#and the ship contents are running wild in my head

[devivi12]

<3 Cats have 7 lives, right? <3 Well, Katsuki has only 6 left now.

#bnha manga spoilers #chapter #362 #367 #mha manga spoilers #bakugou katsuki #well Katsuki has only 6 left now #and the ship contents are running wild in my head #<3 kiribaku #todobaku #kacchako #bakudeku #bakukami #bakutodo #bakushima #bakusero

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ

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

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

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

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

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

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

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

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

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

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

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

Selfish. You're just being selfish. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is officially no turning back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bastard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sit," he offers. Commands really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes." 

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

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

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

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

Feyd-Rautha. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he everything you had imagined?" 

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

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

"I want to meet him." 

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

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

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

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

You're on your own now. 

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

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

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

"You must be lost." 

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

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

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

"And what do you think?" 

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

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

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

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

"And you fought anyway." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Beg." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All at once it stops. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More," he demands in a thick rasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I still disappoint?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And without any resistance, you do. 

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

[granolawriting]

Within the confines of a ship ˚✧

pairing: Jedi!reader x Jedi Anakin

Summary: Spending night after night having sexual tension with a certian Jedi on a mission surrounded by your peers in a ship comes to a head when one day he stops trying to be discrete about what he wants.

Content warning: 18+ NSFW, minor exhibitionism, dom!Anakin, tension, Anakins a tease, breif aftercare, you guys stop caring about making no noise like halfway through, p in v unprotected, he cums in you, I don't think I actually wrote anything that explicitly makes the reader female, Anakin is glaringly cocky

word count: 2.6k

masterlist

A/N: so sorry this took so long to put out!!! I just moved to a new state :)! I hope u enjoy the second installment of my kinktober list, I'll see you all again on the 10th ;). Make sure if you like my work to check out my requests/comissions or my ko-fi!!!

The silent hum of a ship deeply comfortable in hyperspace and the muffled talk of fellow Jedi upon the ship fills your mind as you try to ensure that's all that enters it. Subconsciously you hone in on voices, unable to discern conversation but by mere tone and inflection alone could you spot him if he was there. 

… 

There he is. 

You felt the sound of his voice sink deep within your stomach, igniting your body ablaze. Even the mere sense of him in distance to you made you grow weak, feeling as a pool builds through slick underwear at how your mind allows it to wander. Anakin had never been explicitly sexual with you, never did his hands trail down the waistband of pants or under hooked lines of bras, never did his lips even touch yours or the flush of bodies against one another. You were completely left to your imagination, though not without the help of Anakin. 

You and him have always had a history, a tension of sorts. Never properly actualized with action but words were more than enough. The way his eyes devoured you when you walked past, soft words exchanged in private halls or even implicit praise after simulated battles between you and him. 

“Ooh, good girl. Seems like someones been practicing.” 

Small things. Though as he strung you along this road of implication and suggestion your mind was allowed to run wild with what else may lie within his own mind. The reactions to the things you’ve said in kind, and how if they were anything like how you responded-- with hands sinking to the ooze between your legs the moment you were home, you were more than certain that it couldn't last like this forever. What you would do more than anything to please him, hear how he moans, the way he’d praise you. The feeling of him inside of you, what did he even look like? 

It didn't help that you two were constantly surrounded by one another in hidden corners of a ship, it wasn't cramped but it was definitely rendering you on edge as every corner you turned had a much higher potential of holding anakin than it usually would. Though, with that, the tension only grew stronger. Seeing him fresh out of showers with only cloth wrapping his lower half, catching staring eyes from across dining room counters and most of all, the words exchanged in the few moments left alone with one another in the confines of the ship. 

“Where are you off too darling? 

“To my room, didn't think anyone else was awake. I was just going to head to bed.” 

You remember how close his face would inch towards yours, the soft clank of a heel that indicated one more step closer to yours. You remember the sly look on his face, a half cocked brow and egotistical smile, arms crossed and strands of hair littering his face. 

“I don't think anyone else here is awake either. Well, I'm glad I caught you before then.” 

The way he looked you up and down, subtle gnawing on his lip as he drank you in. the warm tug that drew your lips to his. 

“Why's that? Did you need something?” 

“Well I could tell you quite a few things I need from you.” 

You also remembered the hissing of a door behind you as it indicated its opening. The feeling of the flutter in your heart quickly dies as dread follows in the wake of something interrupting such a moment. To turn behind you you greet a jedi that you barely remember the name of. And with that does Anakin take off once more through the same door-- eyes locked on you and a smile that feels as though it was coated with lust as his mind was a secret to you but his body told a similar story. Every part of it. 

Lifting yourself off the bed you trail slow feet towards your door, an entrance to the room where anakin shared. Unsure of what you were meaning to do when you got to him, all you knew is that you needed to see him. Talk to him. Something. 

Walking out into the common area you watch his eyes on you once more, growing from notice to intrigue as you grow closer to him. Those around him stop conversation briefly, tuned in also to what means you had to be out there. 

“Hey Ani, do you think I could talk to you for a second?” 

“Oh yeah, what's up?” 

“Um, 

Pausing for a second you don't know what to say. Everyone's eyes lay on you as they dissect your motives, morbidly curious about what you’re to say to him. 

“Alone, please? You can just come into my room.” 

A look on Anakin's face that was initially worry quickly molded into something much more lustful, the cocky grin coated his face once more and a hood to his eyes that insinuated that his mind was someplace much different than the rest of the people in the room regarding what you were implying. You didn't even know what you were implying. All you wanted was to go out there and see him, watch the way he moved and allow yourself to sink deep within his eyes and embrace the enchantment you held for his every feature. The desire you had for every inch upon his body. 

“Say no more.” 

A smirk curved on the right side of his cheek as he lifted himself up from his seat. Watching as his fingers comb through long hair that pushed it back for just a moment before laying perfectly upon his face, sculpting his face did slight waves along its side make way for a weakening gaze to fall upon you that made you feel as though your knees were to give out. 

The short walk to your cabin felt like miles as every step that loomed behind you was an aura of uncertainty and tension that built up with every foot you moved closer behind that door. 

The sound of the doors open and subsequent closing made your heart well up in anticipation, fear almost. You didn't know what to do, what to say. You had nothing to talk to him about other than your insatiable lust for him, and that wasn't quite on the table to casually discuss. Though as you look for the words to speak he says them for you. 

“And what exactly did you need to talk to me about in silence, hm?” 

He taunts you, it's clear in dark tone and greedy eyes that he knows precisely what is so hard to get out. 

“Oh well I, I don't quite know how to say it.” 

“Oh come on, use your words.” 

“I'm trying it's just that I-” 

“Spit it out baby I don't have all day.” 

Banter back and forth as he capitalizes on your meekness comes to a head, and with the inability to put words into sentences at the face of him towering over you with a taunting glance you lean in for a kiss. 

Anakin, caught by surprise, has eyes wide open, but after a moment passes a smile can be felt to grow wide on his lips as he deepens the kiss. Arms snake around your waist as he yanks you closer, both bodies flush against one another as your back curves slightly at the tug of his arms on the small of your back. 

“Good girl, I wonder how long it’d take you.” 

He lets up for breath and whispers in your ear as he moves a hand to your head, stroking your hair as your senses are overtaken by the words pouring into your ear. He sounded greedy, cocky. He had been toying with you, seeing how long it took until you broke. He loved watching you writhe under him, hums escaped your lips at the mere vibration of his voice against your body, the touch of his lips against yours. 

You feel his knees bend slightly as his hands make swift moves to the back of your thighs, lifting you up does he return his lips to yours. Feeling him grunt inside your mouth as he walks you over to the bed, interlocking your legs around his as he tosses you on unmade sheets. Crawling on top of you does he deepen the kiss evermore, sticking his tongue into the back of your throat do you feel a growing bulge within his pants. Laid directly on top of you did you feel it grow mere inches above your heat, desperately you find yourself unconsciously grinding on it to feel it even more. He's big, even through loose pants does he leave no room for imagination as it presses up against you. Feeling it twitch through thin layers of cloth. 

“Fuck-- ngh. Wasting no time hm?”

His hands caged you in at either side, he let up from your kiss to focus on the feeling you provided him below his waist. You felt as his hips started to follow rhythm with your waist, inching lower down your body so his bulge laid directly atop your heat. 

Through desperate buckling of hips you speed up pace, feeling him right on top of you as the only thing separating him from you being a few pieces of cloth. Biting back your lip do you desperately try to hold back the moans that scratch at your throat at the feeling of him rubbing on you. 

A hand falls on your mouth the moment you let one slip. 

“Don't make a fucking sound. I know how much you love my cock baby, but we’ve got to stay quiet hm? Think you can do that for me?” 

You nod your head in agreement. He removes his hand and fixes his rhythm atop you once more. 

“Fuck it. I need to be inside of you.” 

Legs straddle your lower half as his body folds to take off your pants. Cool air hits the exposed wetness of underwear as you feel a finger drag along its center. 

“All of this for me baby?” 

He teases your clit with his index, moving it in slow circles as he trails up and down your folds. 

“You’re so fucking hot.” 

Taking his own pants off does he leave no underwear on himself, revealing his cock that stood mere inches from your entrance. 

Fuck he’s huge. 

Leaning on you once more does he flush exposed cock along the slick coating your underwear. Kissing you slowly as he moves his hips up and down your heat. 

“Mmhg, god, anakin please” 

“Please what? Come on, speak up baby.” 

“Please, please fuck me. I need to feel you I can't stand it anymore.” 

“I love hearing you beg for me.” 

He snakes a hand down to your underwear, pulling it to the side as he coats his cock with your juices. It takes everything in you not to whine out his name as he slowly teased you, feeling how hard his cock was against you moments before he finally put it in. 

As he waits at your entrance for a moment, you feel him slowly sink into you as muted groans escape bitten lip. 

“God you’re so tight.” 

His head bucks up as he inches deeper in you, exposing a neck with small beads of sweat and defined jaw as his face looks up at the ceiling. 

As his body grows flush against yours, you feel more full than you have in your whole life. No finger could ever suffice the sheer size of him, all the times you’d imagined him inside of you with even 3 of your own deep within you could never amount to how it felt now. The curve of his cock hitting the entrance to your womb, your entire body engulfed in flames at the feeling of him merely being warmed inside of you. 

With steady motion he began moving in and out of you, your hands grip the sheets of your mattress at the mere feeling of him pumping in and out of you, legs instinctively shutting together at the feeling. Though with stern hands does he push you back upon again; 

“Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you.” 

And you obliged, heavy calloused hands grip on your thighs as he gets steady motion inside of you. Labored breaths as his brows contort in pleasure upon finally feeling inside of you. 

“You don't know how long I've wanted this baby. To finally fuck you like you deserve, I could have never imagined how tight you would be imagining you as my fist every night.” 

your head turns into the sheets of your bed as he begins to pump into you harder-- your body overtaken by white hot pleasure that sank deep into your stomach as the only thing you could think of is how your body memorized his cock. The feeling of every vein and every inch, the way it curved into you and the constant push on the perfect spot that made you feel like you were going insane. 

