#tremble. for it is not me you should fear‚ it is the universe itself.

[spaciebabie]

cosmic retribution is real and if you have ever attacked me you will face it some day

#spacie spoinks #monnie is a serial offender and so the universe took that in2 account #giggles #the universe will get you. you will face your cosmic retribution. it may not be now. it may not be 3 months from now #but you will face it #tremble. for it is not me you should fear‚ it is the universe itself. #''pah it wont happen to me'' -monnie said this months ago and look at her now #its going to happen

[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

[anantaru]

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — you had once sworn to always love the 11th harbinger childe, no matter what circumstances you'd face together, to love and cherish him for all eternity, even the hidden side he couldn‘t hide any longer from you.

— ꒰ word count ꒱ — 2.4k

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — [ex]plicit, fem! reader, foul legacy! childe, vampire! teeth, tw blood, blood sucking, monster[fu]cking, tw huge size difference, very messy, loads of filth, slight feral childe, cw two cocks, anal, double penetration

a beclouded, overcasting darkness torrents and deluges over your cold, moonless room. it's silent, as if trapped in a frozen lake and you exhale heavily through your nose and feel how your breathing stood motionless, cornered in a room.

"it's terrifying, isn't it?" you hear a whisper, "to see me like that, knowing love won't be enough to look past my situation." and a searing, razor edged bolt plunges over your body, which was only covered in a flimsy shirt, your thighs— quivering, without exaggeration petrified yet not out of fear as one might think.

turns out, what made it so terrifying were his next, chosen words;

"yet i love you."

and they felt as if crafted by the universe itself, meticulously chiseled in an edge of relief when childe, the eleventh harbinger, took a step towards you, until looming over the bed, whispering.

"and you love me, don't you?"

by the nature of what he kept expressing to you, the words he spelled out certainly held graven significance, you remember when childe admitted that he fell in love with you the very first time, remember when he said it out loud, kind, innocent, without any twisted torment.

but ajax wasn‘t himself now, or was he? is this who he really was all along? did you fall in love with .. him?

he was someone else, point blank, something. your find yourself being snapped back into reality when a warm tear crosses your cheeks, framing your face and you ask yourself, why am i crying?

even then, you secretly know the answer, you cannot keep yourself off him, you are desperately in love, you crave him, long for his silhouette and kisses, worship the eleventh harbinger entirely and if need be, undoubtedly you'd look past his true self.

granted, the situation was new, fresh and afloat, ajax never revealed you his true, foul legacy form or rather, what it did to him in the long run, a slow, agonizing death, melting away his lifespan— or how it made him perceive himself and what he became of it— bloodthirsty, uncontrollably raging with hunger, in dire pain.

childe lets himself fuse into the bedsheets at last, crawling into your bed, it's the middle of the night, a spine-chilling hour where he confessed the truth of his nature. notwithstanding the fact that he wanted to see how far he could go now, or if he should leave you out of his life completely.

when he hovered over your body, new courage materialized from the tip of his tongue, "do you want me to leave?" he takes off the giant mask, his skin right underneath growing dimmer, resembling a violet pigmentation, revealing his electro infused eyes, pointy ears, his sharp nails, delicately raising your vibrations with soft touches on your thighs.

you might regret this later on but you do not seem scared of him, somehow turning him speechless by your reaction, "no, please stay."

"you mean it?" he sighs, if that was true, then him being a monster was possibly the lesser of the two dangers. "i do." it's quite important to note that childe could barely fit in your bed, nor could he barely fit in between your legs for that matter, and you notice how energy imbued he actually was, his body twitching as if nervous, violet particles pervading off his skin, making you tremble.

"shh," childe looms his thumb over your bottom lip, "how cute." shaking his head and gazing deeply into your eyes, your face burns and without missing a beat, he slides his other hand under your knee, easing to your thigh and spreading you apart, so he could somewhat fit between your legs more sufficiently.

you were about to open your mouth to say something, but then felt childe's large thumb slip into your mouth, rendering over your warm, wet tongue. he presses down on the wet muscle and groans sharply into his chest when you moan, sealing your lips over the digit when he began to push it in and out of you.

your eyes close, and a smaller bump nestles itself between your legs, you feel it, knowing what it was. childe was hard, words cannot hold up to the warmth flushing your entire body when you flutter your lashes down south, a big tent nudging into your core.

a shiver goes up your spine when he pulls his wet finger out of your mouth, the string of saliva attached and breaking in two, hitting your chin. "let me get rid of this." he points out, accentuating the pain in his pants before he pulls them down, not entirely but so they'd rest right under his now, bare erection, his bulky thighs quilling over the leather material of his pants.

your mouth parts at the obscene sight, a bead of sweat trailing its way between your shoulder blades; not only one, but two fully erected cocks in display for your eyes and childe slowly traces the outline with the pad of a finger, hissing out, you can practically hear him grinning over you, almost discern the lewd dreams that probably played across his mind right this second while he mounted over you, casting a shadow down your figure with such ease.

"we'll start slow." his voice rumbles, "as usual." a smirk swaying from left to right, you feel your limbs sink into the mattress, your head hazy, but when he starts to pleasure himself in front of you, you bite your lip as you watch him, indulge in it, sneaky hand traveling down to take some tension off your stimulated pussy that was dizzily fluttering around nothing.

you whine out when you insert your middle finger into your hole and childe wipes away the bundled up saliva off your lips, taking a hold on your chin and lowering his body, "turn around for me." he whispers, looking down to watch you finger yourself ready for him— as if that would actually make the stretch somewhat easier to go by.

but you do as he commands, long since forgotten about the doubts buried in your mind, flipping yourself over and perking your butt up, so he could have the best view on your holes. he never used your different hole before, but childe wasn't unpracticed in taking the necessary steps in order for it to feel good. to try and test the limits of your body, he tapped your hole with his knuckle, pushing it past the tightness as it went in freely enough, and as he felt you loosen around it, he pushed it in and out, only distantly.

after all, he couldn't finger you properly, his nails were sharp and he'd rather dig them into your hips while he fucks roughly into you.

so before anything, he draws back and childe reached over to your nightstand and grabbed into the small drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube, whatever the case, he knew he was big, far greater than in his usual, human form and didn't want to hurt you while looking like this.

nonetheless, he could barely wait, he can feel his nervous breathing puffing against his sweaty chest while he opened the bottle, gushing a generous amount of the translucent liquid on his palm.

you bite your lip back and hide your face in the pillow when you hear it as you wiggle your toes, pretty much the only part of you that's movable when he forces you to lay still, all his weight on the bed, placed on your hips with nowhere else to go, fuck, you're so wet already it made your blood boil in your veins, you underestimated this thing. it's not even inside of you yet but you want to feel it already. 

ajax spreads the moisture on his upper cock, wrapping his tip and girth with it, "there we go." as he plants one of his large palms against your lower back while the other guided his red, swollen erection towards your holes. his touch, addictive, and faithlessly wet, you felt as if your body was submerged underwater and shoved into itself, but when childe moves his erections against your holes, you whine as to signalize your desperation for him.

slow, gradual enough and bolstered with a deep tempo, your wet, aching pussy stretches around childe's cock, while his other member pokes at your other hole, for one, only leaving the tip in and out, watching your reactions closely. but with more lube, it ultimately had began to work, graciously shaping and forming itself into every fold and crevice of his girth.

before moving, he keeps himself settled, his cocks buzzing against your frayed nerves.

but your walls clung on him ever tight, like a set of skin-forming clothing, hand tailored and fitting like a vice. enveloped by your skin, childe could notice your pulse down there and you cry out his name when he thrusts into you at the same time, wrapping his giant hands around your entire hip area to lift you off the mattress, so he could use you as a cock sleeve, his own, sweet and pretty and wet fucking cock sleeve.

his cocks hit in and out of your holes at the same time, they're warm and splitting you apart, as if having a heart beat on their own which continuously shuddered and rippled around your entire figure, your skin burning from inside out, holes leaking with both childe's pre cum and your gooey slick. but the man sighs, a nagging pain finally lifted off his shoulders as he leans against your back with his entire weight, caging you in between the mattress and his strong, broad chest.

you expand your lungs, drawing in quick, hefty breaths as you moan into the smudged pillow under you, thoroughly messed up with tears of euphoria and your saliva which couldn't stop dribbling down your chin. cross eyed, while fucking yourself back into him, his rhythm was never more than slow and deep, it's perfect and whenever both cocks contracted into you entirely, you felt them press overtly against the gateways of your pleasure spots.

your hold on him was tight, both holes used and prickling with a fire like sensation, sensual drags of his cocks piercing you into oblivion, inflicting bliss on you which you never experienced to that extent. he's ruthless, head thrown back and smacking his hips into you, pheromones and filth invading the humane air of the warm room. it's so filthy, you are, or that's what crossed your mind, but fuck it feels good, more than a little, it's like crossing out every small detail on your to do list, tackling all the small places and filling them to the brim.

swiftly, you move your hand to reach back behind him, locking your digits into his soft locks when childe began to nibble and suck on your neck. at the sensation of his rough, skilled laps of his tongue, you hiss when his sharp, pointy teeth dig into the delicate skin, hard enough to draw out the blood he so desperately craved to taste. in a sense, it's as if it broadened his lifespan, vitalized his endurance and replenished his stamina, "aah—" you cry out into the pillow, almost ashamed by how good it feels, mustering enough strength to grab a fistful of his hair to drag him into you, closer, more sufficient, his hips still working wonders on both entrances.

you're soiling him entirely and you can feel how your gummy slick and his warm, thick cum ooze down your thighs as childe moans into your neck, repeatedly, sucking the warm blood out of you, snapping his cocks in and out and acting feral, your spine arched up, ass perked and lifted so he could pound perfectly and fuck into you.

voiceless cries with a dry throat, inarticulate whispers of his name, your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. you're gone, too gone, hypnotized by the pleasure he was bestowing on you.

this next thrust was especially lucky in your eyes, and you cough up a broken moan when he hits your spots just right. you're rolling your hips back against the intrusion, desperate, full of need, face fallen and a mess. it was hot and wet, you could sense the boiling coil in your stomach, how it wouldn't be long until you'd release around him, and so did childe, feel himself become undone soon.

"just a bit more.." he's breathless, the smacking sounds of your ass against his hips fueling his desire to make you cum together, to have you drenched and filled up with his seed, both holes stuffed full and ready to go for another round, that's a new dream he had been playing in his head on auto repeat right now.

"fuck—" you scream, "fuck, baby! so close—!" and suddenly taste the intrusion in your belly, it's so warm and heavy, spilling, prodding, consuming, mind numbing you, knowing full on well nothing more could ever satisfy you as good as he did. the thick spurts of cum gush into your stomach so heavily it almost hurts, there was so much of it you feared to explode.

yet you come undone the same time as he did, violently arching your back as he wraps his arms around your sticky chest, the brush over your stiff nipples making you whine and tremble. he lifts you off the bed to harshly fuck the last bit into you, he wants you to have it all, until his balls were properly emptied out and dried up, but your holes adequately jammed and crowded.

your used, vibration numbed nerves and muscles come back to life and you collapse back on the bed, you taste salt and sweat on your lips before turning around to face your lover sitting back, barely out of breath, unlike you.

ajax pleasingly hums to himself, "you're mine." pulling himself against you, "you're mine forever." before sealing your bodies as you blink up to him with large, glowing eyes. you try not to notice his smile too much, yet all his reactions weren't a surprise.

in the end, he had won you over, he thinks to himself, kneading the soreness off your body, splashing his large thigh between your wobbly legs, deciding to rub it against your core to catch a reactions, making you realize that he wasn't done yet. 

beyond further questioning, it was the middle of the night.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

#childe smut #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe x reader #genshin impact childe smut #tw monsterfucking #tw blood #tw dark content #tw size difference #tw size kink

[aphroditesmoon]

hi there ! could I get a gwen x gn! reader where gwen finally confronts reader after going missing for months during events of atsv?

lose your faith in me

gwen stacy x gn!reader

summary: two months without her was too long for you, but not long enough for you to forget her.

warnings: hurt/comfort, gn reader, fluff, curse words.

a/n: hopefully this is to your liking<3

°°°

IT'S BEEN accurately 68 days and 1610 hours since you've last seen Gwen Stacy.

Two months since she slid out of your window while you were sleeping in the middle of the night. Two months since she disappeared without a word, leaving you nothing but a folded paper by your bedside with a 'text u when i get home' scribbled over it.

George Stacy wouldn't meet your eyes when you decided to come knocking on his door a month ago. It felt like you're not looking beyond the curtains where the sun hides when you're talking to him.

