#Power Consumption Measurement

[electronalytics]

Digital Power Meter Market Trends, Key Factors, Opportunity, In-depth Insights Strategies and Huge Demand by 2032

Market Overview: The Digital Power Meter Market refers to the market for electronic devices used for measuring and monitoring electrical power consumption in various applications. Digital power meters provide accurate and real-time data on power usage, enabling efficient energy management and facilitating cost savings. These meters are widely used in residential, commercial, and industrial sectors to monitor electricity consumption and optimize energy usage.

Global Digital Power Meters Market Report Predicts Industry to Grow at 4.1% CAGR to forecast period (2023-2030).

Demand:

Energy Efficiency and Monitoring: Growing emphasis on energy conservation and cost reduction is driving the demand for digital power meters. These meters provide accurate real-time data on energy consumption, allowing businesses and individuals to monitor and manage their energy usage effectively.

Utility Modernization: Utilities are upgrading their infrastructure to smarter grids. Digital power meters enable utilities to remotely monitor energy consumption, detect outages, and manage energy distribution efficiently.

Smart Buildings: The trend toward smart buildings and home automation is fueling the demand for digital power meters. These meters are integral to building management systems, enabling remote energy monitoring, load optimization, and demand response strategies.

Renewable Energy Integration: As renewable energy sources become more prevalent, digital power meters play a critical role in tracking the energy produced and consumed. They enable effective integration of solar panels, wind turbines, and other renewable sources into the grid.

Data-Driven Insights: Businesses are seeking data-driven insights to optimize operations and reduce costs. Digital power meters provide granular data that can be used for energy audits, load profiling, and predictive maintenance.

Scope:

Industrial Applications: Digital power meters find extensive use in industries to monitor and manage energy consumption in manufacturing processes, helping industries identify energy-saving opportunities and enhance operational efficiency.

Residential Sector: As smart home technology gains popularity, digital power meters are becoming a central component of home energy management systems, allowing homeowners to monitor and control their energy usage remotely.

Commercial Buildings: Office complexes, retail spaces, and other commercial buildings are adopting digital power meters to comply with energy efficiency regulations and improve sustainability.

Utility Companies: Utility companies are deploying digital power meters for their customers to provide accurate billing based on actual consumption and enable demand-side management programs.

Opportunity:

Data Analytics and IoT Integration: The opportunity lies in enhancing digital power meters with advanced data analytics and integration with the Internet of Things (IoT). This can enable predictive maintenance, anomaly detection, and real-time energy optimization.

Demand Response Programs: Digital power meters open up opportunities for demand response programs where energy consumption can be adjusted in response to grid conditions. This creates potential revenue streams for consumers and businesses.

Energy Auditing Services: The accurate and detailed data provided by digital power meters can lead to the growth of energy auditing services. Energy consultants can analyze the data and recommend energy-saving measures to clients.

Renewable Energy Tracking Services: Businesses and homeowners with renewable energy systems may require tracking services to monitor the energy generated, consumed, and fed back into the grid. Digital power meters can offer such tracking capabilities.

Energy Management Solutions: Companies can develop comprehensive energy management solutions that integrate digital power meters with software platforms for holistic energy monitoring, analysis, and optimization.

Market Expansion: As digital power meter technology advances, there is an opportunity for market expansion into regions where energy efficiency initiatives are gaining traction.

The digital power meter market is evolving in response to increasing energy awareness, technology advancements, and changing energy landscapes. This creates opportunities for innovation and growth across various sectors and applications.

 Challenges: The digital power meter market also faces certain challenges, including:

• Cost Constraints: The price of digital power metres may prevent their adoption, particularly in markets where prices are sensitive. To meet this issue, manufacturers must concentrate on cost reduction and provide competitive pricing.

• Compatibility and Interoperability: When integrating digital power metres with current energy management systems or smart grid infrastructure, interoperability problems may occur. For seamless integration and functionality, compatibility and standardisation are crucial.

• Data Security and Privacy: As sensitive energy consumption data is collected and transmitted by digital power metres, guaranteeing data security and preserving customer privacy are significant issues that need to be resolved by putting in place effective cybersecurity measures.

Overall, the digital power meter market offers significant opportunities driven by energy efficiency initiatives, smart grid deployment, and growing awareness of energy management. Addressing challenges related to cost, compatibility, and data security will be crucial for sustained market growth.

 By visiting our website or contacting us directly, you can explore the availability of specific reports related to this market. These reports often require a purchase or subscription, but we provide comprehensive and in-depth information that can be valuable for businesses, investors, and individuals interested in this market.

“Remember to look for recent reports to ensure you have the most current and relevant information.”

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Market Segmentations:

Global Digital Power Meter Market: By Company

• General Electric

• Toshiba

• Wasison Group Holdings

• ABB

• Eaton

• Holley Metering

• Siemens

• Itron

• Landis+Gyr

• Schneider Electric

• Honeywell

• Jiaxing Eastron Electronic Instruments

• Kamstrup

• LINYANG Energy

• Murata

• Simpson Electric

Global Digital Power Meter Market: By Type

• Single Phase

• Three Phase

Global Digital Power Meter Market: By Application

• Residential

• Commercial

• Industrial

Global Digital Power Meter Market: Regional Analysis

The global Digital Power Metre market's regional analysis sheds light on how the market has performed in various parts of the world. The research contains a market prognosis for the predicted period and is based on current and upcoming trends. The following nations are included in the regional analysis of the digital power metre market report:

North America: The North America region includes the U.S., Canada, and Mexico. The U.S. is the largest market for Digital Power Meter in this region, followed by Canada and Mexico. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the presence of key market players and the increasing demand for the product.

Europe: The Europe region includes Germany, France, U.K., Russia, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Netherlands, Switzerland, Belgium, and Rest of Europe. Germany is the largest market for Digital Power Meter in this region, followed by the U.K. and France. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive and aerospace sectors.

Asia-Pacific: The Asia-Pacific region includes Singapore, Malaysia, Australia, Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines, China, Japan, India, South Korea, and Rest of Asia-Pacific. China is the largest market for Digital Power Meter in this region, followed by Japan and India. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing adoption of the product in various end-use industries, such as automotive, aerospace, and construction.

Middle East and Africa: The Middle East and Africa region includes Saudi Arabia, U.A.E, South Africa, Egypt, Israel, and Rest of Middle East and Africa. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the aerospace and defense sectors.

South America: The South America region includes Argentina, Brazil, and Rest of South America. Brazil is the largest market for Digital Power Meter in this region, followed by Argentina. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive sector.

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Industry Trends and Insights: These reports offer insights into industry-specific trends, emerging technologies, and regulatory frameworks. Understanding industry dynamics and staying updated on the latest trends can help businesses identify growth opportunities and stay ahead in a competitive market.

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[demigirlboss2girlrotboogaloo]

Numbers like "generating 1000 AI images consumes as much power as driving four miles in a car" sound scary.

Until you realize that the number being described in washing machines per sinkhole is a little under 3 kilowatt-hours.

That's equivalent to fifteen hours of gaming on a PS5, or around six to eight hours on a modest gaming PC with the settings turned up to the max your system can handle.

I handily burn that much and then some rendering my 3d art. That is such an utterly negligible amount that if I tacked it onto the end of your power bill you wouldn't even notice the difference.

Don't fall for the scary-sounding units. Ask someone you trust to know what they actually mean in a direct, practical sense to explain them to you.

its very funny when people talk at length about the horrible environmental impact of ai and give a big scary sounding number of electricty or litres of water or datacenter floor space without any context and then you investigate what that number means contextually and it always like pales in comparison to what's used by like. online gaming

[labmatescientific]

Dual Flow Airborne Particle Counter

Labmate Dual Flow Airborne Particle Counter measures and monitors airborne particles in various environments, ensuring optimal air quality and industry compliance. Essential for cleanrooms, labs, and healthcare, it features a 1-10 min test period, 2.83 L/min and 50 ml/min flow rates, 15W power consumption, and weighs 2.6 kg.

[fozmeadows]

there is no ethical consumption under capitalism

Years ago now, I remember seeing the rape prevention advice so frequently given to young women - things like dressing sensibly, not going out late, never being alone, always watching your drink - reframed as meaning, essentially, "make sure he rapes the other girl." This struck a powerful chord with me, because it cuts right to the heart of the matter: that telling someone how to lower their own chances of victimhood doesn't stop perpetrators from existing. Instead, it treats the existence of perpetrators as a foregone conclusion, such that the only thing anyone can do is try, by their own actions, to be a less appealing or more difficult victim.

And the thing is, ever since the assassination of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson, I've kept on thinking about how, in this day and age, CEOs of big companies often have an equal or greater impact on the day to day lives of regular people than our elected officials, and yet we have almost no legal way to redress any grievances against them - even when their actions, as in the case of Thompson's stewardship of UHC, arguably see them perpetrating manslaughter at scale through tactics like claims denial. That this is a real, recurring thing that happens makes the American healthcare insurance industry a particularly pernicious example, but it's far from being the only one. Because the original premise of the free market - the idea that we effectively "vote" for or against businesses with our dollars, thereby causing them to sink or swim on their individual merits - is utterly broken, and has been for decades, assuming it was ever true at all. In this age of megacorporations and global supply chains, the vast majority of people are dependent on corporations for necessities such as gas, electricity, internet access, water, food, housing and medical care, which means the consumer base is, to all intents and purposes, a captive market. We might not have to buy a specific brand, but we have to buy a brand, and as businesses are constantly competing with one another to bring in profits, not just for the company and its workers, but for C-suites and shareholders - profits that increasingly come at the expense of workers and consumers alike - the greediest, most inhumane corporations set the financial yardstick against which all others are then, of necessity, measured. Which means that, while businesses are not obliged to be greedy and inhumane in order to exist, overwhelmingly, they become greedy and humane in order to compete, because capitalism encourages it, and because there are precious few legal restrictions to stop them from doing so. At the same time, a handful of megacorporations own so many market-dominating brands that, without both significant personal wealth and the time and resources to find viable alternatives, it's all but impossible to avoid them, while the ubiquity of the global supply chain means that, even if you can keep track of which company owns which brand, it's much, much harder to establish which suppliers provide the components that are used in the products bearing their labels. Consider, for instance, how many mainstream American brands are functionally run on sweatshop labour in other parts of the world: places where these big corporations have outsourced their workforce to skirt the already minimal labour and wage protections they'd be obliged to adhere to in the US, all to produce (say) electronics whose elevated sticker price passes a profit on to the company, but without resulting in higher wages for either the sweatshop workers overseas or the American employees selling the products in branded US stores.

When basically every major electronics corporation is engaged in similar business practices, there is no "vote" our money can bring that causes the industry itself to be better regulated - and as wealthy, powerful lobbyists from these industries continue to pay exorbitant sums of money to politicians to keep government regulation at a minimum, even our actual votes can do little to effect any sort of change. But even in those rare instances where new regulations are passed, for multinational corporations, laws passed in one country overwhelmingly don't prevent them from acting abusively overseas, exploiting more desperate populations and cash-poor governments to the same greedy, inhumane ends. And where the ultimate legal penalty for proven transgressions is, more often than not, a fine - which is to say, a fee; which is to say, an amount which, while astronomical by the standards of regular people, still frequently costs the company less than the profits earned through their unethical practices, and which is paid from corporate coffers rather than the bank accounts of the CEOs who made the decisions - big corporations are, in essence, free to act as badly as they can afford to; which is to say, very. Contrary to the promise of the free market, therefore, we as consumers cannot meaningfully "vote" with our dollars in a way that causes "good" businesses to rise to the top, because everything is too interconnected. Our choices under global capitalism are meaningless, because there is no other system we can financially support that stands in opposition to it, and while there are still small businesses and companies who try to operate ethically, both their comparative smallness and their interdependent reliance on the global supply chain means that, even if we feel better about our choices, we're not exerting any meaningful pressure on the system we're trying to change. Which means that, under the free market, trying to be an ethical consumer is functionally equivalent to a young woman dressing modestly, not going out alone and minding her drink at parties in order to avoid being raped. We're not preventing corporate predation or sending a message to corporate predators: we're just making sure they screw other worker, the other consumer, the other guy.

All of which is to say: while I'd prefer not to live in a world where shooting someone dead in the street is considered a valid means of redressing grievances, what the murder of Brian Thompson has shown is that, if you provide no meaningful recourse for justice against abusive, exploitative members of the 1%, then violence done to those people will have the feel of justice, because it fills the void left by the lack of consequences for their actions. It's the same reason why people had little sympathy for the jackass OceanGate CEO who killed himself in his imploding sub, or anyone whose yacht has been attacked by orcas - it's just intensified here, because where the OceanGate CEO was felled by hubris and the yachts were random casualties, whoever killed Thomspon did so deliberately, because of what he did. It was direct action against a man whose policies very arguably constituted manslaughter at scale; a crime which ought to be a crime, but which has, to date, been permitted under the law. And if the law wouldn't stop him, can anyone be surprised that someone might act outside the law in retaliation - or that regular people would cheer for them when they did?

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Fear

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

During the height of 2549 there was no species more feared in the cosmos than that of the Fedichi.

They were not physically strong and their technology was nothing to boast of. Their domain was only their home system with no external colonies or outposts making them one of the smallest powers in the universe. Yet a single vessel of theirs was enough to send an entire system into panic and hide behind planetary shields or flee on what ships were available.

 Fedichi had a unique method of collective telepathy that allows them to project a species fear. They would induce this form of psychosis into their victims as a means to feed upon them as their diet primarily consisted of the bodily chemicals produced when a subject is afraid. Upon finishing consumption of said chemicals their prey would either be deceased or be reduced to a vegetative state.

Alone a single Fedichi was enough to feast on a single victim, ten Fedichi enough for a large ballroom, a hundred for a large city; but when combined in their thousands an entire planet could be induced into psychosis and then fed upon at leisure.  

For hundreds of years the Fedichi would leave their star system when the urge to feast became strongest and descend upon unsuspecting worlds for a nightmarish harvest. Typical feedings could last anywhere from a week to ten years before the Fedichi had their fill and returned to their home system.

Attempts were made of course to seal off the Fedichi from the rest of the universe. Robotic sentries, minefields, deep space scanning stations; even a planetary containment field was once deployed around the entire Fedichi homeworld to keep them isolated. For a time they procedures seemed to work, but time was always an ally of the Fedichi as they would simply wait out their jailer’s in hibernation. The costs alone of such methods would ever increase over the years as repair costs and personnel ate away at whichever governing body held the reigns of their imprisonment until finally they would abandon the measure entirely believing the Fedichi to be once and for all dealt with.

It would be at this point the Fedichi would emerge and seek vengeance against their former captors and in some cases wipe out the entire species before returning home for their next sleep cycle.

This process went on and on for centuries until finally the Fedichi chose to descend upon the newly space faring species called “Humanity”.

It would be their undoing.

Up until then the victims of the Fedichi had been more or less, unimaginative, to say the least with what scared them. Their societies had condensed into societal structures that did not encourage different ways of thinking or forms of expression so naturally their fears were also more or less shared universally amongst them.

The Vakbar lived on isolated islands and were naturally afraid of their homes being swallowed up by an uncaring sea, the Hashval were a nomadic spacer society and lived in constant fear of hull breaches, the Sal’nuks were in a state of constant war with the wildlife of their world and dreaded the day wild Chunl raptors would gorge themselves on their bodies; but this was not the case with humans.

When the Fedichi used their collective abilities to induce the psychosis on humanity as they had done so countless times before they quickly realized that humanity did not share a single overriding fear. To those that were terrified of moving fast others sought it out as enjoyment, when others feared speaking in public others would be terrified to be alone, were some dreaded poisons others took them as exhilarations needed to feel alive.

Worse yet was when they began to manifest these fears it only worked on a far smaller scale than they were used to. The mixtures of fears ensured that the humans were not ever entirely crippled and would instead come to the aid of those that were terrified. Some offered words of comfort, while others laughed at the absurdity of what some found fearful which made the fearful only angry and dispelling the fear entirely to be replaced with outright anger.

Unable to feed off the humans the Fedichi began to turn on each other. Each waking cycle they had just enough energy to travel to a new species but they needed to feed to replenish that energy or else they would starve. The lack of sustenance provided by humans bled what little energy they had left and in their hunger driven desperation they began to feed on their own kind to stay alive.

Their collective unity fell apart as a frantic feeding frenzy was set off amongst their fleet. Whatever unity the Fedichi had once had collapsed giving way to an insatiable hunger. This madness was in turn broadcasted to the humans below who interpreted the unintelligible screeches to be a sign of aggression and promptly deployed their war fleet.

Without their ability to harness fear the Fedichi ships were defenseless against the combined firepower of the human fleet and ground based defense installations. A full three fourths of their armada was destroyed while those that remained fled out of system. Yet without the needed energy they would be unable to neither return home nor reach another star system to feast upon. They were left stranded in the blackness between stars and starved, a new found testament to the new greatest fear of the universe……

[p0orbaby]

As We Plunge into the Ocean

summary: snapshots of your pregnancy journey with leah by your side

warnings: pregnancy and its potential symptoms, duh !

a/n: thank you for the request !

word count: 1.8k

-

You have to hand it to Leah, she's really leaned into this whole pregnancy thing. Not that you’re surprised. She’s always been a bit of a control freak. Actually, no, she’s a lot of a control freak. But now, it’s like she’s running drills for motherhood, and you’re the center of her training program.

Month 2: The Overprotective Phase Begins

“You’re glowing,” she tells you one morning. It’s sweet until you deduce she’s actually staring at the sweat on your upper lip. You’re clammy, nauseous, and you smell like day-old toast, but sure, you’re glowing.

Leah’s taken to hovering. She’s always been protective, but now, it’s like you’re made of glass, or maybe like you’re the last good avocado in Waitrose—precious and prone to bruising. She watches you closely, eyes narrowed, as if you might spontaneously combust into a pile of hormones and ash at any moment.

“You’re going to be late for training,” you remind her, trying to shoo her out the door with your tea bag as if you’re some sort of British Gandalf.