“Huhh, Anakin please don't stop. Please, please” 

You begin to beg in a hushed voice as every word you spoke was laced with whines and moans. 

“Oh what? Are you going to cum baby?” 

You respond in a hummed moan that gives him all the information he needs. His hand trails to your clit as he begins to play with it as he thrusts into you. Picking up the pace of not only his hips but his fingers as they both make you go dumb with pleasure. 

“Come on, cum on my fucking cock. Get even tighter for me baby I know you can do it. I want to feel your legs fucking shake for me, feel you convulse on my cock.” 

You feel it well up inside of you as you boil over, and only a few more seconds after his demands were you plunged into a frenzy of movement under him. His arms grip your legs together as he pumps into you through your orgasm, never stopping for a moment as he rides it out using you even after you’ve finished. 

“God-- anakin I cant. I cant please,” 

“Come on, I know you can take it. Be a good girl will you?” 

You lay flat against the bed as he uses you, fucking into you as though you were just a toy. But as your orgasm finished his was soon to build up. His thrusts becoming irregular and desperate, sweat collected on the ends of his hair as it fell into his face. 

“Say my name.” 

“A..Anakin” 

“Say my fucking name.” 

“Anakin!”

You yelp his name as he slams into you, feeling him pour into you as he dumps every last drop of himself inside of you. You feel him twitch inside of you as his cum seeps out of open edges of your insides as he stays flush to you through his orgasm. Legs slightly twitch as he seems hard to stand, and slowly he pulls himself out of you to leave only a pool of white leaking out of you in its wake. 

“Let me get you cleaned up. Stay right there.” 

He commands you as he walks into your bathroom a few feet away, gathering a towel to wipe along your heat and anywhere that has substances that can't quite stay there. Though through labored breath he continues; 

“I think we’re going to have to do that more often, baby.”

#star wars #anakin skywalker #fanfiction #fanfic #anakin x reader #anakin fanfiction #hayden christensen #sw anakin #jedi anakin #star wars fanfiction #anakin smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin x you

[voxofthevoid]

Have any of you seen me talk about some fic idea or the other and thought, "Sounds nice, but man, we all know you won't get to that until 2800 or something"?

In April, my Ao3 account will be ten years old. Earlier, I made a post about doing something unhinged to celebrate it. It's nothing wild, just not something I usually do. But I figured I'd try stepping out of my comfort zone a bit.

Currently, I have 93 ideas total for JJK, out of which 76 are unwritten. Some are more detailed and high priority than others, but they are all fics I want to write. But there's no way in hell I'll get them all, especially if the ideas keep coming (which tends to happen until I run out of inspiration, at which point I'll stop writing entirely). So, for April, I'll try to write one(1) scene of approximately 1000 words for 15 of these ideas.

Pick the ideas for me, won't ya?

I can't add the descriptions under a read more because it turns out that writing even basic-bitch summaries for 76 ideas racks up one hell of a word count. So here's a Google doc listing them, categorized by ships. Many of these fics deal with a variety of taboo content, including but not limited to all four main Ao3 warnings. I have not included content warnings for each fic because the time needed would be prohibitive. If you've survived my Tumblr until now, you'll likely be fine.

Give me a number, either via replies or reblogs of this post or via asks (if you wish to remain anonymous). For the first 15 unique ideas I get, I'll write 1k. You can send multiple numbers, but I'll only pick one per ask.

The objective is to finish all of them by April and post them throughout the month. I certainly need the head start because taking prompts (even limited ones) and writing short scenes are not my forte. Yay challenge?

The link is here. It's kinda long, but the headings should help you navigate to ships you're interested in.

I'll reblog/update this post every day or so till all 15 slots are taken (assuming they will be 😂).

#goyuu #nanaita #sukuita #jjk #itafushi #there are a few others too but these are the main ones #my fic #vox unhinged #what i need a tag for this and it fits #felt like a robot droning on while writing this

[dr3amofagame]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream sneaks into Pogtopia to see Wilbur

woo! managed to finish this in time. kinda unedited and kinda a mess but i've missed writing these guys; i'm deeefinitely in need of more practice to get c!wilbur's voice down, but hopefully this can be the start of me writing some more fic set earlier in the timeline, LMAO.

thanks @elmhat for the awesome event!! been epic to see people's submissions and i cant wait to see this continue. ur awesome &lt;3

c!dream meets up with c!wilbur to tell him about a change to their plans | 2.3k words

---

<Dream> be there in 5 

The communicator in Wilbur’s hand casts a pale glow onto the palm of his hand, the only light he has to guide him as he paces the length of the hollowed-out room; it’s dark, zombies groaning somewhere outside, the dead singing their songs, shuffling through underbrush in the belly of the forest that surrounds Pogtopia. The air is musty in their little dugout, a claustrophobic awning of stone carved into the side of a hill, well-shadowed even during the day, the darkness swallowing the wan light of the comm in his hands now. He can barely see the floor underneath him as he walks, shuffling steps forward and back, ten paces each. He presses his hand against the wall, turning to the entrance and standing still. 

Phil always had a whole thing about light, Wilbur having grown up on lectures about light levels and spawn-proofing and the dangers of leaving cavities unlit while mining, had grilled him on different ways of keeping a room from becoming a death trap. Carpets, half-slabs, glass. How many times had he been warned of the danger presented by surprise creepers and dark corners? 

Phil had never been much of a fan of explosions. 

The main server is mostly well-lit, but the secrecy demanded by revolution effort means that the forest surrounding Pogtopia gets much darker. Not that he’s in the main ravine at the minute–with the amount of people coming and going as of late, Dream had wanted their meeting to be in a slightly more discreet location, and Wilbur had agreed. It was easy enough to slip away with Technoblade once again off to do his own thing and Tommy having run off to find Tubbo, and Wilbur had managed to arrive to the room sufficiently early before sunset to prevent himself from getting ambushed by mobs. 

He slips his hand into his coat pocket. Chekov’s gun is smooth and cold against the palm of his hand, polished wood and metal. He smooths the pads of his fingers down the barrel, over the trigger. He leaves it, pulling out a half-empty pack of cigarettes instead. His lighter provides a clearer view of the room, still empty. Dream is late. 

Dream is usually late, then again–it’s expected, really, with the way he runs around the server, always busy, always chasing down those plans of his, smart man that he is. Dream likes his secrets, his mystery, mask and armor all made to keep his cards close to his chest–Wilbur can hardly fault him for it, god no. Dream has what he wants, just as they all do, all of them tripping over themselves in their ambition, crabs in a bucket, the pledges to help the revolution coming from each one that jumps off of Schlatt’s sinking ship. He breathes in deep, smoke coating his lungs with tar. 

“Wilbur?” 

Light throws itself into the room from the entrance, rippling wildly as the fire on the end of Dream’s torch burns, casting wild shadows over his mask as he squeezes himself inside. Despite his armor, he has an uncanny knack for moving silently, cloak and hood pulled low over his head so that only the edge of the painted smile is visible. The torch is raised higher, moved left and right as Dream surveys the contents of the room around them. Wilbur smiles and tips his head towards him in greeting. 

“Dream, my man. How good to see you again.” 

“Wilbur…” Dream’s voice trails off. His head turns from one side to the other, making another anxious sweep of the room before refocusing on Wilbur, his hand moving to pull his hood down and then run his hand through his hair, having been pressed flat by the heavy fabric. The blank face of his mask stares back at Wilbur, tilting to the side like a confused dog as he shakes out his shoulders. “We…need to talk.” 

“Well? I’m all ears.” He gestures at himself, leaning against the wall of the room. Dream turns to look over his shoulder again. His armor glimmers, the light of the runes on their surface made more obvious in the dark. He bounces on the balls of his feet, reaches up once again to tug his fingers through his hair.

“It’s important.” No shit, Wilbur almost says, because for all that Dream might think that his mask hides everything he’s thinking, he’s never quite been as guarded with his body language as he might hope; the anxiety rolling off of every jerky movement is enough to set Wilbur’s teeth on edge as it is, never mind the long silences and hesitation, but he’s not stupid enough to think that that would get him anything resembling an answer. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smiles wider, and spits out another curling thread of smoke.

“You’re an important man. I should hope so.” 

Dream pauses at that. His head does that tilt-thing again. “...alright.” 

“So? What is it? Do tell.” Has Dream decided to go against him? Perhaps. His enthusiasm with regards to their plan is more unpredictable than Wilbur had expected, sometimes perfectly willing, sometimes hesitant to agree to much of anything. But he had agreed, nonetheless, had provided the TNT that Wilbur has set sprawling underneath Manberg’s main stage; cold feet, now, would be rather unprecedented. Still, it’s Dream–very little can be discounted when Dream is in the picture, Wilbur knows. He places his hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked over the edge, pistol brushing against his fingertips. “I hate to push, but the suspense is killing me.” 

Dream takes another second, then reaches behind his head. Wilbur straightens where he’s standing, suddenly curious, as he removes his mask. 

He’s seen Dream without it only a few times–all able to be counted on one hand, this one included. The light of the torch illuminates his face from the chin up, cast shadows highlighting the contours of his skull, the contours of his cheeks, light catching under his brows. His features are delicate in a way that still surprises him, a smattering of freckles over the nose of his bridge made visible as he raises the torch higher. Dream’s eyes are a little wide, a little bloodshot. He bites his bottom lip, blinking twice in quick succession, eyes darting over the walls and then back to Wilbur’s face. 

“Schlatt called me. For a meeting earlier.” 

“Schlatt?” 

“He knows about the TNT.” 

Wilbur blinks. “Well, fuck.” 

“Look–Wilbur, look.” Dream makes a little move with his hands, shaking them out by the wrists. “It’s not–it’s not the end of. This, okay? But, he knows. I didn’t tell him. I don’t know how he found out, I don’t know if someone told him, I haven’t told anyone, but–he knows. We can still work with this.” 

“Schlatt knows?” He searches Dream’s face. He seems earnest, but god knows, but what would he have to gain from lying about this, anyway? Who else could’ve told him–Tommy? Tommy might not tell Schlatt directly, but Tommy has never been good with secrets, letting anyone and everyone in on everything with an apparent inability to control his own tongue–

“--but it’s, fine. The TNT is still there, the room is still intact. I checked some of the wiring and it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. Wilbur, are you listening to me?” 

Wilbur waves him off. “I’m listening. Just keep going.” 

“I don’t think we need to change anything with the TNT. Like, Schlatt’s just one guy. And his gear is shit. If he messes with the TNT, then we’ll–we’ll figure something out, but you know, I don’t even think he even, like, knows where it all is.” 

“Well, it’s kind of everywhere, so–” 

“–which is my point. It’s too deep, he’s still sitting on top of a bomb. There’s nothing–there’s nothing he can do.” Dream crosses his arms in front of his chest, still worrying his lip between his teeth. “I just thought you should know.” 

Schlatt knows. Schlatt knows–Wilbur paces against the wall of their room, ten paces forward and ten paces back. He crushes his cigarette underneath his boot, nails digging into his palm. 

“Well, Dream? Is that all?” 