He didn't know where Gwen was, it was evident, but he wasn't worried over it either. And when he says her name, it sounds foreign to both ypur ears, like he's talking about a stranger and not his own daughter.

He tells you that you shouldn't look for her. An odd thing for a father to say, but the grief in his eyes forces you to oblige, so you gave in and threw away her stupid rotting note, buried deep in your pockets for all the while she's been missing.

But ghosts eventually find their way back home, her grave in the shape of your bed, and in your arms the only place she'll ever find peace.

You felt her before you saw her, chilly air enters your room from the window, and when you glance up from your pillow, her silhouette stares back at you, an image so clear and persistent that you know you weren't dreaming it. You lift up your body, eyes squinting at her. When she steps closer, the moon finally shining its light on her face, you flinch as you're met with a masked face, the widely known ghost-spider.

A barely audible gasp leaves you when the spiderwoman moves to rip the mask off of her face, and all the questions you've asked nightly to the universe finally answers themselves. You take off your blanket slowly, getting up to walk towards your Gwen is a cautious manner, her eyes stays on your face, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for fear to colour your features.

But besides your suprised expression, you don't show any sign of hostility towards her.

Gwen watches as you finally step in front of her, faces inches from eachother, eyes wide and brows furrowing. She didn't plan to reveal this to you, neither did she plan to find herself in your room, the moment she's been zapped back into her universe by Miguel.

Her fingers flexes to stop itself from trembling, and when your hands reaches up to cup the right side of her face, her eyes soften, and Gwen lets out a heavy breath, succumbing to your touch.

You don't hesitate to move your arms around her, pulling her towards you as she finds her place on your neck, her own hands wrapped around your waist.

You feel her fingers fisting the back of your shirt, as if you'd disappear if she pulls way. Eventually you do, facing eachother once more, you lean your forehead againts hers and feel your mind finally coming back into yourself. She didn't want to speak, it was obvious, but you also knew that it was necessary.

Dissapearing for two months was one thing, finding out she was ghost-spider is another. You should feel betrayed, angry, disappointed in the least, but all you felt was aching pity for her, trying to imagine how alone she must've felt, even when she had you by her side. You opened your mouth to speak but she cut you to it first.

"I'm so stupid." You cracked a smile despite the circumstances as Gwen winces at her own words.

"That fucking came out wrong- I was gonna say 'I'm so sorry' actually." She corrected herself, gripping your forearm.

"I know." You tell her. "You should've-"

"-Told you, I know, god knows, I know. I was just so terrified, I lost Peter, and everyone thinks I killed him, my own dad looked at me like i was a monster when I took my mask off in front of him. Do you think I could've handled having you look at me like that?" That silenced you.

All the petty anger you've buried deep waiting for her return felt childish now. You would've done the same thing if you were her, you knew that.

When she sees your own tears welling up, Gwen cursed herself for saying the things she said. She didn't need you to carry her guilt. Gwen pulled you back into her arms, and you take in the odd mint smelling shampoo she must've been using and kissed her temple.

You felt yourself about to burst now, She was here, and she's laying herself open for you to see, all the things she's never told anyone about before.

"I love you." You croaked out, feeling yourself unable to strain the overwhelming sadness. And Gwen wipes your tears away despite her own and tells you what you already know. "I love you too."

#gwen stacy #gwen stacy x reader #ghost spider x reader #ghost spider #atsv x reader #atsv #hobie brown x reader #across the spiderverse #pavitr prabhakar #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse

[ladychota]

I Missed You

Pairing - Loki x Female Reader

Warnings - Crying Loki, freaking Thanos dusting half the universe, grief (lmk if you want me to add anything)

Summary - The Avengers leave for a mission, leaving you and Loki alone in the compound to do whatever you want... but something unexpected happens.

Word Count - 850

A/N - This takes place at the end of Infinity War to near the end of Endgame, but Loki survived Thanos and his neck-crushing hands

Masterlist

"I'm glad they didn't let you go on that mission," You say, stroking Loki's hair as he lies on your chest.

"Oh really?" He replies. "And why's that?"

"Because it means we can spend time together. I missed you when you went to Asgard with Thor,"

You feel him smile against your stomach. "I missed you too, my love. So much. When Thanos came for us, I honestly thought it was the end. I thought I'd never get to hold you ever again,"

You hum in sad acknowledgement. "I started to get worried after the first few weeks of no contact. I was so scared that something had happened and I wasn't there to save you..."

You feel his hand stroke your face lovingly. "Well, we're here together now. That's all that matters, darling,"

"I agree," You smile. "In fact, why don't we do something? We should make use of this alone time,"

Loki sits up just enough so he can see your face, then leans forwards and presses a kiss to your lips. "I'd like that,"

You both get up and stretch, planning what you could do together.

"We could do some baking," You suggest. "Or reading,"

"Hmm... we could make those little fairy cakes you like," Loki pulls you towards him, a grin playing on his lips.

"Yes! They're my fav-" Your sentence is cut off by an odd pull in your chest. The smile is wiped from your face.

Something isn't right.

"Are you okay, my love?" Loki asks, concern lacing his every word. "We don't have to do it,"

You look up into his worried green eyes, your breathing becoming short.

"S-something's happened," You say shakily, feeling your body weakening.

"What do you mean?" Loki's grip tightens on your arms.

Something black begins to swirl around you... ashes, perhaps?

"Wait... wait Y/n! No!" His panicked voice fades away; his body disappears. You stumble forwards at the lack of contact. 

The ashes that were once floating around seem to sink into your skin. You look around at the once beautiful room as it slowly transforms. The wallpaper starts to peel and discolour, the furniture overturns and breaks itself, the light in the room disappears as the curtains are drawn.

You freeze, looking around the room as your heart is gripped by fear.

"What the fuck..."

What just happened? Where did Loki go? You feel your strength returning, but that feeling of weakness is quickly replaced by terror.

"Y/n!?" You hear a shout and fast feet down the corridor outside. "Y/n!!"

"Loki!?" He bursts through the door and freezes as you run a stressed hand through your hair. "I don't know what the hell just ha-"

You stop speaking as you notice him walking towards you slowly; timidly; his eyes filling with tears.

"Are you alright?" You ask, your voice breaking slightly with worry.

His hands cup your face, caressing your cheeks so gently it's as if he's worried about breaking you.

"Are you really here?" His voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Yes...?" You whisper in return. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His bottom lip trembles as the welling tears finally spill and trickle down his face. To think you were speaking of making fairy cakes only a moment ago...

"Y/n... my love, it's been five years,"

Your brow furrows in confusion. "Five years? Since what?"

He lets out a shuddering breath. "We lost, Y/n. That mission the others were sent on? They lost. Thanos snapped. He killed half of the universe, in-including... you,"

Your heart fills with dread, Loki's teary eyes only making it worse. "But then... how am I here?"

A small, sad smile graces his face before it disappears only a moment later. "We got the stones back. Bruce snapped and... and... you're here,"

His arms wrap around you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sobs wracking through his body. He's holding you so tightly it hurts, but you don't care.

"I'm here, Loki..." You murmur, trying to reassure him as tears spring to your own eyes.

He pulls away after a few minutes, attempting to steady his breathing as he looks down at you.

"I missed your beauty," He whispers. You notice how tired he looks, how the spark in his eyes seems to have died. "I missed your laugh and your jokes. I missed your voice, the twinkle in your eye, the lines you get on your face when you smile," He gives you a small, wobbly smile; you're both on the verge of tears once more as he continues:

"I missed the happiness and love you brought me. I missed the way you fiddle with your hair or my hand when you're nervous, the way you snuggle into my chest when you're tired, the way you try anything and everything to make sure I'm comfortable and happy..." He takes a deep breath.

"I missed you, Y/n,"

You feel your heart break slightly upon hearing his words, a single tear slipping down your cheek. You move onto your tip toes, leaning up to kiss him in silent gratitude, his words meaning more to you than you could ever express.

But your lips never meet.

Instead you're met with the blinding light of the world exploding around you.

#loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki #laufeyson #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki oneshot #marvel #avengers #mcu

[vox-ex]

Give me your hand

SCBB 2023

Kara just wants to protect Lena, but when has it ever been that simple. Over the course of one night, Lena and Kara let fear and ghosts unravel as they learn how to hold onto each other again.

Read it here or on AO3

_____

I had the unexpected chance to write something else for this year's @supercorpbb and I am so excited for you all to see the art that was the reason I was expected to say yes to the opportunity! Please go take a look and send some love to @guessimreallyhere

_____

Lena sighs, rolling onto her back as she listens to the raindrops ping off the windows before they made their way to the pavement below, the monotonous rhythm making the city feel heavy and frantic despite the late hour and stillness of the streets. Her fingers trace the path of the fading bruises and angry red lines of shallow cuts that stood in stark contrast to her pale skin—every mark on her body, a testament to the cruel irony of the unforgiving laws of motion.

It had been an almost tragedy in three acts. 

The burst of heat that came first, the explosion that came after, but like always — never quite the fall. 

Only Kara. 

Her body in front of her. 

Her cape spread around her.

Her weight pressed against her.

One body in motion meeting another not. 

And how many times must Kara have caught her in the same way?

Held her in the same way?

But the universe does not concern itself with those kinds of odds. 

And so the fall did come, after all, just in a different way. 

Lena could still feel the ghost of her arms around her. She winces as she recalls the sound of her ribs cracking under the impact of them. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguished look on Kara's face when she realized what had happened — the frantic look in her eyes, the trembling in her hands, the breathless apologies that slipped out over and over and over through lungs that couldn't hold enough air to keep up. 

She turns and glances at the clock— 11:50pm — she wonders how it was possible it could be the same day still, time feeling as fragmented as the rest of her. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she feels the ache of her body and the deeper pain of something else. She pulls a coat over the sweater that hung loose from her shoulders, the smell of sun-drenched wool and worn leather mixing with the heady scent of rain and asphalt as she stepped outside. 

----

Kara's knees buckled as she landed heavily, the floor creaking beneath her, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She pressed her shaking hands hard enough against her ears until she could almost forget the sound of Lena's body hitting hers. 

Too hard. 

Too fast. 

She had been too slow. 

Too uncontrolled.

And she should have stayed. 

But didn't. 

Couldn't. 

So she left. 

Ran.  Flew.

She flew so fast the city underneath had blurred, luminous smears streaking across her vision like stars disappearing until they became indistinguishable from every other bit of sky and stars and empty expanse of space she ever found herself in. Maybe she's disappearing again too. Maybe she never came back. Maybe she shouldn't have come back. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered over and over and over. "I'm sorry," her broken voice matching the hurried but steady rhythm of Lena's distant heart, promising her at least one more chance.  

But how many times had she saved the world, only to fail again and again at protecting one single person in it, the same single person in it? 

How many more chances could there be? 

The cape on her shoulders felt heavy and cumbersome.

The sigil on her chest pressed in against her lungs. 

It felt hard to breathe with them on.

Hard to stay standing. 

She tore and pulled at them both until they lay in a pile on the floor. 

What good had they done anyway? 

She sank down beside them. 

What good had she been anyway? 

----

Lena pulls the key to Kara's apartment from the patterned groove it had worn into her pocket; the edges softened a little by its use over the past weeks.  

But unlike the quiet that used to greet her, that only ever felt empty, this quiet was overwhelming, like it had a weight to it. 

Pieces of Kara's suit littered the floor, rain pooling under the heavy fabric. 

"Kara?" Lena whispered as she moved into the room. 

"Don't!" Kara's choked sob broke the imprint of stillness. 

Lena could barely see her pressed against the shadows. 

"Don't," Kara said again, almost a plea, quieter, softer, but no less desperate. Her shoulders trembled, the hands knotted in her hair and around her knees, trying to hold herself together. She looked as if she had been put away in pieces, too. 

Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting Lena's for the briefest of moments before she looked away, tears glistening on her cheeks. "I can't," her voice raw with pain. "I hurt you — I always hurt you."

Lena kneels down next to her, her hands and her heart, aching to prove her wrong. 

"I think we've both done our share of hurting each other." 

"I just want to protect you, but instead, every time, every single time, I just..." Kara murmurs, her breath hitching in her chest as she fights to keep the panic at bay. 

"You did protect me," Lena cuts her off gently. The words you 'you always have' left for another time, another conversation. 

"These hands," she said, reaching towards her slowly. 

Kara's gaze flitts between Lena's eyes and her hands. 

"They're not going to hurt me," Lena assures her. "Trust me," her fingers brush against Kara's arm, the contact fleeting but grounded with intention, "trust that I know what I can bear."

"You shouldn't have to bear it." Kara looks away, her hand twitching, open and close, open and close.   

"Kara," Lena reaches for her hand,"...can I just..." fingers brushing against trembling skin.