She glances at her watch, sighs, and then gives you that look. The one that says, I’m going to worry about you while I’m gone, so don’t do anything stupid like trip over air or suddenly decide to juggle knives.

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” she warns, pulling on her jacket, but making no move toward the door. “Or stand on anything taller than a pancake”

Close enough.

“Okay, Mum,” you say, deadpan. You’re both amused and slightly exasperated because Leah’s version of protective involves a lot of hovering and unnecessary life advice.

She kisses you on the forehead before leaving, like she’s blessing you for the day ahead. Or maybe she thinks you’ll forget how to breathe without her around. Either way, it’s oddly comforting.

When she finally leaves, you flop on the sofa, determined to enjoy the fleeting freedom before she comes home and starts fluffing your pillows like you’re an elderly Victorian woman with consumption.

-

Month 4: The Hormone-Palooza

Leah walks in from training one afternoon to find you sitting on the kitchen floor, crying over an empty jar of pickled onions. To be fair, they were really good onions. You’d eaten the last one two hours ago, and now the world feels like a cruel, onion-less void.

“What happened?” Leah asks, dropping her kit bag and rushing over like there’s been a national emergency.

“The pickled onions,” you sob, pointing dramatically at the empty jar as if it’s committed some unspeakable crime.

She stares at the jar, then at you, and you can see the mental maths she’s doing to figure out if this is worth her calling 999. But then she just nods, like she’s made peace with your hormonal breakdowns.

“I’ll get more tomorrow,” she says, like she’s promising to fetch water from a well three villages over.

You look up at her, eyes wide and wet. “Really?”

She nods. “Really. And I’ll get the sliced red ones this time”

You sniff, feeling vaguely stupid but mostly just grateful. “You’re the best”

“I know,” she says, deadpan, and helps you off the floor like you’re a drunk at a party who just tried to wrestle your reflection in the mirror.

But Leah doesn’t make fun of you for your hormone-fueled tears. She’s too busy making sure you’re okay, which is annoying and endearing in equal measure.

-

Month 6: The Nesting Madness

You wake up one morning to the sound of power tools. In your half-asleep state, you briefly consider the possibility that Leah’s decided to open a B&Q in your living room.

When you manage to roll out of bed, because rolling is now the only way you can get up, you find Leah assembling a cot in the nursery. She’s wearing a headlamp like she’s about to go spelunking. Her tongue is sticking out in concentration, and there’s a distinct air of “I watched this on YouTube once, so I’m basically an expert” about her.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, trying not to laugh.

She pauses, mid-screw, and gives you a look. “I’m following the instructions,” she says defensively, even though the manual is open to a page that looks more like IKEA hieroglyphics than anything else.

You decide not to mention that the cot is currently upside down. Instead, you settle in to watch Leah’s one-woman DIY show. It’s honestly better than whatever’s on terrestrial right now.

After a good twenty minutes, she steps back, admiring her work. You both stare at the crib, which is somehow missing two legs but is otherwise a valiant effort.

“It’s... something,” you say diplomatically.

Leah sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’ll call my dad”

You nod. “Good idea. He’s got that handyman vibe”

She gives you a mock glare. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t help”

“I’m in charge of moral support,” you reply, patting your stomach. “And the baby’s supervising”

“Lazy,” she mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

-

Month 8: The Belly and the Beast

By this point, your belly is so big that it has its own gravitational pull. Leah has taken to treating it like it’s a small planet she needs to orbit. You’re the sun, and she’s some overzealous moon that won’t give you any space.

“Do you need anything?” she asks for the fiftieth time that day, hovering like a helicopter parent who’s misplaced their child in a crowd.

“No,” you reply, staring at the TV, which you can barely see over your stomach.

“How about water? I could get you water. Or juice. Or something with electrolytes. Do you want electrolytes?” Leah’s pacing now, clearly itching to do something.

You eye her, bemused. “I’m fine, Leah”

“Are you sure? I could fluff your pillow, or I could—”

“Leah,” you interrupt, trying to keep a straight face, “the baby and I are okay. You don’t need to, like, feng shui the living room or whatever”

She stops pacing, looking slightly sheepish. “I’m just... I don’t know what to do with myself”

You reach out and grab her hand, pulling her to sit next to you. “You’re doing great,” you tell her, squeezing her hand. “Now, just relax. Let’s watch something. Maybe something without pregnant women, though. I can’t deal with seeing anyone else going through this”

Leah laughs, finally settling in next to you. “Deal”

Five minutes into the show, she’s already got a hand on your belly, her protective instincts kicking in even during a Netflix binge. You roll your eyes fondly but let her be. At least she’s not trying to rearrange the furniture again.

-

Month 9: The Home Stretch (Or, The Last Nerve)

Leah is a bundle of nerves, more wound up than a cat near a cucumber. It’s almost cute, except when she insists on triple-checking the hospital bag, which she’s already checked twice in the last hour.

“Leah, seriously, if you add one more onesie to that bag, it’s going to explode”

“I just want to make sure we have everything,” she mutters, rummaging through the bag as if it’s one of those cursed Hermione purses from Harry Potter.

“We have everything. And then some,” you assure her, eyeing the ludicrous pile of baby supplies that could probably last through an apocalypse.

She finally zips up the bag and sits down next to you. For a moment, there’s silence, and you think maybe, just maybe, she’s finally going to relax. But no. She starts tapping her foot, glancing at you every few seconds.

“Do you think—”

“No,” you cut her off, knowing exactly where this is going.

“But—”

“Leah,” you say firmly, “I love you, but if you ask me if I think the baby’s coming today one more time, I might actually lose it”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, looking like she’s physically restraining herself from speaking.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, sighing. “I’m just... I’m excited and nervous and I feel like I’m waiting for a bomb to go off, but the bomb is cute and we’re going to love it and—”

“Leah,” you interrupt again, “you’re doing amazing. But you need to chill, or the baby’s going to think it’s coming out to meet a drill sergeant”

She cracks a smile at that. “Okay, okay, I’ll try to relax”

She doesn’t. But she does stop asking you if you’re in labor every fifteen minutes, so you’ll take that as a win.

-

The Grand Finale: The Delivery Room Circus

The day finally arrives. Naturally, it’s at three in the morning because why would your body ever do anything convenient? You wake Leah up by shaking her arm like you’re waking a teenager for school.

“Leah,” you say, trying to stay calm even though your insides feel like they’re being twisted into balloon animals. “It’s time”

She’s up in an instant, wide awake like she’s just heard the starting whistle at the World Cup final. She starts pacing, half-dressed, muttering about the hospital bag.

“We need to go, we need to—oh my god, where are the keys? Do we have the car seat? Should we call an ambulance? No, wait, we’re not calling an ambulance, that’s for emergencies, this is an emergency, but not that kind of emergency—”

You grab her shoulders, trying to steady her. “Leah, breathe. We’ve got time. But we do need to go”

She takes a deep breath, nodding like she’s trying to calm down a very excitable puppy. Then she’s off, running around the house like it’s an obstacle course, grabbing everything and nothing at once. You watch her in bemusement, one hand on your belly, wondering if you should tell her that she’s just thrown her shoe into the fridge.

When she finally gets it together, the drive to the hospital is an adventure in itself. Leah’s driving like she’s on her way to rob a bank, weaving through traffic and swearing under her breath at every red light.

“Leah, the baby’s not going to fall out if we don’t get there in ten minutes,” you say, trying to keep a straight face as she mutters something about the stupidly long red lights.

Finally, you make it to the hospital, where Leah practically drags you to the entrance like a deflated balloon on a string. Once inside, she’s all business, directing the nurses like she’s running a tactical operation.

The actual labour is a blur—hours of pain, and sweat, and Leah alternating between holding your hand and looking like she might faint. But she doesn’t faint. She stays with you the whole time, even when you scream at her that she’s never allowed to touch you again.

When the baby finally arrives, Leah’s expression is one of awe, relief, and sheer, overwhelming love. You’re both exhausted, but when you see her holding your baby, all of her earlier madness makes sense.

She was never just overprotective or anxious. She was just ready—ready to love, ready to care, and maybe, just maybe, ready to stop checking that bloody hospital bag.

Maybe.

Probably not.

But you love her anyway.

[astrids-blog333]

Beneath the Silk - Chapter One

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Chapter One Summary: A political marriage to Lucius is forged to secure the empire’s fragile peace. Though emotionally distant, Lucius is drawn to your quiet grace, while you struggle to navigate the undercurrents of power within the Roman court. But even the smallest kindnesses draw his gaze, leaving you both uncertain of where duty ends and attraction begins.

Warnings: angsty, slow burn, injury/blood (mild), anxiety and stress, manipulation, power imbalance, alcohol consumption.

A/N: This is a three-part fic I've been writing, and I'm hoping to get all three parts out in the next day or so, FYI Chapter Three will be 18+. It is set post Gladiator II, and there are slight deviations from the original plot (i.e he never married and is emperor). PLEASE PLEASE comment/like/reblog it really does help. I love the Gladiator movies so much, and I love him so much. Anyways, hope you enjoy <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC (Chapter One): 3.8k

chapter two - chapter three

The halls of the imperial palace stretch far before you. You’ve been in this palace many times, yet today it all feels different. Your feet feel heavy, and every step you take seems to echo off the marble floors, louder than the last.

A summons to the Emperor’s court, a marriage proposal from Lucius Verus himself, does not go unanswered. As the daughter of a senator with ambition for more power, more influence, you have a duty to follow his wishes.

This meeting is not just an opportunity; it is the beginning of a marriage that will secure your family's future, a political alliance forged in the name of power and stability.

Your family’s future.

The door ahead opens, revealing a room bathed in golden light, its shadows stretching far along the stone floors. From it, a servant steps forward, bowing low. “My Lady, the Emperor is expecting you.”

With a nod, you move forward, your nerves hidden behind a composed exterior as you step into the room.

You are struck by the sheer presence of the man before you.

An Emperor.

He sits tall, his posture regal, yet there’s an edge to him, something dark that seems to pull the very air towards him. His gaze lifts as you enter, his eyes sharp, cold, but also appraising. The moment your eyes meet, you feel an unsettling stillness settle over you, the kind of quiet that could erupt into a storm at any moment.

He says nothing at first, his gaze lingering on you, as if taking measure of your very soul. The corners of his lips curl into something that could almost be mistaken for a smile, but there’s a coldness to it that sends a shiver down your spine.

"My Lady," he finally speaks, his voice smooth. "I’ve heard much about you." You hold his gaze; this is a game of power, of politics, and you are determined to play it well.

“I’m honoured to meet you, Emperor,” you reply, your voice steady even though your heart is racing inside your chest. You’ve heard the rumours, but now, standing before him, you understand.

Lucius Verus Aurelius is not just a man.

"You are just as your father said," He continues. “A woman of duty.”

For a moment, his expression softens, a flicker of something more human crossing his features. But soon it's gone again, replaced by that same cold, calculating gaze.

“The court is full of men and women who are all too eager to present themselves,” Lucius adds, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “But it is rare to find someone who doesn’t seek the approval of others.”

Lucius looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing across his features. Then, without another word, he turns and gestures to the throne beside him. “We shall see how you fare in Rome, My Lady."

The days following your first meeting with Lucius have blurred into a single long string of formalities, discussions and countless meetings. The whispers around the court grow louder, as does the weight on your shoulders. This marriage, your marriage, which was once discussed in vague terms, is now an inevitability. Your father has spoken on your behalf, assuring the Emperor that you are prepared to fulfil your duties.

This marriage is not simply a union of you and Lucius; it is a bond that must strengthen the empire, settle the mounting tension between factions, and solidify his reign. The senators, the generals, and the noble families all have their eyes on this union, their agendas clear.

It is political. It is power. It is survival.

You stand by the window of your quarters, gazing out over the sprawling city below. The weight of this arranged marriage presses in against your chest, and the reality of what it means is finally sinking in.

You are not marrying Lucius for love. You will never marry for love. The two of you, bound by the will of those in power, are being forced into unity, and regardless of the greater good, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Lucius, you’ve learned, is a man who does not easily show emotion. In your brief interactions with him, you’ve seen the icy exterior he wears like armour.

The few words you’ve exchanged with him since your first meeting have been curt, formal. There has been no warmth, no kindness, no hint of empathy. He seems determined to keep things strictly business.

The door to your chambers creaks open, and your father steps in, his expression as unreadable as ever. His presence fills the room, and for a moment, you feel as though you are being suffocated by his expectations.

“They’ve confirmed the date,” your father says, his voice low. “The wedding will take place in two weeks. Everything is now in place, finally.”

Your throat tightens, but you hold your composure. “Two weeks? That is quite soon, is it not?”

He nods, his eyes calculating. “It’s necessary. The tensions between the eastern provinces have been growing. The marriage will solidify our alliance with the eastern legions and quell any dissent within the senate.”

You nod, but inside, a cold knot begins to form. You are a pawn in this game. Your father, the Emperor, the senator, all of them are using you as nothing but a tool.

As your father speaks of the preparations, you can’t help but wonder about the man you are to marry.

The thought lingers in your mind, but you push it away. There’s no room for feelings in this arrangement.

Only duty.

The door closes behind your father as he exits, leaving you alone once again. You stare out at the city as the last light of the day fades into the dark night.

You know that there is no turning back now.

The grand hall is filled with the soft murmur of conversation, the clink of shining golden goblets, and the rustle of expensive, fine silk. The air is heavy with the scent of roasted meats and perfumed wine.

This is the atmosphere of celebration, of happiness, but you feel anything but celebratory, or happy.

You stand near the edge of the room, your sharp gaze occasionally drifting to Lucius, who is surrounded by the usual assortment of nobles, advisors, and foreign diplomats seeking favour with their ruler. His posture is far too perfect, his expression unreadable, as it has been all evening. He is, as always, a flawless picture of regal composure.

But something about him tonight seems different.

Your marriage ceremony had been short, almost perfunctory, with little fanfare or flourish beyond the required vows and rituals. Now, as tradition dictates, you find yourself at the centre of a sea of well-wishers, all of whom are eager to congratulate you on your new role as Empress.

You watch Lucius from a distance. He stands in a circle of powerful men, but his gaze keeps drifting toward you. It’s subtle, a brief flicker of his eyes before he turns away again, agreeing with a senator or nodding to some advisor's boring anecdote.

You don't envy this part of his job, of his duty.

But the glances, those you catch. You catch the way his jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, how his fingers grip his goblet just a little too tightly. He’s noticing you, even if he’s trying to hide it from both you and himself.

You take a sip of your wine, your nerves beginning to settle as the alcohol warms your insides. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or the fact that everyone’s watching you that makes you feel so exposed. You can feel their eyes on you, their judgement lingering on you like a shadow.

You look to Lucius again, this time locking your eyes with his. This time, neither of you looks away.

You can’t put your finger on it, but you sense the conflict within him. The coldness he wears so effortlessly seems at odds with the tension in his gaze.

The music plays on, and slowly, the crowd around Lucius begins to thin. The revelry continues, but you remain rooted in place, watching him. But then he turns towards you again and starts through the crowd in your direction.

Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, your palms feel clammy. The warmth of his presence envelops you, his scent intoxicating, a fine balance of rich leather, smoke, and something darker, more primal.

For a short moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches. The world around you fades into a dull hum as you lock eyes with him. The tension is so thick it’s almost suffocating you where you stand.

“I hope you’re enjoying the festivities,” Lucius finally says, his voice low and even, betraying nothing.

You can’t tell if it’s his disinterest or something else, but you know you’re being measured, evaluated. “I am,” you reply. “But I do find myself wondering what happens after all this. Once the celebration ends, once the court has gone, what is left for us?”

Lucius tilts his head to the side slightly, intrigue crossing his otherwise stoic features. “That remains to be seen, My Lady.” His words are polite, detached. “Marriage is a... business arrangement. Nothing more.”

The words sting, but you manage to keep your composure. It’s what you expected, what you have been prepared for your whole life. A loveless marriage with a man who wishes not to be with you, who wishes for nothing to do with you.

“Perhaps,” you say, taking a small step back, giving yourself some space to breathe, “but even some business arrangements can be... complicated.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Complicated, yes of course.” His voice deepens. “But I don’t believe you are the complication I expected.” The words hit you like a stone to the chest, and you can feel the sudden weight of everything pressing down on you.

He doesn’t touch you, but the intensity of Lucius's stare almost feels like physical touch.

Before you can even think to reply, he steps back, his posture relaxing slightly as he adjusts the clasp of his cloak. His gaze lingers on you for one final moment.

As quickly as he appeared, Lucius turns away, his figure swallowed one again by the crowd.

You exhale, not realising you’d been holding your breath the entire time.

The palace is a maze, and you can feel the harsh looks follow you down the corridors. Today, you have the chance to walk through them, away from the crowd of courtiers and their insistent chattering.

The hall stretches before you, lined with columns that give the space a sense of grandeur, but the silence, which is only broken by your footsteps, is almost unsettling. You are alone in your thoughts, but there is no real solitude here, not when you can feel the eyes upon you at all times.

As you round the corner, you spot a young girl struggling, trying to steady herself while clutching at her side. It's such a subtle shirt in her stance you nearly miss it, but you can see the discomfort in the way she winces as she tries to carry on her task.

You slow as you watch her. It is a brief interaction, just a glimpse of vulnerability, but enough to catch your eye. You can’t possible ignore it.

Without thinking twice, you approach, stepping carefully so as not to startle her. “Are you all right?”

The girl, startled by the sound of your voice, looks up. Her face is flushed, and she quickly straightens, hiding her discomfort behind a forced smile.

“I’m fine, my lady,” she replies, her words quick, too quick. There is a slight tremor in her voice that betrays her. You study her for a moment, something isn’t right.

“I don’t believe you.” You keep your tone even so as to not scare her, but your eyes are sharp, persistent. “Let me see.”

She hesitates, glancing down at her hands, before finally lifting her sleeve. The sight of the deep gash in her arm catches you slightly off guard. It isn’t too serious, but it has clearly been left untreated to long as blood has begun to stain the fabric of her tunic.

“Why hasn’t someone seen to this?” you ask, lowering your voice.

