”
The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.
“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”
Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”
Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”
That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.
“Paul, I'm–”
He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”
“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”
Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.
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modern-vellichor · 1 month
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i told you so.
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-summary; you're one of them. -warnings; violence, injury, angst, fluff, explicit language, suggestive ending, -a/n; when i tell you that this is the most self indulgent fic i have ever written. i will read this to myself. this is for me.
masterlist // send a request
break his legs.
"Okay," you whispered.
You could feel Sekhmet hovering over your shoulder, her breath scorching your skin. Your knees cracked when you stood up to scramble onto the street.
kill him
"I'm not killing him," you say.
he deserves it.
"Fine," you sigh, pulling your knife from your pocket.
Your ankh was being pressed against your chest, tucked safely under your shirt. You jumped from your perch onto the cobblestone. Marc watched from a distance, his own Khonshu whispering to him. They watched as you crept up behind the man, a molester, and kick his knees out. He collapsed with a scream. You clamped your hand down over his mouth and whispered something Marc couldn't hear.
she's a menace.
"i know," Marc grunted.
You hit him in the head, his unconscious body falling to the floor. Marc watched as you worked quickly, strategically. You were following orders. Marc didn't know that. He winced when your blade was plunged into your victim's chest. The man didn't move. You brushed yourself off when you stood again. Marc set out for you.
Sekhmet smiled proudly at your handiwork. You were useful. You always followed her orders. And you were fast, intelligent. A little bit useless, romantically, Sekhmet thought. She liked you. She wanted the best for you. And apparently her company wasn't enough.
the job is done. go.
"wait," you held your hand out. "do you smell that?"
it is time to go. leave, now.
"its incense," you ignored her orders. "someone's here."
you turned around to flee only to be stopped. You smashed into the broad chest of a hooded figure. You looked up only to be met with burning bright eyes staring down at you.
run.
you tried to. you began to turn away when a gloved hand snaked around your throat and squeezed. Sekhmet's voice was gone. You scratched at the man's hand desperately. You kicked and squirmed but he wouldn't let go. In one final bid, you pulled your ankh out from under your shirt and pulled it towards him.
drop her.
Marc dropped you. You crumpled to the floor, a gasping heap. You scrambled away from the figure, panting. You felt Sekhmet appear behind you.
"look who decided to show up," you muttered to her. "talk about divine intervention."
quiet.
She turned to Marc, and even though he was staring at you, he moved out of her way. You opened your mouth to say something but Sekhmet interrupted your thought. You half listened to her as you watched Marc half argue with himself.
he is useful.
"Yeah."
he needs us. we must keep him.
"uh huh."
he is handsome, no?
"ye- Wait, no."
why not?
"You're not Bastet , yeah? Stick to violence. I don't think passion is your strong suit."
You zoned out while Sekhmet went on a rant about you disrespecting her. Over the years, she had come to appreciate your... odd sense of humour, your witty banter. She'd miss you if she let you get killed. You shut your eyes and the gods were gone. Marc was standing in front of you when you opened your eyes again.
He didn't say anything. He examined your expression for a few seconds before turning away. He called out for you to follow as he walked. You did. Sekhmets words echoed through your head. You hadn't thought about a partner in years, not since you became her avatar. You never even tried to bring someone home, you knew she would disapprove. You had stopped feeling lonely a long time ago. Sekhmets company had become enough for you. Sometimes you found yourself missing the silence.
While you followed Marc, you could hear him talking to himself. You didn't bring it up. You didn't know Marc. You didn't know if you wanted to. He prowled through the streets, gaze anxious and darting down roads and back alleys. You followed him wordlessly. He knew the area well. You followed him out of familiarity and into inner city London, a place you avoided. You followed him through a back alley, down a road and up the stairs into a lavishly large apartment, especially for the city. Books were piled high, and everywhere. There was a fish tank bubbling quietly by the wall.
It had started lashing rain on the walk to the apartment. You were too busy taking in your surroundings to notice Marc slip away. You stood in the middle of his living room, dripping rain water onto the hardwood floor. You didn't even realise he had returned until his hand was gripping your shoulder and he was offering you a hoodie and some sweatpants.
"Warm and dry, yeah?" he urged.
You nodded. He pointed to the bathroom and you wandered off. As you struggled out of your clothes, Sekhmet started whispering to you again.
I like this one. good sense of self preservation. he is an avatar.
"i know," you sighed. "he nearly killed me."
yes, because he cares. he is a good one.