Kara closes her eyes, and gently, Lena draws both their hands up, fingers laced together. 

She had become familiar with Kara's touch. With its strength. With its warmth. Its gentleness. Its tenderness. It is a wonder that her hands alone never gave her away. But it has been a long time since they have been close in that way, have let themselves be close in that way, were allowed to be close in that way. 

She had missed it — missed her. 

Had ached to see if was still as she remembered it. 

It is. 

She remembers it again in the gentleness of fingertips that lift her chin, tilting her jaw to ease away the purple and blue edges blooming under her skin. Feels it again in the warmth of her palms as they press just under the hem of her shirt and across the skin they find there. 

"Even after everything I've done?" Kara asks, her voice cracking under the weight of guilt and doubt, and every other ghost lay bare. "Even after all the pain I've caused?"

"Hey, look at me," Lena urges gently, her fingers curling around Kara's wrists to draw her gaze upward, pulling Kara's focus back to her. 

"It's not your decision. I choose to bear it because I choose you. Just like you bear everything for me...choose me." Lena replies firmly, her gaze never wavering from Kara's tear-streaked face.

"Okay," she whispers, the word fragile. "Together." 

"Always," Lena vows.

----

Slowly, Kara's hands become her own again. 

When they do, she reaches up once more. 

Gently, she brushes a strand from Lena's face, tucking it behind her ear. Her finger lingering, tracing one more time the line of Lena's jaw. They stay a little longer this time, and she can feel the way Lena turns into the touch, the way she lets her head fall just a little into her hand. She thinks maybe it says something about the irrationality of the universe that one of the heaviest things she has ever carried would fit so perfectly into her palm. 

"You're cold," she murmurs, more fact than question, feeling for the first time the small shivers and flecks of rain on Lena's skin.

Lena nods, the movement barely perceptible, and something unspoken passes between them – a quiet understanding, a shared vulnerability.

And with a gentle determination, Kara does the thing she wished she had hours ago. She takes care of her. She leans in just a little first, reaches out slowly, gives Lena time to pull away or maybe herself to, but neither of them do. Kara slips her arms around her then, one threading itself under her knees and the other around her back, and as she stands Lena curls towards the warmth of her chest. 

Together, they move through the dimly lit room and Kara sets her on the edge of the bed.  

"Let me get you something to wear" she says softly, turning around to pull out a heavy sweatshirt and a pair of soft cotton boxers. Lena winces slightly at the pull on her bruised ribs as she lifts her arms up to take them and Kara's brow creases with concern. 

"Do you? C-can I?" she tries to get the words to settle into any one question. 

"Just the sweater maybe." 

Their hands work together once more, easing the slightly damp sweater over Lena's head. 

She's slow and careful still, will always be careful with Lena, the word itself repeating over and over with every brush of a hand against chilled skin, with every trace of fingertips along the small scars she found both old and new. 

She didn't realized she had stopped, her thumb running back and forth, back and forth, over one small scar at the base of Lena's collarbone, until the lilt of Lena's voice breaks through. 

"Hey. You with me still?"

Kara looks at the scar, but it's not guilt that settles in her stomach, it's something else. 

"I won't always be able to protect you."

And this was a different kind of confession altogether. Because even if Kara could protect Lena from her, there was a whole world set against them too. 

"No, no you won't." 

Lena puts the sweatshirt down in her lap and places her hand over Kara's chest instead. 

"But I won't always be able to protect you either."

Kara looks down at the sweatshirt again, notices the faded MIT logo, realizes that she wasn't the one who put it in her drawer, places it instead in her mind among the other peices of Lena she had been finding in her apartment since she'd been back. Little hints of how the world had moved without her in it, the people that came and went. Those that stayed. 

She lifts Lena's hand off of her chest. Presses a kiss to her palm before letting it back down. 

She turns away to give Lena privacy, feeling a gentle tug on her arm when she was done changing. 

"Lay down with me" she asks, but it isn't really a question. 

Kara nods all the same, the mattress dipping under their weight, but it settles quickly, as do they. It's odd to feel so still in the aftermath of so much motion. 

"I like that your hands are always so warm," Lena said, her voice barely more than a breath. "I missed that."

"Really?" Kara asks, her heart swelling at the admission.

"Really," Lena affirms, her own hand coming up to cover Kara's where it rests against her cheek. "I always noticed it, but then we weren't close anymore and then you were gone. So it's... it's a reminder that you came back, but also that I am close enough to know that about you again."

Kara lets her forehead rest against Lena's, breathing in the comforting scent of her. The rain that still clings lightly to her hair, dampening Kara's shirt, but she doesn't mind. She would ruin every part of herself long before she let go of her again. 

 "It was always cold there. I don't um, I don't usually feel cold here, but there, it was always cold. And dark. And the darkness could have been okay I think, after everything, it's something that I've learned to carry with me, but the cold just never went away. I still feel it sometimes. When something goes wrong, or when I worry something isn't real, my hands get cold and there's this moment where I'm sure I'm there again."

Lena brings her hand up resting it over Kara's heart as she tucks herself into Kara's side just a little further.  Kara releases a shaky breath, focusing on the sensation of Lena's touch. Any cold quickly receding. 

"You're here." 

"I'm here." She confirms, tightening her hold on Lena, drawing her in, before pulling back just a little, brushing her thumb over her cheek.

"And you're here."

Lena's eyes flutter shut at the contact, hands coming up to grasp loosely at the front of Kara's shirt.

"I am."

And the world, with all its uncertainty and ceaseless motion, seemed to be held back, at least for one night, by that one piece of tangible proof. 

----

Kara had laid awake all night, daring the darkness to try and take this from her, too. But it was dawn now, and there was nothing left to fight. Lena was still there. She could still feel where her fingers had passed through the ends of her hair, could still feel where she had left kisses pressed into her skin, could feel the weight of her head laid across her chest and the warmth of her body next to hers. 

There had been no ghosts to chase away that morning. There was only Lena. Nothing but Lena.  Nothing but Lena's hand as it slid along her ribs, nothing but her hair as it brushed her bare skin, nothing but her breath against her ear.  Nothing and everything tethered together.  She realizes then she was clinging to Lena, her arm trembling to keep her close. As if to say to gravity and anyone else that they couldn't have her yet. But when Kara looks up at the corners of the room; they were bright in a way that hadn't quite reached the rest of the room yet, like the world too was giving them just a little more time together before the rest of it demanded their attention. 

And she would have lied there just like that until it did. If not for the gentle press of a kiss against her cheek. 

Kara tilts her head down to look at Lena, who was staring back at her with a soft smile. 

"Good morning," Lena whispers, her voice still heavy with sleep.

Kara's eyes trace the morning light spreading across the healing bruises on her skin and in the flecks of gold in her eyes.  

"Good morning," Kara replies, her voice barely above a whisper still weary of the world pressing in and still hesitant about her ability to keep it out, to protect Lena from it and her and all the other things that could cause her harm. 

"Cold?" Lena asks, running her fingers through Kara's disheveled locks, pushing them out of her face. The question heavy with what it really asked. 

"No." Kara shakes her head, cupping Lena's cheek, her thumb running over the delicate skin. 

"How about you?"

Lena reaches across and takes Kara's other hand threading their fingers together and holding their joined hands up for Kara to see. 

"Never with you" 

Kara sits up, pulling Lena gently onto her lap. She runs her hands along the bruises she could see and the ones she couldn't. If she couldn't always protect her then she could at least always be there to take care of her. And for all the times she hadn't before, she lets herself in that moment ask forgiveness. Lets her body and her hands and the gentle press of lips say all the things she should have all along. 

#sg prompts #supercorp #supergirl #scbb 2023 #supercorp big bang 2023 #scbb things #listen they all just need hugs #and a break from the universe messing with them #back on this thing called angst with a hopeful ending #I love it when artists and writers get together #please go take a look at the artwork #it’s perfect

[sinner-sunflower]

P.2 HH Lucifer-centric AU 10/?

STORY 1, PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 14.5, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

Notes at the end!

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

Lucifer should've known that even in his sleep, his torment would not stop.

He should have been wiser, but exhaustion dulled his senses, making him lower his guard.

He thought that maybe, maybe, the universe would give me just this little moment. And at the beginning he really thought that. He felt weightless. Like he's not the Morningstar, the fallen angel, the King of Hell, the Sin of Pride, a father or a lover. Like for the first time in a millennia, he simply existed.

So forgive him for his surprise when darkness swallowed his dreams before he could savor them fully.

Roo: Hello, fallen. Been a while, hasn't it?

Lucifer: Roo.

Roo: Don't look at me like that. Our deal is still in effect, you know. I can't do anything more than this even if I wanted to.

Lucifer: You saying you want to do more then? Like harm me?

Roo: Ugh, you silly creatures, always so pessimistic. Can't someone just chill and have fun?

Lucifer: I highly doubt the root of all evil and chaos embodiment just wants to 'chill'.

Roo: Believe what you will, fallen. I am many things, but I am no liar.

Lucifer: Your sister surely is.

Roo had to laugh at that. 

Roo: Yin in every Yang or so they say.

Lucifer: What? You're telling me you have good in you?

Roo: I would think the fact that you get to keep your soul was a sign in and of itself.

Lucifer: That's less than the bare minimum.

Roo smirked and rested her head on her hand, a gesture that grated Lucifer's nerves. He couldn't help but think he should take a page from Adam's book and wipe that shit-eating grin off her face.

Roo: Had the old man never told you to not look at a gifted horse's mouth? 

Lucifer: Enough. Why are you really here?

Roo: If you must know, I merely wanted to ask how you are doing! After all, meeting The Fates must have been quite the experience.

Lucifer: You were looking?

Roo: I wanted to see if my vessel works well. It's not my fault I can see everything you see, hear every thought you think, feel every pain you wish never happened but also desire to inflict onto yourself. I wanna ask, does your pity party ever stop?

Realistically, Lucifer knows that Roo is messing with him; she was deliberately provoking him, reveling in his inner turmoil. She's luring him in, and he's taking the bait.

There's a creeping cold that's getting worse the longer they talk. He thought nothing of it at first but he's now starting to feel it under his skin.

He's well aware of the threat in front of him but doesn't mean he's not going to bite back with force.

Lucifer: I think you're forgetting who delivered the final blow in the first war. You know, the blow that led to your defeat?

Roo's nonchalant and playful facade cracked just a bit that Lucifer knows he struck a nerve.

Lucifer: Hell, shouldn't you be more thankful to me? Without my actions in offering the fruit to humanity, you wouldn't have gained the power you so desperately craved to rise again. And now, here you are, benefiting from my influence once more.

The Sin of Pride couldn't fathom where this sudden surge of confidence came from, but he refused to cower any longer. Roo had expected him to tremble in fear, to bow before her as if she were someone superior to be revered on.

He's sick and tired of everyone assuming he should be the one on his knees, begging for mercy.

Lucifer: How are you the root of all evil when I'm the one who started sin. You should be worshipping me! Now that I think about it, in some twisted way, I was your creator-

His mockery was short lived when the dreamscape glitched and suddenly it wasn't Roo in front of him; it's The Root of All Evil.

Laughter erupted from the shadowy figure, a grotesque sound reminiscent of a rabid hyena's. Refusing to be intimidated, Lucifer continues to put oil in the fire.

Lucifer: Bringing out the big guns for a little comment? Insecure much?

He's bullshitting at this point but damn him if he's going down without an ounce of victory. He also thinks he's lucky to have said as much at all.

The abrupt stop of laughter sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, and then gravity seemed to solidify around him, pressing down with an oppressive force.

Push.

Michael: All you had to do was listen.

Push.

Lilith: You're exhausting, Lucifer.

Push.

Charlie: He's defending this hotel! How come he could have faith in me but my own father can't.

Push.

Y̵̛̞̝̳̥͍̏͛͊ö̴̼̭̜̖́͗̒͝ü̴̩͚͆͑ ̵͎̉̒̄̄ả̶̭͈͍̟̳ṙ̵̡̲͙̼͎è̸̮̳̲̊͂̔̍ ̴̠͔̯̘̬̑͝s̵̜̪̗̯̚è̴͇͌̇ṅ̷̘̝̀t̶̛̹̝̄͘ẻ̶͓̱̬͔̅̉ͅn̵̥̽̋̌̓ĉ̴͜e̶̯͇̤̺̤̅̀̅d̵̝̰̬̗̋ͅ ̶̝͕̩͇̱̎̋͝͝ẗ̶̢̊͠õ̶̡̦͖͒̈́̍̍ ̸̧̏F̸̧̬̪̂̋a̸̞͈͍͇̔̓͘͜l̶̬͙̤͈̝̑̕l̵̼͂.̴̱̘̣̽̏̕͜

Lucifer screams. But instead of despair, he feels anger bubbling within him. What the hell is happening to him? He's been snapping more. Why did he snap at Michael? Why did he tell him that he can't wait for Heaven to be destroyed? He never wanted that. All he wanted was to give Eve free will. All he wanted was to love Lilith. All he wanted was for Charlie to be safe. All he wanted was for everything to STOP!