The girl's eyes dart to the side, refusing to meet your gaze. “I didn’t want to trouble anyone, my lady,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sit,” you instruct, your words firm but gentle as you gesture to a nearby chair. “I’ll have it cleaned.”

As you move to tend to her wound, you feel the air shift. The sudden silence is broken by footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor.

You don’t need to look up to know who it is. Lucius’s presence, even without words, seems to fill the space.

Without a word, he appears in the doorway. His eyes briefly flick over the scene before locking onto you. His brow furrows as he observes you kneeling beside the girl, your attention wholly focused on her.

For a moment, there is no movement, just the quiet exchange between you two. Lucius takes a step forward. His voice, when it comes, is low.

“You would... help those beneath you?”

It isn’t an accusation. It is a question, a quiet observation wrapped in the careful tone of someone trying to understand something they don’t quite grasp. Perhaps he refuses to believe that you, a Lady of the Roman Empire, who was born into wealth and prosperity, would even think to help a lowly servant girl.

You don’t look up immediately, your attention still on the maid as you clean her wound. “Everyone has a place,” you say, not pausing in your task, “but kindness should have no rank.”

Lucius is silent for a moment. When you finally look up, you address him, "Would you not agree, Emperor?"

You catch the brief flicker of something in his eyes. It isn’t exactly surprise, but it isn’t disregarded either. For the first time since your marriage, you see a different side of him, something unexpected that seems to make him seem faintly protective.

He nods, his gaze softening for the briefest of moments before his expression shifts back into something guarded. “I’ll have someone fetch a healer,” he says, his tone returning to its usual clipped edge. “Stay here.”

You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, as the girl's soft voice interrupts your thoughts. “Thank you, my lady. I... I don’t deserve this.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face as you finish cleaning the wound. “You do. We all deserve kindness, even when the world sometimes forgets it.”

Lucius pauses for a moment in the doorway, watching, listening, before disappearing down the hall again to carry out his command.

The night has long since fallen, and the grand halls of the palace are quieter now, the hum of courtly chatter and the heavy clang of armor replaced by the soft rustling of distant servants and the occasional glimmer of torchlight reflecting off the polished marble. It is the kind of night that promises solitude, a rare gift in a world so full of eyes, all pointed towards you. You find yourself walking the halls alone once more, needing nothing more than the silence to clear your thoughts.

You had spent the better part of the day in meetings, your role at the heart of Rome’s politics growing clearer with each passing day. The weight of your new position, all of the alliances, the shifting balances of power, and the many expectations are all beginning to wear on your mind and body.

The only place you can find any peace is in the gardens. They have become your sanctuary, so you find yourself slipping away from the palace’s watchful eyes to find some reprieve among the trees. The night air is cooler here, and the stars overhead shine brightly.

The sound of footsteps draws you out of your thoughts. At first, you think it’s just another guard or servant going about their duties, but as the figure comes closer, you realise it is him.

Lucius.

His presence is a shadow before it becomes a figure, tall and commanding, moving with purpose even in the utter stillness of the night. He doesn’t say anything as he approaches you, his eyes scanning the garden briefly before settling on you. You’ve seen him in many situations, in the heat of power struggles, in the midst of grand gatherings, but in this, this stillness, this quiet, he is different. It is almost as if you can hear the thoughts churning beneath his calm exterior.

“I didn’t expect to see you out here,” you say, your voice softer than usual, unsure of how to read the situation.

Lucius says nothing for a long moment. He merely looks at you. His lips part slightly, as though he might speak, but then he chooses not to. Instead, he takes a step closer, and you notice, almost imperceptibly, that he is giving you space.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, the words escaping before you can hold them back. It isn’t an ordinary question; this isn’t about politics or alliances. It is more personal, an invitation into the silence he carries with him, the part of him he keeps locked away. You wonder whether one day he will share them with you, his wife.

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, there is a hesitation, a hint of something that makes you wonder if he’ll answer truthfully.

“Nothing worth saying,” he finally replies, his voice cool. He is always in control, always aware of what he reveals, to whom and when.

But tonight, it seems, something about the air between you has changed. Perhaps it is the quiet, the absence of everyone else, or maybe it is the sheer weight of the responsibilities that both of you now carry. Some of these responsibilities you now carry together.

“I don’t believe you,” you say softly, your gaze not leaving his. It isn’t defiance, it’s just the truth. You’ve learned enough in your time here to know that Lucius is a man of many layers, many masks, and that some things can be seen even if he never speaks them aloud.

His jaw tightens, but there is no anger in his features, no sharp rebuke. Just the unshakable, steady gaze that has become his trademark.

The only sound is the gentle rustling of leaves in the night wind.

Finally, he breaks the silence, "I've seen you in the gardens before, what draws you to them so?"

You pause, thinking for a moment before answering. "The night reminds me of home." He looks at you, raising an eyebrow slightly, prompting you to continue.

"I have never lived anywhere but my childhood home, so coming here has been...difficult, to say the least." You pause, unsure of how to continue.

"I found that even though my whole life has been turned upside down, the night sky has not changed. The stars are in the same place they have always been, so when I look up to them, I can forget everything else, and I could just as easily be home again."

His eyes narrow, as if measuring your words. "You don't seem as disillusioned as most would be," he observes. "Most would be angrier, most would resent being used as a pawn in the empire’s games."

You tilt your head, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "And yet, here I am. No resentment, simply...remembering." You pause, glancing down at your hands, seeing they tremble slightly.

"Just doing what I must."

Lucius steps closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor drawing your attention. "And what if your duty requires something more than you expected?" His voice drops, a thread of vulnerability threading through his usual detached tone. "What if you’re asked to choose between what’s right for the empire and what’s right for you?"

The question hangs in the air like a challenge, but you meet his gaze without any hesitation. "Then I will choose both, Lucius. I will find a way."

He speaks again, softer this time.

"Earlier, when you helped the servant..." He pauses, his voice a little quieter, almost as if uncertain of his own curiosity. "Why did you do that? It was nothing more than a small injury, but you treated it as if it were life or death."

You bite your lip, the memory of the servant’s injury still fresh. It had been a simple cut, nothing that would have warranted a second glance from anyone else. Yet, something in you had insisted on helping. It had felt… right.

"You see, Lucius," you say, carefully choosing your words, "in a place like this, where everything is always about power and control, it's easy to forget the little things. The ones who are dismissed, the ones who are invisible. It's not much, but I can't help but think that if we forget them, we lose something essential to who we are as people."

He is quiet for a long time, his gaze never leaving you. There is something unreadable in his expression, something buried deep beneath the surface.

"You're different," he finally says, his voice low. "Most would never think twice about such a thing. They would walk past, their eyes trained on the bigger picture, and yet..." His gaze softens, though he quickly masks it with a brief glance away.

You swallow hard, "I just... I just want to do what’s right."

A fleeting silence passes between you two, heavy. The moment feels fragile, like something could shift at any moment, pulling you closer or pushing you apart.

Lucius steps closer again, the distance between you shrinking even further. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the power of his existence wrapping around you like a clock.

There is a stillness in the air, a charge that hums between the two of you, and then, almost unnoticeably, his hand brushes yours. It is so light, so momentary, that you almost think it is an accident. But the sensation of his skin against yours sends a jolt of something through you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, neither of you moves. His hand hovers just a fraction above yours, as if unsure whether to pull away or linger. His gaze flickers between your eyes and your hand, and you can see the battle within him, something he isn’t willing to show, but still cannot completely hide.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his hand falling back to his side.

"I should go," Lucius says, his voice returning to its usual coolness. "There are matters to attend to."

You nod, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "Of course."

As he turns to leave, you can't help but watch him, your thoughts swirling. For all the power he wielded, for all his control, you know there is something more to that man.

all parts of this series are out now, hope you enjoy 🫶

[probablyasocialecologist]

The high levels of consumption enjoyed by wealthy countries in the Global North are only possible because of mass appropriation of labor from the population of the Global South. This is evidenced by research from the Institute of Environmental Science and Technology at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona (ICTA-UAB), which indicates that this appropriation takes place through unequal exchange in international trade and global commodity chains. The new study, published in Nature Communications, measured the flows of labor embodied in traded goods around the world from 1995 to 2021. The results show that in 2021, the Global North imported 906 billion hours of embodied labor from the South while exporting only 80 billion hours in return. In other words, for every hour of labor the Global South imports from the Global North, they must export 11 hours to "pay" for it. As a result, the countries of the Global North net-appropriated 826 billion hours of labor from the Global South, across all skill levels and all sectors: mining, agriculture, manufacturing and services. The figure of 826 billion hours is more than the labor rendered by the entire workforce of the United States and Europe combined. The wage value of this net-appropriated labor was equivalent to €16.9 trillion in 2021, in Northern prices. In other words, this is how much the appropriated labor would be worth if it was paid at prevailing Northern wages, with equal wages for equal work. "These are staggering figures. It shows that very large quantities of value flow from the South to the North each year" says Jason Hickel, researcher at ICTA-UAB and the Department of Anthropology at the UAB. "The Global North grows rich by siphoning value out of the South." Unequal exchange occurs because of systematic price inequalities in the world economy. Powerful states and corporations in the Global North seek to compress wages and supply prices in the Global South, to obtain inputs and other goods more cheaply. Producers in the Global South are then forced to export more goods and services in order to buy any given level of imports. This results in large net-transfers from the Global South to the Global North, which benefits Northern firms and consumers but drains the Global South of productive capacities that are necessary for development. "Labor that could be used to improve human development in the Global South is instead appropriated to service capital accumulation in the Global North," said co-author Morena Hanbury Lemos, also of ICTA-UAB. "This is a major driver of deprivation in the South, and it needs to be addressed," she says. According to the study, wages in the Global South are between 87% and 95% lower than Northern wages for work of equal skill, and between 83% and 98% lower for work of equal skill within the same sector. Wage inequalities are so extreme that high skill labor in the Global South is paid only one-third the wages of low-skill labor in the Global North.

29 July 2024

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: Happy weekend.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The car comes to a stop. It takes you a minute to notice as you reel yourself back to reality. You blink through the tinted window as Merv turns the music down; a song about glory days or something. 

“Here we are,” he announces and cranes to look back at you, “have fun, miss.” 

“Have fun...” you whisper to yourself in confusion, “what? Where do I go?” 

He laughs, not mockingly, and he points through the window, “well, you’ll want to go into that restaurant and give them Mr. Barnes’ name. They’ll sort you out, I’m sure.” 

“Oh,” your brows draw together. A restaurant. What? 

You undo your seatbelt hesitantly and peer out through the glass again. This is strange. You’ve only had a few interviews and most of them were in cramped backrooms or closets. You pull the handle and let yourself out, thanking Merv before you step up on the curb. 

You shut the car door and hook your bag over your shoulder. You stare up at the restaurant’s marquee. It’s a bistro of some sort. Upscale by your measure, thought you have little experience beyond chain joints and fast food. The white facade with its tall windows is intimidating as you approach the entrance. 

As you step inside, you’re all but assured that you don’t belong. A woman greets you with a pearly smile, her hair in a wispy bun, as she sports a flowery white dress. You look back and forth as she cradles a tablet in one arm. 

“Do you have a reservation?” She asks. 

You look down at yourself. That’s a generous assumption. You don’t know how she’s not telling you to leave. 

“Erm, I... I think I’m looking for someone,” you say, “Mr. Barnes?” 

“Barnes, yes, party for two,” she taps the screen, “he’s waiting. Won’t you follow me?” 

She spins on her heels and strolls away. She’s tall and gorgeous, just like the woman at the casino. You peer around and find no less finery and beauty among the staff and diners. The table are all white and polished and the walls are hung with abstract paintings of heaping fruit and bright cocktails. You’ve never seen brunch done so extravagantly. 

You nearly trip as you look ahead just before you reach the stairs. The hostess climbs ahead of you. You envy her modelesque figure. How is she stuck here? She’s breathtaking. She could be in magazines. 

More importantly, where are you going? 

Several flights and you emerge into the open air. You've never been on a rooftop. You’ve seen things like these in movies. There’s a bar center to the space and tables beneath umbrellas set all about. There is only one diner despite the sunshine. It is strangely desolate for such a warm scene. 

You’re led to the only occupied table. Mr. Barnes stands as you near. He wears a pair of teal slacks and a patterned shirt with an open collar. Casual but just as refined as before. It hardly seems like job interview. 

“Doll,” he greets you with a kiss on the cheek to your surprise. You don’t comment on it, it might just be his way. “You made it.” 

“I...” you check your watch, “it was before noon when I got to the casino.” 

“That’s on me,” he insists as he pulls out the chair for you, “I got restless. Changed my mind. Please.” 

He gestures to the seat and you accept stiffly, moving your bag into your lap as he tucks the chair in under you. He resumes his seat and looks up at the woman patiently standing to the side, “Melody,” he says, “she’ll have a vodka cran, give me my usual. Thanks.” 

“Yes, Mr. Barnes,” she replies eagerly. 

“Oh, and the lunch menu,” he returns. 

She clacks off in her heels as you squirm and clutch your purse. You peer around the rooftop and finally at Bucky. You give a sheepish smile. 

“This is a nice place.” 

“Sure is,” he sits back carelessly. There is no tension in him but your wound tight as a spring. 

“Never been anywhere like this...” your eyes drift over and you stare at the city skyline. 

“Made sure we weren’t near the edge, doll,” he assures, “I remember you’re not a fan.” He rests a hand on the table, rubbing his index and thumb. “And I wanted to have this time alone so my pal did me a favour and cleared the roof.” 

“Oh, wow.” 

“He owns this place,” he shrugs. “Never got into the restaurant business. It’s fickle.” 

You nod, not knowing what to say. He knows about these things. Obviously, a lot. You’ve never even worked a full-time week of work. 

“How’s your sister?” He asks, “I assume you got home safe.” 

“Yes, er, thank you, again, for doing all that,” you bite your lip and his blue eyes catch the gesture as his eyebrow tweaks. “I’m really sorry she did that.” 

“Doll, you’re real sweet apologising for her,” he inclines his head slightly, “but you gotta worry about yourself, don’t ya? That’s why you’re here.” 

The hostess, Melody, reappears and sets down two glasses. Yours is bright red with a lime on the rim and his is dark, no ice. She lays down a menu in front of each of you and straightens her posture. 

“I have to get back to the door but Hailee will be up to help you shortly. Our specials today are a goat cheese and beet salad or a brown sugar salmon with seasonal veggies.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says as he taps the menu. 

Melody leaves you again and you bend your neck to read the menu. You look for a price beneath the dishes and find none. That can’t be good. 

“I’m not very hungry,” you sit up straight. 

“Doll, don’t worry about it. It’s on me,” he circles his hand around his glass, “why don’t you try your drink? Make sure it’s up to snuff.” He sits forward and lifts his own, “cheers.” 

Your hand slips up the condensating glass before you get a grasp on it. You raise it and clink it against his. You bring it to your lips slowly as he does the same, mirroring you as he watches you intently. You gulp and set down the glass as your cheeks strain. 

“You don’t like it?” He wonders. 

“No, I... well, I don’t drink much,” you take the cloth napkin and dab your lips. 

“Ah, if that’s too tart, you can have a look at the cocktails. Some of them are so sweet, you wouldn’t know the difference.” 

“I’m okay,” you assure him, “so...” you swallow and force out your breath, “about the job--” 

“Damn, doll, I’m so all over the place lately, I didn’t even tell you how good you look.” 

“I...” your eyes widen but you quickly wipe away your shock, “that’s nice. I mean, thank you.” Your voice shakes as you struggle to comprehend the compliment. What do you say? “You too.” 

He smirks, “yeah, you think so?” 

“What?” Your voice cracks. 

“You think I look good?” He combs his fingers through his long hair. Oh god. 

“Yes,” you answer cautiously, “I like your shirt.” 

“You’re adorable,” he snickers and shakes his head, leaning forward once more, bending his arms against the table. 

“Uh...” you peek down at the table and back to him. You can’t even blame the sun that you’re about to melt. The umbrella blocks out the bright beacon though a glare comes over the edge. “Bucky, sir, Mr. Barnes,” you shuffle through his titles, “the job. What would that be?” 

His brows rise and he brings a hand up to drag over his mouth and beard, his fingers brushing along the trim of his jaw. 

“The job,” he repeats as he narrows his eyes, “ah,” he lowers his head and presses a fingertip to the menu, “let’s order before we get into all that.” 

You look over the menu again then raise your chin, “I appreciate it, but it’s too much, Bucky. I wouldn’t want to... waste your money.” 

“It’s my money,” he looks at you, “so I’ll decide how I waste it.” 

“Oh,” your cheeks set alight, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he tilts his head again, “you’re just that type of girl. You don’t know what it is to be treated so allow me to show you.” 

You’re confused. This is the oddest encounter you’ve ever had. You almost feel like it’s a joke. You’re this poor helpless girl and he’s flaunting how rich and powerful he is. Is there even a job? 

“I’d feel worse if you didn’t eat, so doll, don’t step on my toes.” 

You chew your cheek and look down again. That’s it. You’ll have the cucumber sandwich. That’s not too much. It can’t be. 

The waitress arrives, a different woman but just as stunning. She introduces herself as Hailee. Bucky prompts you to order first before he gives his own. As she leaves, you rock slightly in your chair, stilling yourself before you can look weird. 

“So... I could clean or... I could learn something--” 

“Let me stop your there, doll,” he puts a large hand up, his palm rough and lined. “It’s my turn to apologise. I... haven’t been honest with you.” 

Your heart drops and you can’t help the glimmer in your vision. No. You’re going to have to go home and tell your mother you failed again. That you wasted her time and gas. You close your eyes and frown. 

“Doll, doll,” he says and you hear his chair scrape. You open your eyes as he pulls his chair around to sit closer to you, “hey, let me finish here.” 

You look him in the eye. Big mistake. You could drown in the blueness. He smirks and rubs your arm. 

“I’m not... it’s not a job I have to offer you,” he says deliberately, his other hand fluttering on your knee, “I would call it an arrangement. Mutually beneficial.” 

You stare at him. You’re entire being is on fire. You don’t understand what he’s saying, more so, you can barely think with him touching you. 

“But... I need a job,” you sniffle. 