Dream’s expression twists. His brows pinch together, lips pressed against each other and curling into a slight grimace, his expression giving too much away after spending so much time masked. 

“There’s…one more thing.” 

Wilbur scoffs. “Just spit it out, you prick.” 

Dream doesn’t even react to the insult, shoulders hunching up as he begins speaking. “Look…it’s just. My plans have…changed.” 

What? “I thought you just said that they didn’t?” 

“Our plans are the same. It’s just–Schlatt made me, an offer.” Dream shifts from foot to foot. He swallows, throat working, his eyes still bright and wide, pupils dilated with a thin circle of green around. Wilbur stares at him. He almost looks… “He’s got something. Important. He asked me to…join him, kind of, and he’d–give it to me.” 

“What?” 

“It’s not–look, Wilbur. Wilbur.” Dream raises his hands, palms out, a placating motion. “It’s not what you think, but I–I had to.” 

“You had to join Manberg.” 

“I’m not joining Manberg!” Dream runs his hand through his hair, eyes flashing. Wilbur is suddenly very aware of the axe on his back, the heavy plates of netherite armor. Eret, the button, it was never meant to be. “Why would I join Manberg, what–”

“So what’s this? What’s this then, Dream?” 

“Wilbur–”

“Because from where I’m standing, I have to say, it looks a lot like you’re betraying me.” 

“I am not–”

“That’s just like you. That’s just like you, isn’t it? Good ol’ Dream, mister 1000 IQ, outsmarting everyone–well-played, man, well-played! I really must congratulate you!” 

“Wilbur, can you just–”

“So what is this meeting then, Dream? Gotten cold feet, now that you’ve been discovered? You’re his little lackey now, is that it, his little lap dog–you’re gonna start another war? Put down another revolution, lead us all out to slaughter like last time, good for you, you motherfucker, is that the point of this farce? You’re here to kill me?” 

“Wilbur, can you just listen to me!” 

Dream’s voice is raised. Wilbur draws himself up to full height, Dream’s head craning up slightly as he crosses the room in front of him in two long strides. 

“What.” 

“I’m not. Joining Manberg.” Dream’s arms are crossed tightly in front of him, scowling slightly. It’s an expression not all that much unlike Tommy’s teenage petulance, a set jaw, eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. “There’s just–a peace treaty, right? I can’t just violate that. And now Schlatt knows. He’s asking for me to give him–gear.” 

“Gear, like what.” 

“Armor. Weapons, shields. Support in the incoming fight. You know, he’d already been paying Punz, the rest of the people in my country are already going to fight with him. And, whatever.” 

Wilbur rocks back on his heels. His skin itches, feeling antsy, so he goes back to pacing. “And?” 

“I meant what I said, earlier. This doesn’t change anything. The TNT is still there, we can still blow it up. It…doesn’t matter who wins the, the battle and stuff.” 

Wilbur sets his shoulders, turning back to look Dream in the eye. “Really. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It doesn’t! It doesn’t matter. We have an agreement, that’s still like–a thing.” Dream’s hands close into fists, then open again. “I don’t like this, okay? I don’t like Schlatt–” Wilbur scoffs, “--and I don’t exactly want to work with him. But I have to. I swear, I really have to.” 

“Because, what. The treaty?” 

Dream shakes his head, expression still all twisted up like he’s eaten something sour. “He’s got. A book.”

Wilbur laughs outright at that. “A book.” 

“It’s–Wilbur, I swear. It’s important. I’ll, I might–I’ll–” Dream makes a frustrated sound, teeth clenched. “I have to get it.” 

“So you’re going to work for Schlatt.” Fuck it. Wilbur pulls out another cigarette, lighting it as he speaks. “You’re going to be the emperor’s little guard dog.” 

“I’m–”

“No, no, it makes sense. It’d be too boring for you otherwise, wouldn’t it? Not enough chaos, with everyone joining the rebellion.” He gestures with the cigarette, Dream’s eyes caught on it as it moves. “You want us all to fucking destroy ourselves, keep everyone weak, Manberg, Pogtopia–you don’t need to explain yourself, man, you’re a smart guy! Even out the playing field, join whatever team has the fewest players, keep yourself above it all. Bravo, really. Bravo.” 

Dream’s jaw works, but he stays silent. Wilbur smiles at him and breathes in a long drag of smoke. 

“Well, Dream. I very much appreciate our meeting together today, really. Really! This has been…enlightening. Is that all? Or do you have any other important information to tell me.” 

“...I’ll come around in a few days to tell the others. About, switching sides and whatever. And–the TNT is still going off, alright? No matter what.” 

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” 

Dream stares him down, Wilbur meeting his eyes evenly. He breaks eye contact first, looking down at the floor and tossing several stacks of TNT onto the ground between them. -

“Thank you, Dream. Until next time then.” 

Dream stares at him, blinks, his eyes wide and green, before he turns away. The torch disappears into his inventory as he walks to the exit of the room, silhouetted in the doorway as he presses the mask back over his face. Wilbur reaches into his pocket, draws out Chekhov’s gun, holds his arm straight in front of him, fingers wrapped around the pistol as Dream works at the straps behind his head. He keeps it held there, pointed at Dream’s back until the man slips into the night, the blurry reflection of the lit end of his cigarette vaguely visible in the dull metal. 

He’s not sure how long it is before a twinge to his arm makes him slip the unloaded gun back into his pocket. He sighs. He needs to start making his way back; after all, he still needs to think of a birthday present. 

#my asks !! #my writing :D #the sixteenth #<- tag for future submissions maybe? #sixteenthdayevent #c!dreambur #dreblr #hopefully . hopefully this balances out characterization well enough #my c!wilbur haterisms are leaking through but whatever ... LMAO

[bendycxmet]

Drive—Nicholas D. Wolfwood

drabble: riding passenger seat while Wolfwood drives gives you a front row view of how he handles the wheel of the car.

content: 525 words. a lil thirsty, wolfwood's hands, wolfwood is always a tease to me, nothing explicit just some thirst

a/n: something something wolfwood's hand. i thought about this while i was driving and just had to get it out of my system lmao

Riding in the car with Wolfwood is always…something else. His driving is smooth, don't get him wrong. Although, he can’t know that for the sake of your sanity. He would brag about it for days until you contemplated jumping ship. No, riding in the passenger seat can be such a treat. 

You were supposed to be looking at the paper map in your hands to determine which direction Wolfwood should be driving to get to the next town, but your eyes were certainly not on the map. 

Your eyesight instead was glued to Wolfwood’s hands on the wheel. The way his tanned hands caressed it, lightly grazing the edges with his nimble fingertips, suddenly gripping the wheel to swerve out of the way of a half-buried Wam. 

The strength in his hands was shown in the way his veins were accentuated, his sunkissed skin pulled taut from the force in which he was gripping the wheel. The muscular cords in his forearms flexed as he wrestled the car back into a straight path, returning to his relaxed position as his fingers lightly drummed against the wheel to a tune you could not place. 

You’ve seen him manhandle the Punisher, slinging the hefty cross all around his body as if it weighed nothing. Yet, he handled it with such grace that you could’ve believed the steel weapon was made from scraps of cardboard he had found lying around, sliding his hands up and down the cross as if he were worshipping the very thing that brought so much destruction when in use. However, seeing his hands stroke a circular piece of a rusty, old car also did things to your mind and body you hated to admit. 

If he handles objects like this, how would he handle-

You struggled to swallow the lump in your throat, a dryness not caused by the sweltering heat of the two suns in the sky. Letting your imagination run wild like this was not helping, especially since you were stuck in a car with him for who knows how long. You force your previous thoughts to sizzle out into nothingness, willing the phantom touches of tanned, sturdy hands across your body to dissipate. You shift in your seat as you take in the sight in front of you one last time, peeling your eyes away before he could notice. 

Too late. 

“Know where we’re headed? Or did you enjoy looking at me more than that map in your hands?”

“Asshole,” you tsked, heat blooming across your face as you throw the map up in front of your eyes, obscuring your reddened face from Wolfwood’s eyes.

He peeked at you from the corner of his eyes, chuckling darkly. He was up to something.

His right hand moved from the wheel to the gear shift, grazing two fingers over the stick, rubbing and encircling the roundness at the top before gripping it. Your eyes didn’t miss his sudden movements, teeth clenching at the subtle, obscene gestures. 

“Whatever town we’re headed to, I hope the hotel patrons won’t mind us for the night.”

The undertones of his statement had your eyes widening.

“...right.”

masterlist

divider by saradika

#wolfwood x reader #trigun x reader #trigun #trigun stampede #tristamp #wolfwood thirst #wolfwood x reader drabble #wolfwood #drabble #bendycxmet writes #nicholas d wolfwood #nicholas d wolfwood x reader #nicholas d. wolfwood #nicholas d. wolfwood x reader

[anime-lover-forever-1127]

Reasons I Hate Hayley

So people have been about some reasons to hate Hayley, so I made this:

Attitude. She kept going around acting like she as better than the Mikelsons - she wasn't - she wasn't better physically, financially, or intellectually. And the whole werewolves are "noble" and "strong" creatures, is complete BS.

they literally trigger there curse by killing someone - so their standing on sand in that moral ground

without witch intervention - their only deadly to vampires on full moons.

Killing. Her hands are just as bloody as anyone elses on the show, and she acts like she's completely innocent. Ex. Davina asked her to kill ONE witch, and Hayley decided she wanted to create another expression triangle.

Mother. Everyone treats her as if she was this standard for motherhood, when

she tried to kill her kid

She put the kid in danger multiple times during her pregnancy running into danger like an idiot - like why don't you drink some bear and smoke some pot on top of that - it would honestly do less damage than running around like an idiot.

I've done the math of when Caroline opens the school and Hayley sends Hope to boarding school and she literally did it as SOON as it opened! Like yeah, I'm going to send my kid who likely has a mountain of trauma alone over state lines.

Characters - They literally made other characters appear weak just so she could appear "badass".

Mikael, no, she can't take on the 1000 year old vampire that made the rest of the originals go running.

No, her enemies - hundred of years old vampire don't respect her - she ain't all that.

And NO, she's not someone Klaus fears, the only way she scares is him is his frightening sudden urge to get checked for supernatural STDs!

"Female empowerment" - She was supposed to be this strong female character who took charge, but she had no strong female qualities.

She was physically weak

relied on the mikaelsons for power, wealth, and housing

demanding and spoiled

relied on the men around her for her position: Klaus, Elijah, even Jackson

Quick Note: Caroline > Hayley On the other hand we have Caroline. Miss Mystic Falls, 4.0 GPA, Headed tons of committees and was a strong leader. Had tremendous growth and was relatable as a character.

Hayley was a pancake flat character. She had no growth, stayed the same throughout the show, it was always: Me, myself, and I with her, and on occasion "Elijah, Klaus, Jackson" look at me (that's why I said pancake - she had a slight curve in her character with which man she was screaming at for the week).

Queen - she called herself a werewolf queen which I hated. Werewolfs don't/shouldn't have queens! There werewolves, it means wild, a force of nature, pack animal. It should have been Alpha, not Queen! So her going around calling herself Queen just triggered me.