Roo: What's the matter, little devil? Never seen real evil before?

The cold is becoming unbearable now. The lake is frozen and all the greenery had been turned into crystals, consumed by the creeping frost that made them look like solid darkness.

Lucifer gritted his teeth, feeling the chill seeping into his bones, threatening to overwhelm him. He refused to give Roo the satisfaction of witnessing the King of Hell tremble; regardless if it's in fear or not.

Roo: Let me show you just how good of a person I can be. 

Then she's suddenly up on his face and brings a finger to his forehead.

Lucifer can feel Roo's corruption going further inside him and at the same time, a lot of somethings are coming out. It must be his remaining divinity because that's the only reason he can think of on why his Father's tether is screaming and clawing at him. 

He feels himself choke from everything happening all at once but he can't move. Roo has him locked in place and he never felt so helpless.

'Am I going to die here?'

No. Roo said that she won't be the one to deliver him to his demise. Nevertheless, he thinks that this is it.

Roo: Remember these words, fallen. A message from The Fates that you did not get to hear.

Charlie. He wants Charlie.

Roo: With the first soul's ascend, all began to unfold.

Tears begin to form in The King of Hell's eyes. Be it from the pain or fear, he doesn't know. 

Roo: It will end at a star's fall, as the threads have foretold.

Michael! Where is he?! He promised Samael he'll always protect him!

Roo: Trumpets will sing, as the sky recites a prayer.

'Father. Help me.'

Roo: An instrument of Heaven shall come down and be the devil's slayer.

He struggled to remain conscious; he fights to stay awake but he can't even move a finger but his efforts were in vain as he collapsed to the frozen ground, utterly drained. Through hazy vision, he can see Roo staring down at him with a gleeful smile.

Roo: See you soon, my fallen~

He wakes up to the smell of Marigolds.

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

In Nifty's voice: How was that?!!

You have no idea how long I spent making that rhyme prophecy thingy.

As always, your kind words and actions are greatly appreciated!

My DM's are always open for theories and introspections <3

#hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin lilith #hazbin husk #hazbin vaggie #hazbin roo #root of all evil #hazbin hotel roo #hazbin cherri bomb #hazbin sir pentious #hazbin emily #hazbin nifty #hazbin sera #hazbin michael #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel angel oc #hazbin hotel oc #hazbin original character #hazbin oc #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel niffty #hazbin hotel cherri bomb #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel sir pentious

[dracowars]

Hi!! I love love loveee your writing so much ❤️ if your requests are open, may i request a fluff soft draco comforting the y/n cause she has such abusive parents that abuses her physically and mentally cause they think that its her fault that she has all these trauma but actually that trauma itself was caused by her family 😞, and draco already knows about it but one day she just started crying because something happened and draco was just comforting and giving soothing and sweet words!! I'm sorry if my request are too much and might be triggering to you, you can write it if you want and its okay if you dont want to either :) i just need draco to comfort me thru these fics :"D I'm sorry

against the world | draco malfoy

pairing: draco x reader

word count: 0,6k

summary: where y/n is suffering from trauma due to her parents

a/n: hopefully i could do this justice <3

warnings: angst, cursing, mentions of trauma, physical absue, mental abuse, toxic parental relationship

universe: harry potter

"And then he went on blaming me for not paying enough attention. Like, come on, it wasn't my fault the other team was clearly better", Draco scoffs as he is rummaging around his bag, fishing out some of his books for different classes before neatly placing them on his bookshelf, making sure they don't fall over. "My dad can be so annoying sometimes. Always fucking criticising me for nothing."

While Draco absentmindedly started talking about this topic, you are sure he did not realize what it inflicts in you. And you really want to listen, you really want to help him and give him advice, but there are no words coming from your mouth as you are pulling your knees closer to your chest, your back leaning against the wall while sitting on Draco's bed.

"I perform poorly in a test, I'm dishonoring the family and I'm a shame to the Malfoys. Oh, but when I actually get good grades, well, I wasn't good enough, I could have done better", he rambles on, still looking around his room, looking everywhere but you who is slowly sinking together, your forehead on top of your knees.

Terrible images appear in front of you, of your parents screaming at you once again, blaming you once again for being weak, for being traumatized by the things they did to you. They would never let you voice your opinion, they were never accepting any of your words, any of your feelings. All that mattered is that you behave according to their strict rules.

But you didn't.

A wave of emotions rolls over you all of a sudden when you think back to what they did to you, your own parents, physically and mentally, and you can't help yourself but to let out a loud, deep sob that finally catches Draco's attention. Without hesiation, he is at your side in a second, laying one hand on your knee while making sure to give you the space you need.

"Fuck, Y/N, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking about what I was saying. I didn't mean to- I'm so stupid, I'm sorry. Please forgive me", Draco whispers in a fast manner, truly feeling bad for being the cause of your sudden emotional outburst. But it is not his fault, it definitely is not. You should have overcome your fears and trauma a long time ago, but these wounds are so deep that there will always be a scar.

Your own parents scarred you for a lifetime.

Wiping away your tears with the back of your hands, trembling, you allow Draco to put his arms around you and to just hold you, in his safe embrace where no one can ever hurt you. With one of his hands on your upper arm, he presses you into him, making you feel warm, while the other is slowly and carefully caressing your cheek.

Enjoying the feeling of his touch, you sink further into his side, your panic and anxiety slowly decreasing as Draco is holding you close, not ever letting go while constantly mumbling a mixture of apologies and reassurence.

"They can't hurt you here", he says, so quietly that you can barely hear it, but you just know what he means. You cuddle further into him, putting your arm across his stomach, your cheek on his shoulder, and listen to his slowly but steady breath which is calming you down. Draco puts his chin on top of your head, inhaling your scent while now caressing your arm. Where everything felt dark and restricting just moments ago, it now feels calm, quiet and safe.

"It's us against the world", Draco whispers, softly kissing the top of your head, making sure that you feel safe with him.

#draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #draco malfoy os #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy ff #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy one shots #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy x female reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy fluff #draco angst #draco fluff #draco x female reader #draco x y/n #draco fanfic #draco ff #draco fic #draco fanfiction #draco os #draco one shot #draco one shots #draco imagine #draco imagines #hp imagine #harry potter fanfiction

[schafpudel]

Epidemiology of the Raven's Blood

Part 0: Prologue

Realistically, the blood does things because it's convenient to the plot of the anime, and no deeper thought needs to be put in than that. However, while it does explain inconsistencies in its writing, it's boring and not fun to my pattern-seeking brain. I like to piece together coherent internal logic to stuff in fiction, even if I know the authors themselves didn't think that hard about it. It's fun to me!

At the same time, Princess Tutu's meta-fictional conceit does give us some wiggle room to borrow the Doylist understanding and smuggle it back into a Watsonian explanation. So...

In-universe, I think, the purpose of the Raven’s Blood can be understood as a plot device to easily convert a separate “character” and their body into a narrative extension of the Raven; that this is why Drosselmeyer would write it into the logic of his story. Bored of a character you introduced previously and want to heighten the stakes? They're a toadie of the Raven now. And when we go a level down in fictionality...

To the Raven, other living things exist to be exploited. The only use you can have, beyond being a meal, is being a pawn who can get it what it wants – and what it wants is to consume. Like some ancient castle-bound vampire or wicked dragon, its power and intelligence are ultimately in service of a simple predatory desire. If you are neither edible nor manipulable, you are simply a nuisance.

Diseases and parasites will manipulate pain and pleasure, fear and love, the body and the brain. But while a real disease or parasite’s goal in psychological and physiological manipulation is to reproduce, to turn the infected into a means by which to spread itself to new hosts... the Raven's curse is uninterested in this. What matters, to the Raven, is that the cursed becomes a minion and a pawn, who can bring its prey closer to its own mouth.

Part 1: Lay All Your Love On Me

Did you know rabies induces spasms of fear and hallucinations in its victims, to get them to bite? That the characteristic fear of water is caused by the virus tightening its victims throats if they even think of drinking, all to the end of preventing the miserable animal from washing away its contagion-rich saliva? It presses levers and pushes buttons of abject misery on the control panel of the animal, on its quest to get what it wants.

One symptom of the Raven’s blood illustrated by Mytho’s progression that fascinates me is pain. This is not simply a magic juice that makes you evil; it is a sickness.

Let’s look at the the scene in episode 19, where Kraehe dances a pas-de-deux with (a clearly pained, unwilling, and unhappy) Mytho to try and convince him to “give in” to the Raven’s Blood and become her prince. She succeeds, causing Mytho to become possessed by Raven!Mytho, who immediately retaliates that he’s owed her love as a prince and that she should love him more, and him alone. (Strange, as Kraehe/Rue has never once indicated that she has any romantic feelings towards anyone else at all…)

What’s odd is what happens immediately after this point. Mytho’s eyes widen, as if what he’s just said has triggered some kind of… realization. We then see him tremble and close his eyes as they shift from pink to gold and back, indicating – as always – either a struggle between Raven!Mytho and “the Real Mytho,”or a struggle by Mytho against the Raven’s blood influence. (It often seems the show isn’t entirely sure whether to treat Raven!Mytho is a corrupted mental state and therefore part of Mytho, or as an intrusive raven persona possessing an agency-less Mytho’s body against his will.)

Mytho, once again under the blood’s control, pushes Kraehe away and stumbles off, clutching himself in a self-hug as he mutters about not having enough love. The crows rejoice as Kraehe looks on sadly.

This is clearly, from context, not just about Raven!Mytho needing to acquire love for sacrifices, because demanding more love from Kraehe would not accomplish that goal. He feels like he needs love, exclusively directed at him, from as many sources as possible. Viscerally, like a hunger or an addiction. And it hurts. The audience is invited to share Rue’s concern and sadness at this pitiful sight.

(This narrative choice *gets* at me a little, because we are not normally meant to sympathize with Raven!Mytho. By and large, he is treated as an unambiguously evil Other that has usurped the “real” Mytho’s body and identity. Yet here, he elicits pity. The monster in the prince is pitiful.)

Here’s the same body language earlier, in episode 15, as Raven!Mytho meets Pique to sacrifice her:

Saying he needs her love immediately reads as an act of manipulation: “only you can give me what I need” as emotional priming for the ritual phrase that will turn her into a willing sacrifice. It also reads as simply a statement that he needs her for the purpose of the sacrifice. (It is, of course, able to be said openly because Pique does not have the context to know this, and accordingly run the fuck away.)

But going back after episode 19, this moment (and several others, on a rewatch) feels a little... re-contextualized. All the above is still true, yes. But it also seems that Raven’s Blood Mytho really does feel like he needs other people’s love, on a visceral, gnawing level.

And the Raven eats love.

'I'm in control of the situation', Raven!Mytho said, sweating, "I'm not getting owned,"

If a real parasite did this - if, say, there was some animal that rewired its victims brains in such a way that they could only feel relief from pain when taking steps towards feeding it or its young - it would be internet famous for its insidiousness. Can't you imagine? There'd be a Bogleech.com article and everything.

As Mytho’s condition progresses towards its final stage from episode 21 onwards, we see these feelings explicitly infect the psyche of Mytho further, shown physically trembling as he describes his disorientation and confusion:

By the end of episode 23, Mytho's... condition has run its full course. Yet the pain continues, and it only gets more obvious that these are spasms of literal, physical pain. In episode 24, Mytho shudders in pain as he screams, clutches his chest, does some agitated fouettés, bows over in pain again, and then jumps out the door as he begs for somebody, anybody to dance with him.

We also get confirmation that the physical pain is accompanied by emotional pain, such as intensified feelings of loneliness:

(And, judging from other scenes, as well as Rue's behavior, intensified jealousy too.)

But Mytho cannot get anyone to dance with him, in this state.

(Saying the Raven "awakened" him, in episode 19 - did he mean the suite of demonic powers that the Raven's Blood has granted him? Did he mean the uncharacteristic charisma, eloquence, and manipulative cunning that burned in him like a fever while under its power? Those boons were all just to make it easier for him to seduce prey to feed the Raven. He loses them all once he's outlived that purpose.)

(No need for the infected slowly lure prey in with a silvered tongue and honeyed charms when they have a big strong beak to peck hearts out of chest, after all.)

He is no longer useful as a lure for prey.