"please, babe," you muttered. "i don't think this is a good idea."
trust me. i am the goddess of-
"healing and medicine, i know," you winced as you pulled the hoodie over your head.
let me help you. he can heal your heart.
"Thats the cheesiest fuckin' thing I've ever heard," you left the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
You sat next to Marc, who had since told you his name. You both stares aimlessly at the tv, the history channel droning on. In the corner of his eye, Marc could see you falling asleep. Khonshu was whispering to him, wary of the other avatar in the room.
i like her.
"I thought she was a menace?"
i changed my mind.
"of course you did."
she will not interfere with my mission. unlike the idiot.
Marc sighed. He didn't respond. He just watched as your head dropped and you fell asleep. When you woke, you had been moved. In a moment of primal fear and panic, you scrambled out of bed and in search of a weapon. You couldn't hear Sekhmet and you were in unfamiliar territory. You heard heavy footsteps approaching and in your haste, you reached for an ornate vase next to the bed. The door swung open and you launched the vase. It narrowly missed the man's head, he dived for you. You grappled for a but until he managed to pin your arms to your sides. He was pressed against your back, his head buried in the crook of your neck. He was whispering to you, soothing you, calming you.
"It's me, it's just me. It's Marc, calm down. You're safe, I've got you"
You listened, and you were soothed. You relaxed in his grip, so much so you almost melted. Your hands held tenderly onto his forearms. If a passerby were to look in, they would see a happy couple that were very much in love.
kiss him.
you shook your head gently, grateful to hear Sekhmet's voice again, but growing tired of her romantic advice.
I like her. Keep her around.
Marc sensed an almost affectionate tone in Khonshu's voice. He nodded gently. Marc slowly guided you back towards the bed. He still doesn't know what came over him in that moment, but he lay you back down, took one look at your fragile looking figure, and crawled into bed behind you. He snaked a hand around your waist, and one arm pushed it's way under your head. He leaned over and pressed a gentle, nervous kiss onto your shoulder, and then one on your neck, and then he ventured up onto your jaw. And as his hand slid down towards the waistband of your trousers, you heard a voice ring out.
I told you so.
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modern-vellichor · 1 month
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hi! i’d love it if you could write adrian chase/vigilante x reader(fem or gn if you prefer!) where they are quite hard faced and irritable with the other members of 11th Street Kids, but with Adrian they are quite soft and show they actually care for him, laugh at his awkwardness etc. basically a different person than the way they are with the others. ty!
im so good to y'all. i have genuinely no idea when this was sent to me but I'm back baby.
masterlist // send a request
"Fuck off," you said to Peacemaker.
Waller had promised that this was your last job. And you made sure she meant it. This was nothing more than community service. You did as little as possible with these shitheads. You sat in a van with Economos during missions, you never said a word unless absolutely necessary. You avoided Murn like the plague. You never accepted Harcourt's invitations to drinks. You always rejected Peacemaker's various advances (it's not like you would say yes in any other situation.) Even Adebayo, who was the most tolerable on the squad, always found a way to get on your nerves, usually with unwanted (but not unhelpful) advice. In spite of this, there was one person who just made your heart melt.
Sweet little Vigilante. So stupid, so blind and deaf and dumb. So sweet. Sure, he was a bit dopey. He had no brain-to-mouth filter whatsoever. He was extremely violent. He was a bit creepy. But you had a soft spot for him. There was something about his puppy dog eyes, or his dumbstruck smile that turned you into a gushy, weeping, puddle. He was just plain neat.
The others noticed, of course they did. You turned into this sweet, gushing mess around the idiot. You placed gentle hands on his cheeks, you listened to his god awful rants with a soft smile, you helped him with whatever he wanted.
Adrian didn't notice, obvious. He was oblivious to your gentleness towards him. In his heart, he knew he loved you but you were so scary. You were so mean to all the other agents, even Peacemaker! Despite this he tailed after you like a lost puppy, or an imprinted duckling. And you let him. If he ever gained the nerve to reach out to caress your arm, or your hand, or if he ever reached for your knives or your guns, you didn't push him away like you would have anyone else.
Maybe one day he'd realize how soft you truly were, maybe he'd ask you out. But for now, he'd secretly admire you, even blood-soaked, battered and beaten, and pretend you were nothing more than a favoured coworker.