Overall, Hayley was an annoying, childish character, that brought nothing to the plot yet the writers insisted on shoving her down our throats. She was a poorly executed Mary Sue, unnecessary, cringy, and just painful to watch on screen. I have read Harry Potter and would honestly rather be in detention with Umbridge than in a room with Hayley.

Reasons I Do Not Hate Hayley: Klaroline. She was never a threat to the ship, she was a druken one night stand, nothing more. Like she may have been the reason Klaus went to New Orleans - because she got knocked up, but she was never a threat to the ship herself.

Well, whoever made it to the end, thanks for reading. Honestly, this rant was more for me, I've been seeing way to much Hayley content on my youtube page my tumblr for some reasons and I really needed to went.

KLAROLINE FOR LIFE, BECAUSE I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP!!!

#klaroline #klaus #anti hayley marshal #caroline forbes #elijah #jackson #mikael #rant #rants

[twirlyeyebrows]

Heyaa! Not sure if u'll take this request right away. I've been thinking about scenarios for Ace, Mihawk, Luffy, and Kid reacting to their s/o execution announcement. And how they'll treat them after the rescue. Some angst with a fluffy ending~~🤭

hi omg i saw this in my inbox and whipped some scenarios up asap.. this is such a good prompt tytyty <3 also i've been meaning to write mihawk and this was perfect 🙏😫 hope you enjoy !! :)

✶ Ace, Luffy, Kid, & Mihawk React to Your Execution Sentence ✶

♡ Content Warnings: heavy mentions of death/murder ahead

♡ GN reader

♡ Word Count: 2.4k

Everything seemed fine. He hadn't seen you in a few days but that was normal, you guys were pirates after all. He glanced at the News Coo and held out a palm, clutching the newspaper when it fell down to him. He read the header.

“(Y/N) SENTENCED TO EXECUTION”

He threw the paper down and…

♡ Ace ♡

Immediately began thinking of ways to get you out of the situation.

His head was all over the place, running back and forth from idea to idea, trying desperately to grasp onto one that made sense. He ignored the tears that rolled down his cheeks, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if his emotions were the thing that got in the way of you coming back to him.

He furiously grabbed the nearest transponder snail and called every friend he'd made during his journey out at sea. He was going to ask each one of them for their help, nothing to him could ever be direr, and if he had to create an army just to save you, then he was going to, dammit.

Naturally, your crew, the Whitebeard Pirates, were all instantly on board with the rescue plan. They couldn't simply leave one of their siblings behind, and Pops wasn't in the market to lose one of his children. They changed course and set out to you without a second to spare.

Ace would be lying if he said he didn't blame himself. He should've been more careful with you and should've kept an eye out for you more often. You were free-spirited and wild, a lot like him. He always worried about you but you were strong and able to get yourself out of many sticky situations so he often let you wander for days at a time without stressing. This, however… was different. This was worldwide. This was everyone against you. He couldn't stop the feeling of guilt from eating away at every cell in his body. He didn't care what happened to him, he didn't care what he was going to have to risk and sacrifice to keep you safe, all he could do was think about you. He swore that if.. no, not if… when he got you back, he would be a better boyfriend. The kind of boyfriend that wouldn't let something like this happen to you. The kind of boyfriend you deserve.

Through many trials and tribulations and help from friends around the world, he was finally able to snag you away from the marines where you were being held captive. It was an all-out prison break that required utmost stealth and precision- thank god Ace had a crew to back him up or he wouldn't have been able to do it. With each obstacle they faced, he pursued on. No matter how torturous, dangerous, or downright stupid it was. The fire that bubbled in his stomach kept him from worrying about anything else but your well-being.

When you two were finally reunited, he scooped you up and held you tighter than he ever had before.

“Holy shit, (Y/n)! You're safe, Jesus Christ, you're safe!”

Tears smeared against your skin as he cried into you, gripping you with his fingertips as if you were going to slip away from him again.

You tried to calm him down. You said words of thanks while also calling him an idiot for rescuing you. He could've gotten hurt… or worse… he was lucky he made it here and was able to achieve his goal at the same time. But what else did you expect from Fire-Fist Ace himself?

Of course, a battle ensued afterward, fighting your way through marines and bounty hunters alike, just to get you safely on the Whitebeard ship once more.

The entire crew made fun of you for somehow being the first one to get a proper execution announcement. They lightheartedly congratulated you, saying things like “(Y/n) is finally a real pirate!” and “It should've been me!” The only one who sat out on the fun was Ace.

It was clear that your capture had affected him a lot, even more than it had affected you and you were the one who was supposed to die. You spent a lot of time with him after that, more than you already had.

He clung to you like a lost puppy. He rarely let you out of his sight and no matter how low-stakes the battle, he always jumped in front of you.

He had to fall asleep with you in his arms or he'd stay awake all night. If you weren't in the bed next to him when he woke up, he'd sprint around until he found you. You felt awful for making Ace so dependent on your safety, but he said over and over again that he liked it like this. He loved to watch over you. Loved to make sure you were safe. There was nothing he enjoyed more than seeing your smiling face walking over to him or hearing your laugh from the room over.

The event had left scars on both of you but ultimately brought you both closer together.

♡ Luffy ♡

Didn’t panic for one second.

He's saved his friends a million times before, this was no different. Not only did he have confidence in himself, but he also had incredible amounts of confidence in you too. If anything, he was proud of you for getting an execution sentence worthy of a King of the Pirates.

He had zero hesitation when he decided to rescue you. It didn't matter where the Straw Hats were right now, what mattered was you and getting you back. He'd sacrifice part of his journey to becoming king in a heartbeat to help you out of this. And of course, all your friends agreed.

The real problems started when it didn't go as smoothly as they wished. Being the Straw Hat Pirates, everyone knows who you guys are. It felt impossible to get around the fleets upon fleets of marines that guarded you. Luffy's emotions shone through as each battle took away time from seeing you again.

“GET OUT OF MY WAY, I HAVE TO SAVE (Y/N)!” He screamed to each enemy at the top of his lungs.

He started to lose composure. His crewmates watched him get angrier with each punch, with each soldier he knocked out. By the time he found you, he had become someone completely different, mindlessly tearing through the crowd to get back what means the most to him. It was horrifying to witness.

But the second he slingshot his arms out and grabbed you from feet away, his normal goofy self came back. He was smiling ear to ear, giggling the cute “Shishishi”s you love so much. You hugged him back and squished his rubber cheeks, leaving a small and grateful kiss on each one after they returned to their normal state.

“I knew you'd come for me! Thank you!” You said in admiration and love. You had been scared, but not for your own life, you were scared for everyone who stood in Luffy’s way.

He had come for you, just as you knew he would. Your heart was full to the brim. You could hear the beat of it drumming against your chest as he did too.

He wasn't mad at you for slipping past him, he wasn't belittling you on how you couldn't fight back, he was just there to help when you needed it. Classic Luffy.

“Of course! Why wouldn't I?” He grinned and put a hand on your head, ruffling your hair before kissing you on the forehead.

The other Straw Hats watched in awe as the hellish version of Luffy washed away as he embraced you. It was a friendly reminder never to cross him, or more importantly, you.

Luffy turned to the crew. “Alright! We got (Y/n), now let's go eat!” He yelled as he threw you in the air and caught you on his shoulders.

He carried you by piggyback all the way back to the ship. You tried to ignore the sea of passed-out marines below you.

♡ Kid ♡

Shrugged his shoulders while giving a loud sigh.

“I knew this would happen sooner or later, (Y/n) just can't stay out of trouble. I love it.” Kid chuckled, being impressed with your achievement. Your hunger for battle only made him more attracted to you, and this took the cake. Getting an execution sentence was a big deal and he'd make sure to tell you when you eventually came back. He wasn't worried about you, you were more than capable of holding your own.

It only got concerning when it had been a week since the paper was released. He thought that you would've been back by now. He tried not to let his emotions show, he knew he'd get pestered by the rest of the crew if he showed any concern over you, even if he was your boyfriend.

He sat restlessly in his bed, paced around the ship, and even began pulling out strands of fiery red hair in worriedness. He hated that he got like this, nothing had ever made him feel this nervous before. He didn't like not having you by his side, making snide comments and shoving him around. He was fed up on anger and anxiety. Who cared what other people thought? He was going to come save your ass.

The feat was not an easy one, but he got the job done. He went alone. He didn't want anyone else to get the satisfaction of being the one to bring you home. If you needed to be saved, he was going to be your knight (though he'd never tell you that).

He killed everyone in sight without a second thought. He didn't care about morality. He didn't care about keeping a clean slate. He had come to get you back and he'd succeed however was necessary.

By the time he got to you, the entire area was soaked with blood. The bodies were sprawled across the ground in heinous configurations. Scraps of metal were scattered through the battlefield. You didn't care. This was a normal occurrence for your hot-headed boyfriend.

You ignored the pungent smell of iron and scoffed at Kid as he walked up to you and tore off the chains that shackled you.

“Took you long enough.” You spat at him sarcastically.

“I thought you'd be able to get yourself out, you're lucky I came for you at all.” He growled back to you, but with far less malice than usual.

You knew he wouldn't say it, but he was glad to have you back. You could see it in his eyes, his posture, his voice. The way he threw you over his shoulder with care and the way he kissed your lips softly instead of passionately. He was relieved you were safe, he didn't need to say it for you to know.

Once you were back on the ship, he didn't even brag about his accomplishment. He told everyone that you'd come back on your own and he had nothing to do with it. You couldn't believe your ears. He'd covered for you in a time of weakness and embarrassment. He leaned against the wall and smiled smugly at you as you were praised by the other members of your crew for escaping the authorities by yourself.

You stood in awe as you felt yourself falling for him all over again.

♡ Mihawk ♡

Rolled his eyes.

“How immature.” He said, stepping out of his chair at the head of the table. “You could've at least been more careful, (Y/n).” He said to no one.

Despite his belittlement, he wasn't just going to leave you to fend for yourself. He was a gentleman at heart who deeply cared for you. Plus, life was lonely when you weren't by his side. You brightened up the dull island he lived on. The bleak parts of his daily activities became full of light when he did them with you. He wasn't going to let the one good thing he had be taken away from him. But he was going to be slightly peeved, regardless.

He was a very scheduled man. He knew what each day entailed to a tee. You had thrown a wrench into his normality and he was admittedly a bit irked. Though he secretly enjoyed the rush it gave him. Not many things scared Dracule Mihawk anymore, he'd seen and fought it all, but this was new.

As he prepared to leave, he felt a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time- fear. Genuine fear of the unknown. Unsure if he'd be able to reach you fast enough. Not knowing how many obstacles would stand in his way. It was thrilling but he couldn't fathom the idea of losing you.

He hoisted his famous black blade on his back and set off, leaving the dreary mansion behind to take back his light.

The problem wasn't the rescue itself, it was getting there. A trip from the island to you was a difficult one. Yes, he was a warlord, but that didn't stop people from coming after him. Weaklings wanting to test their power, citizens that were angry at the government, and bounty hunters all came after him in monstrous huddles. He defeated each one with ease, growing annoyed at how they wouldn't stop coming.