He scoffs, not unkindly, “you’ll have money. I know you got a family, your sister, maybe your parents? Economy’s tough, I know it.” 

“Money? For what?” 

He squeezes your knee and sits up, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he leans even closer, “for your company. For yourself.” 

“What?” Your voice piques sharply. “I don’t...” 

“Look, let’s take it slow here, alright? Today is the taster. We spend some time together, see how we vibe, and go from there. Now I know you went to a whole lot of trouble to get so nice and pretty for me today,” he coaxes, “and I’m not gonna waste your time so you won’t go home empty handed. One thousand.” 

“Thousand?” You breathe. 

“Just for lunch,” he says, “I’d pay a lot more so I’m open to bartering.” 

“That’s... a lot...” you mutter. 

“Nothing’s too much for a girl like you,” his fingers dance along your shoulder. 

“I... I...” you heave each word. 

“Now don’t you freak out,” he’s on the edge of laughing, “doll, I mean it. Just lunch. You and me. Nothing...” he pulls away from you and puts his hands up, “untoward.” 

He stands and moves his chair back across from you. He sits and pushes his shoulders wide, “I mean it. Let’s get to know each other. I want to know all about you, doll.” 

“Me?” You gulp. 

“You,” he points over the table, “you must like music. You went to that concert, didn’t ya?” 

You nod and curl your shoulders. 

“What kinda music you like?” 

“Oh, I... old stuff, I guess. Destiny’s Child?” You give a sheepish cringe. 

“Old school,” he remarks, “I like it. Spice girls too?” 

“Yeah,” you clamp your lips together. 

“I’m not teasing ya. I can’t lie and say I never turned the radio up when I heard them,” he chuckles, “no judgment. That goes for you too, alright? When you find out how much I like ABBA, you can’t giggle.” 

Your cheeks dimple as you try not to smile. It’s hard to imagine him listening to Dancing Queen. You push your shoulders higher and look away. 

“Don’t laugh,” he chides. 

“I didn’t,” you turn back to him. 

“Yeah, you’re too nice, that’s why,” he purrs, “you gotta tell me your fave ABBA song.” 

You shrug and he squints cynically, “everyone has one. Come on. Fernando?” You shake your head at his guess. “Waterloo?” Again, no. “Mamma Mia?” Nope. “Take a Chance on Me?” No. “Alright, I surrender, tell me.” 

“Gimme, Gimme, Gimme,” you eke out. 

“Hm, not what I would guess but interesting,” he muses as his eyes wander from your face and back up, “but I at least knew you had taste.” 

He winks and you let out a giggle. Whether your nervous or something else, you can’t untangle all your emotions from one another. Yet you do feel a little better, a little lighter. It’s an unexpected situation but not as bad as you foresaw. 

[baekhyunsbestie]

JUST... JEALOUS

⟢ content: 18+/mdni. ~2k words. yandere!baekhyun x f!reader. smut. alcohol consumption. voyeurism. exhibitionism. jealousy and dominance. power dynamics. explicit language. p in v. creampies. baek's a panty sniffer n stealer lmaooooo.

baekhyun used to get jealous. it crept in like a slow burn, gnawed at the edges of his confidence when he caught someone looking at you too long, standing too close, laughing a little too easily in your presence. he never voiced it, not in the way lesser men might—no petty arguments, no insecure accusations. but it showed in the way his jaw would clench, his touch would tighten, his gaze would darken just enough to send a silent message: mine.

but jealousy is for men who doubt, for those who hesitate, who wonder if they are enough. and baekhyun—he knows now. it took longer than it should have, longer than he cares to admit, but the realization is absolute, unwavering. you are his, just as much as he is yours. not because he demands it, not because he needs to stake a claim, but because it is simply the truth. anyone with a shred of perception can see it, feel it in the space between you—the way your eyes seek him first in a crowded room, the way you lean into his touch like it’s second nature, the way his presence alone commands your attention without him ever having to ask.

the way he watches you now—with that relentless, all-consuming intensity—isn’t possession, isn’t insecurity. it’s obsession, devotion, a hunger so deep it borders on reverence. no questions, no competition. he doesn’t have to say a word. his gaze alone tells the world exactly who you belong to.

the party hums around you, wrapped in a warm, golden haze. laughter drifts through the air, soft and lazy, tangled with the distant clinking of ice against crystal. the scent of expensive cologne, aged liquor, and something sweet—maybe vanilla, maybe you—lingers in the atmosphere. chanyeol’s arm drapes over your shoulder, his breath warm as he leans in, voice dipping low to share some ridiculous joke only he finds funny. his laughter spills into your ear, coaxing the ghost of a smile to your lips.

across the room, baekhyun watches. always watching. a quiet, unreadable smile plays at his mouth as his eyes track every subtle shift of your body. the way your weight shifts, the absent press of your thighs together—small, unconscious confessions that betray more than you’d ever admit. he takes a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, his fingers loose around the rim. but his gaze? unwavering. patient. knowing.

chanyeol catches it. he grins, squeezing your shoulder just briefly before slipping back into the conversation, his departure seamless. and baekhyun—still watching, still waiting—just tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering across his face. because he knows. you feel him watching. you always do.

you turn to kyungsoo and jongdae, their conversation flowing effortlessly, a hum of familiarity between them. but from the corner of your eye, you catch the slow curl of chanyeol’s smirk as he drifts toward baekhyun, his laughter weaving through the crowd like a low, teasing ripple.

“awww, you jealous, baekhyun?” chanyeol drawled, the words slipping off his tongue like silk, deliberately drawn out. “you were staring pretty hard.”

baekhyun tipped his head back, the amber liquid sliding past his lips in an unhurried, measured gulp. the motion was languid, deliberate—each swallow chased by a low chuckle, hushed but edged with something dark, something foreboding. the sound clung to the air, rough and unsettling, enough to halt chanyeol’s hand mid-reach, hesitation flickering behind his eyes.

jealousy? baekhyun? he nearly laughed at the thought.

why would he ever be? not when he knew the truth hidden beneath the delicate fabric of your dress—the one that clung to every curve, a perfect tease. not when your skin still bore his mark, love bites fresh and blooming from earlier, when he had pulled you into the dimly lit bathroom just minutes before and taken his time with you. his lips had wandered, possessive, imprinting whispered claims against your sensitive skin, leaving you trembling and breathless, bound to him in a way no one else could see.

he could still see it so clearly—the way it had happened just moments ago.

one moment, you had been fixing your lipstick in the mirror; the next, his hands were on you—urgent, unyielding—pressing you against the sink. his fingertips had ghosted up the hem of your dress, teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh, touch light but purposeful. when he found what he was looking for, he had hummed, the sound dripping with satisfaction.

still so messy for him. still so full.

his fingers had tightened, just enough to make you gasp, his grip possessive as he tilted your chin up, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his in the reflection. his voice had been velvet, smooth and drenched in amusement, his words curling hot against your ear.

“don’t think i filled you up enough earlier.”

before you could react, his mouth had claimed yours—hungry, insistent, swallowing the soft sound that slipped from your lips. his hands had been everywhere, skimming down your sides, dragging your dress higher, exposing more and more until his fingers had found their way back to the mess he had made of you.

his touch had been slow at first, teasing, coaxing tiny whimpers from your throat before his patience snapped. then, he had taken what he wanted—demanding, thorough—pulling you under, deeper, until you were trembling against the sink, knees barely holding you up.

and your underwear? gone.

crumpled in his fist, tucked away like a keepsake. but not before he had lifted it to his nose, inhaling slowly—like he was committing every trace of you to memory. the corner of his mouth had twitched, dark amusement flickering behind his eyes as he exhaled, voice low and teasing.

“guess i’ll be keeping these.”

then he had left—calm, composed, like nothing had happened—while you had been left in shambles, chest rising and falling, hands shaking as you fumbled to smooth down your dress.

and now, out here, under the warm, golden glow of the party lights, surrounded by people and laughter and champagne, you could still feel it—the heat of his touch lingering on your skin, the evidence of him still inside you, the weight of his stare searing into you from across the room.

baekhyun’s gaze hadn’t wavered. he didn’t have to say a word. he already knew you felt it.

jealousy had been an old habit, but tonight? there was no need for it. not when his mind was already saturated with the memory of you unraveling beneath him—eyes glassy, lips swollen, your voice breaking as you sobbed his name, pleading, trembling, surrendering. every gasp, every desperate cry, a sacred vow that you were his and his alone.

envy was for men who had something to lose. baekhyun had already won.

he carried the proof of it now, pressed against his thigh—your still-damp underwear, tucked deep in his pocket. a souvenir from the party, yes, but not the only evidence of his claim on you tonight. because before all this—before the flashing lights and pulsing music, before you had even stepped out of his car—you had already given yourself to him.

at his place, sprawled across his sheets, you had taken him so well, your body pliant from the shots of soju he poured you, your words slurred with need as you begged for more. and he had given it to you—fucking you slow, then hard, dragging it out until your legs trembled and your voice cracked on his name. when he spilled inside you, he didn’t pull out, didn’t even think about it. just kept himself buried deep, watching as your lashes fluttered and your breath hitched at the sensation of him filling you up, of him staying there, refusing to leave.

his voice dipped, warm and heady, thick with something unmistakable as he murmured, “gonna fill ya up, sweetheart. wanna make sure you’re still feeling me when we’re at that party—leakin’ down your thighs, tryin’ so hard to keep it in. wanna see that pretty face struggle to stay composed, like i don’t already know exactly what’s happening between those legs.”

he grinned when you squirmed, when your thighs instinctively pressed together, as if that would stop him from parting them again. his hand tightened, fingers pressing deep into the plush of your skin, and his voice dropped lower, just for you.

“bet you’ll be thinkin’ about me the whole night, huh? every time ya move, every time ya sit that pretty ass down, you'll remember exactly what i did to you.”

and he did. he made good on that promise, had you moaning and trembling against his sheets, his grip tight as he fucked you slow, then rough, then slow again—stretching it out until you were too dazed to think of anything but him. when he came, he stayed inside, relishing the way you clenched around him, whining softly as he whispered praises into your skin. “so good for me, baby. so fuckin’ good. not gonna let a single fucking drop go to waste.”

and now, as he sits among his friends, pretending to listen, he knows with a thrill meant only for him that somewhere across the room, you’re squirming, pressing your thighs together in a futile attempt to keep him inside. because if you don’t—if you falter for even a second—his cum will spill from you, warm and unmistakable, trailing down your thighs in a way that only he will recognize. the evidence of what he did to you, both at his house and here at the party, unmistakable and inescapable. and there’s nothing you can do to hide it.

as baekhyun sinks into the quiet hum of his thoughts, your gaze cuts through the distance like a live wire, reeling him back in an instant. his eyes lock onto yours—warm, dark, and decadent, like melting chocolate catching the glow of candlelight. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the kind that spells trouble, the kind that says he already knows what’s running through your mind.

you, ever the shy one, flicker your gaze away, shifting slightly in your seat as if that alone could disguise the truth. but he sees it—the tiny betrayal of your composure, the way your fingers twitch against the stem of your glass, the unspoken pull between you both thickening like a storm waiting to break. god, you’re so fucking cute. intoxicating, really. he’ll never get enough of you. already, his mind is spiraling, caught in the memory of last time—the way your breath hitched when he caged you against the sink, the dazed look in your eyes when he whispered filth against your skin. the thought alone makes his fingers itch, his pulse thrum with restless desire.

“yo, baekhyun! you listenin’?”

chanyeol’s voice slices through the haze like a blade, yanking baekhyun back into the noisy room.

he blinks once, then twice, dragging his focus back to the present. “huh? oh. yeah… definitely.” he lifts his cup to his lips, fighting the grin threatening to spill. the taste lingers, but not as sweet as the one he’s craving.

“just... jealous.”

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* masterlist ° ᡣ𐭩 . 

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter III

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Author's Note: Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic! This idea has lived in my mind rent free for weeks now, so I'm finally just going to do something about it.

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

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Three weeks after answering the advert, the marriage contract and license came to Bishop Thomas signed and sealed. 

Simon Riley. 

His penmanship was surprisingly neat and orderly for a grave keeper. Even Y/n’s stepson commented on it in that pompous, self-important way he’d inherited from his father. She willed herself to stop trembling as they sat in front of the judge. 

Beside her, William Hall II leisurely flipped through the marriage papers, scanning the text without reading — without truly caring what would become of his stepmother.

Her husband, William Hall I, had had two wives before Y/n. Both of them young and both of them desperate in their own way. He’d considered it his duty to marry only the most ineligible women and then make them suffer as penance in return. It offered William a strange power — he could do the most horrid things imaginable and walk amongst his peers as though he were their savior. He could indulge in his vices and feel free of sin while everyone continued to sneer at his wives. 

His first wife, Margaret, had managed to eke out a sliver of his affection and push out only two children before dying of consumption. His second wife, Helena, had had worse luck: four children and death of infection after “falling” down the stairs and breaking her leg. Y/n had had a combination of their fortunes: no children (thank goodness, for she didn’t know how to feel about mothering William’s child)… and the worst of his brutality. 

She let out a shuddering breath as William Hall II came upon the last page. William Hall II as the eldest of her deceased husband’s sons had inherited the estate and all the wealth that came with it. Mercifully, he’d jumped at the chance to be rid of his widowed stepmother. He would have left her penniless regardless, but at least this allowed him a measure of respect from his compatriots. 

What a good man he was! How kind and generous was he for arranging the marriage of his late father’s wife, worthless and of ill-repute as she was. It was a story that would have haunted Y/n in the streets of London if she stayed, but she hoped the tongues would wag less in the countryside where no one knew her. 

William furrowed his brow, deep lines etched that came from frustration not joy. He licked his lips, dipped his pen in ink, and signed with a lofty scrawl. Y/n kept herself from snatching the pen and descending on the marriage license, forcing her shaking hands to still long enough to sign her name and slide the papers over to the judge. 

William pulled his watch out of his pocket, his mind already on to other, more important affairs, and regarded Y/n with only a lazy, “Congratulations on your marriage, dear Mother. You need not write,” before exiting the courthouse. It was all well with Y/n, for the moment the door had shut behind him she pulled out a heavy coin purse with all the pin money she’d saved up over the years and slid it to the judge. His smile was oily and common, for this was an arrangement he was used to. Then it was only a matter of changing William Hall II’s relationship to her from a stepson to a cousin on paper, leaving out the key sheaf of paper declaring her a widow, and suddenly it was as if she was being married for the first time to a humble grave keeper named Simon Riley. 

That evening she packed what little she had into two carpetbags and took a slow, thoughtful walk through all of Hall Manor. It was a handsome estate, but for all its size she could not help but cower beneath the weight of its lofty ceilings that seemed to disappear into nothing and the heavy curtains that fell closed over the dark London sky. 

Goodbye. She murmured with little remorse as she fell upon her deceased husband’s office door. I shall never see you again where I am going. 

Or so was the hope. 

She should have felt free laying in bed that night and tracing the whorls carved into the bedposts and walls of her room. But she suffered greatly from the unknown. It pressed on her chest viciously until she was curled inwardly as tight as a clam. Would her new husband be more forgiving when she burned the morning biscuits? Or would he strike her across the cheek and have her wear bonnets indoors to hide the bruise from the neighbors? At night would he—

She shuddered and willed her body to sink so far into the stiff mattress that she disappeared forever. When light sifted through the curtains, hazy with dust and setting the furniture aglow with woodshine she came to the realization that she had not disappeared at all. She needed to leave this bed, drink her tea, and make herself acceptable for her new husband. 

She moved with the maids in the kitchen, sipping her tea and nibbling at the scone the cook laid in her palm. “For your journey, Madam,” the young cherub woman said. She handed over sandwiches and cheese wrapped tight in linen and string. 

Y/n smiled tightly at the girl in front of her, scarcely younger than herself. “Thank you.” 

She set out alone and waited on the stinking, smokey platform for the first train to Kent. Papers fluttered across cement floors, sticking in puddles where they turned grey and sank. She heard the asthmatic pumping of the train’s wheels as it appeared as a dot, then as a sleek slab of steel and iron before rolling into the station in a plume of heat. She left her black mourning shawl on the station bench for no one to trace back to her and stepped onto the train with ticket in hand. 

The piercing blare of the train horn startled her at first before the carriage lurched into motion, but then she imagined it was her screams echoing down the platform — a curse upon her now dead husband and a cry of relief that she couldn’t voice.

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[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; v

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴜʟ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪɴʏ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.

word count: 11.2k warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to past abuse (feyd rautha warning), blood, v light allusions to smut, choking, height difference mentioned (paul is taller), more mommy & daddy issues, nothing else i can think of but always lmk if you see anything notes: okay part five!! yay!! referendum/arraignment is coming v v soon ... also i know that the beginning parts may be boring (i try hard to make them interesting!!) but they're becoming increasingly important to the plot so just letting u all know!! feedback very much appreciated :) series masterlist

Houses Prepare to Assemble for Landsraad Council:

Next week's Space Trade Referendum, set to take place on the capital planet of Kaitain, will see the great houses Major and Minor deciding on crucial galactic matters, foremost among them the future of space trade routes.

Following these decisions will be the proposals to establish standardized protocols for resource extraction and deposit of space debris; as well as the final arraignment in the trial of House Bourbon and their case against House Harkonnen. 

Expected on the agenda is the recent and surprising disruptions in Spice supply, which has forced the Spacing Guild to explore alternative fuel sources in preparation for the increased traffic of intergalactic travel for the Referendum. Nexarite and Petroleum have both arisen as proposed substitutes by Guild engineers. Although Nexarite proves to have dimensional warping implications if used at lightspeed, petroleum is still secondary and, similarly to Nexarite, less effective than Melange. 

Pressure has befallen Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, whose governance over the planet Arrakis provides House Harkonnen the most influence in Melange trade; While petroleum may serve as a stopgap measure in the absence of Spice, its inherent limitations underscore the urgent need for a sustainable, long-term solution to the galaxy's Melange consumption. 

Will there be a decision drawn up at this Referendum, or will the scarcity of Spice thrust the market power of these new fuel sources? 

– Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

CASTLE CALADAN HUMS WITH LIFE IN THE EARLY MORNINGS.

Even before the sun rises over the cliffs, before the bright orange and pink haze begins to leak into the sprawling halls and tickle the high wooden beamed ceilings, there is movement. 

Coughs, whispered words, faint laughs. They ebb and flow, the foam of the sea curling along a dewy and sleepy shore; footfalls, approaching and disappearing outside the heavy doors to your chamber. 

Today you dress yourself in thick layers of gauzy Pine – slow and syrupy, mind numb with the languid whispers of memory; A strange way to wake up, gasping in fear with Paul's name turning to ash on your tongue.

A sharp gasp, a glint of crimson – Paul, slumping against you, those mossy eyes fading to gray. Your throat is tight; the scent of the drying lingonberries upon your table sends your stomach churning. 

You’ve left them for days; a favored snack, one you’ve enjoyed since childhood. Hestia brought them days ago – you’re not sure how she knew they were from Sabberon, nor why you’ve refused them – or why you protested their departure from your chambers. 

Rotten fruit, your mind hums in some amused way – and your gaze tears from the mirror before you.

Your nameday blade sits untouched upon your boudoir across the room; today you leave your chambers without it, a sick taste upon your tongue as it glints mockingly in the morning light. 

The halls hum with life, though you float through them – for the Strategy Council awaits, and you are not one to keep them as such.

You arrive in the chamber, heart thrumming, mind cast far away from the Referendum, from the arraignment. No – as you walk into the room full of House attendants and members, you think of one thing. 

One thing, one dream, one memory; of a blade plunging into flesh, of eyes turning in eerie familiarity. The gasp of recognition. You think of him.  

And his chair is absent. 

Though your face remains placid, you swallow back the biting inhale of concern that claws up your throat. Paul’s chair is absent. 

Your worries are not eased as you take your seat, nodding numbly along as Duke Leto begins the meeting, avoiding casually as Lady Jessica stares through your skin; and though there is a hushed din of murmurs, it is ceased with the caramel lilt of Duke Leto’s voice. 

“Before we begin, there is a matter of great importance to address,” Duke Leto’s eyes find your own; an intent tone, which brings memories of your own incompetent father to shame. 

“The arraignment of House Bourbon is set for the day following the Space Trade Referendum. It is imperative that we prepare for it accordingly.” 

You blink. It has all but been accepted in your mind that, come next week, you’ll be labeled a criminal in front of the Imperium; and during sleepless nights you've prepared yourself, through painstaking bitter humility, to beg the Atreides to buy your bail in front of the Landsraad Houses. 

You’d not expected to discuss it – and certainly not at a Strategy Council. 

Your hands shake; you clutch them in your lap. Ever since news of the charges levied against your house and the consecutive assassination of your family came, you’ve efficiently ignored the inevitable. But now, it is here. 

You must look it in the eyes. 

You nod, glancing to the empty seat beside Duke Leto. “Yes, my Lord,” you steel yourself with a flare of humiliation at the heavy stares around the war table. Your lips part again, heat floods your cheeks – no words come. 

But Duke Leto gracefully fills the deafening silence, curbing the unwanted attention upon you and commanding it towards himself with a flash of something warm in his eyes. Your stomach curls in something like shame. 

“The council and I have discussed it, and I am fully committed to advocating for your house’s interests during the arraignment on behalf of House Atreides.” He leans, elbows firm upon the table, “I plan to do everything in my power to convince the other houses to see reason and vote in your favor as well.” 

Your brows raise, mind swarming with the warmth of gratitude and the icy stab of fear in your stomach. Given the political complexities surrounding the case, your doubts flicker. 

Your lips puff before you find your voice. “This...could put you in a precarious situation, my lord,” you begin, swallowing around a dry throat, “I appreciate it more than you'd know, but…” 

Your throat stings; and around you, faces that were mere enemies to you weeks ago. All of them, loyal to the end of the House they serve; the House that is claiming you as one of their own, even in the looming presence of what might come. 

You clear your throat. “The Harkonnens are –” you flounder under the scrutiny of attention, and you’re struck with a sudden embarrassment. “Powerful,” you finish dumbly, cheeks hot, heart filled with dread. 

“We understand your concerns my dear,” comes a voice from down the table; Lady Jessica, with lips poised and eyes kind, “But you are a part of our House. We will protect you.” 

A surge of gratitude bursts through your chest as you concede, nodding smally, catching the gaze of Duke Leto before lowering to stare at your curled fists to hide the sting in your eyes. 

“House Bourbon has long been allies of House Atreides,” Gurney Halleck affirms from down the table, “this is a return of the favor.” 

Your voice comes, and it is warm for what might be the first time in a long time. “Thank you,” you breathe, knowing your cheeks are warm still, “Your support means more to my h– to me than I can express.”

You force a smile onto your face, hoping it comes across less as a grimace.

“I cannot speak for the other houses,” Duke Leto admits, “but I worry there may be those who seek to exploit this situation for their own gain. Whatever the outcome, you have the support of House Atreides behind you.”

He has voiced your very own concerns; The great houses are not in your good graces, and you not in theirs. And Harkonnen pockets run deep. 

As the subject is laid in preparation of the upcoming off-world travel, you try your hardest to absorb the information about the Referendum next week; though your mind gnaws at its cage. A small gnat lumbers past your vision, and you blow it off-stream with a gentle breath, watching it flutter towards Paul’s empty seat. 

The council ends after only a few hours – by now the sun has risen in the sky, and your gut has twisted from fear into a sharp, pressing anxiety.

The council is dismissed; You fight off visions of your dream as you rise and bid farewell. 

A pained voice gasps in your ear; labored breathing, a stutter of your name curdled with blood. Feyd-Rautha’s sickly skin glinting in the sharp sunlight. 

Blood spills, and it sounds like rain. 

The hallways are alive.  

You must find Paul. 

IT DOES NOT TAKE ANY SHEER FORCE OF WILL, NOR A MIRACLE, FOR YOUR LUCK TO BE STRUCK.

Duke Leto accompanies you out of the council; and to your surprise, invites you to his own quarters for another meeting.  

It is the first of what is likely many wedding planning sessions; A smaller party in number than the Strategy and War Councils, yet infinitely more intimidating. 

You were never awarded a voice in your wedding plans with Feyd-Rautha; perhaps, in some ways, that is why it never came to pass. Though you haunted the dark halls of Giedi Prime for four long cycles unwed, you are fortunate indeed that he spent those years instead behind the closed doors of war rooms, spice councils, and roaring arenas. 

He was a beast infinitely more loyal to conquest than vows – and, if the matter ever did surface, it was dismissed with the flick of a knife and an insistence that marriage meant little unless you bore him an heir.

And though the taste of power that leaked from the bite of baroness on your tongue was sweet, you knew just as well that it dripped with poison; and you learned to bite your tongue. Not that you ever dreamed of veils or vows – but here you are; and what are you to do when your future is carved by another’s blade? 

And so the pleasant enthusiasm you express, however incredibly minute, goes over well with the Duke; for perhaps he reads the lilt of your eager yes to be some girlish fantasy of gowns and handsome boys. Though truthfully, the verity of your willingness lies in the assurance that Paul could not possibly miss this meeting – lest his parents chastise him like a petulant child. 

You walk the halls to his quarters. The Duke makes for a surprisingly easy interlocutor; you find comfort within his voice, a welcome distraction from the shadows of dread. You even draw out a short huff of laughter from him – after admittance of your interest in learning to pilot a ship, Duke Leto informs you that he himself wished to be a pilot when he was young. 

The Duke’s Study is a more intimate room; a round table with five chairs, two of which are occupied – and the moment you cross the threshold behind Duke Leto, you find what you’ve searched for all morning. 

Paul stands abruptly from the table – a jolt of water spilling from the glass before him, his lips part. Though you are far more focused, dead in pace, upon the alarm swimming within his gaze. 

He must know. 

A curling horror slides through you at the thought, and you hardly blink before Paul has crossed the space towards you, drawing the surprise of both his father and the other person in the study. 

His hair falls unruly; your neck cranes as Paul steps towards you, glare stony as it slips from your visage and lower, as if searching you once more. What you search for rests far away in another wing of the castle, you wish to tell him, it is not here. 

But just then: A blink. A furrowed brow as he flicks his gaze suddenly back up to your own, then to your mouth; and Paul stares at you, nearly bewildered in the tense silence. A sickening thing grows unnamed and unknown in your stomach.

Yet he seems to remember himself; A barely visible shake of his head. “Good morning,” he greets stiffly. It comes breathless and heavy with unspoken urgency, with a gaze struck with alarm.

Your heart stamps into your throat as you greet him back. You must speak – but not now. 

And so Paul guides you tersely – eyes screaming, swimming – towards the table, pushing your chair in and accidentally brushing against the twist of your hairdo as he lowers himself into his own seat. Two pairs of eyes stare in varying degrees of observation as you and Paul settle stiffly, cheeks aflame, hearts racing. 

“Thank you both for joining us. This is our House Administrative Assistant,” he introduces the woman to you; a woman with a strong nose and an accent from the Eastern continent of Caladan. 

You wish indeed that you could be more grounded in the moment, for she draws an interest from you that the subject material cannot; but alas your mind drifts, uncooperative, shielding you from the weight of what this truly is. 

The thought of planning a wedding — your wedding — is dull, distant; for much more pressing is the threat that looms beyond silken ceremonies. 

War brews; economic or perhaps otherwise – and you know far too well who pulls the strings. Sinister, manicured hands which reach into every House, every bed, every bloodline. And you want no part in the role they’ve written for you. 

Or, if his words from last night are true – for Paul.

It’s then your gaze slips to the final empty chair. Of course — it must be for Lady Jessica, who has not attended. You find yourself regretting her absence; for her poise, her loyalty to both House and Sisterhood are, in truth, admirable.

Beside you, Paul has shifted – his fingers trace the curve of the table absently, knee bouncing restlessly underneath. There is some residual relief in your heartbeat now that you have located him; and this very thought draws stubborn hackles upon your back.

You look away from his profile, gaze slipping into the middle distance – when did you start to see yourself on Paul’s side? 

Hardly was it the lunch shared between you, nor the books of your culture kept so diligently at his bedside – you know better than to place your trust in something as futile as kindness.

Was it his candor about his mother – and about the Reverend Mother’s visit? Are you truly so simple as to forget one adversary, when a larger foe emerges more present in the distance; so foolish as to believe that the enemy of your enemy is your friend? 

No.

Perhaps, it’s the dreams.

Not those laced with heat and hunger — those, you insist to your rebellious heated cheeks, are irrelevant. Desire is a weapon, not a weakness. You are not so easily undone.

But it is the other ones that stay with you. The darker ones, that feel more like memory than fantasy.

And just as your thoughts begin to turn, you are pulled from the depths by the accented voice drifting from the table. 

The coordinator launches into plans – gliding over the surface of logistics, a blade over still water. 

You nod along with a placid enough expression as she glides from venues to guest lists to ceremonial rites. And you – a ghost at your own table, drifting just beyond the veil of the present. Beside you, Paul traces the grain of wood with his nail absently. 

An evening affair – elegant and grand, with most of the court and family in attendance. A traditional wedding.

Memories of marbled floors and echoing halls, of feasts and grandeur while flurries of snow pile high and squalls howl outside castle doors; and you are washed with a horrible bout of nostalgia. 

A traditional wedding – a mockery of an idea.

The words come before you can think twice, and they curl around a sharply vicious stare. “Shall we invite my father to walk me down the aisle as well?”

The room stills at your words. 

A horrible thing, the slow stares of three virtual strangers – uncomfortable, tense, discomfited. Duke Leto sits straighter; the woman pursing her lips as words die on her tongue. Paul’s eyes flicker in your peripheral, latching upon the pendant round your neck. And you, alone, a pine in a clearing of skeletal trunks; shivering in the dead of winter. 

Your regret comes instantly. 

In the quiet, you see it too clearly: a body crumpled in the arena, the crack of spine against sand, head flung back. The glint of a crushed signet ring, a snarling wolf coated in slick, black blood. Weak, lifeless.

A puppet with severed strings.

After a thick silence, the coordinator forges through with a hard blink and a clear of her throat as shame curls around your cheeks and flushes over your throat. 

“I would actually like to speak to you on the matter of your family’s traditions, if that is okay,” the coordinator delivers delicately. Images still cling like cobwebs as you snap your gaze to her own: a blood-slick blade, the gasp of a dying breath, brown curls soaked in crimson.

“We’ll be sure to incorporate them into the ceremony as you see fit.”

A slow shame draws your brow, for she doesn’t elaborate, which leaves you little room to feign understanding. Your hands fold tightly against the table, as if to keep yourself from unraveling. Paul’s fingers tap once more against the grain to your right. 

“I must admit,” you start, “I’m not as familiar with my house’s traditions as Paul is.” 

Paul’s gaze meets yours – steady, unreadable until he betrays some glint of amusement. A tilt of his head: I offered you the book, his eyes remind you with a boyish flicker.

Your eyes flash in reply, your embarrassment melting into some unfamiliar warmth: I know.

The corner of his mouth lifts, brief as a candle flicker — gone before it can fully become a smile, lest the idea of one. And yet still, something coils in your stomach.

You look away sharply – across the table, where the Duke’s lips twitch into a quiet, knowing smirk. He’s seen something, read something in the moment; something you didn’t intend.

“Is that right?” the Duke asks his son – and Paul nods, gazing out beyond the treeline of the window, detached and unbothered, though his cheeks have grown pink in the stormy light of morning. 

Duke Leto nods once more, the remainder of his smile bringing heat to your own cheeks. “Whatever rituals you deem appropriate will be incorporated into the ceremony,” he promises, “We're aiming for a date just before the galactic year’s end.” 

His gaze lingers on you, quietly gauging your reaction. You give him none. 

He nods in lieu of your silence. “I believe that concludes things for today. Perhaps the two of you can review Bourbon and Atreides customs and speak with our coordinators once you've agreed on what feels fitting.”

Paul nods with the practiced ease of a well-trained highborn, his eyes flicking to you like a signal. 

You meet his glance, stare unwavering – silent, urgent. You nod once, with a rush of heartbeat in your throat and a buzzing desire to talk without prying ears. 

“Do you still have the book on Bourbon customs?” you ask, voice flat as polished stone; and Paul, if he’s as perceptive as he prides himself to be, will understand what you’re really saying.

“I do,” he answers simply. Behind his stony stare, there are machinations; a strategy forming in his mind. 

“Perhaps we can reconvene after the Referendum,” he offers. “In the meantime, Lady Bourbon and I will review our house traditions and decide what feels most appropriate for the… ceremony.”

A flicker of approval touches the Duke’s features — satisfied, though glinting. Analyzing.

Dismissal follows swiftly, but Paul is already on his feet, striding toward the corridor before you’ve even begun to rise.

The required pleasantries are traded with the coordinator and the Duke, each word a small weight as you glance over your shoulder to the empty threshold; your mind whirs, buzzing to trace the disappearing footsteps out in the hall. 

You move swiftly, shadowing Paul’s retreat with a pace that’s nearly a chase; Your blood thrums, fingers itching for the familiar feel of worn leather. 

Your urgency is buried expertly beneath silk and etiquette, but it thrums below your skin.

“Paul.”

Your voice carries far down the dim hall leading to Paul’s quarters; his tunic is nearly gray in the low light.

“Paul.”

Your footsteps echo off the stone, hard and fast as you try to match his pace – mercifully, he stops, though only just enough for you to catch him.

Your name escapes his mouth edged in urgency and, without pause, he takes your wrist and pulls you with him, deeper into the shadows. 

You nearly stumble after him, off-balance, jarred by the feverish anger so suddenly radiating from him; He’s always been precise, measured – but there is a burn in his eyes now, something wild. Something familiar. 

You hardly make it into his room before he spins on you, voice low and sharp as a blade. 

“It was you.”

There’s a look in him you haven’t seen before – dark, unguarded. You don’t ask for clarification. 

Your nod is solemn, heart clenching. “Yes,” you affirm. Then, after wetting your lips, slowly turning your head, pacing around him in slowly measured steps as he turns in your radius, tracing your movements with his gaze. “And you–” you cut yourself off, wary of the fear stabbing your stomach. 

He barely inclines his head, but the gesture is enough. Your breath catches.

“It was ordinary at first,” he affirms, wide emerald gaze hooked on your own, voice thin with disbelief, and cheeks pink after the word ordinary. “But then we were standing there – and…I felt it.”

He stares you down, jaw tense. You feel sick – and then, his voice comes again. “I know it was you.” 

Before you can react, his hand grips the edge of your robe and yanks it aside – fingers searching, expecting the familiar hilt at your hip. “You used this.”

But where he expects to find the incriminating evidence, there’s nothing. No blade, no sheath, just the quiet press of your skin against fabric.

He stills in a moment of surprise, and you use it to your advantage, catching his wrist and wrenching it away – but you keep him in your grasp, tight and defensive. Charged.

Paul's lips part slightly, confusion clouding the jungled fury that lives in the outskirts of his verdant irises. Eyes roam, hungry and searching – scanning your figure as though the weapon might still be here somewhere.

It takes the moment of hesitation, the look of uncertainty in his visage, for it to hit you. Your stomach drops as you realize it – 

He dreamt that you stabbed him.

Your bewilderment must reflect upon your visage. “Paul. I didn’t–” you begin, voice tight, “I didn’t stab you.”

His eyes shift to the stone wall behind you, sharp breath leaving his nose. His wrist is heavy, warm and sharp in your grasp. His heart races in your grasp, wild and erratic. “You did.”

Your voice comes stubborn, breathless. “No, Paul. He was behind you.”

The room cracks with a strange heat, a static hum in the air between your bodies. As if awoken from a trance, Paul rips his wrist from your grasp and your hand drops to your side, fist curling tight in the absence of his weight.  

“Feyd-Rautha,” your voice is laced with the hackles upon your back, “he had my nameday blade.”

Paul’s brows draw; a devastating scowl, a pout laced with stubborn apprehension. “You stabbed me. I felt you.” He sighs sharply, tongue dipping over his lower lip. “You were with me.”