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modern-vellichor · 1 year
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Hii!! I stumbled across your account after reading the most recent Adrian Chase/Vigilante angst fic and let me just say, I read your whole masterlist and practically sobbed all the water out of my body 😭. I was wondering if you could possibly make a follow up to “couldn’t” or even just anything angsty vigilante. Maybe something that involves like the reader feeling unloved and they have a hard time adjusting to his affection in a sense, like an inner conflict. Love ur work it’s amazing <3
-a/n; it's been do long since I wrote that I had to reread it and I broke my own heart a little ngl (broken heart is inversely proportional to inflated ego)
-warnings; angst 😎, uncommunicative reader, lots of cursing bc im a big girl
You stopped coming into work. Adrian waited at your desk every morning and you never showed. The others said you were sick. He didn't believe them. He gave you the benefit of the doubt for the first few days. But the feeling of your lips was haunting him, he could still taste you. He couldn't sleep.
He rolled over and the alarm clock next to his bed flashed at him.
03:00 AM
He rolled out of bed. He didn't even bother getting dressed. He just slipped out of his home. He walked the streets, kicking pebbles. He knew where you lived, not that you had told him. He may have been harbouring a secret obsession for a while before your kiss. He snuck up to your window, standing, shivering on the fire escape. You didn't notice him as you moved your couch from one side of your cramped living room to the other. He didn't knock. Adrian just watched you. You looked sick. Your eyes were dull, your skin looked grey. You had lost the sense of life that once permeated the office, your body, your home.
You finally looked up from the floor. Your eyes met. You weren't shocked. Adrian seemed like the kind of guy to do this sort of thing. You sighed deeply. You tugged at the hem of your hoodie and opened the window for him to clamber through. He stumbled into your apartment. You ran a hand through your tangled hair. Adrian pushed his glasses further up his nose.
"What do you want, Chase?" You whispered.
"I- I don't know."
Adrian felt small, suddenly. He felt little and bare. He felt vulnerable and unprotected. And you looked big. You looked tired and worn thin. You looked angry. You were scary. You had a knife bared at his through, you had the threat of unbearable rejection, and what did he have? Carelessness? Callousness? No. He had nothing to fight against your icy tone, your harsh words. Your lack of care. He was small, he was frightened. He was in love.
"Why did you come here? You're not hurt. No one's in danger. You have no reason to be here?"
"I don't know," he uttered.
"For fuck's sake, Adrian!" You hissed.
Adrian winced. You softened your tone. You leaned back against the arm of your couch. He looked small. He was shaking. He was nervous. You were tired, wrecked. You reached out an open hand, beckoned him quietly towards you. You know Adrian can be odd sometimes, clueless. Maybe no one had taught him these things, taught him about feelings, and emotions - the gushy stuff. You didn't like gushy things, or gooey things, all the worst things were sticky. Like blood and guts, love and care.
Adrian took a few tender steps towards you and reached out his hand. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist and pulled him gently towards you. Things had fallen still in the apartment. He crowded against you. Suddenly, you couldn't breathe. Adrian dipped his head, his hands trailing up your neck. You pushed him away. Shaking and panting, you shoved him back towards the fire escape.
"You need to get out of here."
"What?" He nearly cried.
"This is so fucking unprofessional, Chase. You need to get the fuck out of my house. Like, right fucking now."
You gave him one last push. Adrian clambered out the window and escaped down the rusty, unstable stairs. He avoided your block for the next few days.
When you returned to work, you were quiet and drained. You looked tired. You sulked around the office. You worked late. Far later than anyone else. Adrian always noticed. He noticed you sitting at your desk, no light other than the light of your computer. He stood in the shadows, watching you type away on a tuesday night. His watched flashed midnight, wednesday.
He skulked out of the shadows and towards your desk. He had finally ditched the costume and that stupid helmet you always made fun of. You rarely saw him in anything else. You didn't see him as he snuck up behind you and placed a tender hand on your shoulder. You didn't make a sound. You just stopped tying as Adrian turned you around. He stood between your legs and held your face in his hands.
"Adrian-" you begam.
"Just- Don't say anything," he begged.
"please," you whispered.
"Shut the fuck up," he laughed breathlessly.
You smiled. It was s small, tired, somewhat pathetic smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. Adrian pulled you up and out of your chair. You stood on shaking legs. You trembled beneath his grasp. Worry, adoration, anticipation all in one.
He kissed you.
It was all consuming and it felt like it lasted forever. You were breathless by the time he pulled away. He leaned his forehead against yours. You laughed quietly.
"You're so fucking difficult, you know that?" Adrian whispered.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"Why?"