His only remaining use to the Raven is as food himself.

Part 2: Serving Your Heart On A Platter

(In its own post on account of the image limit.)

For now, though, our conclusions:

1. Mytho's life is terrible. It is known.

2. Rue probably suffers from magically and emotionally induced chronic pain!!! and has her entire life!!!

Thanks for coming to my Lecture. See you next time for Part 2.

#princess tutu

[cricketnationrise]

10:54pm, the attic, olliewicks please ! (i'm predictable i know)

@zimms you are predictable, but its delightful so lean into it! enjoy this little moment at the beginning of year 4!

one day remaining to request your own ficlet! rules here.

🏒🏒🏒🏒

haus attic, 10:54pm

Ollie brings the last box up the stairs, puts it with the others, and flops on their bed like a … thing that flops a lot. Jell-O maybe. Or Flubber. Whatever his brain and body are both mush. He knows it was his idea to move in on the literal last day before preseason starts, and also his idea to sleep late and not actually leave until the last possible minute, but holy fuck is he tired. He hears the door of the attic close with a quiet snick and speaks without opening his eyes.

“Never let me bully us into waiting for the last moment to move ever again.”

The mattress next to him dips under the weight of his boyfriend and a warm hand brushes his hair off his forehead. “I did try to warn you, babe – you were just determined.”

“We’re seniors,” Ollie pouts. “The world should rearrange itself to be as convenient as possible for us to get maximum summer without any consequences for our choices.”

Pace flops down next to him and slings an arm over his waist. Ollie knows without looking that he’s got the sappiest look on his face.

“I’ll be sure to send the universe a memo for the Frogs next year,” Pace teases. “If it’s any consolation, at least the next time we move, we’ll be carrying boxes down the stairs instead of up.”

Ollie definitely isn’t proud of the noise he lets out at the idea of graduation, but Pace’s quiet amusement goes a long way to soothe his disgruntlement. His amusement, and the kiss he drops on Ollie’s neck.

“We did get everything, didn’t we? The only thing we have left to do tonight is unpack the toiletries and gear for pracky?”

“We did,” Pacer confirms. “I even did you a solid and put our stuff in the bathroom already so you just need to brush your teeth.”

“I fucking love you. Even if the bathroom is down a flight of stairs.”

Ollie’s trying to gather the will to live, er, stand up again, so he doesn’t immediately clock the silence, but when he realizes the chirp he was expecting isn’t coming, he opens his eyes. Pace’s eyes are wide, and, to Ollie’s horror, tears are forming at the corners of them. Ollie’s tiredness is pushed aside by the fear that rolls over him at the sight.

“Babe, what—”

“You love me?” Pace’s voice is watery as fuck, but Ollie doesn’t miss the trembling hope in his boyfriend’s voice. Apparently Ollie hadn’t actually said those words out loud yet – just in his dreams. Ollie pushes himself up enough so he can lean over Pace and cup his cheek with one hand.

“Yeah. I love you. I’ve been in love with you. You don’t need to say it back or—”

“I love you, too.”

“Oh.” Ollie’s a little breathless, actually. He’d known that Pace loves him, had soaked up every scrap of it present in his texts, in his teasing, in the reverent way he cups the back of Ollie’s neck with his free hand when they fist bump. But. Actually hearing those words makes a lump rise in his throat, makes him grin helplessly down at Pace.

“C’mere,” Pace says, pulling Ollie down by his shoulders so that Ollie becomes his own personal weighted blanket, and Ollie goes more than willingly. They just sort of cling to each other for a few long moments, basking in the fucking love they have for each other.

“Wanna know a secret?” Ollie asks eventually.

“Hmm?”

“I actually forgot I hadn’t said ‘I love you out loud.’ I’ve been picturing it for months, I thought I already had.”

“You meatball,” Pace snorts.

“Your meatball.”

“Yeah. Roll yourself to the bathroom, meatball. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Ughhh, fine.”

#cricket writes #ficlet fest 3 #omgcp #check please #ollie/wicks #you meatball #ficlet #plangentia #zimms

[samsaurwrites]

Molten Greed (Dragon!Mammon x Reader) - Chapter 3, "Fall"

picture credits: fire | eye | scales

You start to hear it then—the slow thrum, thrum, thrumming of monumental wings. Hear the ear-splitting roar that echoes across the mountain range and turns your blood to ice in your veins. It’s here— The dragon has come.

Once The Great Mammon has a hold of you, he's not likely to let go...

Tags: Alternate Universe – Fantasy, Alternate Universe – Dragons, Dragon Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Possessive Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Greedy Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Blood and Gore, Kidnapping, Magical Bond, Mind Control, Extremely Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Read here or on AO3.

1 | 2 | 3

Time melts away like candle wax. Slow and sticky, it drips in warm rivulets that roll down your arms, your legs, drying opaque against your skin. It slips through your fingers, settling over your consciousness like a fog. You lose track of it—time. Quickly, slowly, you don’t know—mind wavering, trembling between wake and sleep.  

You notice the torches never dim. You wonder why that is.

You lay on one side, cloak wrapped around you, part of it bunched up underneath your head like a pillow, one arm dipped into the water, sweeping back and forth carelessly. Mindlessly. You try to count the seconds, try to count the number of times you blink, the number of times you breathe.

But you lose count. Over and over and over again.

You blink. Inhale—one thousand four hundred fifty five.

Roll onto you back.

Exhale—one thousand four hundred fifty… fifty…?

You start over. One, two, three, four—

You don’t know how long its been. Since it left you here. Since it did… whatever it did to make you feel like that, to make you react like that. You don’t know how long it’s been since it took you. Since it attacked your home, since it brought with it a wake of ruin.

Your stomach tells you it’s been a while. Long enough that it aches and growls. Long enough that your mouth feels so dry and sticky it makes you sick, and then you’re perching on the edge of the pool, on hands and knees, gulping down handfuls of water, even though the taste is bitter and turns your already empty stomach.

You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth, fighting back a grimace.

Hungry.

Your stomach growls, so, so loud in the silence of the cave; so loud compared to the sound of your breathing.

You sit there, like that, for a while more. Until your legs start to go numb, after they do. Thinking. Remembering. Worrying at your nails, at the blood you fear is still caked there. Then, you find yourself tracing the brand at the center of your chest, noting the shape, the feel of the raised skin beneath your fingertips.

Your breathing quickens.

You remember the kiss. You can’t help it. You remember the way his mouth molded to yours, violent in its desperation; the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way he tasted. You remember the fog and the heat and the pull. The feel of his hands on your hips, pulling you closer, tighter against him—

Want to, want to, want to—

Your fingernails dig into your chest. Trembling.

You want to forget.

You want to scratch it off.

Sick. You feel so sick.

Made a mistake. You think; feel like the room is spinning. Feel like a thousand spiders are wriggling around underneath your skin.

Should have let him kill you. Should have let him eat you. Should have let the castle crush you or thrown yourself down the mountain or drowned yourself in the pool or—

A noise from the tunnel rips you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you whip your head towards the sound.

The silence that follows is paralyzing. You wait, breath stuck in your throat, heart in a frenzy. You wait for it to show itself. Wait for the burn, for that nettling pull you can’t ignore. Shoulders tensed, eyes wide and unblinking—fists clenched so tightly your fingernails nearly draw blood.

You wait—you don’t know how long—until your breathing slows, until you can hear past the dull thudding in your ears. Only then do you dare unfold your limbs and rise onto shaky legs. Only then do you creep towards the sound, one cautious step at a time, and peer into the tunnel beyond.

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust. Takes your stomach merely an instant to recognize what lies on the ground in front of you.

Food.

A bowl of steaming stew. One that smells meaty and hearty and filling.

You lurch towards it, and then stop yourself mid-step, jerking away from it like a puppet on strings. You force yourself to pause. To listen, as your stomach grumbles and your mouth waters. The smell is nearly overpowering, rich and fragrant and warm, and your headache worsens.

You wait as long as you can and. Wait as long as is physically possible, waiting for the trap, for the catch, before you snatch up the bowl and retreating back into the cave.

You try to listen while you eat. While you devour what was given to you. You try to keep watch on the tunnel while you slurp down hot broth and shovel chunks of meat and vegetables into your mouth with your fingers. But you quickly lose focus, lose yourself in the first taste of food in what feels like days—months.

You eat quickly, and the bowl is empty almost before you realize it. You drop it off to the side, licked clean, and listen to it rattle against the uneven floor. You lean back against the wall, content, for the moment, with a full belly and a slaked thirst.

Satiated.

Soon, your eyelids begin to grow heavy, whole body wrapped in a gentle, pleasing warmth. You consider sleeping. Weigh it against the effort it would take to stay awake, against the mindless boredom that would surely be your only companion.

You start to drift, to wander in that familiar space between wakefulness and sleep. Lost in thought, lost in daydreams—of warm summer nights, of the sour taste of beer, of laughter and fast paced melodies, of glowing meadows, flowers stained silver by the moonlight.

A fierce scraping sound jolts you back to the present. The sound of claws against stone—a sound you’re all too familiar with. Your lungs seize up, filling with a rancid, creeping dread. You hear the sound of wings unfurling. A sound that sends chills down your spine, that tramples the marigolds and the hibiscus, whose sweet scent lingers still in your mind.

You stagger to your feet, hurrying down the tunnel, arriving to the entrance just in time to see the dragon soaring away, a glittering obsidian slash across the sky.

You swallow thickly.

You wonder where it’s going. Wonder whose home it will destroy next.

And then, you wonder if now is your chance to escape.

You stand there. Watching as the beast flies away, as it shrink and shrinks and shrinks until it disappears entirely into the darkness.

Now.

Heart in your throat, you edge towards the mouth of the cave, hand against the wall—step after step until your toes are only inches from the ledge. And then you look down. Then, you feel your stomach flip. Feel dizzy.

It’s a long way down.

The wind whips and howls, near sentient in its malevolence, its screams and cries for blood. The snow makes it difficult to see, difficult to make out anything but distance and danger, and the chill cuts into you, piercing deep, seeping into your bones, your marrow. But—you think you see a crag, an outcropping closer to you than the hardpacked ground further down.

You think you see a way down.

A way out.

You step away, turning your back towards the mouth of the cave. You stare. At the darkness, at the depths of the cave that you haven’t dared set foot in yet.

This is your chance.

Quickly, you make your way back to the hot spring room, swiping a torch from the walls to light your way. You return to the main chamber and pause—hesitate—for just a moment. Just long enough for the brand between your breasts to throb; just long enough for a whisper of guilt to bore itself into your chest.

Then, pulse raging, you proceed deeper into the cave.

This tunnel is shorter, but no less winding. It’s easier, with the torch. No stumbling, no blindly feeling your way forward. You follow the path, through twists and turns until it opens into a massive cavern. Bigger than the central one.

Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.

And nearly every inch of it is covered in mountains of sparkling, glittering gold.

It’s a sea—no, an ocean of treasure. Rushing rivers and gilded meadows, soaring mountains and glimmering skies; stalactites and stalagmites branching from the floors and ceilings, spanning the open air in thin and twisted columns of dark stone; all of it stained a molten, glowing gold.

It steals your breath away. Stops you dead in your tracks, mouth going slack. Leaves you standing there, wide-eyed, lips parted, just staring. Then you start moving. Start searching through piles and piles of trinkets and gold and treasures, grabbing the things you’ll need.

You find boots first. Too big, but better than nothing in the snow you’ll be facing outside. Then you find an extra cloak, a bag to hold it in. A pair of trousers. A dagger that feels far too heavy in your hands. Then, you grab a handful of coins.

You’ll need some way to pay for your journey home.

Then, you set to cutting, using the dagger to tear long strips from extravagant rugs and gaudy clothes and anything else you can find. Set to braiding the thinner strips together; set to tying them all together in a long, make-shift rope. You work quickly, as quickly as you can, but your fingers tremble while you do so.

You don’t know how long you have. How long it’ll be until it returns.

With more treasure? With another captive?

That thought stops you, mid cut through a silken ballgown.

Should you wait? Should you try to save them too?

No. You shake your head. No, you can’t risk that.

This is your chance.

Your only chance.

~

It takes you hours to finish constructing the mechanism of your escape. Hours to tie together strip after strip of braided cloth, working until you have a length of knotted rope just long enough that it might let you reach the rocky crag you think you saw before.

From there, you’ll just have to hope you can climb the rest of the way down.

In the rest of your searching, you find a pair of gloves. Just like the boots, they’re too big for you, too long for your fingers, but they’re thick and leather and will help protect your hands from the rocks and the cold while you descend the mountain.

You coil the rope around and around, pulling on and testing each knots as you go, as anxiety twists and squirms in your gut. As it wraps around your lungs, your heart, squeezing so tightly you start to tremble.