Eventually, he reached you. He had no problem getting past the marines, what were they going to do? Strip him of his title? Walking up those cold steps to where you were in cuffs was a breeze, but he would've fought every single one of them if he had had to.

When he laid his sharp eyes on you, he melted. His heart hurt seeing you so exhausted and damaged, shackled like a rowdy dog. He was angry. Angry that anyone had the nerve to treat you like that.

The handcuffs were no harder to snap than a twig. He carried you bridal style all the way to the small boat he had arrived on. He made sure to give each soldier a menacing glare on his way out as if to say “If you try to take (Y/n) again, you're all dead.”

When you got back to the mansion, he treated you like royalty. Your dismissive and pessimistic boyfriend became someone else. He tended to your every need, spoon-fed you your medicine, and wouldn't let you out of his field of vision until he was positive you were fully recovered.

You couldn't help but poke fun at him.

“Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?” You joked to him after he brought you your third cup of tea one afternoon. His cheekbones were highlighted with a rosy hue and he scowled at you.

He knew he was acting different, being overly tentative when you didn't need it, but he couldn't help it. That day had changed him. It made him remember that he could still get scared. That you were something he could lose.

He swore to never let something like that happen again. Anyone that wanted to kill you had to go through him first, and they’d need all the luck in the world to even get a chance.

#one piece scenario #one piece headcanons #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #portgas d ace headcanons #luffy headcanons #eustass kid headcanons #mihawk headcanons #portgas d ace x reader #luffy x reader #eustass kid x reader #mihawk x reader #twirlyeyebrows

[sixofravens-reads]

re: 2023 new releases. hope you're ready for a long message because there were a lot.

hot new releases/things that were relatively popular

He Who Drowned The World, Shelley Parker Chan (Chinese mythological historical, very gay, very stabby a la Baru Cormorant. Book 2 of 2. A particular favorite of mine from this year)

Witch King, Martha Wells (New fantasy book by author of murderbot fame. I didn't actually click with this one but I'd be remiss to leave it off)

House With Good Bones, T Kingfisher (Southern gothic rose horror by the very talented Ursula Vernon)

Translation State, Ann Leckie (high sf alien horror regency romance. Wheeeeee. I had a lot of fun reading this. You can read it as a standalone, but you get deeper context if you've read the ancillary justice series, also highly recommended)

Will of the Many, James Islington (futuristic roman empire aesthetic rigged murder school. Not precisely good but appallingly catchy, I read all six hundred pages in pretty much one sitting. If you liked red rising you'll like this, if you hated red rising you will Not)

OH YEAH THE ACTUAL NEW MURDEBOT NOVEL (System Collapse)

A Power Unbound, Freya Marske (book 3 of 3, magic alt edwardian romances with murder. This is more romance proper but it's about equal with the action plot and Marske is very good. I don't think you've read these so you'd have to start at book 1)

Some Desperate Glory, Emily Tesh (The book that absolutely knocked my socks off, my pick for the best sff release of the year. I forget if I've already told you about this one)

Starling House, Alix Harrow (Southern gothic house drama. Similar feel to Ninth House or The Book of Night)

The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi, Shannon Chakraborty (Divorced lady pirate adventure-drama a la Arabian Nights.)

Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries, Heather Fawcett (Charming, heavily fairy tale trope themed, vaguely reminiscent of the Lady Trent books)

more obscure new releases from this year that I thought were cool, but not in the Hot New Reads You Can't Miss Because Everyone's Read Them category

Under Fortunate Stars, Ren Hutchings (sf timey wimey space shenanigans with aliens. Immensely cool premise.)

Small Miracles, Olivia Atwater (fallen angel sent to tempt a too good mortal. Extremely charming)

The King Is Dead, Naomi Libicki (vaguely persian flavored fealty romance, very heavy to the fealty. Original, thorny, and intriguing)

The Deep Sky, Yume Kitasei (What if we terribly traumatized everyone going on a generation ship by making them go to viciously competitive boarding school together and then act surprised when a murder mystery occurs. Heads up that it's more interested in the human drama than the SF worldbuilding)

The Saint of Bright Doors, Vajra Chandrasekera (early modern fantasy world anti-imperialism fever dream narrated by a cult survivor. Brilliantly written, spectacularly original, one of the best books I read this year)

Things for 2024, content warning for being (obviously) things I haven't read and thus without quality control

The Warm Hands of Ghosts, Katherine Arden

The Familiar, Leigh Bardugo

The Dead Cat Tail Assassins, P Djeli Clark

Long Live Evil, Sarah Rees Brennan

Goddess of the River, Vaishnavi Patel

The Woods All Black, Lee Mandelo

Exordia, Seth Dickinson

A Sorceress Comes To Call, T Kingfisher

Running Close To The Wind, Alexandra Rowland

Wow tumblr just lets me keep writing words. I didn't think they let me have this many in asks. Oh, and pro tip-- keep an eye out for tordotcom's most anticipated upcoming books for the first six months of 2024. They should be publishing it within the next week or so and I always add masses of books to my tbr from there.

oh holy crap, thanks!! I'll have to check these out!

thoughts on a few of em:

He Who Drowned The World - still have to read She Who Became the Sun lol but hopefully I'll get to em next year!

Witch King - Martha Wells has been recced by like All my sci-fi mutuals now lmao I REALLY gotta get into her!

House With Good Bones - THIS ONE IS ACTUALLY ON MY SHELF!! I just didn't fucking read it this year whoops. Very excited for new Kingfisher

Starling House - I was on the fence about this one since I really didn't like Once and Future Witches, but those comparisons give me hope! I'll add it to the library list!

Some Desperate Glory and Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries are 2/3 of the books published in 2023 that I actually managed to read (the 3rd is The Woman in Me lmao), I can't remember if you recc'd Some Desperate Glory, but it was SOOOOOOOO GOOD OMFG

Small Miracles - my aunt has been trying to convince me to read Atwater for quite a while, I'll have to give this one a try!

The Saint of Bright Doors - I have this one on hold!! Saw a post for it a week or so ago and it sounds absolutely delightful!

The Familiar - SO SO EXCITED for this one! I hope Bardugo is maybe...slowly....extricating herself from the Grishaverse and going to write more books not related to it... (not that they're all bad, I loved the Six of Crows duology, I'm just not into it anymore and I reeeealllly like her adult books lol)

Running Close To The Wind - oh yay new Rowland! I still haven't read her last book (the one with the guy on the cover who looked EXACTLY like my boss to the point where it became an Office Meme that [Boss] Is A Gay Romance Cover Model, still meaning to get a UK version of it but haven't yet) but I'll have to look this one up!

#seriously this is SO MANY RECS THANK YOU!!

[moonshine-nightlight]

Snapped - Part 3

Mech’s not sure why the aftermath of this mission is hitting him so hard, but he’s doing his best to calm down when Gwen’s presence shatters his control. Now it’s a count down to see if he can figure out how to put a stop to the instincts and hormones that are running wild inside him—before he does something they’ll both regret.

Science fiction, alien romance, male alien x female human

Story Status: COMPLETE

AO3: Snapped Chapter 3

[Part 1] [Part 2] Part 3 [Part 4 - NSFW]

“Right now,” Mech begins, trying to think of the best way to explain this without giving anything too revealing away. It doesn’t help that his mind and instincts want to tell her, his trust in her overriding his knowing that she doesn’t want him in that way. “My brain has decided to flood my bloodstream with hormones to an alarming degree, which are in turn, affecting my thought process and making my brain produce even more chemicals in response.”

Gwen nods and Mech tries to think on how to continue his explanation instead of how her hair would feel, slipping through his fingers as he–. “I need to either reverse, neutralize, or however I can stop more reactions from happening. Then I need to see if I can flush any of these hormones out of my system. While the sedative is helping for now, we’ve got a time limit before I won’t be able to think again. In that case, you’ll need to lock me in my quarters and hope I can just wait it out.”

“Sounds like we should work now while we can,” Gwen says, but he watches her head over to one of the ship’s computers and start pulling up the security for unused cabins. Smart girl. Mech purposely looks away from what she’s doing and back to cycling through possible serums. If they get to that final option, he wants locking him up to succeed even if his mind has forgotten why it needs to. Mech appreciates her not drawing attention to this option or arguing with him. It’s in everyone’s best interests that, if he can’t find a solution, he’s locked up where he can’t get to her. Gwen continues, “What was that, um—you called it a sedative, right? What was that supposed to do?”

“It was supposed to slow down the release of additional hormones and counteract some that had already been released,” Mech replies, trying to stay focused on the content of her words and not how pleasing he finds her voice. Not being able to see her helps, but he can still sense her heat, her scent swirling through the closed room with ease. He pulls up the sendative’s formula and the sample of blood he fed the system, trying to see if there are any obvious reasons it’s failing. 

“How well is that working?” Gwen asks, but she saw his reaction, his lapse in control, earlier. She must know the answer already.

“Not well at all,” he confirms. He can see now it’s not that the sedative isn’t working. It’s outnumbered and overwhelmed. His blood has a truly staggering amount of hormones, still being released in waves. The sedative has already bonded with as much as it can. “I thought it would have a more significant impact, but it could only do so much and it’s already used up, so to speak.” He would have to take a lot more for an additional effect. That would likely lead to blocking the release of necessary chemicals as well as an overabundance of the compound the bonding process produces. “If I take enough to handle the problem, it’ll poison me.”

“Ok-ay, yeah, no—don’t want that,” Gwen replies, turning her back on the screen she’d been using—so hopefully whatever room she set up to quarantine him is prepared now. That sends some ripples of relief through him—he’s not sure how he’ll able to weather the hormones one his own, but at least she’ll be safe. Hopefully, she’ll stop looking so concerned once he’s locked away. Although, when had he turned back around to look at her? 

“So what’s the next move?” Gwen asks, interrupting his thoughts. She nibbles on her lower lip as she thinks and he wants to replace her teeth and tongue with his own. Her lips must be so soft and– “You gave your computer something to analyze, right? What did it say?”

“The program identified my condition,” Mech says, forcing his eyes away from tracing her collarbones, all the lovely skin her pretty dress is still leaving on display, to the screen in question. He pulls the case studies back up. “It’s happened before, but not often and under different circumstances.”

“Like what?” Gwen asks, her voice more curious than concerned, but another glance he can’t help her reveals she’s only trying to act that way. She always starts messing with her hair when she’s worried. The strands twirl around her finger and he wants to see them haloing her head as she lies underneath him, moving as he–

“Two people at once,” Mech manages as he stares furiously at the screen. Recriminations sound through his head just loud enough to drown out any imaginings of what she might sound like as he claimed her as his mate. He begins running through some of the medications they tried on these individuals. They’d all been on his home planet when the imbalance seized them. Does he even have all of these materials? Their weathering of their systems was primarily done with supportive care as they gave into the insistence of their hormones. Mating for days in some cases until the hormone surge was satisfied. His voice is rough once more as he continues, “So they were able to help each other.”