"'Cause it's fucking hot."
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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hello! love your writing. kinda miss our favorite russian assassin sooooo can i please request for an ultra angsty fic where reader and nat are on a stablished relationship but they went thru a messy breakup and reader leaves. nat and reader havent been in contact with each other for a long time but nat still loves reader, though not making an effort to find her whereabouts. one time the avengers go on a mission in some country that had civilians as collateral damage and nat finds out that one of the dead bodies in reader. break my heart, i dare u. here's a cookie, as a treat 🍪
-a/n; I'm only doing this because you asked so nicely -warnings; angst, death, cheating.
"Romanoff," Steve barked in Nat's ears. "Check that building over there."
Nat simply nodded. she entered the building and picked through rubble, concrete and bodies. Then she stopped, and her jaw went slack.
"Baby, please," Nat sighed. "I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it then, Romanoff?"
Nat was fucked. You only ever called her that when you were furious.
"Please, sweetheart. I love you and only you, you know that!"
"Does Steve know that? What about Banner? Or Wanda?"
Natasha was speechless. Her jaw went slack and she watched you as you threw clothes into a suitcase.
"Fuck, Romanoff. I mean even Barnes looks at you like he's going to rip your clothes off any second! You're a fucking sex symbol and I can't even get you to hold my hand!"
It was true. Your relationship had started as nothing more than a bit of fun; hickeys and drinks, secret rendezvous and too high heels. But Natasha loved you too much to let you go and so she kept you around. Her little secret.
Secret.
You were like a sin. It was like you disgusted her. She hid you away. And then you found out about Steve, and you let it slide. Then Banner. It was a lapse of judgement. You made excuses for Natasha. You lied to yourself, convinced yourself that she loved you.
But this was the last straw. Wanda was meant to be your friend. And now she was the other woman. Or were you the other woman. You didn't know anymore. Maybe you had always been the other woman.
"Fuck you, ROmanoff. I hope I never see you again."
"Baby, wait-" Natasha pleaded.
"I can't wait till I see your face and my brain thinks that its looking at a stranger."
With tears in your eyes you left the compound and Natasha never saw you again.
Natasha never looked for you. Every once and a while a dead body would pop up, a sex trafficker, or a drug lord. It would have your MO written all over it, but Natasha could never catch up with you. You were always three steps ahead. Natasha really did love you. She was in love with you and she didn't realise that until you had disappeared. Now all she could do was long for you back.
But she would never search for you. That showed weakness. She was not weak. She was a machine. She was a warrior. She was probably better off without you. It broke her heart but she soldiered on.
She dropped to her knees in the entry hall. The building was collapsing around her. She pulled your head into her lap. You were covered in blood. She pressed two fingers to the inside of your wrist, there was no hope. You were ice cold. There was no life left in your eyes.
"Romanoff?" Steve called out on the comms.
Steve was met with nothing more than a broken sob.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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guys ik im so bad at putting out regular content but I promise im gonna try really hard to do so again
send requests xoxo
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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More Frank Castle angst?
-a/n; your wish is my command + send more requests xo -warnings; angst el oh el, blood + gore, cannon violence. -summary; Frank isn't a fan of the new you.
You hadn't seen Frank in years. Honestly, you're better for it. Frank was awful - life with Frank was awful. It wasn't a life at all. You never had a home, you never ate real food, you never felt safe. You still don't feel safe, but you feel safer without him. You've changed your name, changed your ways. You still work, your job hasn't changed, but you're cleaner. You're quicker and quieter without Frank's untamed violence. Nobody was after you, you were as good as a ghost.
Life was going great without Frank, until he resurfaced. You were waiting for coffee when you spotted him. He was lumbering down the street. You shrunk into the corner. You pulled your hood up over your head and took your coffee. You sped out of the coffee shop and walked as quick as possible without arousing suspicion. But Frank was smart. He was on your tail quicker than a bloodhound. You were nearly running through the city, you could practically smell Frank. You tried to hide in an alley, but he was The Punisher, of course he found you. You prepared for a fight, for something, anything. But he just held up his hands. He was surrendering.
"What do you want?" You called out, keeping a distance between you and Frank.
"I need your help. I've been watching you for years, but I need you."
"How much?"
There was no point arguing with him. Frank hated asking for help, so he obviously needed it badly. He offered you e decent sum of money, enough to last you a good few months without working. He said he'd leave you alone after finishing the job. And you believed him. It was a silly mistake. You should have known better. You can never trust him.