Standing, you pat the pack on your hip, listening for the rattle of coin against dagger against canteen, a canteen that you plan to fill with snow once you reach the first outcropping.

You start back towards the entrance, torch in hand. One step, followed by another and another. Your legs feel heavy. Weighted and slow. You wonder if it’s the boots, the layers and layers of clothing you’ve piled on your body, but something else stops you.

Something roots you in place.

A mix of fear and dread and… and guilt?

You shake your head, grip tightening around the rope. Pushing past it.

This is your chance.

You come to a stop a few feet from the ledge. Stare out at the night, at the inky blackness, searching for any disturbances among the stars. Listen out for the thrum of dragon wings, for the roar that turns your blood to ice.

But all you hear is the wind.

You set to securing one end of your rope, tying it tight around one of the thick stalagmite teeth that border the mouth of the cave. You test it. Pulling backwards, leaning with all your weight.

It holds.

For now. 

Heart hammering, knees weak, you approach the edge. Toss the untethered side over the edge and watch it uncoil, whipping back and forth in the wind. It stretches, longer and longer and longer, until it doesn’t. Until it swings around in the open air.

You still see it, you think, an outcropping large enough for you to stand on, for you to continue your climb down, maybe ten or fifteen feet below your rope. But it’s hard to tell in the dark, in the snow and the wind.  

You sit down on the ledge of the cave, feet hanging off the side.

Don’t go, a voice whispers. From inside you. From around you. Quiet and pleading. Stay.

The brand on your sternum burns, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Blocking out the voice. Blocking out the pain. You clench your fists. Force your eyes open and check the knots again. Check the ties around your waist again. Check the laces on your boots again.

This is your chance, you repeat, over and over again.

Breathing quick and hard, you situate your foot on top of the first knot, looping the length of the rope around your palm.

Then, you look down. Growing dizzy. Sick.

You’ve never been afraid of heights…

But this is different.

This is lethal, death nipping at your heels.

You slide the rest of your weight off and onto the rope. Bite down hard on the inside of your cheek as the rope creaks. As it stretches and sways.

As it holds you upright.

A manic laugh bubbles up from your throat, sharp and watery.

You start to climb down, one foot at a time, using the knots at support, keeping a firm grasp on the knots above you. It’s slow and difficult and perilous, but you’re halfway down now, and you were right.

There is a ledge there. A place to rest your weary arms and burning thighs.

But the wind is vicious and howling.

It buffets you. Knocking you back and forth. Forcing you off the cliff face just to slam you back into it, bruising your shoulder, your sides against the unforgiving rocks.

Almost there.

Almost free.

The wind surges again. Violent and angry. Blinding you—weakening your grip.

And then you just—Fall.

Thanks for reading!! You can check out my other writing here.

#mammon x reader #mammon x you #mammon x mc #shall we date mammon #obey me mammon #mammon #dragon mammon #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #my writing #fanfiction #eventual smut #but we gotta do some ✨plot✨ first cause im classy #writing

[mackjlee9]

something just soured my mood and i suddenly want angst, real heavy angst...

if you want, can i request unrequited love with Malleus?

Malleus is on the receiving end :]

wanna make dragon man cry;; you can add or remove stuff to your liking tho

thank youu!!

Gotta love a good angst👌. Like, does anyone ever have that urge to just... cry over something fictional? Sometimes I need sadness in my life. (don't mind me indulging with floyd content in this 🤭)

[bring in the angst~]

Malleus Draconia x Male!Reader [Angst]

[mentions of floyd x male!reader/mc/yuu, one-sided love]

Masterlist.

Game; Twisted Wonderland

It started slow, unnoticeable, and before anyone realized it, Malleus had fallen in love with the magic-less prefect studying at Night Raven College.

When he found out that someone was living in the abandoned dorm on campus, Malleus was a little sad about that, but it was nice meeting someone who wasn't scared of him and ran away at his mere presence. He felt... happy, perhaps? It's been such a long time since he felt such a human emotion, but he didn't mind it.

Their friendship started a little slow, going from wandering around the dorm and spotting (M/n) waving at him through the window, to having the human male actually walk out and stroll with him, sometimes in silence, other times talking about things that had nothing to do with the school, but with their lives.

Malleus learned how (M/n) comes from practically another universe, and he couldn't help but stare at him with fascination in his bright green eyes. In exchange, Malleus told him stories of his past and his life alongside Lilia, Silver, and Sebek, they were practically family, and he was grateful to have them by his side.

With this cycle repeating itself every night, some things began getting a little weird in Malleus. Feelings and sensations he's never felt nor does he remembers feeling ever in his life.

His body would shake from the anticipation of seeing (M/n) again, his heart would beat faster whenever Malleus saw him, his hands trembling in a way that it could only be noticed if you looked closely, and lastly, the sudden thought in his mind whenever he would stare at (M/n)'s face for too long, his eyes inevitably glancing at his lips.

Malleus was confused, and a little scared, he feared the day when he would just kiss the prefect and he might not like it, which could end up in (M/n) hating him, and he didn't want that.

So now, while he mindlessly ate Lilia's food -causing everyone from Diasomnia to stare at him with surprised and disgusted expressions- he wondered what he should do. However, someone noticed his off behavior and waited until it was time to sleep to talk to him.

//////

Already in the comfort of his room, Malleus began undressing himself, grabbing some spare clothing to sleep in, when he heard knocking on his door. He turned around and muttered a quiet, "Come in."

There, walking in with a calm smile, was Lilia, who kept his crimson eyes on the tall fae, "Can I talk to you?"

Malleus nodded and sat down on his bed, continuing to dress himself.

Lilia took a few steps until he was standing in front of Malleus, "Is there something going on? You seem... off," Malleus looked up at him, before looking down at the floor and nodding a couple of times. "Well, do you wanna talk about it?" He asked again, now sitting down next to him.

"My body has been... behaving a little different than usual," Lilia wasn't quite sure what that meant, but he nodded as he understood.

"Different how?" And like that, Malleus told him all the foreign reactions his body has been having, but he realized it only happened at certain times, and but a person in particular.

With the Ramshackle Dorm's prefect, (M/n).

Lilia's eyes widened slightly when he saw the blush that slowly, but surely, colored Malleus's face, his eyes shining with a brightness that he was not sure he saw before. Lilia may have not felt love in quite some time now, but he's pretty good at observing people's emotions and intentions, so, he knew what was happening.

"Malleus, perhaps... You want to hug or kiss the prefect?" The question caught Malleus off guard, but his heart started beating faster when he imagined his arms wrapped around (M/n)'s smaller body, or kissing his soft-looking lips. His face felt like it was on fire, blinking rapidly as he turned his face away from Lilia, slowly nodding after a couple of seconds in complete silence. "Well... Maybe you like (M/n)-san, do you know if he likes you back?"

"No..." He mumbled, slowly turning his head to look at Lilia again. "How do I know that?"

After that, Lilia proceeded to explain different types of behavior people have when they like someone, giving some examples himself as if acting their reaction and meaning. Malleus found it quite helpful but a little confusing, human behavior could be taken romantically or platonically and he had no idea how to tell them apart, but he decided to just note down everything he deemed important and that was explained as 'love' rather than 'like'.

At some point, they said their good night and Lilia headed to his room, while Malleus read his notes over a few more times, before deciding it was time to rest until morning, he still had to attend classes after all.

And when morning arrived, it was time for school.

He read his notes every chance he could and tried spotting around the school any behavior similar to his writing, identifying what platonic would look like more than romantic.

By the end of the day, Malleus was sure he learned how to tell both apart, and by nighttime, he was ready to sort of "read" (M/n)'s behavior.

Now, they were looking up at the sky, staring at the stars as they talked about their day. (M/n) had his head laying on Malleus' lap while he played with (M/n)'s  (h/c) hair, combing his fingers through, twirling it, or just patting it.

"...Prefect?" Malleus called him when he didn't hear an answer from the male, and he looked down at him, only to find him fast asleep. As if hypnotized by his beauty, Malleus lifted his free hand and stroked his cheek gently, a shine in his eyes that made him look even more gorgeous, but no one was there to see him in such a daze. He started leaning down, his gaze locked onto (M/n)'s slightly parted lips, but he stopped himself from taking that step forward, deciding on just placing a soft kiss on his forehead instead, "I've fallen in love with you, (M/n)-san."

He whispered for only the night breeze to hear him, and teleported to the front door of the dorm, walking in and looking around for (M/n)'s room, laying him down on the bed and covering his body from the cold, before vanishing back to his dorm.

Laying on his bed, Malleus couldn't help but smile as he waited for the next morning to come, excitedly thinking about how he would confess his love to (M/n), and soon, without realizing it, he fell asleep.

//////

The first break was a futile attempt at finding (M/n), so he waited for the second one, and he had a bit more luck this time.

From the third-floor hallway, he looked down at the courtyard, where (M/n) was sitting on the lawn with the first years, Malleus observed with a small smile how he talked and laughed openly with them, and soon after, some second years joined them, among them Scarabia's leader and vice-leader, the tweels and the hyena from Savanaclaw.

"Koebi-chan~!" Was the first thing they heard, before Floyd threw himself onto (M/n), everyone stared at the male before chuckling and continuing with their conversation, Floyd now situated between (M/n)'s legs, his back against the prefect's chest.

At first, Floyd was contributing to the conversation, but he grew bored and turned his face towards (M/n)'s neck, nuzzling him and closing his eyes.

No one noticed Floyd falling asleep until the bell rang and it was time to go back to class.

"Prefect-san," Jade called him, his mismatched eyes staring at them with surprise, "Floyd fell asleep on you."

Glancing down slowly to not wake him up, and yes, Floyd was asleep, his breathing slow and even, his arms loosely wrapped around his middle.

"Uh, you guys can go, I'll just skip class until he wakes up," (M/n) said in Deuce, Ace, and Grim's direction, they just nodded and left to their next class, followed by the rest of the second years. Malleus also had to go to class, but he wanted to talk to (M/n) now that he knew where the prefect was.

His green eyes saw how (M/n) pushed Floyd's hair back gently, stroking his face the same way he did to him the previous night. He tried not to think much of it, after all, friends also have this type of romantic-looking platonic action. So, sighing, he got ready to appear in front of him to confess, but he caught a glimpse of Floyd moving.

Blinking a couple of times, Floyd woke up, looking up at (M/n) with a confused expression.

"Koebi-chan? Where're the others?" He mumbled, the feeling of (M/n)'s hand now stroking his hair brought a smile to his face.

"They left for class." Turning his body around, Floyd ended up with his belly pressing the ground, his chin resting on (M/n)'s chest as he looked up at him.

"So, we're alone now~?" Holding back a smile, (M/n) nodded a few times, staring at Floyd as the eel took a couple of glances at his lips, hinting at what he wanted.

Gently cupping his face in his hands, (M/n) leaned down and pressed a kiss on Floyd's lips, who couldn't help but smile wider in the kiss, provoking a smile on the (h/c) haired male's face.

Watching from far away, Malleus stared at them, shocked and heartbroken, tears falling down his face without warning and he just stood there, shortly after pressing his back to the wall and sliding down to the ground, covering his face with his arms as he held in his sobs.

(M/n) and Floyd didn't show up to class, and during the next break, their friends found them still under the three, but both of them had fallen asleep now. And somehow, Lilia found Malleus too, his eyes red and puffy from all his crying, dried tears on his face. He wasn't sure what he could do to help him, but the moment Malleus saw him sitting next to him, he couldn't help but tightly hug the smaller male, crying on him as he just stayed there, rubbing his back in complete silence.

#malleus draconia #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst malleus #twst x reader #x reader #male reader #one shot #reader insert #angst #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia x male reader #malleus x reader #malleus x male reader #twisted wonderland x male reader #twst x male reader #.mackjlee9 writes

[undiscovered-horizon]

"The night is long and the path is dark" - Matt Murdock x vigilante!Reader

[TW: major injuries, near-death experiences, Matt is a human wreck, explicit language, praying (specifically Catholic)]

SUMMARY: It's not supposed to be like that. Matt believes it's him who should be bleeding his life out, not you - you were too deserving of a normal, peaceful life. While you're toeing the line between New York and Heaven, he has to face the restless night of premature mourning, sunless hours that seem to be endless.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.5k

"Oh, fuck me," you groaned feeling a sharp but unclear pain deep underneath your skin. The unbearable ache was completely unknown to you, never having experienced anything akin to the grave soreness of your weak, bleeding body. It felt odd to be in so much pain and so inexplicably confusing: you were freezing and hot at the same time, fully conscious and yet at your wit's end. Your brain, too sheltered to comprehend the extent of your injuries and agony, made you question whether the ache truly was there; maybe this kind of sensation could exist only in wild imagination. After all, for what horrid reason would the human mind be able to feel this type of pain?