“But there’s just you,” Gwen realizes, worry and sympathy in her voice. She’s such a compassionate person. Surely she would understand his predicament, if he just explained.  Maybe she would be willing to help him. She wouldn’t want him to suff–no, Mech cuts off his traitorous thoughts, knowing he would hate himself if he awoke from the surge to learn she’d mated with him out of pity or worse, that he’d tricked himself into hearing what he wanted to hear. “And you said I was only sort of helping.”

Mech bites back the words to explain in graphic detail exactly what she’s doing to him. Her presence remains a double-edged sword—a distracting one that is as liable to defend him as it is to cut him. “Right.”

“Sorry,” she says and her voice is so falsely casual he has to turn around. He sees her shrug and give an attempt at a smile. “Only human I’m afraid. Still, better than nothing, yeah?” She looks like he might blame her for being human, like she feels bad she can’t do more when it's a miracle she’s being as tolerant of this, this disgraceful lapse in control on his part.

“Of course.” Mech can’t have her thinking any of this is her fault. He reaches out to comfort her, to reassure her that she’s not failing at anything, that there’s nothing for her to feel guilty for, before he remembers why that would be a mistake. His arm falls back to his side, useless. Instead he tries to meet her eyes, needing her to understand. “I’m very grateful you’re here, Gwen.”

Her eyes measure his words before her smile turns far more genuine and it’s like the first drops of rain after a drought, refreshing and revitalizing. He can see the individual flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the delicate curls that frame her face, the red of her lips.

A beep draws his attention away, causes him to realize he’d stepped closer to her without even noticing.

“Okay, it’s generated a list of formulations we can create here with the supplies on hand,” Mech says, forcing his mind into the science as deeply as he can. Trying to lose himself in the problem rather than in Gwen. 

The news is as sobering as it can be. By virtue of the previous cases affecting couples, most of the treatments heavily relied on their mating. Significantly, they require complimentary pheromones as a key ingredient to lessen the intensity of the effects. Dosing the affected individuals with each other hormones in addition to those introduced via actual mating, tricking the hormones into thinking they already had enough of what they craved. Judging by the one couple who surged at the same time, but hours away from each, that was also how the duration was shortened. 

Human hormones of his “mate”, if he were in close enough prolonged contact, would likely help, but they could not be extracted from the venom for extra dosing because humans didn’t have any venom. And it would need to be human sexual pheromones, more concentrated than just the typical riotous blend they generated in abundance. So even that solution is heavily reliant on mating with Gwen, which is the one thing he definitely cannot do. 

He furiously types updated parameters into the system, ruthlessly screening out all suggested formulations that required the use of complimentary mate hormones. He can see, out of the corner of his eyes, that Gwen has drifted closer, clearly attempting to understand what the results might be since he’s stopped explaining. 

Mech can’t let her get any closer. “Most of these require supplies we don’t have or chemicals from the other who’s afflicted. I’m trying to narrow it down to a list of solutions I can actually make.” She still takes another distracted and curious step closer. He can’t even make his mouth form the words to tell her to stay back because he wants her closer. Wants to feel the heat she gives off against his skin, he wants to take in her scent directly from the source, lick the taste of her and—

“Can you get that other case of materials? I think it’s just back up of what’s here, but maybe there’s something else in there I forgot about,” he asks and Gwen brightens at the chance to help.

“Sure thing,” she replies and heads over to the other side of the room.

Mech turns his attention back to calculating which of these proposed solutions has the most promise and is the most efficient use of the compounds on hand.

He actually is able to refocus on the problem. He’s starting to hope that maybe the sedative just needed more time to kick or that he can create a more targetted one that won’t have too many negative side-effects. He doesn’t even notice when Gwen comes over, a cabinet or two down from him, with the case he asked for. She opens it and slides next to the other. It's only then that he looks at her again. He forces his eyes to stay away from her, forces them to stay focused on the carefully labeled packages and plants from his home in the case.

Just as he thought, there’s really only one or two that are different from the primary case—minor seasonal fluctuation in when they were assembled. Still, he dutifully plugs those new compounds into the system and waits to see if that alters the results.

The distant sound of the air filter system kicking on almost doesn’t rate notice either until it blows a strong stream of Gwen’s scent right into his senses. His nostrils flare and so do his spines, his claws extending into the wood of the countertop instantly.

“Mech!”

He’s already flung himself back towards the door, eyes lit up as he tries to get out of that tempting, delicious airflow. “Turn it off!” he hisses, closing his eyes as he anchors himself in place. Gwen doesn’t answer, but he can hear her pushing the cart aside to get to the control panel on the wall.

Despite his best effort, the airflow has re-circulated Gwen’s scent thoroughly throughout the medbay. He feels the pull to where he can sense she is. Humans have such strong pheromones by nature that Gwen’s typical scent is more than enough to convince his mind in this state that she’s ready for mating. His mind is spinning as he digs his claws into the wall as he strains to hold onto the knowledge that he can’t go to her.

His senses are in such an aware state that the sudden rush of cool air over his head feels more like a faucet of cold water. He lets out a surprised noise, that was not a yelp, and blinks up to see the vent over the door wide open. Tilting his head back down, he sees Gwen still at the controls, clearly running some sort of air purification program, pulling the air from her side out of the room and pushing out fresh, sanitized air from his side. 

Mech had forgotten that of course the medbay was equipped with more than the ship’s typical air filtration system. While obviously they couldn’t run a full air sanitation program with two living people still in the room, this refresh is still very helpful. Gwen’s eyes meet his own and he’s surprised by how much worry he can see in them. He thinks his eyes are still glowing, but he’s careful to relax his spines, breathing deep of the fresh air and withdrawing his claws from the wall. “Thank you,” he says, mind actually fixed on the gratitude he feels for the clear head and only minorly on how lovely her hair looks as artificial wind tugs at it.

Gwen gives him a shaky smile and wisely keeps the program running, staying where she is on the other side of the room. “Glad I still knew how to do that. Never thought I’d have any reason to be grateful for that shipment of squezares for bursting.”

Mech shudders in memory of the smell that had spread throughout the ship what that particular cargo had been damaged. “Not sure it was worth it.” Gwen’s smile gets more solid at the joke and Mech finally feels something like solid ground under his feet. He hadn’t noticed how much her scent was affecting him. Staying as close to the fresh air vent as he can, Mech reaches over and manages to pull the diagnostic screen to him. But before he can look at the results it’s populated, Gwen speaks up again.

“I know you said that even if I’m not a graviel, I’m better than nothing,” she says, looking hesitant and frustrated and guilty for no reason Mech can think of, “but are you sure that’s true?” Gwen meets his eyes and he hates how desperate she looks all of a sudden. His reaction to her increased scent must have really worried her. The mental clarity the fresh air has brought him is overwhelmed by his innate desire to comfort her. He takes a step closer on instinct, needing to sooth her anyway he can. She holds up her hand, this time telling him to stay back and it cuts far deeper than he knows it should. Because she’s right. He should stay away if he’s the reason she looks this distraught, the reason they're in this whole mess. “Because I still don’t understand what’s happening to you and it seems like I’m making things worse. Every time it’s gotten worse has been my fault.”

“Not your fault,” he insists. “I promise it’s my fault. I keep forgetting or trying to—” He cuts himself off before he can say “claim you as my mate”. Between his own mind and the way, no matter what filters he puts on it, the system keeps insisting he do so as well the thought is always on the tip of his tongue. “Trying to act as though you’re affected too, like the other cases.”

“Are you sure there isn’t more I can do?” Gwen pleads. “You’re holding yourself back and it's hurting you. I’m not gonna break or get mad at you or whatever. It’s not as though your instincts want to fight me or something, is it?”

“No, not…” Mech swallows down venom and forces himself give an answer, any answer to get her to back away from this line of questioning. Even now he can feel himself wavering. Would it really be so bad to tell her the truth? What if she wants—No. He can’t let himself think such things. But he can’t have her thinking he wants to hurt her either. Not that he seems able to help it, going by the look on her face. All he can do is shake his head and hope she can hear the truth in his voice, “Nothing like that.”

“Mech…” 

Gwen gives him a look he can’t interpret, only that her skepticism is clear to him. But at what he has no idea and with all his hormones raging it's too easy for that confusion and fear to meld into frustration. “It’s very hard to think, alright?” he snaps. “It’s heard to hear, in a sense, anything that isn’t what my body is telling me.” He needs her to understand what’s at stake. “If I stop being able to hear you…”

“But if you don’t want to hurt—” Gwen tries to argue, a stubborn look on her face. If only she understood what she was pushing for and how much he wants to take her up on that offer, damn the consequences.

But he can’t. He knows the risks, knows the consequences. Even now, his instincts also want to keep her safe and happy, even as they want to claim her. Mech’s pretty sure that’s the only reason he’s as lucid as he is. That he’s resisting as well as he is.

“Accidents happen, Gwen,” he replies, frustrated at his inability to articulate the danger to her without giving himself away. “I’m stronger than you, physically. I could hurt you. And I didn’t just mean literally hear you. I meant interpret any communication, including physical movement, as signs of possible distress. I’m essentially drunk. People do all sorts of dangerous and potentially harmful things, when out of their mind, even if they don’t intend to. Even if they wouldn’t under normal circumstances.”

“Okay, okay,” Gwen puts her hands up. “I get it. I just think that if chemistry isn’t working—which it really doesn’t seem like it is—that you should just stop beating around the bush and tell me what your instincts want.” She looks over at him earnestly. “I don’t know shit about your biology or chemistry, but maybe I could help you figure out another way to handle everything. Something practical instead of scientific. I feel like I’m trying to help with one hand tied behind my back.”

“Gwen,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. 

Gwen glares back at him, the frustration in every line of her body mirroring his own. “Just tell me!”

“Fine! You really want to know? My instincts,” he lets the words out through gritted teeth. He no longer has the strength to keep them in any longer. All his focus has to be on not acting on them. “They want you. They want me to claim you,” he chances a look at her face, “Make you mine. My mate.”

“Oh!” Her eyes go very wide before they dart away from Mech’s, likely embarrassed for him. And herself. And this whole cursed situation. “I’m sorry. I know you must…” She bites her lip which Mech really wishes she wouldn’t. “Sorry. How can I stop…” She makes a vague gesture at herself.

“You can’t,” he replies bluntly. “You need to be here so I don’t think you’re in danger or with rivals, but you can’t touch me or I might not be able to hold myself back, not quickly enough.” He swallows, finally articulating his greatest fear which feels more real now that she knows. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Gwen’s whole expression softens. “You would never hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t mean to,” he allows, flicking his eyes back to the screen, but all the words are out of focus.

“Wouldn’t,” she replies stubbornly, jutting her chin out. To his relief she doesn’t keep pushing it, allowing the sound of the vents working to fill the room as he finally is able to read the screen. 

She can’t seem to keep silent long. “Do you know why your instincts picked me?” she asks tentatively. “Or why now? If we knew that, maybe we could reverse it or fix it.”

“Don’t know why now—makes no sense. Must just…” Mech shakes his head. Probably just a matter of time. “Here,” he pulls up a fieldguide and throws it over to the screen near her. “Find that.” He points to a particular plant that’s in a seasonal variety only in the second case while he pulls the original main case over to him with his tail. He can’t risk going any closer to her than he already is for the moment. Even doing it that way, he knows it's only shame that she knows his weakness that’s keeping his tail from reaching out to her. 