You did your job. You collected your money. Frank left you alone for a week before he knocked on your door again. You don't remember how the fight started. You remember Frank telling you he still loved you, that he's missed you all these years, watching and protecting from the shadows. And then it escalated. You threw a glass, he threw a plate, you pulled a knife he pulled a gun. You wouldn't have to try very hard to fake your death this time, your apartment already looked like a murder scene. Frank fell to the floor and you straddled his waist. You raised your knife above your head.
"What happened to you?" He choked.
"Shut up."
"What happened to the girl I fell in love with?"
"She was weak."
You brought the knife down. You left the apartment. There's one rule to live by when you work in your line of duty.
Never look back.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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guys I kinda wanna write stranger things fics.... like Steve and Robin r rlly hot....
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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hi!! totally cool if you don’t do this request:)
(reader is a female with female pronouns)
frank is drunk and the bartender called you to drive so he doeisn't (i dunno reader is the designated driver). you both start walking out and halfway down the street frank is like “oh I forgot my card.” you stay there and he runs back but then you're cornered by these three guys and he comes out sobered up because these three guys are verbally and physically harassing his girl. (you can choose the ending i haven’t thought that far ahead, he beats them up idk!!”
lots of love <33-RA
a/n; hello gorgeous, i absolutely love this idea!! tyvm for sending it to m. i hope you enjoy it.-warnings; drinking, violence, blood, some graphic descriptions, fluff too.
You were having such a relaxing evening. You were just about to change out of your work clothes into your pyjamas when the phone rang.
"Hey, dude," it was Roy, the bartender who worked down the street. "I got your buddy here, Fred or somethin', I dunno. But uh, he's fucked, so will you come and get him?"
"Yeah," you sighed, already putting your boots on. "I'll come get Frank."
It was freezing out. Normally you would have walked, but it was too cold. So you parked a little ways away from the bar and waltzed in. Frank's hard to miss. You spotted him as soon as you walked in, sitting quietly at the bar, alone, sipping his water. You thanked Roy as you leaned against the bartop.
"Hey, Frankie."
"Oh," he sounded surprised, which meant he was drunk. "where did you come from?"
"I came to take you home, c'mon."
He followed you without any resistance. You linked your arm with his. He was nice and warm against the cold wind of New York. You kept him close. You got to the corner, so close to the car when Frank stopped. He cold must have sobered him up because he let go of you and ran his hands over his pockets.
"Shit."
"What?" you dug your hands into your pockets.
"I forgot my wallet. Wait here."
You watched Frank jog down the street. You could still see the bar and so you leaned against the wall and waited. It couldn't have been two minutes before a group of young men approached. They circled you, their ringleader eyeing you up like a piece of meat.
Under normal circumstances, you would have beat the shit out of any guy who looked at you the wrong way. But they had your cornered and outnumbered. You could see the handle of a knife sticking out of someone's waistband. It would be a deathwish to try and fight. So you played cool. You politely asked them to leave you alone.
The ringleader was getting too close. His nose was almost touching yours. He leaned in, lips nearly brushing your neck. You pushed him, as hard as you could. He swung a punch and you ducked.
"You righteous bitch!"
Just as he reached for the knife, Frank loomed behind him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him around. Frank smashed his forehead into the man's nose. Blood gushed from the broken nose and the knife clattered to the ground. While Frank continued the vicious assault on the ringleader, you dived for the knife. You struggled for a little with another member of the group, but he was young and scrawny and more frightened than you. You growled as you kicked his shin and bit down onto his forearm. He let go of the blade. You swung the knife in semicircles in front of you, warding off the other group members. When their leader collapsed to the pavement in a bloody, barely breathing heap, they scattered, leaving the asshole behind.
Frank gazed at you amorously. You pocketed the knife and offered him your hand. He took if and pulled you tight against your side. You walked like that until you reached the car. Frank offered to drive, but you knew he was probably still drunk. You drove in silence, until you took a left five minutes later.
"This isn't the way to my place," Frank grumbled beside you.
"I know," you chirped.
You gazed at Frank out of the side of your eye. He looked totally indifferent, not a single bruise or scratch marring his beautiful skin.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Home."