An urgent fear arises in you, and with the knowledge of fate hanging in the balance in just a week’s time, you have suddenly lost whatever control you had. “–I know I was,” you snap. “But you’re not listening.”

“–Why should I?” His voice breaks the hush of urgency, sharp and cold. 

“I—” You drag your hair from your burning eyes. “Fuck, Paul. I don’t know.”

And you don’t.

But the implications strike, a sharpened blade plunged into the soft side of your stomach.  But it felt so real – not a dream, but a memory. And if what passes between you bleeds into dreams and reality alike… your heart seizes, and a darker fear begins to fester.

Staring up at Paul – who watches you in turn with a heaving chest and wild, fearful eyes – you swallow thickly. Whispers curl in the depths of your mind, at the edges of his irises. 

The fear grows, festers. 

And you pray, silently and without hope, that Feyd-Rautha has been sleeping in dreamless silence. 

Because if he hasn’t – then something far older has already chosen your path.

After a moment, Paul’s voice comes faint, solemn.��

“We can’t trust her.” 

You blink, nodding faintly – he needs not elaborate of whom he speaks. “I know,” you breathe, licking your lips in an anxious tell. Paul’s gaze catches the movement, dropping lower for a moment over your frame. 

You are suddenly aware of the slight chill upon your bare shoulders; the tank-top you wear is breezy without your robe to cover your exposed skin. The material pools lazily around your bent elbows and yet you do not move to pull it up.

“We can’t risk telling her,” Paul murmurs, urgency threading his voice. “If she finds out about the dreams, she’ll never let us pursue Sabberon.”

It catches you off guard – that he’s already done the calculations in his own head, staked claim without needing convincing.

Again, you’re struck by the quiet insistence despite what you tell yourself: that he is not only sharp, but merciful – a future ruler shaped by something perhaps more than just ambition. And a match worthy of, perhaps, more than just circumstance.

You drag a hand down your face ungracefully. “So we just hope she can’t read us?” your voice is bitter, “Paul – that’s nearly impossible.”

He pauses, a shadow settling behind his gaze; unnamed, heavy. “She’ll stop at nothing if we stray from their orders, whatever they may be.” His voice drops low, eyes swimming. “We just…don’t know what we’re doing. Yet.”

Your spine is rigid. Steel lines your voice. “I won’t let them take my planet.” 

You don’t know if you mean the Sisterhood or the Landsraad; or if, in the end, they’re simply the same serpent with two heads. But before he can answer, footsteps fall down the stone corridor. 

The echo of them is short, distant after a moment – but it serves to startle both of your erratic dispositions. 

Paul’s hand grasps your arm swiftly, both bristling like startled hares in a disrupted burrow; Without a word, you together draw back from the doorway, further into the hush of his quarters. 

Near the bedpost, he leans in; you circle him once more. His breath is warm against your skin, your cheeks warm under the sidelong beam of sunlight. 

Paul’s curls hang loose, uncombed, and his eyes are rimmed with sleepless thought: Rumpled, real. Your throat tightens. 

His gaze flits to the table, then back to you. “I think...” he swallows thickly, “I think you need to let my mother train you.”

You blink – the shock lances through you like icewater, sharp and buried deep beneath your ribs. A bitter, disbelieving laugh escapes you.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But somewhere quiet and traitorous within you, you know he does.

Paul’s stare does not leave your visage. “I do. And you know it.” His voice is grave, “Even if we can’t lie to her, we need to know what the Sisterhood wants with these dreams. They mean something, or they wouldn’t keep coming. She wouldn’t keep asking about them.” He whispers your name softly, sternly. “We need to be ready.”

You lift a brow, folding your arms. His gaze breaks to follow your movements before returning sharply to the uptick of your chin. “And if nothing comes of it?”

He searches your face, something flickering in his expression, some exasperation leaking through. “You really think this is all in our heads?” 

There’s a crack of vulnerability in his tone; a leak, a glimpse. Just enough to hear the boy beneath the heir – hoping the terror might be imagined. 

Your sigh is sharp; He takes it for the answer it is.

“You didn’t bring up the Harkonnen petroleum reserves for no reason,” he presses. “Or the materials on Sabberon. The threat is real — and even if it isn’t, the dreams are. That should be enough.”

Sharp, glistening fear flirts with the nerves in your chest. 

“You sound like your mother,” you snap, the words cutting out too quickly. “She clutches at every syllable that comes from the Reverend Mother like it’s gospel.”

His eyes flare, incredulous. “And you were in my dream. Or have you forgotten?” His voice: steel behind silk, boy behind heir.

“Unless we unknowingly drank Spice before bed, that was real.” His sardonic tongue needles at your temper; He’s right, though this merely carves the dread deeper.

Paul was raised under the Sisterhood’s doctrine, you remind yourself; You stare at your betrothed for a moment in the late morning light. 

The curls which hang by his temples, the pout upon his lips, the turn of nose, his sparkling, sharp stare. His chest, rising and falling with the same futile attempt to calm his heartbeat that you mimic. 

A male Bene Gesserit. 

The possibility scratches at the edges of your mind, begging a name; A prophecy. Whispers curl in your mind, but you do not understand them. The shortening of the way, they taunt.

The phrase shivers through you – Ancient, unmoored; You do not know what it means, but the words feel as though they were pressed into your bones long before you were born. 

In a moment of paranoia, you wonder if Jessica had somehow dosed your morning tea – some odd alchemical manipulation; a Spice-laced seduction of the subconscious. 

But even a drug-induced fate feels almost kinder than the truth that haunts your blood, slinking in shadows and whispering through empty, ransacked halls leagues away: that this has always been coming. 

That this path was carved before your ancestors ever drew breath.

“Paul.” You start evenly, brows knitting upward in what you know might reveal a vulnerable expression, the first of any such thing to cross your features in his presence. He drinks it in patiently, eyes boring into your own. 

“This is a bad idea,” you say plainly, grateful – truly grateful – that you can argue with your husband-to-be without threat of a palm across your cheek. That he allows you your voice and, within the last day, even seeks it; even when it cuts. And, in a bristle of defiance, you tilt your head, “why should I trust your judgment?” 

He exhales, a dry scoff. “Why should I trust yours?” His arms cross, a mirror of your own. “You try to kill me in half my dreams.”

Your glare is instant, vicious, and your huff is exasperated. “Well, I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

His returned look is dry. “I know my house better than anyone. I know my mother better still.” Your glare is hot at the growing resolution in his tone. “So... We train with her. Together. It’s the only way to unearth what they want from us. And Mohaim can’t know.”

You sneer. “You’re naïve if you think she won’t. This is futile.”  

Paul’s jaw ticks; your eyes track the movement. “I’ve spent my life preparing to make choices like this.”

Your voice whips back. “And yet you choose wrong.”

His eyes flash, stooping down towards you. “Watch your tongue.” His voice; low, quiet – a warning laced with silk. “I will be your Duke one day.”

“And I your Duchess,” you retort swiftly, lifting your chin. “That title means little to me, my lord.”

You are close now – so close you can smell the hush of his soap, the warm edge of sweat, of citrus and the forest far across the grounds. His breath is tight, visage angled to take in your molten gaze. He’s nearly regal in his anger; sharp cheekbones, curled locks, shadowed eyes.

“That means little to me, my lady,” he returns, cruel and quick. “You’re here, so you’ll do as I say.”

His eyes are greener than the billowing grass fields outside his window. Something wild coils in you.

You’re mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve. Feyd’s voice, twisted and slick in your mind – and for a sickening moment it morphs. It becomes Paul’s.

Your hand flies without thought. 

A burn of instinct and old scars; You aim to slap him, to strike, to wound, to reclaim your breath.

But he catches you.

Faster than you imagined – his fingers wrap tight around your wrist, stilling your blow an inch from his cheek, hovering with a buzzing heat that makes your heart stop. 

Time freezes – the chimes by the window stir, whispering in the stillness, in the back of your mind. Paul’s nostrils flare, and as the energy in the room shifts, his lips barely move.

“Don’t.”

Not spoken – but threaded into you; It ripples through your spine, turns marrow into ice, turns your limbs into jelly. Not yet refined, not yet absolute – but there, unmistakably. The Voice.

You truly, stupidly fight the urge to obey.

You fight the weight that pushes your hand down, as if you could still strike the boy in front of you despite the way you cannot move your arm.

A trickle of fear rolls down your spine – a whisper.

Power: Real, ancient, terrifying. His.

You knew Jessica trained him, though perhaps you haven’t thoroughly understood what that truly means. 

You linger in limbo, thoughts warring in your mind of what it means to see patterns where others see only dust.

 The Shortening of the Way. It echoes in your blood like prophecy remembered, though you snap from your haze with a sharp inhale and a renewed fury.

You twist your wrist in an attempt to wrench yourself free – though his grasp is resolute, and your other hand comes to shove hard against his chest, sliding your thigh to pin on impact. 

Paul’s spine thuds against the wall beside his bed with a dull knock. A sharp exhale of breath, his grip iron-locked upon your wrist, your fear bubbling into rage. 

Your forearm comes to flatten against his chest, holding him to the wall as his heart thuds fast, uneven beneath your grasp. His eyes are wild, and in their reflection you seethe. 

“Do not ever use the Voice on me again.”

His breath is as wild as your own, and your lip curls. “No man holds power over me,” you spit. “And you are no different.”

His breath changes minutely, but he doesn’t let go. Neither do you. And there you remain, both sucking in air through flared nostrils, two creatures caught mid-transformation, mid-dream; mid-destruction.

His eyes are hooded with shadows you cannot find as he tilts his head to you calmly. Far too calm. 

“It’s not just men you should fear.” His gaze does not waver, though a curl comes across his brow as he shakes his head gently. “Whatever else they are – the Bene Gesserit can give us power.”

The weight of it presses on your ribs; Your fury simmers, but something more weak coils underneath it: dread. Destiny. 

In your faltering heat, Paul snuffs the flame. “After all, you should be used to living with enemies.”

Your jaw sets to snarl, to lash out; but something whispers in your mind – that he is right. You are used to this. The Sisterhood is not your friend, but neither is it wholly your enemy. 

Slowly, your arm drops from across his chest. 

Though your other hand falls, his fingers still clutch your wrist with some leaking wariness – the flicker of fear that if he lets you go, you might drive a hidden blade through his stomach. 

He’s right, you know; to walk blindly into what waits ahead without any attempt at control is a foolish fate. Independence – that stubborn thing that laces the straight line of your spines and tilts your chins high – will not be enough. 

You are not thinking clearly these days – a storm brews, and in its thunder is the promise of the upcoming arraignment. 

Paul still watches you, hackles raised, chest heaving. Eyes wild. His breath is warm against your cheek. Your lips part to speak, but just at the very moment–  

“Paul?”

 The voice is not yours.

It cleaves the silence, a blade through gauze – and you both jolt, heads whipping to the door in tandem, marionettes startled from rest. 

“I’d hoped to speak with you about my absence—” But the words wilt in Lady Jessica’s mouth as she crosses into the threshold. A Houseworker follows behind her, arms cradling a basket of linen, stopping with a short blink. 

Quite immediately, Lady Jessica’s gaze drifts – first to your flushed face, then to Paul’s, then in a horrific series of quick equations in her mind – to the bed so dreadfully close to you.

You can almost see the thoughts rolling through her surprised stare: The heat, blooming thick in the air, a rustle of bedsheets warm from the sudden absence of bodies. 

Your face burns, a wildfire of panic and embarrassment – and your stomach, knotting tight as a sailor’s rope. 

Lady Jessica’s poise is impressive, though a strange color rises to her cheeks – surprise, suspicion, and something stranger still.

Your heart freezes. How much did she hear?

Between you and Paul, a glance unfurls wordless, warlike, and quickly flashing into a shared agreement. The truth is perilous, but the lie is easy; almost comforting in its simplicity. Caught lovers. It is decided in the blink of two pairs of eyes. 

“Forgive me,” Jessica murmurs in her polished steel, “I hadn’t realized—”

Paul at once steps away from the bed with an awkwardly careful grace. “No.” 

You gather your composure like a young bird draws in a broken wing – unease, tilting on uneven feet with a slight flutter. 

A quick breath before Paul's knuckles brush your shoulder; he's adjusting the sleeve of your robe, untwisting it over your shoulder as you hide an unwanted shiver under a glance to his rouged cheeks.

Lady Jessica’s eyes follow the movement with something warm and almost approving; you let out a quiet breath. Good – better to be caught in passion rather than treason. 

“We were just... discussing,” he excuses, “the wedding.” 

The Houseworker has busied herself leaving the basket beside the door, her lips pressed in a tight line. You know how the words will wind their way back to Hestia by this evening, you’re sure of it; your cheeks heat at the thought of the inevitable lies you’ll have to sew to her. 

Jessica’s smile is soft, knowing. “I did not mean to interrupt, truly. My apologies. I can find you later.” 

She turns to leave, and you blink with a short breath, lips moving quick. “No – please, my Lady–” 

She pauses kindly and you fix her with a smile; a tender, paper-thin thing that feels rather alien still after all this time. “I was just leaving,” you assure with a small nod. 

And with your words, with your heart hammering in your chest, quaking with the worry that Lady Jessica had heard much more than she let on – you drift toward Paul soft-footed, swift. 

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you hoist yourself upon the tips of your toes – he stiffens, eyes flaring as if you might unsheath a blade and gift it so sweetly to the flesh between his ribs. 

And perhaps if this were another moment, another day, another life, you'd have giggled at the panic behind his calm visage, at the swirling irritation and bewilderment living behind the mossy banks of his gaze.

But you hardly give it time. 

And as your breath stirs against his cheek, he bends imperceptibly down towards you –  sharp, he is, and he has found your cover at last. 

His hands are fists, but still they come to your hips as your lips hover by his cheekbone. “Find me later,” you whisper, soft as breath.

His curls brush your face as he nods just imperceptively; and so you press a brief kiss to the sharp ridge of his cheek. 

Over his shoulder, Jessica averts her eyes.

And as you pull away, your heart thuds with the hope that the scene is convincing; shy young lovers, stealing a moment. If only it were that simple.

When you turn to leave, there is a slight blush blooming across Paul’s cheekbones. 

A convincing actor, then. 

You offer a quick bow to Jessica before you slip past them, heart in your throat, palms clammy. 

PAUL DOES FIND YOU LATER.

Out in the gardens of Castle Caladan, the season ends with the turn of the year – the plants that bloom are resilient to the less rainy months that come. Paul watches the fatter drops of dew slide from thick corded leaves beside him as he winds his way into the garden. 

Light trickles down from gaps in the clouds, spilling like thin milk over garden stones. His hair catches in a disjointed wind, warmer than cold – Paul walks past petals which close when they should bloom; in the near distance backwards birdsong echoes in the forest. The air tastes faintly of copper and cinnamon. 

He finds you drifting ahead of him, barefoot, your pale dress damp and whispering at your heels. A slow thing; so unlike you to walk with little purpose, syrupy and languid all the same but with less resolution.

He steps closer, though before he can call your name, your body snaps in reaction to his presence behind you.

A creature startled — you turn, pressing him into the hedge with the same force you’d unyieldingly used just this very morning; thorned leaves tickle his neck and Paul’s hands find your form with more instinct than intent. 

One, falling to brace at your hip – the other, sliding to cradle the winged muscle of your shoulder; as your eyes flash into his own, the pad of his thumb presses into the hollow at your throat to stabilize your wrath. 

Though where he expects anger, fear, fury – he finds none.

Your voice comes syrupy and knowing. “I dreamt of you this afternoon,” your voice trickles, thinner than rain. Paul fights a vague uncanny haze, blinking as he watches your humming frame. An odd mood he’s found you in this evening – it serves to wholly unease him. 

“Did you?” he wonders breathlessly.

You lean closer, lips grazing his; there’s no kiss, merely a whisper, and his heart beats at his throat in confusion. He swallows thick, ears humming with lapsed birdsong and an upwards roar of sinking waves in the far distance. 

“In a throne room,” you confirm. The words unfurl, soft petals in the first shy glance of spring; your breath mists upon his neck and his fingers flex just to feel the erratic beat of your heart below his palm. “Spice, glittering in the sand that trailed in through the doors.” 

There is a numb alarm in his chest, though it dissolves with the stroking of your hand. You curl further into him, eyes sharp as a reverence, hungry as a threat. Paul sinks into the thorned hedge, still holding you close despite the unnerving glint in your stare. 

“You were on the throne,” you breathe, “...and I knelt before you.”

His stomach flips; Your hands slide lower.

The alarm is a faint memory now; Paul lets you guide him. Lets you sink, a priestess before some altar, eyes flashing with gold and flicks of strange cerulean hues. 

Paul’s vision swims; velvet, static. Hands trail down his stomach, and his hands grasp a veil he cannot see. 

You speak against him, lips brushing his tunic; Paul’s warmth and confusion grown in a sick tandem. You smile; an omen. 

“I heard it, Paul.” You hum, “But it wasn’t your voice.”

Paul tries to recall what you’re saying – what you’d said before; anything, perhaps, to make sense of your uncharacteristic behavior and why he is not putting a stop to it –but your mouth is warm and you’re humming softly. The garden spins. A moan escapes him, gasping, quiet.

And when you look up, your face is beautiful and wrong, blurred around the edges; a painting submerged in oil. 

Behind you, the garden grows darker, wilder – a glint in the hedges, the glint of a blade behind thorned leaves and a faint glimpse of sickening, pale skin. Above him, the sky is bruised with clouds, and it begins to rain; though the drops seem to rise up from the ground.

Paul opens his mouth to speak, but the taste of cinnamon and copper curls in his throat, and then he’s–

Paul jolts upright, breath caught in his throat like a noose; cold sweat sticks his tunic to his chest, the breeze from the open window chilly. The room is bruised with the dusk-light of a sky about to break open – already, the rain has begun to weep.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice ragged as his head drops back against the pillow, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Water whispers against the yard outside his open window. He must’ve slept for hours – the sun was high when he returned from his lesson with Thufir to his chambers, lying down to rest only for a moment. 

Now, the sea churns and swallows the light – the castle’s wing is quiet and bare. He’s missed supper.