Mech can’t dwell on what he reveals and the only good consequence is that he’s embarrassed enough, and afraid enough of how this might affect their relationship going forward, that it's actually helping to quell the hormones in his blood. Still, he knows he can’t lose focus and so he throws himself into creating the most promising looking medication. It’s untested, but it should compensate for the lack of an actual graviel mate to wait through the reaction with. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to get him into the secure room Gwen’s prepared. Maybe by the time this chemical snap has blown over, Gwen will have not forgotten, but be willing to pretend he never said anything.

He crosses from one wall to the other on his side, feeding the machine there the compounds he’s prepared. “Can you add the amount on the screen?” he asks, voice gruff and awkward. “Then close the lid, that’s the last ingredient.”

“Sure,” Gwen says. He hates and is grateful for how normal she sounds, like he hasn’t just disrupted the perfectly calibrated balance their friendship had managed to reach.

He doesn’t dare look up, waits for the sound of the lid closing and of her footsteps as she crosses back to her side. Even that short trip closer resulted in some of her scent blown his way and she smells like temptation distilled down to its truest form.

He sets the machine running and carefully breathes shallowly until the vents have once more blown away her enticing scent. 

“Mech, really, why me?” Gwen asks, interrupting the quiet. She sounds cautious but unwilling to leave well enough alone. He almost can’t handle that question. “Why would—”

“Of course, it’s you!” the words burst from him without thought, without permission. He’s already bared more of himself than he’d prefer, but this question is the worst because how can she even ask it. “Who else could it be? There’s no one—” He shakes his head and glares at her, unable to help himself. “There’s only you. Always you.”

Her eyes are wide as she looks at him, genuine shock evident. “Mech…”

[Part 4 - NSFW]

#my writing #story: snapped #snapped #alien #sci-fi #science fiction #alien romance #osha compliant #3rd pov #mech #gwen #heat #please dont @ me about the science #its all made up and its for an alien anyway so prove me wrong lol #next part will not be osha compliant #no idea why this took so long to write but it's here now

[cinnamondumbb]

Hey, could you make a fic that focuses on Kiri/Spider relagionship? Maybe something exploring feelings realisation and childhood friends to lovers. There are so dew kiri/spider fics, please give us content :)

ꕤ ﹆｡˚ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 —𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐈 : when kiri leaves in the mornings, to do chores or to explore, spider can't help but follow every time.

contents. fluff, sfw, childhood friends -> lovers, lower caps intended, comforting, takes place four years after the events of atwow (characters are aged-up) + wc 1.1k

notes. decided to combine these two requests and give our favorite monkey boy the love he deserves! it's my first time writing on this ship, i hope it turned out decent lol ty for taking the time to read my work ♡

spider did not know when it started, when he developed the habit to check in on her first thing in the morning. it was a part of his routine ever since he could remember, and that did not change even after they left their home to live with the sea people.

on that particular morning, he had left his marui pod to look for her in the village, like he would always do.

yet, kiri was nowhere to be found.

he ran into lo'ak, however, who said she left before sunrise on her tsurak to the second island to the east, mentioning something about gathering new herbs for her collection. spider could not ride a tsurak or an ilu, making the small one-person boats of the metkayina his best allies.

on days like that, when kiri wandered off alone, he could not find it in him the will to not go look for her.

he found her kneeling down on the sand, probably too focused on the work in front of her to notice his presence. the boy slowly climbed off his boat, approaching the area without making a sound, evidencing all the experience he had garnered while living amongst the omaticaya, in the way he moved, leaning in on his knuckles, crawling the distance between the two of them in all fours— his very breathing. he bore a closer resemblance to the wild creatures that inhabited the forest he grew up in than to his own kind.

spider stopped a mere inch away from her, his face right above the curve of her neck. he stared into the striped pattern of that skin he knew so well, preparing to give her the scare of her life–

"i know it's you, monkey boy."

–before she ruined it for him.

"damn it!" words could not describe his disappointment. he let his body fall next to her in the sand "how do you do it, huh?"

"i could see the shadow of your massive head from a mile away," she didn't even look at him, but he could spot the smug smirk on her face as she continued to work on her herbs.

"my massive head?" spider poked kiri's waist, where he knew she was the most ticklish, making her instantly throw her head back laughing "who's got a massive head?"

"you do!"

"take it back," he poked her again, and again, with both hands this time "kiri, take it back!"

"never!" she was laughing hysterically now, unable to contain herself. still, she would not yield.

"is that so?" spider tickled her even more, moving closer, pushing her to the ground. kiri tried to escape, but there was nowhere to run, he had her surrounded with his arms.

"fuck you!" kiri snarled at him. it was a rare occasion to hear her curse but, funnily enough, all of those occasions seemed to happen when a certain human boy was involved.

"take it back and i'll let you go."

"spider, you skxawng!" it was only then that kiri realised where she was. laying on the ground with spider on top of her body. those big brown eyes of his fixated on her.

"are you blushing?"

"in your dreams," kiri tried to keep her wits about her, but it was impossible while she was so aware of his body, his eyes– "fine, i take it back!" although she tried to seem angry, she could not stop herself from smiling.

"good girl," he said while helping her up.

kiri felt her face burn, as if all the blood in her body went straight to her cheeks.

"bastard," was all she thought to reply.

"you know you love me."

kiri just scoffed at him, resuming her work. she tended to the herbs she had recently collected, cutting and separating them in piles, organizing everything in her purse.

"why did you leave so early, anyway?"

"ugh, to get away from my mom," kiri sighed "ever since i completed my iknimaya she hasn't stopped talking about– you know what? forget it, it's stupid."

"kiri, it's me," he reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"well, she thinks i should be choosing a mate," she nearly whispered, almost as if she was afraid of the word itself. "oh, not only that, she also thinks that you and i are together."

"whaaat?!" spider suddenly felt anxious and unable to look in kiri's eyes directly, turning his gaze to a patch of grass nearby.

"yeah, i know! it's crazy right?"

"so crazy," spider laughed weakly, pulling on a strand of grass "but, i guess your mom just wants you to be with someone who's good enough for you, and obviously that someone isn't me."

"are you saying you don't think you're good enough for me?" kiri whipped her head from her work to face him, "i mean, in this strictly hypothetical situation," she added abruptly.

"kiri, i don't think anyone is good enough for you."

"idiot," she scoffed, gently pushing his shoulder back "it's not like anyone would want me, either way."

"that's not true–"

"yes, it is, okay? i'm a freak," her voice broke in the middle of the sentence, as she felt her throat tighten "everybody's knows it."

"kiri, you're not a freak," spider cupped her cheeks with his hands, making her look directly into his eyes "i think you're amazing. every single part of you, even the parts you don't like."

she looked at him, teary eyed. his heart broke for her. he just wished she could see herself through his eyes.

"will you just... hold me? please." spider did not have to wait for her to finish that sentence before taking her into his arms.

"i'm not going anywhere," he gently pulled her closer to his chest, caressing her hair, playing with the beads of her braids, whispering comforting words in her ear.

"spider?"

"yes, kiri?" she lifted her head and stared at him, his hand gently stroking her cheek.

"just so you know, you are good enough for me," he felt his blood boil under his skin as he realised what she meant "you are more than enough."

"kiri, i–"

"take your mask off," her tone was low and demanding.

he knew what she meant and that only made him the more anxious. spider would be lying if he said he never wished for it to happen, but now that it was happening, he did not know what to do. at last, he did as he was told.

"good boy," kiri whispered against his lips before kissing them.

cinnamondumbb © 2023 — please do not copy/repost/translate my work without my permission. (♡) + rb! :p

#— ᵕ̈♡ lua writes🧁 #ੈ☆ — (avatar) 📓 #avatar 2 #avatar fanfiction #avatar the way of water #atwow fanfiction #atwow spoilers #atwow #avatar fandom #avatar #spider avatar #spider socorro #spider x kiri #spider x reader #avatar kiri #kiri avatar #kiri sully #kiri x spider #kiri x reader #avatar spider

[dearweirdme]

Hi 👋

I am comparatively new to BTS, I had had their songs on my playlists but didn't know anything about their band dynamics. After I came across a run bts short on yt I became curious about their content and haven't been able to stop.

I hadn't even heard the term taekook but I was almost certain that there was something about those two that was different from the rest. I was certain that they were a couple but then I came to know about the various ships and sk's homophobia. I've been to so many jikook blogs and twtrs because I wanted to know what exactly I was missing in their interactions because to me they looked like friends, I just didn't get any couple vibes from them. I couldn't find that intensity b/w jk and jm which is very clearly present b/w tae & jk. Some tkkrs theories are wild, some of their interactions are blown way out of proportion but that still doesn't change the fact that they have that chemistry.

I came across your blog yesterday and I've been loving your take on tk. You are one of those rare bloggers who don't go around matching clothes and dates. Your opinions are quite level headed.

Woah...this got long 😅. Anyways what I wanted to ask you is what are your top 10 favourite tk moments, on or off cam?

Hi anon!

Welcome 🤗!

My top ten… making it hard for me I see. I’m probably going to be very inconsistent here 😂.

I do know my all time favorite though so on nr 1:

Nr 2 is very recent, but it’s so so so special:

Nr 3, when Tae arrived late at BV

Nr 4,

Nr 5:

Nr 6:

Nr 7:

Nr 8: Jk deciding to put his hand on Tae and being proud of it.

Nr 9: i feel this should be higher up..

Nr 10: jk scheming to get Tae to pick his room in Malta and them sharing a bed when he succeeds.

To be fair.. except for nr 1 and 2, the order of this will probably not be the same if you ask me in a month or so, and there’s so many favorites that i might even not choose the same ones again 😂

#taekook #so many moments to choose from #Taekook analysis

[icarusbetide]

quick heads-up about ship content on this blog! :)

i realized that some people have notps and might be comfortable with only specific ship content so i wanted to give a quick heads-up that if i post/reblog ship content, it's going to be a large variety. my blog's a wild west in that way, and at this point my reasoning is - i'm running a tumblr blog in the year 2024 about founding fathers. i've crossed the line, there's nothing that's going to make me clutch my pearls any more. "problematic age gap" "toxic relationship" "they actually hated each other" yeah all i'm hearing is that this is juicy entertainment.

if you've seen my posts you'll know that my main relationship interests are hamliza, lams, hamburr - fairly conventional stuff. but be prepared at any and all times for everything else. jamilton. jeffmads. madilton. whamilton. can't remember any other ship names rn but you get the picture. and i might go crazy and even start advocating for crack ships and rarepairs just for the kick of it. the two randomest people you can think of? von steuben and washington? what the hell, why not! where is my talleyrand x hamilton 200k slow burn?

and this was all a ruse to once again publicly beg someone to write a john adams x hamilton fanfic because the idea of john adams reading it and convulsing is very funny to me. he'd roll in his grave so hard he breaks the richter scale.

[maeisotime23]

What we’ve all been waiting for (Or at least what I’ve been waiting for)

🧡MAEISO WEEK 2023!💛

Starts on September 10th and ends on September 16th!