Frank smiled in the passenger seat. He knew exactly where he was going now. Home was wherever you were, and that made Frank the happiest he had been in a very long time.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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hiii i absolutely love your writing <333
it may or may not have made me bawl at 3am...
anyways would u write a fic based on bad idea! by girl in red where wanda & r are exes and wanda shows up one night at her door drunk & wanting to get back together & the morning she's all cold and distant & like 'this was a mistake ur better off wo me'
-a/n; love love love this -warnings; angst
"Wanda," you sighed and stared at the redhead who was leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. "What are you doing here?"
"Can I come in?"
"You're drunk," you protested.
"I'm drunk and I miss you and I'd like to come in."
You knew this was a losing battle and so you stepped aside. As soon as Wanda was through the threshold, she was on you. She kicked the front door closed behind her and cupped your cheeks. She kissed you roughly. She was desperate. She was desperate for you.
"This is a bad idea," you muttered against her lips.
But Wanda's hands had already wandered from your cheeks and were making their way up your shirt. She wasn't gonna stop now. She undid your bra and said "Darling, you're so pretty it hurts."
She pushed you up against the wall and threw all your clothes down on the floor. She pulled back to look at you with a cheeky grin.
"Darling, are you ready for more?"
You woke up to see Wanda sitting on the edge of your bed, pulling her trousers on.
"Leaving so soon?" you groaned.
"This was a bad idea..."
You slammed your head back down onto the pillow and groaned loudly. "I told you so."
"You didn't try to stop me."
"You wouldn't have stopped."
Wanda didn't say anything. She slipped her shirt over her head and stared at you. She moved to leave but hovered by your bedroom door.
"It was a bad idea, to think I could stop."
"Yeah," you scoffed. "It was a bad idea."
"I just can't get enough," she confessed.
You were lost for words. But she was gone. Surely though, you'd see her again. Because she's totally fucked.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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logged in to see i have loads of requests out of nowhere so expect them soon :)
lots of love, H
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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pay attention.
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-summary; Steven needs to grow up. He can't pretend forever. -warnings; angst. -a/n; Trista Mateer, The Dogs I Have Kissed
Cairo is hot. It's too hot. You spend your days hiding in the shade. It's still hot in the tombs. Too hot. The pyramids are cooler than the rest of Cairo. The city is sweltering. At least it's cooler in the tombs. You suffer through the heat as long as you're allowed to work. You search for valuable information, anything you can find in the tombs. The art on the walls is full of clues as to what the ancient Egyptians were thinking. And you want to know. You spend your evenings blasting the AC in your apartment and reading about the ancient Gods.
Marc never meant to be involved. But you weren't supposed to be there. It was true.
You couldn't sleep. So you did the most irrational thing you could have done and hiked through Cairo until you got to the tombs. It was unsafe and definitely irresponsible, but you did it anyway. You waltzed through the chambers alone, with your flashlight. You didn't expect to find anyone else, especially not someone who resembled a mummy. A live, walking mummy in your tomb. You weren't scared, although you should have been. He didn't say anything until you were outside. He guided you out of the tomb, away from your work. He didn't say much, just mumbling angrily about how you weren't supposed to be out. Marc just wanted to get you out of the way, but of course Steven had to ruin it.
Steven spilled his guts as soon as he had control of the body. He held you by the arms and begged for help. He said he had read your papers, all your essays and investigation. He told you all about Khonshu and Ammit. You didn't want to believe him. He was spewing such bullshit but something told you that you had to believe it. You had to help.
Marc wasn't happy. But you were unbelievable stubborn and he simply couldn't get rid of you. You proved yourself to be useful anyway. Surprisingly violent, stunningly intelligent. Steven took to you like a house on fire. He loved having you around. He loved the idea of you, no matter how much you berated him. You loved him nonetheless.
Steven spent his nights pestering you while you tried to work. Usually he would stop himself and sit quietly, watching you work over your shoulder. But some nights you had to spit at him, kick him into the bedroom just so he would leave you alone. Marc didn't like you. He didn't have to. But he wouldn't get rid of you, you were too valuable to his case.
You were having a rough night already. Things hadn't gone your way. There was a snake in your sarcophagus at work. One of your junior archaeologists had been bit. And when you finally got to see the mummy, he had been burnt by scavengers. Then Marc came home covered in blood and refused to talk to you and it was past midnight by the time Steven showed face. You weren't in a good mood, and you snapped. He just wouldn't be quiet. You couldn't think. And all Steven did was talk and talk and talk.
You ripped into him. You shouted and argued. Steven just stood there. He was in shock. You had never, ever screamed at him like this. When you were finished, Steven blinked back tears and pulled you against his chest.
"I know you don't mean it," he whispered into your hair. "It's okay. You don't mean it."