Dragging himself up, Paul stumbles under his shower – frigid water to cool heated skin and a racing, betraying heart; and he stands there, unmoving, as it bites through to his bones. 

And still, the dream clings. The memory clings. 

And the dread remains. 

EVENTUALLY, PAUL RESIGNS TO SEEK YOU IN THE LAND OF THE LUCID.

He emerges from his chambers – shower-freshed and storm-eyed, steadfastly ignoring the whispers of his dream, pacing the corridors in search of any hints of you. 

It’s late; you’re likely finished with lessons by now, perhaps stowed away in your quarters with supper and your stubborn solitude. 

His footsteps carry him to your chambers with a lilt of hesitance; the dream lingers, taunting and mocking – his cheeks remain red as summerberries even when his knock echoes through the corridor.

He calls your name into the still room, when there is no response, eyes cast down in hopes of avoiding any improper sights – tracing instead over the few personal belongings scattered through the chamber. 

“Paul?” 

He rounds the corner to find Hestia, standing beside your modest table. She blinks at him as if he is some apparition, arriving before its haunting hour. 

“Oh,” he says simply, brow twitching upward. “Hi.”

Before her sit two place settings; a crumb stubbornly remaining at the corner of her mouth. She nods at him, eyeing him warily – a waver in her stance, clearly just as thrown off by his presence as he is with hers.  

There is a set for two that she gathers from the table and a flicker of interest curls in his gut. “You’ve been eating together,” he observes, “voluntarily?” 

Her lips press together, brow raising, “Perhaps I like her better than you,” her voice comes with no regard for status between them; a thing Paul quite admires about her, even when she is taking a tone of tease. “She doesn’t sulk nearly as much.” 

His expression must be incredulous – for she laughs shortly, shaking her head as she clears a jar of jam. 

“Well, I guess she just has better reasons to sulk,” Hestia mends, “–And she does it more gracefully.” 

Paul gave her a flat look, though he knows it’s true. “You’ve known her for two weeks.”

“Some people don’t need years to be tolerable.”

A short breath exits through his nose — a growl that’s halfway to a laugh, yet bristled. “Where has she gone?” He wonders, eyes flicking to her own now. 

A smirk grows on her visage, arms crossing. “Who?” 

Paul’s eyes narrow, some odd warmth spreading in his stomach. 

“My betrothed,” he levels, less than placated by the teasing glint in her gaze. 

With a hum, she glances to the lapsed rain, where night covers the misty ground. “She left for the gardens.” 

Paul’s stomach drops in surprise. 

Out your window is a distant view of the rolling sea; far and glinting in moonlight, it is swallowed by marshes and moors of darkened green and whispers of long grass in the shadows of night. Lost in thought, Paul notices after a few moments the odd look in Hestia’s stare. 

“What?” He asks, nearly defensive. 

“It’s a little uncanny, you asking after her like this.” She says bluntly, lifting a brow, “you’ve not exactly been showing her much… gallantry.” 

He fights the twitch of his lips, something shameful curling in his gut. His voice comes out the same, sharp and defensive. “I speak to her.” 

She blinks at the crossing of his arms across his chest, her lips quirking. “Barely.” 

Paul shifts. “I listen to her.” 

Her brows raise incredulously. “When?” 

A retort dies on Paul’s tongue as he scoffs – cheeks grow warm, lips flounder. The night’s sky is speckled and clotted with clouds which draw heavier and low by the minute. 

“Do you plan on pestering me all night, or will you let me leave?” 

A huff falls from her nostrils – an amusement at his exasperation that curls over the bend of her lips and the crow’s feet of her eyes. 

“Depends. Are you going to tell her you came looking?” Her accent, a thing of deep Caladan native heritage, rolls thick off her tongue just as her mother’s. 

His eyes roll to the heavens and back to her. “Why else would I look for her?”

Hestia seems to be enjoying herself. 

“Plenty of reasons,” she flashes a grin, “though, none either of you would admit.”

He lets out a bitter sound and backs toward the door with a parting glare. She’d do well to remember her place; though he’s never once chastised her for speaking her mind before. 

“Hestia,” he grumbles, instead, “do try not to gossip too much before I find her.”

“And you,” she calls sweetly after his retreating figure, cheeky grin bleeding through her lilt, “try not to look so desperate when you do.”

IT DOES NOT HIT PAUL UNTIL HE IS ALREADY TOO DEEP WITHIN THE GARDEN.

He retraces phantom of footsteps past shadows; down hedgerows, damp earth curling into the air, a flicker of lamplight beyond the sprawling walls of green – he was here not hours ago in a dream.

But Paul is awake now; and any warmth that climbs onto his cheeks is quenched with a roll of his eyes towards himself. Coincidences won’t kill him, he reminds himself, but you might. 

You repose against a bench at the center of the garden – wrapped from head to toe in piney gauzed fabric, face bare in the moonlight as you squint up towards the soft mist darkening the sky. 

He calls your name from far enough away; Your gaze finds him slowly, as an owl might watch a mouse meander over a field from her perch. “Paul,” you greet in that rich cadence – whispers of your homeplanet seeping from your tongue. 

He comes to rest beside you; wind threads through the night, a breath from the cliffs that climb higher still than the ones this ancient castle sits upon. The sky clotted with thick dark clouds that rumble gently, heavy with the remnants of rain. 

“I told your mother I will resume my training,” your eyes remain upon the clouds, “I don’t believe she heard anything today.” 

A breath unravels past Paul’s lips as he drags a toe through the moist dirt below. You’re watching him with that look of yours, eyes wide, wise beyond your years. 

“She seemed pleased,” you add, voice drifting like a solemn, faraway lyre. “Suggested I begin after the Referendum.”

Paul knows better than to say I told you so, but it sits smug on the back of his tongue.

He’s not surprised; only days remain before the Houses leave for the Referendum – and your arraignment. It would be trifling to begin training in the looming shadow of such events. 

A cold shadow brushes the back of his neck; the dulling loom of the arraignment. Your eyes catch the low light – and in them, dark and glinting, there is encroached dusk, the glow of the castle windows – a blanketed storm of flurries.

“How do you feel about it?” At his words, you exhale sharply through your nose – that familiar, clipped disdain that leaks through girlish tones of amusement; though tonight, there is none of that.

“You must know how I feel about the Bene Gesserit by now, Paul,” you whisper into the swirling mist of eve; and Paul tilts his head to catch the glossy tresses of hair that slips away from the ornamental wrappings of your clothing. 

“No,” he murmurs, cheeks warm despite the bite of an early spring chill. “The arraignment.”

You, a pine stilled in an ancient forest, shifting only in the breeze as you blink – calculated, measured. There is a ripple in the pool of your masked emotions, and Paul sees it for what it is. 

Fear. 

He knows that very phrase that echoes in your own head as much as in his own at this moment; a silence, punctuated by the whispers of women long past. I must not fear.

But the silence persists, and he does not rush to fill it.

When he does speak, he blinks ahead at the climbing green walls, at the rustle of thick brush and the distant swish of wild grass far off in the nighttime breeze. 

“The Baron is a cruel man,” Paul glances to you, studying the turn of your nose in your profile. “We’ll do everything we can to keep him from swaying the other Houses. And when the time comes…” Your throat bobs only slightly where it disappears in the swaths of fabric, but Paul continues, “We will defend your heritage.”

A slow brush of wind drags your gauzy dress skirt along his calf. A chill brings shivers down his spine. Paul’s voice is a whisper in the soft sway of hedges. 

“We will defend you.” 

And after a breath – a shift, a shake of snow from the petals of a winterbloom – your lips curl into a smile. Soft, elusive; a ghost passing through frost. 

It is a slow thing, one that suits you almost too well. It is a beautiful one. 

“You’re so much like him,” your voice comes oddly reflective; As if speaking through a door not quite open. “Your father.” 

A bloom of pride curls in his stomach – though he doesn’t know why you say it. There is that familiar haunt clouding your eyes as you watch a toad hop lazily from a pond out to the walking stones, a baby upon its back. Paul watches your lips twitch as the small toad holds on to its mother tightly. 

He doesn’t know why you say it, but Paul also doesn’t ask – and as two fingers trace the damp stone beneath him, he realizes a part of him simply doesn’t mind. 

A hush settles between you, and then, quietly: “You’ll be a good Duke.”

From you, it is not some empty praise.

Paul’s chest tightens as your words curl around the mist. There is something here, his mind whispers; perhaps, days ago, he’d think your words were some slithering trick. But for once, he doesn’t bristle or deflect.

His cheeks are warm, and he knows well that he cannot hide the twitch of his own lips. “And you,” his voice is far too soft, “will be a good Duchess.”

You laugh, breathy and laced with disbelief. You do not meet his eyes, and he does not dare push you to – but your cheeks glow even in the faint lamplight through the windows of the castle.

The silence ebbs when you take a deep inhale, voice coming once more hollow and steady. 

“I know House Bourbon holds no true claim over Sabberon anymore,” your nails pick at the loose cut of your gauzy dress absently, lips bitten between breaths, “But it still falls under our sovereignty–” you purse your lips, blinking languidly. “–My sovereignty, by decree,” you mend with a glow upon your cheeks again. His heart cinches. 

Hedges sway slowly across the way, listening as if your words are being pulled out from some cavernous place within you.

“When I lose it next week,” you continue, so sure in the future that it blends and obscures in that way that dreams have begun to, “when that decree is rewritten–” Your lips purse, though he sees the tremble beneath.  “It cannot go to the Harkonnens.”

There’s something deadened in your tone, but something burning beneath it, too, as you shake your head towards the cloud-muddled moon high above. 

“They are… unfathomably evil.”

And Paul knows; he does. But he understands, now, that he does not know like you do.

Your fingers graze absently over a faint scar on your hand, spun silky and webbed in the moonlight. 

He has seen the blade that made it; in waking, in dreams. 

He has read the histories, the customs, the barbarism hidden beneath their traditions. 

A nameday knife, meant for a bride of House Harkonnen.

You came to Caladan in a kennel; teeth bared, voice barbed, fury like a hound at your heels. Paul should never have been so childish enough as to blame you for it. 

A beast, you wanted to be seen as – but you are not a beast.

You are difficult. Frightening, often – just as storms, or change. You are frightening, he decides as your eyes meet his in the dark night of spring, but you are not unknowable.

You are just a girl, as he is just a boy; Thrust into the hands of old men and old women and older laws.

And today; the memory curls back into his mind as your toes trace idly along the damp earth in a stunted, unknowing waltz with his own – a memory of warm breath on his cheek, lips pressed against skin. 

A teasing remark over the books by his bed. A joke about Paul’s word choices. A laugh tampered down before it could turn girlish and true. 

A glimpse of someone real; Not a specter, or a strategy, or a title.

You speak before he can come to terms with the realization. “My aunt is the Lady of Ginaz,” you murmur – though it is a fact spoken more to fill space than inform; Paul watches with growing tension in his jaw as your fingers dig along the edge of the stone bench, worrying at the crumbling cracks. 

“On Giedi Prime, her letters were destroyed before I could read them.” You stop with a slight pause. “But I’ve been speaking with her again.” 

Paul says nothing; with you, silence carries more weight than answers, and his head has begun to ache from the waves of fear that tremor through his skull each passing moment. 

“They’ve long remembered their oaths to House Atreides. If we need bodies – projectiles, blades – I could write her. Ask for the Swordmasters.” Your voice carries with the wind – the word blades curls, smoke in the air; you say it far too softly, too familiar. Paul’s nerves dislodge.

You sigh then, nearly a smile – a ghost of a thing which flits across your visage like a leaf stirred by the wind. “We’ll have to invite her to the wedding, of course.”

It is a brittle joke, a poor one, but Paul huffs a quiet laugh nonetheless, lips curled like he’s chewed something bitter. His eyes catch your own. “You looking forward to choosing the flower arrangements?”

You tilt your chin; the moonlight kisses your cheekbone. “I suppose it’s a good thing our house colors are both shades of green,” you muse in that rolling tone, “one less decision to fight over.” 

He huffs smally, “more time to argue over the ribbon for the handfasting.” 

The breeze blows a spray of mist-thick air over Paul’s nose, lashes fluttering in the chill air. Your gaze is upon the hedgerow – the very same one that has swallowed both Paul’s and your stare again and again. 

Your lips purse and then puff out a small breath, “whose tradition is that, yours or mine?” 

Paul’s swallow is thick, a pang of contrition singing in his veins. “Yours.” 

You nod slowly, and Paul suddenly cannot look at you any longer. A deep churn of his stomach catches, and he lowers his gaze to the flowering shrubs along the path in the dim midnight air. 

“When you arrived,” Paul murmurs, “I was cruel to you. Because I knew you were Bene Gesserit.”

You watch him; he can feel your gaze hot upon his profile as he sets his jaw. “How did you know for certain?” You wonder.

His jaw clicks, recalling the cool drop in the back of his mind the moment he saw your veiled figure slink out of the transporter in the rain those weeks ago.

“I just...knew it. When I saw you.” 

If it is significant to you in any way other than disbelief, you do not reveal it in your expression; your stare penetrates, and Paul continues despite the slowly accelerating beat of his heart.

“And I knew what kind of power you could hold over me if it was true.”

You look at him, and it is not a kind expression. “And are you not afraid of that same power, which your mother holds over you?” 

A twitch of irritation, Paul’s jaw ticks – though he does not let you disarm him. He does not answer your question; instead shakes his head, “my mother loves me too much. If she knew we were both dreaming of death, she would not let us go to Sabberon.”

You wipe away one lone raindrop from your thigh and he continues in a slow murmur, “You don't love me. If you were Bene Gesserit, and knew what path the sisterhood intended for me - for us - you wouldn't hesitate to encourage it." He admits, and feels no particular heartbreak at the concept; after all, you hardly know each other. 

You appear similarly unaffected. “I don't know,” you sigh, “but I'll be Bene Gesserit again soon. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.” You mutter bitterly, voice imbued with regret. 

A curl of your hair ripples in the breeze; His own lashes catch the cold dew of the coming rain.

Your resentment to the idea formulated is clear, and Paul sighs quietly. “I know you don’t think training with her is right,” he murmurs, “but what would you have us do?”

“I don’t know,” you answer sharply, “but it feels like we’re walking straight into a trap.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Paul mutters, the phrase worn; armor that no longer fits.

“I know we don’t,” you insist with crossed arms, “But... what if every good thing we try to build is just another step toward the wrong path?”

It is a thought too many times agonized in his mind; and now, out loud with you, Paul is struck with a miserable foreboding. Something is coming; it stirs in the storm clouds, lurks upon the horizon. He knows you feel it too. 

“So then... we play the hand we’ve been dealt,” he says – stiff. Empty.

Your voice, when it comes, is frost crawling over glass; icy, uncaring. Sharp.

“But that's so easy for you to say.”

Paul’s gaze snaps to yours, a curl of heat in his chest at your tone – your eyes blaze with some spitting condescension and your lips curl around the words that come next. “It’s all means to your end, isn’t it. Aren’t I?” You scoff, “You were never meant to suffer for this. You were groomed for it. Studied for it. Taught secrets that should’ve been forbidden.”

A long-awaited reaction; from the very moment Paul told you he’s trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, he has awaited the moment that festering seed of mistrust would bloom – yes, the accusation is not new, but it still stings. You do not truly trust him. 

He has power, he knows; and you remind him of it not because he forgets that he has it, but because you never can.

And despite how your words are received unobjected to him, despite the truth in your argument – you, too, are highborn. And you, too, speak as though in some ways, the Sisterhood has already claimed you, throat and hands and soul alike. 

Paul was meant for something. So were you. 

He wonders, suddenly, if you know more of the odd prophecy whispered behind doors shut than he does. One of two candidates, the voice whispers. You have more than one birthright, boy.

Paranoia grows; Paul can imagine your nerves are tender from the upcoming arraignment and the fear of the trade war impending. He, too, faces the silky webs of despair in the quiet moments within his mind. But there is pride laced into Paul’s heart. And where there is pride, it can be wounded.

Paul’s voice is sharp – the last knife in the drawer.

“I don’t know why you pretend to know me.”

You don’t flinch. Your voice is small, but it is ice. It cuts cleaner than any knife could.

“Me neither.”

There is nothing left to say; in three days, the House will leave for the Space Trade Referendum, and you will accompany him and the representatives to Kaitain. Only a few days after, you will be representing your own House for the final arraignment. There is nothing to do now but wait.

You don’t look at him any longer; your nails trace along the cracks in the stone, jaw set, eyes shining with wrath. 

He leaves you in the gardens, surrounded in the dark. 

THAT NIGHT, PAUL DREAMS OF YOU AGAIN.

Beneath the Great Pine that cracks and weeps resin, there is a hiss; serpentine, unseen. Below him, you tremble in his hands, buzzing and alive, breath fanning warm against his throat. 

But somewhere beyond that velvet dark, something watches. 

A flicker of silver: a knife, unfamiliar in shape but not in meaning. A pale hand wraps around the hilt. Then, in the midst of some trembling, ground-shattering distraction, your gasp comes; sharp, small, broken.

Visions crash through his mind: a reddened horizon, a warm desert wind; your face, streaked darker than water, washed away by freezing rain. And Sabberon. Always Sabberon.

And then, threaded through it all – a voice. Not yours, not his mother’s, nor the Sisterhood’s.

It coils, smoke through a keyhole: low, sweet, curling, rotted at the root.

“I will never let them keep what is mine, my pet.”

You – pressed half in agony and half in ecstasy at his throat, teeth scraping along his racing and fading heartbeat – do not hear it.

 But Paul does.

And when he wakes with your name in his mouth, the echo of it clings like ash to his teeth, dying on the dry heat of his parched tongue.

I will never let them keep what is mine.

follow @sandpoet for updates & notifs.

[marvelfilth]

🎥 girl (18+)

Part 2

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x f!reader

Warnings: camgirl!Tara, bottom!Tara, smut, strap-on sex (Tara receiving), blow job (R receiving), weed consumption, pet names

Summary: Tara asks you for a favor, you're more than ready to deliver

Masterlist

You have a simple agreement with your roommate - you ignore the whimpers and moans that echo throughout the apartment whenever she's shooting a video (which happens a lot, almost every day), and in return she stays silent about your own hobby. 