Prompts:

Day 1: Firsts/Lasts- Either make something about their firsts in their relationship or their lasts in their relationship. Or both somehow! Firsts has good potential for fluff (ie; first kiss, first date, first actual “I love you”). Lasts has some good potential for angst though (ie; last goodbyes, last straws, last argument) but feel free to turn these on their heads!

Day 2: Sleepover/Movies- These can go hand in hand if so desired. Or not. You can have these two go to the movie theaters, just simply talk about movies or have a movie night at one of their houses (Which you can also make into a sleepover).

Day 3: Family/Memories- These can also go hand in hand. Get nostalgic! This could be talking about one of their current families or a family they build in the future (With kids or maybe with pets 🤭) Or maybe their memories from their childhood or maybe their time in 3-E!

Day 4: Sick/Stargazing- These should be easy to understand right? Cause I don’t really know how to explain them .😅

Day 5: Surprise/Baking- That day is also my birthday! So surprise me some good content please! The prompts don’t have to be birthday related though. So go nuts!

Day 6: Soulmates/Reunion- Time to pull out all the soulmate AUs you got! Or maybe combine some! Maybe you can tie them into the reunion prompt as well!

Day 7: Free Day- Go crazy! Get nuts! Be creative! It’s a free day so let your imagination run wild!

Things to know:

The Maeiso submissions can come in any form such as fanart/comics, edits, fanfiction or anything else for that matter.

Feel free to use any form of Maeiso’s dynamic you want. It doesn’t necessarily have to be romantic.

Also feel free to add in any other characters or ships you desire but still keep it focused on Maehara and Isogai please!

No NSFW content please! Even if you bother aging them up, the characters for the majority of show are minors and doing that would still be weird.

You can post things for Maeiso week on any site you can, but I’m more likely to see it on tumblr if anything.

When you make a post, either tag it as #maeisoweek2023 or just tag this blog in case I don’t end up seeing it.

Most importantly, DON’T STRESS YOURSELF OUT! There are no deadlines for this week and it’s perfectly okay if you aren’t able to post things every single day or just post things a bit late. Your mental health is more important, okay 😊

If you have anymore questions, you can either ask this blog or DM my main blog @heyhellohihowareyou.

#WOOHOO!!! #assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #assclass #hiroto maehara #yuuma isogai #maeiso #isogai x maehara #maeisoweek2023

[atonalginger]

Looking for my Writing?

Starfield

Starborn Saga

80k+ word romance novel set in the Starfield universe. Rated Explicit for Graphic Depictions of Violence and Major Character death

With another successful jump, Lila is faced with an actual challenge in this new Universe. How will she handle finding a ghost from her past? And how will that ghost handle her?

The Navigation Table

A quick 1593 word fic. Rated E for sexual content. A quickie for a quickie.

With Goose busy working on his personal habs at the new outpost, Sam sees an opportunity for some one on one time with Lila on the War Bard and let loose for a quick, fun ride.

Unique Cargo

5,878 word oneshot starring Starborn!Sam, Lila, Goose, and newcomer, Ruby. Rated Mature for explicit language and some mature themes.

Sam, Lila, and Goose are back in the saddle with a newly finished Bitter Angel II and are off to hit a smuggler's ship for a test run. What they find is unexpected but they take on the new challenge head on because this Coe family shy away from a challenge.

Stowaway Savior

49,218 word story starring Ruby and Goose. Rated Explicit for Graphic depictions of Violence, and language. pulpy action adventure vibes.

Ruby always has a good read on people and situations. So when her older brother, Goose, decides to help a Rook she doesn't trust, Ruby decides to tag along, whether her family likes it or not. After she was proven right Ruby must get her and her brother to safety and wait for their family to find them, not knowing the UC has thrown a wicked curve ball into the mix.

--

Rekindling the Heart

17,672 word story of Sam Coe finding a lost love from his past and their journey to finding happiness once more. Rated Mature

Reclaiming Home

39,767 word story. Rated Explicit for Sexual Content and Violence

Sam and Doc find the survey of Andraste III more a challenge than they'd expected due to distractions. Finding a new, mysterious friend, handling the questions and curiosity of Cora, and of course their biggest distraction: each other. Will they take it slow? Or will they give in and reclaim what they lost so long ago?

--

Work-Life Balance

15,783 word Delgado x Bella fic. Rated Mature.

Can they balance their Crimson Fleet business and the happiness between them? Can they shield little Sophie from the dangers?

Wanted to Say "Thank You"

5,102 word prequel oneshot to Work-Life Balance. Rated Explicit for explicit sexual content.

After a close call in The Lock, Bella decides to pay Delgado a visit after normal hours to thank him for all he did for saving her life and words simply won't be enough.

Siren of the Stars

15,082 word fic. Another Prequel to Work-Life Balance Rated Explicit for explicit sexual content

Bella gets her next major job for the Crimson Fleet: a heist on the Triton luxury cruise liner Siren of the Stars. See what happens as she finds herself working with the smooth talking captain, Evgeny Rokov, to steal not just from the GalBank Exec but Naeva Mora by snatching her prize out from under her.

Shrouded Certainty

26,177 word fic starring Bella, Rokov, and Del. Another Prequel to Work-Life Balance. Rated Explicit for Graphic Depictions of Violence and Explicit Sexual Content.

Bella has assured Delgado she can get the Shroud tech with a simple meeting with Bayu but things are far from simple when it comes to the Legacy and anything pertaining to the Fleet. How will Bella handle returning to the city of vice and violence?

--

The Ranger and the Deputy

101,622 words. In an AU where Delgado wound up a Ranger instead of with the Fleet, Constellation's newest recruit, Kitty Lincoln, finds herself wrapped up in a ranger investigation. Will she stay the course with Constellation's mission? Or will she go a different way, learning how to navigate the dangerous Starfield alongside the rough and wild Ranger. Rated Explicit for graphic depictions of violence, explicit sexual content, and major character death ('offscreen' but major focus of the first case).

--

Dragon Age

An Unlikely Alliance

6,757 one shot set in the Draon Age universe. This one is an older one I've uploaded to ao3. I'd shared it once so long ago (in 2015) and thought I should add it to my list.

Alistair has left the Wardens, again, and has hunted Loghain down. But not for revenge this time, now he extends the olive branch in hopes they can stop Clarel and the wardens before more people get hurt.

--

Fallout universe

His Deadly Hubflower

10,849 word, three part series starring Vadim Bobrov and his deadly Hubflower, Phyllis "The Red Menace". Come see Vadim and Phyllis come to terms with their feelings amidst the chaos of the wasteland.

--

Warhammer 40K: Rogue Trader

Order In All Things

7,247 words. Rated Explicit for sexual content. Set in Owlcat's Warhammer 40K: Rogue Trader. Abelard x Rogue Trader smut.

After a particularly distressing event in her quarters, Lord Captain Tessera calls upon the only soul on her ship she knows she can trust with her life. She is pleasantly surprised by just how dedicated her seneschal is at serving her.

#starfield fanfiction #atonalgingerwrites #Sam Coe #Starfield Delgado #Dragon Age #alistair theirin #loghain mac tir #Fallout 4 #Vadim Bobrov #sole survivor #Evgeny Rokov #Crimson Fleet #atonalginger writes #Warhammer 40k: Rogue Trader #abelard werserian

[madangel19]

HEY WHAT HEADCANONS, SHIPS, OR WHATEVER HAVE BEEN ON YOUR MIND RECENTLY? 🩷🎤

Ahhhh! Thank you so much for sending this in, Pink! I have so many Swiss thoughts and kit thoughts at the moment while I'm writing the latest chapter of Blood Moon so these headcannons/thoughts/ideas are gonna be a hot mess.

So ships, I love me some polyghouls, but at the moment, I'm loving Mountain x Aurora and Swiss x Delia.

Mountain is so big and Aurora is so tiny. I love me some height differences XD Aurora will get lost in Mountain's bed when spending nights with him and she's like a demonic little gopher poking her head out from his blankets.

I love writing about Swiss and Delia! It's just so good and brings so much joy making them happy together. Swiss loves his pack, but he adores Delia. She's his favorite human (which makes other siblings of sin a bit jealous, but if they so much as talk shit about Delia, they're gonna get ate)

Swiss currently has 6 kits and he adores and cherishes them all. Three of them are from Delia and their names are Onyx, Shade, and Cheese. One is from Dewdrop and her name is Cinder. The other two are from Cumulus and their names are Nova and Vortex (Vortex is Swiss's only son btw, so 5 daughters and 1 son). Swiss is a girl dad even though he loves his son just as much as the others. The ghouls are super affectionate with their kits, but Swiss in on another level. Mans can fall asleep holding them and he'll be content even if it hurts his neck. Kits grow fast so he wants to be able to hold them when they're teeny tiny. Even when they get bigger, that's not gonna stop daddy Swiss from holding them :')

Kits are born blind and unable to open their eyes, but after a few weeks, they're able to open them. In the meantime, they rely on smell and taste so they lick almost anything that comes into contact with them. Most of the time, they're swaddled up like baby bats, but when they're not and they learn how to crawl, then they are unstoppable!

Ghoul magic! All of the ghouls can breathe different magical powders that affect humans in different ways. One can paralyze a human and numb their senses (perfect for hunting or spicy time), another gives humans a high that's similar to weed and it makes them more relaxed and easier to influence (too much can put a human to sleep lol) , and another is an aphrodisiac that makes humans and ghouls super horny X3 Swiss is a master of all these different magics

Another ghoul ability that both multi ghouls and quintessence ghouls are capable of is shadow manipulation. They can melt into the shadows which can help with hunting and sneaking around the church. Swiss of course uses this for evil and will scare the shit out of an unsuspecting sibling or he'll sneak into some dorms and spy on whoever it is that he chose to torment

Oh yeah, the Emeritus bloodline is full of vampires and the current Papas activate their vampiric power when they rise to papacy. They used to just seduce and drain unwilling siblings, but after some time, it was agreed that willing siblings could just donate their blood. If they want to do it the old-fashioned way, then they can just ask ^-^

Those creepy twins are also vampires, but no one knows where they came from. The Papas have to share their blood supply with them or else they will run wild and attack anyone.

Some slightly spicy talk about ghoul reproduction under the cut :3

Ghouls can reproduce both via eggs and through pregnancy. It all depends on the situation. Ghouls can lay eggs in humans, but they are unable to become fertile unless under special circumstances (such as a ghoul's heat occurring during a blood moon and the eggs are laid within a human). If a ghoul simply lays eggs in a human during any regular heat period, then the eggs won't be fertile. Ghoul magic is weird lol

Ghouls and humans can reproduce without the blood moon, but they first need to conduct a reproduction ritual with the help of a Papa.

I think that's about it with my current thoughts, but if you wanna ask me more about headcannons and thoughts in the future, then I'll gladly talk more :D

Again, thank you so much for the ask!

#the band ghost #ghost band #ghost bc #nameless ghouls #nameless ghoulettes #swiss ghoul #ghoul headcanons #ghost fanfiction #fanfiction