"We'll get to that when you stop bleeding," he said. Humour was a poor attempt at hiding his paralysing fear - no matter how cheesy his line would be, his hands were shaking all the same. "Just lie back and don't move too much. Let me take care of you."

"I always wanted to be a pillow princess." Your words were becoming a bit slurred and so Matt became all the more anxious. He was battling time itself and it wasn't a merciful opponent - its perverse strength only grew with each prayer for the minutes to be a little longer than mere sixty seconds. At any other time, he would have laughed at your confession, gladly considering the enticing suggestion.

Although he knew you were very much against it, Matt ripped apart the tight material wrapped around your torso in hopes of easing your ragged breath and you would've argued against doing so if your mind wasn't drowned in a hazy flux of borderline unconsciousness. His calloused fingers brushed against your flushed skin, each touch to the swollen cuts made you slightly wince. None of them came from his hand or ill will and yet he felt guilty, responsible for your agony. It should've been me, he kept telling himself.

You felt his trembling hands as Matt did his best to dress your wounds, foolishly leaving the deep cuts to be stitched at the end as if your fleeting life could stop terrifying him at some point in time. Yes, Matt managed to fool himself into believing that the soundness of his mind was going to return in the nearest future.

"Don't worry, I'm gonna be fine," you said not without a struggle. The unbearable pain was barely noticeable anymore but so were most sensations of the outside world. "I still have like 200 bones intact."

Maybe it was another surge of adrenaline or the effect of Matt stopping some of your bleedings but for a moment you were back in touch with the present moment, skin pulsating and burning with pain. Straining, you grabbed Matt's trembling hands. He clenched his jaw feeling just how cold your touch was.

"Thank you," you whispered weakly to him. Maybe it was the broken rib or the absolutely pathetic sadness on Matt's face that made your heart ache inside your bruised chest. "For everything you did and didn't do."

"You'll thank me in the morning, alright?" Matt tried to put on a brave face and swallow his tears. He knew you hated to see him cry. Angel tears are too expensive to just pour them out, you told him many times.

However, you didn't get the time to answer him. Right around the end of his question, your world fell into a chasm of silence and darkness, a peaceful limbo for the stubborn sinners who refuse to die quietly.

For a moment, his heart stopped and maybe so did the entire universe, watching the scene in terror no smaller than his own. Matt knew he had to finish dressing and stitching fast - the little grip he had on himself was fading and his panic wouldn't be good for anyone.

When at last he threw away the needle and thread, there was no strength left inside him to keep those salty tears at bay. He fell to his knees, finding himself on eye level with your limp, bloodied body. You looked so... peaceful. Not in pain anymore.

"We fly to thy protection," he began in a shaky voice. Words, although holy and god-fearing, struggled to move past his lips. "O holy Mother of God."

Devout prayers flooded from his mouth until he finished the entire rosary. It was a Tuesday night as it befits Tuesdays, Catholics meditate on Sorrowful Mysteries: how their Lord prayed in the olive garden, how Romans decorated His head with a crown of thorns and how He carried the cross; how bitterly funny of a coincidence it was. When the last Amen left Matt's lips, the night seemed even quieter than before. Cars were no longer passing by his window and for the first time in long months, he felt truly alone in the most desperate and miserable of ways. His knees hurt from kneeling on the hardwood floor but he didn't mind that - it partially took his mind off the even worse pain wreaking havoc in his entire being. Your palm, once cold and dry, was now warm and wet from his feverish prayers and unending tears.

"Don't leave me," he whimpered pathetically against your limp hand, cradling his own face with your fingers. His trembling lips pecked your bruised skin every now and then. "What the fuck am I supposed to do without you here?"

But Matt knew what you would have said, it was as if he could hear your own voice laughing at his misery in the back of his head: You live on, Matthew Murdock! You disown fear and cruelty and you live on. To make matters worse, he knew the real meaning behind your lighthearted words - you just wanted him to be okay, to live a humble life of a loving man. Maybe his pain would have been a little lighter, a little easier to carry, had he not seen through your carefree facade. For a short moment, he swore he nearly hated you for ever telling him to be fine while you're gone; how audacious of you to even suggest that there was anything good left for him in a world you were no longer part of.

He remembered when you made him promise that, in case you die, he wouldn't mourn you. How can I move on if you can't let go?, you asked. Matt agreed, making a half-hearted oath to you that he never truly believed he would have to fulfil. But now, when the night seemed to be nothing short of endless and filled with terrors, he regretted his promise knowing that no force could ever make him complete it.

The night was going to be long; the path ahead was painted in different shades of black, hopeless doom. And he, Matthew Murdock, was just a stubborn man who wasn't exactly on good terms with his God.

Overbearing pain woke you up. Your whole body felt too heavy, too sore, to move it. Straining your neck, you looked to the side, at the all too familiar and beloved sight. Matt was awake, his face was vacant, swollen, red and somehow grey. Most probably, he hadn't slept at all as if his insomnia could be of any help to either of you.

"Hey, handsome." Your voice was raspy and words were still a little slurred.

Momentarily Matt lifted his head from your hand, his heart picking up a truly athletic pace. His breaths became ragged, shallow, painting him somehow scared and excited at the same time.

"You're alive," he said quietly, disbelief seeping from each letter he spoke. He wasn't asking - he was stating a fact. A state of affairs that the more pessimistic part of him couldn't believe at first. Maybe your words were nothing more but a feverish dream, a lover's last goodbye as people often experience in regards to death.

You gave him a weak smile, hopefully easing the burden that had been pressing down on his chest, suffocating him, throughout the whole night.

"Yeah, had a change of heart," you said caressing his tired, tear-stained face. Absentmindedly, Matt leaned into your touch, sighing when your cold fingers brushed against his hot lips. "What's gonna be left of your world if I'm not in it?"

He couldn't quite understand why shaking hands with Death wasn't enough to rid you of your humour. Before he answered, his rough hand grabbed your own and Matt placed a chaste kiss on your wrist:

"Nothing much."

The morning sun always seemed to wash away the fears of a terrible night. And Sun, to Matt's relief, was always shining somewhere - he just had to get there, even if it was half the world away or, as it was so that night, half the death away.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x vigilante!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x vigilante!reader #fanfiction #fanfic #scenario #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #imagine #marvel imagine #marvel scenario #daredevil #matt murdock #human disaster matt murdock #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fic #matt murdock one shot #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock x you #daredevil fic #daredevil fanfic #marvel daredevil #daredevil fanfiction #netflix daredevil #marvel x reader #marvel x you #mcu x reader

[ruiniel]

(STEM reader anon) I haven't given the bishop much thought because I see this as a comfort AU so whenever I think of the bishop it's just shoo shoo yucky currently Vlad dracula occupies my mind more.

Imagine you're the powerful Vlad Tepes going out with your son in the forest to collect fruits and meat like a man to bid your wife goodbye with a feast. You come home and call for your wife but she doesn't respond, so you go to her second favorite room (after her son's baby room) to talk to her only to find her with a bug eyed thing, trembling like a pilgrim at the sight of the lab equipment. You can almost feel a headache coming when you walk up to your wife to ask her what happened. Ah! So this thing was a thief that underestimated what they'd find here and got caught, sure his wife says it has a name and doesn't know how to speak the common language but that's on obviously a lie. Not only is it looking around with shifty eyes being a giveaway but also the fact that they're in DRACULA'S CASTLE one doesn't just accidentally stumble in.

But then the thing starts acting odd, it goes up to the blood sampling equipment and points to it then points to themselves. Surely they don't understand what they're doing but then they do it again, just this time lifting the sleeve of their left arm, pointing to the machine, then pointing to their artery. Well now it's clear they understand what the blood transfusion machine is for but how? Come to think of it their clothes are odd, there is no sign of forced entry and only household members can access this room due to it's locks so how'd they get here without making a mess? I look over to my most beloved and she's going from shock to blushing from how widely she's grinning. Oh no. She probably wants to introduce this person to our son and have them live here. Oh dear. I hope this person dies something she doesn't like so she won't proceed with playing matchmaker, as cute as it would be.

(reader notices their clothes, how they speak a different language and how big their house looks so they think that they should do a blood test in case they've been vaccinated to something that these people don't know about. They don't assume they're in the 14th century, they just assume they were in a different country or civilization like the Amish but without the fear of technology)

Lisa just wants reader to be friends with her son but Vlad knows that future Lisa will want to have this person be her son's beloved even if she doesn't realize it now

Got it lovely! And it made me think of a few things:

Dracula's castle being made the way it is/being something of an entity of chaos means Drac understands the fabric of time and space can be trifled with/warped (we're in the CV universe here we have some wiggle room to suspend disbelief) so it might maybe turn into a quest within itself(a 'knowledge quest') to find out how exactly it happened that R got here and if they can go back (also would they want to, if R gets eventually attached to them&Al? It's a consideration that can lead to a lotta comfort needing)

Drac and Reader bonding over science is such a good imagine. I also remember Alucard's words in the series 'magic and science are two sides of the same coin to me' 💚 I liked to assume he gets that from Drac

Just how interested would Reader get about vampires and their specifics? Dracula's lab has enough otherwise considered 'modern' equipment assumingly - I recall the ones that frightened the priests in s2 hah

Thanks for sharing more!

#alucard castlevania x reader #castlevania imagine #fandom vibing

[zaceouiswriting]

A night to remember

Character: Theo Raeken x male reader, Liam Dunbar x male reader

Universe: Teen Wolf

Warnings: None

Soft music played, as Theo drove his truck. Liam, seated in the passenger's side seat, got irritated from the long drive, deep into the night. It mostly calmed him down and because Liam tries to do anything, so the chimera feels better, he just came with him.

The trauma of his sister, killing him, over and over and over again, takes a toll on him, every night. Either it takes hours upon hours to calm him down, making sure, that he knows, that he isn’t in the depths of hell anymore.

Liam helped him greatly and his parents too, by letting him live with them. They only know, that his parents abandoned him, with a little lie, that they never wanted to be parents, and because he is close to eighteen, they just left him there. Liam’s mother immediately took him in her arms, squeezing him tightly, and since that day, they were like brothers.

„I told you, that you shouldn’t have come with me! We both know, that you can’t sit still for too long!“, Theo accusingly told him. Seething internally, his calming night drive got interrupted by Liam’s nervous leg tipping on the truck floor.

Before his little outburst, he also began another tipping rhythm with his fingers against the glass. Which resulted in him reprimanding Liam.

He looked over at Theo guilty, but also very angry. „Oh really? Do you have a problem with me? I knew I shouldn’t have taken you in, and treated you like a brother!“

It always ended like this between the two. Theo was aware of the little crush Liam had on him. Since one drunken night, the wolfsbane was extra strong for some reason.

Since then, whenever they are alone, Liam becomes angry out of nowhere. Cussing at the older guy, knowing that the feelings he harbored would never be reciprocated. And he hated Theo for it. He never liked a guy before, not even Mason was aware of this fact.

„Even if we weren’t like brothers, I would never fuck you, dammit! You are my friend, something like this should never be done, if you value your friendship, as I do with ours! Why are we, such great brothers? Because we were great bros beforehand!“

Every time it comes to something like this, where Theo explains to Liam, why it never would've happened in the first place. And normally he becomes even angrier. Not this time though.

As Theo hadn’t heard anything from the side, for a good while, he finally looked to Liam. His eyes were away from the road for a second. His face, was completely white as if every color vanished from it.

For a moment too long, he tried to reach Liam in his catatonic state, fearing the worst. As his truck drove over something. He could feel the up and down of this ominous thing. Immediately after he came to a screeching halt.

„Fuck!“, he swore under his breath, as he wanted to open the door, to look at what he had hit. But Liam holds him back. His hand trembling from fear. His voice was shaky, as he was finally able to speak again, „Theo drive on!“ He tried to get his friend to just drive off. Theo was taken aback, Liam, just like Scott was a goody two shoes. He never would do anything bad, but this?

„What is going on?“

„Just drive!“, Liam screams in utter panic. His eyes unfocused, jumping around, trying to see what had his blood vanished from his face.

Maybe it was out of pure shock or the fact, that Theo’s blood began to pump after Liam began to panic himself. But he tried to start the car again. But the engine did not want to. He tried again and again. As the terror in both of their bodies began to explode.

Theo did not know, what Liam had seen. But whatever it was, it must've been horrible, frightening at best.

That was until, his door got opened a bit and a monstrous hand, paw, or whatever it was got into the car itself, trying to grab him. Which he unceremoniously, pushed away and stomped on. Just as this thing was out of the car again, he closed the door and locked it.