You sighed and pushed Steven away.
"I was carving my name into your side and you were calling he soft, calling me gentle. I do not think you were paying attention."
"who said that?" he asked gently.
"Trista Mateer."
Steven shook his head slowly. He needed to wake up. He needed to realize that you weren't an angel. You weren't perfect. You were just like Marc. Just as bad as Marc. And he refused to call you evil.
"You need to pay attention, Steven-"
"no."
"Yes. You have to pay attention otherwise they won't just carve into you. they'll kill you."
You grabbed your jacket and made for the door. Steven didn't try to stop you. You felt bad but you knew it was for the better. He had to grow up eventually. You walked yourself to a hotel and booked a room for the rest of the night. Marc would be furious when you got back. You weren't totally prepared for his wrath. But you'd have to learn to face his fury if you were ever going to get this done.
You had to pay attention, too.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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hey bb! i love your imagines & was hoping if you could do a stucky x female!reader where she has antisocial personality disorder & is like Ko Moon Young from Its Ok To Not Be Ok & how it is like with her boyfriends and the team??? can you please make looking:) slight angst with fluff love you!
-a/n; hey lovely. i don't rlly write for stucky anymore but i might as well do this for you anyway. don't know who ko moon young is either. enjoy. -warnings; violence, blood etc
"You can't just hit some rando in a bar," Steve chastised.
he leaned against the door to your bedroom. Bucky was kneeling between your legs. He was wiping an anitseptic wipe over your swollen knuckles. The dark bruising became more and more visible as dried blood was being wiped away.
"Yes, I can."
"she did," sighed bucky. "you can't stop her steve."
"Yeah, steve."
Steve glared at you. You averted your gaze and dropped your head. Bucky was wrapped bandages and gauze carefully around your hands. You had probably sprained your wrist. You were just grateful it wasn't broken.
"Tony isn't gonna like this. he's gonna go berserk. it'll be a PR nightmare for him."
"leave it, steve. tony can deal with it when he finds out. just leave her alone." Bucky looked at you again "let's get some sleep, doll, yeah?"
you nodded. steve waltzed out of the room as you were climbing into bed. you were asleep before your head hit the pillow. you don't know when he came back. but when you woke up, he was in bed next to you. and all was well again.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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hi *cries* m’back with my stucky x aspd! reader request hehe xx if you find time for it, i’d love to read what you come up with! but if you don’t, i totally understand xx (i’ll still check your tumblr everyday though xp)
yeah, sorry. took a little (long) break, will hop on it now <3
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
Text
not dead, just burnt out.
trying to write, something will be out soon
xoxo, H
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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um hi *waves from behind a trashcan* you're so so so good at writing angst, just like omg. I was wondering if you might be willing to write something with Adrian finding out that *Reader* is getting abused by [his or her] partner, and how he would handle it. whether adrian has a thing for reader or not is up to you <3
-warnings; violence (domestic, canon), language -a/n; a gift, for you. short but yummy.
You have no idea how Adrian found out. It was totally normal for you to show up at work covered in bruises, especially considering what kind of work you did. But Adrian always noticed. He noticed everything you did. The bruises were always a little too often, a little too fresh. You were always a little too distant and a little too jumpy. So he followed you, of course he did.
He camped outside your apartment window, watching. He saw everything. And you looked so tired. So, so tired. You looked totally and utterly defeated. Adrian knew you as a warrior, a fighter, a total badass. And he watched as your shoulders slumped and you just accepted your fate. He watched as he bloodied your nose, screamed obscenities at you. You took it. You didn't even try and fight.
The next evening you were lying in bed, pretending to be asleep. You were avoiding conversation. Your boyfriend was still awake, sitting on his phone. You heard something fall to the ground and smash. You hoped it wasn't your favourite vase. You felt the bed move as your boyfriend got up to check the apartment, just in case. You waited for him to come back. And you waited, and you waited.
And he never came back.
Eventually you swung your legs off the edge of the bedroom and wandered down the hall. You tiptoed through the house, calling out quietly. You turned the corner into the living room. He was lying on the floor, cold and unmoving.
"you didn't deserve what he did to you."
You jumped at the sound of the voice. You turned around, poised to attack. It was Adrian. Not Vigilante, just plain old Adrian in his jeans and his glasses. He was opening his arms. When you didn't move, he pulled you into him.
"he deserved what he got," he mumbled into your hair. "Let me take you home. let someone else find him."