Looking onto the backseat nothing was there, just to make sure, nothing had the chance to open the back doors and come in this way. Just as a sigh of relief passed his lips, still in a terrified state, a big monster, jumped onto the hood of his truck. Surely destroying the paint, but it became worse, as it began to try and break the windshield. 

For a long while, the entire truck shook under his heavy weight. The end seemed near, horrifying things, surrounding them, on a road, Theo did not recognize.

Just one glance over at Liam, he could see the same realization, in his eyes and his relaxing facial expression. Liam himself turned his head soon after, looking directly into Theo’s eyes. „Dude, I want to apologize, I-“

Before he could finish his sentence, Theo held up his hand, to say something himself.

„You two need to run.“ Another voice rang through the car. Now both faces were drained of color. Neither dared to look in the direction of the voice, fearing it would be the last thing they would do.

Even though the voice wasn’t threatening, angry, or something in this regard. It sincerely tried to help those two idiots.

„Neither of you was supposed to be here, who you got through the barrier is a question for another day, but now you need to leave. Now!“

Finally, both guys looked at you, as your voice became louder. Shocked, by the aura that surrounded you and awestruck, by your beauty. Perfect in any sense, except the body, that wasn’t completely there. Slightly transparent, as if you were a vanishing light.

„Do you two, see the sign, down the road you came from?“, you asked them. Liam faintly nodded, but Theo didn’t, he could only guess what was on it. But after the look Liam had given you, it wasn’t something good. „Great, as soon as I vanish, you open the door and run to it. You do not turn around before you pass it, do you understand me? Do. Not. Turn. Around!“

Not long after, you vanished from the backseat, the full side of both guys. They heard a lot of thumps and the monster standing on the hood of the truck lay on the floor.

In a decision, made in a fraction of a second, both opened the doors, simultaneously jumping out and running. The terror, that pushed adrenalin through their bodies, helped. Faster than anyone before, you could see the two guys, getting near to the sign. Just as the first one passed it, the smaller, more frightened one, the other turned around. Directly looking at you.

Another monster, way more dangerous and taller than anything else, began to run from behind you. His body was pitch black, like the night itself, it directly hunted him. With his long arms, it tried to catch him, but just in the nick of time, he always was able to get away. Just as he jumped forwards, to pass the line of the sign, the monster, finally got his foot.

Slowly pulling him back in, to absorb his soul, like countless other times before with other unwilling victims. To your utter surprise, the guy on the other side, pulled the guy over with one swift move, only a shoe was held by the black monster, as it let out a scream in agony, before walking off again, into the blackness behind you.

„In the morning, when the sun is up, come back to this place! Your truck will stand on this side, right behind the sign, your keys under the hood!“, you called out to them, before walking into the blackness yourself.

Neither Liam nor Theo had an explanation for what had happened, but they were sure, to never drive this road at night again.

You on the other side, after walking through the blackness, came to a well-lit, place. „I hope they had not made too many problems,“ a man, with black wings asked you from behind you, as you walked deeper into paradise.

„Next time, you do it, they are your guys, you are helping them, I will not tell anyone about it, but as long as I’m the cursed protector of this place, you need to keep them away.“

„How about, I take that curse of you?“

„Where is the catch?“, you asked suspiciously.

A grin formed on his perfect face. For him, it was nice to know, that there were still beings, that do not trust the likes of him. And you had good reasons to not trust them. „The catch is, you need to help me with them. I can’t be there all the time, but they need all the help they could get, we both know this!“

„Let me think about it.“

„Of course, at the latest, I know this, you will agree tomorrow, when the guy whose shoe you got back from the thing,  gets his truck back.“

A tomato red blush, appeared on your face, even in a ghostly state, some things never change. And how much you hated him, for knowing you so well.

[Masterlist]

#Theo Raeken x male reader #Theo Raeken imagines #Theo Raeken #Liam Dunbar #Liam Dunbar x male reader #Liam Dunbar imagines #Teen Wolf #Teen Wolf x male reader #Teen Wolf imagine #x male reader #male reader #male reader imagine #x male reader imagine

[ashley-rockwell]

09.05.2023

Have you been feeling called to make some big changes, Anastasia? It wouldn’t surprise me at all. In fact, your spirit guides, angels, and ancestors have been waiting for this moment -- for you to finally ask for divine guidance in your life. 

They want to help you along with your divine soul mission so badly! 

What I just learned about you from tapping into your cosmic energy is miraculous and it’s just the information that you need to hear to make those profound changes in your life.

First, we will look at your Birth Card, the card the Universe picked for you on the most important day of your life, the day you incarnated on this planet...

YOUR BIRTH CARD READING:

Focus: Connect To Yourself Through Introspection

Developed: Observant, Detail-Oriented, Analytical, Reliable

Underdeveloped: Irritable, Nitpicky, Harsh, Judgemental

Anastasia, since the sun was under the sign of Virgo the day you were born, you’ve embodied the purity of the Virgin and The Hermit. 

That’s right -- you don’t just embody the clarity and cleanliness of the Virgin, but your sign is also divinely connected to The Hermit as your personalized Sacred Tarot Birth Card. 

You probably already feel this, Anastasia, but you have a knack for noticing what serves no purpose and eliminating it. 

Purity is your superpower, but sometimes it can be confused as criticism. 

When you’re vibrating at a high frequency, you won’t nitpick, rather you’ll simply tap into the energy of The Hermit by respecting your need to declutter and organize your environment as well as your thoughts. 

The Hermit card signifies that your soul is fine taking its time to fulfill its divine mission. As a Virgo, you’re a mutable earth sign that values materializing your goals. You’re willing to do the work and you’re open to all of the paths that may be available to you to get there.

Sometimes it just takes a few moments of solitude for you to tap into the receiving energy of the universe. You’re someone that understands that when you ask a question, the cosmos will answer you -- you must simply sit in silence and the answer will reveal itself in time. 

As a perfectionist, you’re willing to wait for the perfect time and path. By perfectly balancing the masculine energy of hard work and the feminine energy of your intuition and discernment, there is no doubt in my mind that you will go far in life. 

Don’t let Mercury, the planet of thinking and communication, stall your plans because of anxious thoughts.

Instead, work on balancing your chakras, Anastasia -- especially your heart and your throat --so you can get comfortable expressing these thoughts and connecting with your feelings rather than compartmentalizing them in your head. 

When you learn to use your heart and voice, you’ll develop the connections you so deeply yearn for. 

Now Let's take a look at the tarot cards that you drew....

YOUR FIRST TAROT CARD READING:

Light Energy: Attractive, Successful, Productive, Happy

Shadow Energy: Egotistical, Burnt Out, Low Energy, Sad

Planetary Attributes: Attraction, Logic, Performance

Are you sick of being the background singer to your own life, Anastasia? 

Well, guess what? The Universe is saying that it’s your time to shine! 

Right now, the Sun is offering it’s attractive energy to you to aid in progressing towards your divine soul path.

If you study the Sun, every other planet in your solar system revolves around it. 

This is precisely the perspective you should have, too! 

You call the shots -- no one else. 

Right now, it will be easier than ever to achieve your goals if you can channel The Sun’s masculine energy to get up and make your dreams a reality. 

If there’s a tremble in your voice or fear in your heart, remember where you just came from. Let’s take a look at the card that comes right before The Sun in Tarot (The Moon) since this will give you the quick reminder that you have nothing to fear. 

The Moon brings forth the energy of the subconscious or all of those thoughts, desires, mythical creatures, and dreams and nightmares that lie in the depths of our minds. 

The Moon phase of your life already invited you to face your subconscious desires. 

What is it that you really wanted when you were exploring the shadows of your mind? 

Even if your answer was darker than you may have expected, at least you were being honest and authentic with yourself. 

This is you truly understanding, accepting, and being compassionate with yourself. 

Now that The Sun is shining again, confidence is key for you to manifest those soul-resonating dreams -- but be sure to remain humble as the challenge here is to not fall into an egotistical place. 

Remember that your goals have a deeper why to them, which is what should really keep you in this attractive place of calling in abundance. 

Now is not the time to hold yourself back -- go for it! 

Before you know it, you’ll be getting the Judgment call (the next card after The Sun in Tarot) to raise your vibration to the next level. 

Are you ready, Anastasia? 

YOUR SECOND TAROT CARD READING:

Light Energy: New Beginnings, Inspired Action, A Clean Slate

Shadow Energy: Confusion, Defeat, Unexpected Events 

Planetary Attributes: Aggression, Anger, Initiative, Passion

I know your first reaction may be to panic, Anastasia, but I encourage you to take a step back and widen your perspective at this moment. 

No one “likes” to pull The Tower card, but honestly, I got excited when I saw this card for you. 

When I tapped into your energy, I could tell that you weren’t necessarily happy with your circumstances and this card signifies that the Universe has heard your call for change. 

Right now, you have an opportunity to leverage the Mars-ruled energy of inspired action through anger and disappointment. 

Even though most of us try to avoid these feelings, anger is as valid as any other emotion. In fact, they propel us into action to make the changes we need to make. 

E-motion = energy in motion. Makes sense, right?

Yes, you might feel a little vulnerable after an unexpected event takes place -- but trust that this is for your highest good. 

Sometimes, it can help to recall the card that came before the Tower card in Tarot, which happens to be The Devil card. 

Even though the Tower can feel like your whole world is tumbling down around you, you’ve already faced the scariest card of them all, Anastasia! 

The Devil stage of your life has probably recently passed where you saw your biggest oppressor -- whether it was a bad habit, a toxic relationship, or a job that no longer served you -- and you decided to set yourself free. 

That is the only reason that this Tower card is present now. 

Since you’re deciding to be strong and tell The Devil phase in your life “NO. I want better for myself,” the world as you know it has to fall so that you can create something better. 

The challenge here is not to panic “as the tower crumbles” and look forward to the clean slate you will have once it’s done falling. 

Don’t worry, there is a silver lining. 

In fact, if you stay committed to your divine soul path, The Star card awaits you in the future. This brings forth the energy of replenishment, hope, and a brighter tomorrow. 

I want to reassure you that the Universe is here to assist you in all of life’s challenges -- especially the big ones.

Take a deep breath to calm your mind down and focus on what’s causing the most discomfort in your life.

Your spirit guides are here to help you address your concerns about your Work now, Anastasiaby connecting and channeling their divine guidance with my intuition.

When you decided that you wanted a work-related reading, what were you really seeking, Anastasia?

Do you want answers on how you can continue working your life away for someone else’s benefit? 

Do you want a career reading to predict where you’ll be in the next 10 years? 

Or, do you want to know the true work you were meant to do here on this planet? 

There is a big difference between a career and a soul purpose, Anastasia. 

It doesn’t surprise me that you wanted some spiritual insight on what’s in store for your work-life next -- especially since we’re facing such crazy, unpredictable times. 

However, I want to encourage you to think past the now. 

In fact, I want to even encourage you to let go of thinking too much about the future.  

What your spirit guides, angels, and ancestors would really like me to help you focus on is the feeling of what you’re currently working on. 

Does it feel good or does it feel draining? 

This is an indicator of whether or not you’re on the right path to discovering what work you’re truly here to accomplish in this lifetime. 

I want you to know that the reason for your struggles with work and your career is one I see quite a bit when I do readings for my clients.

It’s a necessary pivotal point in your life to question whether or not you’re doing the right thing. 

The truth is that you’re always right where you need to be. 

Even if you’re not completely with your work situation (or lack thereof), the Universe is preparing you for a divine soul mission that only you can accomplish. 

Don’t you see, Anastasia? 

This is much bigger than a “career path.” 

I will share some additional insights with you in just a minute about exactly how you can discover your divine Soul Path and become empowered to fulfill the mission you were born to accomplish in this lifetime.

And when you discover these immaculate plans that the Universe has always had for you, your worries about your work life will no longer be a concern for you. At ALL!

Change doesn’t happen overnight, Anastasia. 

In fact, the most growth happens when you’re able to step out of your comfort zone and challenge yourself to become the best version of yourself, which may look a little different than how you’re showing up today. 

There’s no doubt in my mind that you came here to do very important work -- work that is going to positively impact the planet forever!  

There's more I need to tell you Anastasia but there wasn't enough time, complete your urgent request for instructions about your future below...

My dear Anastasia there's so much more I'd love to share with you, if only I had more time. 

Very important messages that could potentially impact your future.

While I was in the midst of your reading moments ago, I could feel the chills running up and down my spine. There's definitely something special about you Anastasia and a reason you aligned with my path today.  

My intuition tells me THIS is the KEY to ending ALL of your challenges, and changing the course of your future!