You nodded and Adrian pulled you towards your front door. He kept you tucked against his chest as he dragged you into the elevator. Eventually, you brought your arms up to wrap around his waist. Adrian smiled against your forehead.
He'll treat you so much better than that bastard ever did.
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modern-vellichor · 2 years
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okay! I was wondering if u could maybe do an adrian chase x fem!reader in which, one: there's already an established relationship between the two and two: reader is a witch and has the power to use dark magic, control demons. however, her powers can go a little haywire but with adrian comforting her, she does alright. however! what if adrian's not there to comfort her during one of the missions.
basically, while adrian is away doing a separate mission, she and the rest of the team are out on a mission of their own yet chris keeps jabbing her about her powers, treating her like a child. things take a turn when she goes berserk on him and almost hurts him. with adrian gone, she's filled with guilt and doesn't really talk much after. some angst, maybe a slight bit of spice and a happy ending of course! maybe a part 2 to this as well? was thinking maybe amanda waller ends up getting reader into Arkham but adrian and the team have to bail her out.
please? thank u! 💜💜💜
warnings: idek? violence? a/n: this is super short bc i am super uninspired.
"Why can't Vig come with me?" You stared at Harcourt.
"Because he's going with Murn. And you're coming with Smith and I."
You just kept staring. You knew you couldn't argue with her. She looked back apologetically. Adrian put a gloved hand on your shoulder. You couldn't see his face through the visor.
"'s okay," he whispered. "Ill be back before you know it, babe."
You nodded. He gave your shoulder one last squeeze before following Murn out the door. You stuck around, waiting for Harcourt to give you and Chris the green light to go.
"is his dick big?" Chris whispered.
"Shut up, Smith," you kept your eyes trained on the knife you were polishing. "leave me alone."
"You can tell me," he nudges you with his elbow. "I'm his best friend."
"piss off."
Chris was always annoying. Usually you had a mediator, someone there to prevent you from killing each other. Usually that mediator was Adebayo, sometimes even Adrian. He never wanted to see his two favourite people fighting. You ignored Chris's bickering for another ten minutes before Harcourt waltzed past, barking orders. You scrambled out of your seat with Chris on your heels.
You and Peacemaker played so well during the mission. You were both so focused on your orders, and doing right, that neither of you made a single back-handed comment while you were out. And then you returned to the van. Adrenaline was coursing through your veins, residing anger floating off of you in waves. You sat on the curb, brewing, covered in blood. Chris towered over you, arms crossed over his chest. Chris had quickly returned to his regular self and you were still cooling down.
"Kinda glad Adrian didn't come on this mission," he grinned.
"Why?" You spat through bared teeth.
"'Cause otherwise you woulda gone fucking cockdumb. You're like a total bimbo when he's around," he laughed.
"Shut up, Smith."
"You know I'm right. You're so whipped."
"Just fuck off."
He took a large step closer. You could feel him next to you. You kept your eyes on the concrete in front of you. Chris nudged you with his boot. You didn't respond. He nudged you again. He just kept nudging you, and nudging you, and fucking nudging you. Then you snapped. You screamed, and no noise came out of your mouth. Purple light blinded you. Harcourt his behind the van, but Chris faced the full force of the blast. His ears rang, screams clouding his brain. He was flown in the air and landed, spluttering and coughing on his back twenty feet away.
Harcourt tried to coax you back into the van. You wouldn't go near Chris. You felt guilty. Even Chris tried to get you in the car. He insisted that it was awesome, and that nothing cooler will ever happen to him. But you were dangerous. You didn't even walk back to the office. You walked straight home.
You locked the apartment door behind you. You had totally forgotten about Adrian, who was already on his way home. You tore your suit off of your body and collapsed onto your bed. Adrian let himself in, you didn't hear him from under your pile of blankets. He tiptoed through your home, shedding his suit.
He found you curled up in your bed, crying quietly. He didn't say anything as he slid under the covers behind you. He pressed soft kisses to your shoulders and your neck, his hands massaging your bare sides. You whimpered as he nipped a bruise into your skin.
"Adebayo told me what happened," he whispered.
"Don't wanna talk about it," you said, pushing your hips back against his, trying to distract him.
"It wasn't your fault," his hands moved to hold your hips still and you whined again.
You didn't say anything. Adrian didn't either. He just turned you around and wrapped you in his arms. He held you close as you continued to cry. He could feel your tears soaking his chest. He never said a word.
All you wanted was to be held.
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