The agreement is not the best, and you're definitely at a disadvantage, but, outside of her online persona, Tara is nice and considerate, and she tried very hard to soundproof her room, which didn't help at all to no-one's surprise. 

It certainly does help that she greets you every morning with a bun or two from the bakery across the road, and lingers by the door when you leave for work, promising to cook something for dinner. 

Really, it almost feels like a perfect life, until she locks her bedroom door and you have to plug your ears and roll a blunt to keep your sanity intact. 

See, Tara is nice and considerate, but she's also breathtakingly beautiful and casually seductive, walking around the apartment in tight shorts and barely there crop tops, pressing against you in all the right places when she hugs you goodbye and looking so pretty when she walks out of her room after hours of filming, clad in a silky robe, with sweat still clinging to her as she skims past you to the bathroom.

You're not sure she's aware of the hold she has on you.

"Can I have some?" She asks from your doorway, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

You turn in your chair and wave her inside, your eyes lingering on her cleavage as she walks past and sits on the desk, pulling your chair closer so you're stuck between her parted legs. You look her up and down, noting the slight shakiness of her hands and her dilated pupils. 

You reach past her for another blunt, but she stops you with a shake of her head, and pulls at the one still stuck between your lips. You watch her relax as she takes a drag, leaning against the wall. You can't help it, your eyes dart lower, catching a glimpse of her nipples straining against the confines of her white tank top, then even lower to the glimpse of skin between her shirt and her sweatpants. You curse her for choosing the least revealing clothes today of all days, when she is sprawled right in front of you. 

She nudges your chin up. Her cheeks are reddened and she struggles to keep eye contact, biting her lip as she passes you the blunt, pressing it against your waiting lips, pads of her fingers grazing the plum skin.

"I wanted to ask you something." Her words are barely coherent, or maybe you're just too far gone from the weed and the pretty girl who doesn't know how much power she has over you.

"Yeah?" You swallow, playing with the hem of her pants over her hipbone. Her breath hitches. 

Her blush deepens and you try not to swoon at the sight. "You know how I'm almost done with my student debt..?" She mumbles, catching your fingers and interlacing them with hers over her lap.

"Mhm," you hum, fixated on the way your hands fit together.

"I thought of a way to speed up the process." She trails a pad of her thumb over your knuckles. "I'll need your help." She looks up, her eyes glazed over.

"What kind of help?"

She takes a moment to respond, and eventually climbs off the desk and onto your lap, planting her hands over your neck. She takes measuring breaths, hiding her face, her chin tucked into her chest. "For my site," she reveals and launches on a ramble, not giving you time to respond. "You won't have to do anything, I'll do all of the work. I'll just need you to wear a harness and be you. You know, hot without even trying. You can wear a mask, if you want, or you can stay out of the frame." She chews on her lip, finally looking up to meet your eyes. One of her hands settles on your thigh, squeezing. "I bought something for this. It's perfect for you. And me." 

You stop breathing altogether. "You want to ride me?" 

She chokes on her breath. "I- well, yes, but- No! I mean…" She clothes her eyes and you hear her curse and her breath. "I mean, I had something else in mind…" she trails off, hiding her face in the palms of her hands.

You take her wrists and pull them apart, settling them on your shoulders, and plant your hands over her waist, squeezing in reassurance. "What did you have in mind?" 

This time she doesn't hesitate. "I want you to deepthroat me." 

Your jaw clenches. Never in your wildest dreams have you thought a moment like this would come. But here she is, on your lap, eyes full of hope and want, asking you to fuck her face, implying she wants to ride you. 

She takes your silence as a sign of hesitation and continues on, sliding closer to you in your lap, pressing her chest against yours. "I'll give you a share, of course, and no one will know it's you, I promise. You'll be visible only from your waist down, I'll just get on my knees and-"

"Stop," you cut her off, "I'll do it, just stop talking." 

"Yeah?" She asks with trepidation. 

"Yes." 

"Then let's go." She hops off your lap, tugging you along to her bedroom.

"What, now?" You ask, stopping her in the doorway.

"Now." She nods with fervor. There's a new glint in her eyes, one you've never seen before.

"Okay." You let her guide you to her bed.

She spends at least half an hour setting up her camera and rummaging through her closet, before she comes back to stand in front of you in a pink lingerie set. You gulp, taking her in. The undergarments do nothing to hide her pretty breasts and gushing pussy. Your hands itch to tear away the garter belt holding her fishnet stockings. She basks in the attention unapologetically, slowly turning around to let you see her butt, arching her back to grant you a glimpse of her folds. You feel like you need to be restrained in order not to pounce on her and run your tongue over her cunt. When she turns back to face you she pushes her elbows together, bulging her breasts as she hands you a change of clothes. 

You didn't even notice she was holding something.

"You really thought this through, huh?" You ask to fill the suffocating silence.

She smiles, nodding, and reaches for the hem of your shirt, tugging it up. You follow her lead and undress as fast as you can with your shaking hands. She takes a seat on the bed, drinking you in, her thighs clenching when you're left in your underwear. She reaches behind her and hands you the harness without another word. You gulp when you notice the size, taking a double take before pulling it over your hips. She stands up and helps you fasten it, her hands lingering on your heated skin. You pull on black slacks, a white dress shirt and a silver wrist watch without a question, but hesitate when you notice black boots on the floor near the foot of her bed. You look up questioningly and see her nod, so you pull them on too. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she starts rolling the sleeves of your shirt up to your elbows, keeping her eyes pinned to your lips.

"Better," she whispers.

You nod, feeling her warm breath on your neck. 

"Kiss me?" She asks, batting her lashes, and pushing you to sit on the bed, straddling you the second the backs of your thighs meet her soft bed. 

Your hands find home on her hips, sneaking past the fabric of her panties, making her grind against your lap.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to do anything?" You tease, enjoying the way the tips of her ears turn red.

"I just don't want this to be awkward." She mumbles, threading her fingers through your hair. "Please?" 

You grant her wish, pulling her in for a lazy kiss, languidly moving your lips against hers, pulling the softest whimpers out of her mouth. Your hands move up on their own accord, eagerly cupping her tits, barely holding back from tearing the lace of her bra apart. She moans at the intrusion, her grip on the back of your neck turning painful. It's not enough for either of you.

You pull away for a breath before diving back in with vigor. She parts her lips, letting your tongue in to explore the warmth of her mouth and you moan at the feeling. She parts her thighs even more, desperately rubbing against you. 

You stop her before it's too late, pushing her off your lap and onto the bed.

"Hm?" She hums, blinking up at you in confusion.

You rub your palm over your face, gesturing at the camera with your other hand. "We got off track."

She exhales and looks away, before getting up and turning the camera on. You look at her for guidance and she pulls you to your feet, turning you so your side is facing the camera, her eyes fixed on yours the entire time. She takes hold of your wrists, placing your hand under her jaw, and your fingers automatically clench around her face, making the smaller girl close her eyes before sinking to her knees. She wastes no time undoing the buttons of your pants, placing sweet kisses over your abs, trailing down and finally pulling the silicone cock out, letting it slap the side of her face before placing a kiss to the tip.

You can't look away from the sight, your mouth falling open and your chest heaving rapidly as you try to control to urge to bend her over the bed and fuck her raw. She looks up at you innocently, before giving you a slow, long lick down to the base of the shaft of your fake cock and sneakily placing a kiss to the visible patch of skin of your inner thigh. Your other hand takes hold of her long locks at that, wrapping the strands around your fist before tugging harshly, placing her mouth over the tip and thrusting inside. She tears up but welcomes you eagerly, moaning loudly as she her fingers clasp on the backs of your thighs, nails digging in.

Tara ignores her own burning need in favor of finding a way to make you feel good, bobbing her head on the cock and watching your expression with lust filled eyes. She knows she found the spot when your hips jerk and eyes roll to the back of your head. Her throat hurts and her tears ruin her mascara, but she doesn't care, as long as she gets to see you like this, all flushed and panting because of her. She chokes when she notices a trail of cum rolling down your inner thigh. She can't help it, she pulls away, and before she knows it she's catching it with her tongue, moaning at the taste. 

"Fuck," she whimpers when you tug her away and back to the fake appendage, your cheeks painted red. "Feels good, doesn't it?" She asks, sliding her hands up to grip your ass. 

"So good, baby," you groan, pushing into her mouth, making her gag around the length. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

She looks at you like she does know, her eyes wide and full of need. She shifts on the floor, tugging one of your legs forward and you comply with no hesitation, pulling the wet hair out of her face before settling on gently massaging her scalp. 

Her eyes fall shut and that's when you notice it. She's grinding down on your boot, painting it with her wetness as she desperately rubs against it.

"Look at you, getting off on my foot like a slut." You grip the sides of her face, and use your hips to thrust into her mouth. "My dirty girl, looking so pretty like this."

Her eyes bulge as she fucks herself against you, letting you use her and using you in return. 

You can't take it anymore.

You pull out and give her no time to question you before pulling her up and crashing your lips in a heated kiss, full of lust and passion. You walk her back and she falls on the bed, scurrying up and tearing away her bra. You take a moment to appreciate the sight of her body, sprawled on the bed with her legs spread, granting you a perfect view of her puffy pussy, partially hidden away by a piece of fabric. She wiggles impatiently when you take too long to move, biting on her lip and reaching down to part her lower lips for you, her hips buckling against her hand. You take no time in tearing her lingerie away, carelessly throwing it over your shoulder as you lunge at the brunette, attacking her neck with biting kisses and littering a path down her stomach with hickeys. 

"I need you so bad," she whines, trying to tug you lower.

"Yeah? You want me to fuck your pretty pussy?" You ask, spreading her folds open. She's dripped all over the bed already.

Her face turns beet red as she tries to hide it in the soft cushions, but you don't let her, forcing her to look at you with a tight grip on her chin. "Answer me." 

"Yes," she whines.

"I don't think you want it bad enough." You start pulling away, but she catches your shoulders in an ironclad grip, pulling you back in and forcing your face down on her breasts. You suck on her nipple, rolling it between your teeth.

"I've wanted you to fuck me since the first day I saw you," she confesses, throwing her legs over your hips. "I wanted you to bend me over the counter every time you looked at my ass a little too long. I wanted to get on my knees and eat you out when you came back from a date with that bitch, to show you how it's actually supposed to feel, to make you forget about everyone else, but me." 

You release her nipple with a wet pop and move to sit, trailing your hands over her sides. Her eyes are closed, like she's afraid to face your reaction. You cup her cheek, swiping your thumb over her cheekbone, gently coaxing her to look at you. You smile when she does, and circle her waist, tugging her up to sit on your lap. You're face to face now, and you waste no time in letting her know where you stand.

"Then I'll spend a lot of time making it up to you, angel. Does that sound good?" 

She nods feverishly. "Please," she moans and claws at your shirt, tearing it off. "Want to feel all of you." 

You quickly take off the rest of your clothes under Tara's watchful eyes. She doesn't waste a second in throwing herself over your lap once you're done, pulling you in for a kiss, moaning at the feeling of her skin pressed against hers. Finally.

"How about that ride?" You ask between the kisses, nudging her legs further apart. She shakes her head, nuzzling her nose against your cheek. "I- we can do that next time, right?" She asks, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. 

You see the hidden meaning of her question easily. 

Will there be a next time? 

Your heart melts. "Of course, baby." 

She relaxes, and falls back on the sheets, tugging you down with her. "Make love to me?" She whispers.

Your chest fills with so much warmth it might spill over. You take hold of her hand, interlacing your fingers over her head and place a soft kiss on her lips. "Always." 

She giggles happily, and you think this is what heaven must feel like. 

You tease the tip of your cock against her heat, collecting wetness. She's so wet there's no need to get her ready, so you waste no time in bottoming out in one thrust, pushing her knees against her chest. You stay like that, letting her catch her breath, your entire body tense. 

You wish you could feel her clenching around you. 

You pull out until only the tip of the cock is left inside her tight pussy, before shoving back in. "Taking me so well," you mutter against her neck, enjoying the pain of her nails scratching your back. "Such a good girl for me." 

She cries out, gasping. "Only for you."

You fill her up to the brim, hitting her in all the right places as you fasten your pace, chasing her orgasm. She has to bite your shoulder when you hit particularly deep, making her eyes squeeze shut and her toes curl. "Ah-  just like that," she moans, "fuck- baby, feels so good." 

You double your efforts, rutting into her hard enough to make the bed shake with each thrust.  Your orgams is fast approaching, but you can't afford to think about it when she looks so utterly breathtaking under you, looking up at you with tears stricken eyes, her lips red and puffy from all the biting and her neck red from your lips. 

You see the moment you take her over the edge. Her jerks hips jerk violently and her eyes roll back, the cry she lets out so loud it makes your ears ring. 

You fuck her through it, watching as she comes down from her high, eventually pulling out when she starts nudging away. You take off the harness, throw it somewhere behind you, and tuck her into your side, basking in the way she clings to you, lazily pecking your neck every now and then.

Her hand moves languidly down your stomach, but you stop her, pulling it back up your waist. She sleepily whines in protest, but you know she won't be able to put up a fight. You kiss her on the lips, smiling. "Rest now, we'll have time for that later." 

She pouts, blinking heavily, but relents in favor of burrowing into you even more, throwing her leg over your hips, pinning you down with her weight. "Later," she promises into the crook of your neck.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week

1. ‘It was an accident’: the scientists who have turned humid air into renewable power

Greetings, readers! Welcome to our weekly dose of positivity and good vibes. In this edition, I've gathered a collection of uplifting stories that will surely bring a smile to your face. From scientific breakthroughs to environmental initiatives and heartwarming achievements, I've got it all covered.

In May, a team at the University of Massachusetts Amherst published a paper declaring they had successfully generated a small but continuous electric current from humidity in the air. They’ve come a long way since then. The result is a thin grey disc measuring 4cm across.

One of these devices can generate a relatively modest 1.5 volts and 10 milliamps. However, 20,000 of them stacked, could generate 10 kilowatt hours of energy a day – roughly the consumption of an average UK household. Even more impressive: they plan to have a prototype ready for demonstration in 2024.

2. Empty Office Buildings Are Being Turned Into Vertical Farms

Empty office buildings are being repurposed into vertical farms, such as Area 2 Farms in Arlington, Virginia. With the decline in office usage due to the Covid-19 pandemic, municipalities are seeking ways to fill vacant spaces.

Vertical farming systems like Silo and AgriPlay's modular growth systems offer efficient and adaptable solutions for converting office buildings into agricultural spaces. These initiatives not only address food insecurity but also provide economic opportunities, green jobs, and fresh produce to local communities, transforming urban centers in the process.

3. Biden-Harris Administration to Provide 804,000 Borrowers with $39 Billion in Automatic Loan Forgiveness as a Result of Fixes to Income Driven Repayment Plans

The Department of Education in the United States has announced that over 804,000 borrowers will have $39 billion in Federal student loans automatically discharged. This is part of the Biden-Harris Administration's efforts to fix historical failures in the administration of the student loan program and ensure accurate counting of monthly payments towards loan forgiveness.

The Department aims to correct the system and provide borrowers with the forgiveness they deserve, leveling the playing field in higher education. This announcement adds to the Administration's efforts, which have already approved over $116.6 billion in student loan forgiveness for more than 3.4 million borrowers.

4. F.D.A. Approves First U.S. Over-the-Counter Birth Control Pill

The move could significantly expand access to contraception. The pill is expected to be available in early 2024.

The Food and Drug Administration on Thursday approved a birth control pill to be sold without a prescription for the first time in the United States, a milestone that could significantly expand access to contraception. The medication, called Opill, will become the most effective birth control method available over the counter

5. AIDS can be ended by 2030 with investments in prevention and treatment, UN says

It is possible to end AIDS by 2030 if countries demonstrate the political will to invest in prevention and treatment and adopt non-discriminatory laws, the United Nations said on Thursday.

In 2022, an estimated 39 million people around the world were living with HIV, according to UNAIDS, the United Nations AIDS program. HIV can progress to AIDS if left untreated.

6. Conjoined twins released from Texas Children’s Hospital after successfully separated in complex surgery

Conjoined twins are finally going home after the pair was safely separated during a complex surgery at Texas Children’s Hospital in June.

Ella Grace and Eliza Faith Fuller were in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) for over four months after their birth on March 1. A large team of healthcare workers took six hours to complete the surgery on June 14. Seven surgeons, four anesthesiologists, four surgical nurses and two surgical technicians assisted with the procedure.

7. From villains to valued: Canadians show overwhelming support for wolves

Despite their record in popular culture, according to a recent survey, seven in 10 Canadians say they have a “very positive” view of the iconic predators. 

Here's a fascinating video about how wolves changed Yellowstone nat'l park:

----

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation:

Support this newsletter ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog.

[devilevlls]

Creepy Obey me! AU

𝖲𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌: 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋, 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. Remember: The following information might not be that accurate comparing to Lucifer's canon personality.

Lucifer

⌞Feeding Habits⌝

  ࿔ Carnivorous (meat-eating)

  ࿔ Hunting habits: Lucifer harbors a distaste for the act of hunting souls directly. Instead, he frequents a secluded area in Devildom where lost souls wander, offering a more palatable source for consumption.

However, when it comes to acquiring meat, his approach takes a stark turn. He revels in the thrill of stalking his prey from a distance. The panicked screams only serve to heighten his excitement, igniting a primal thrill within him as he closes in on his target. ㅤ

⌞Unique features⌝

 ࿔ Two pairs of black feathered wings, some says they can cure wounds, but no one was brave enough to try plucking a feather.

 ࿔ Specific scent: He emits a natural scent reminiscent of roaring flames, so potent that it can induce discomfort and even prompt coughing fits. ࿔  Height: 1,97 m ㅤ

⌞Reproductive Habits, Seasonal Changes⌝

  ࿔ Mating seasons: Courtship displays - Lucifer's devotion to his mate knows no bounds, often manifesting in grand gestures and displays of affection. However, don't be too quick to celebrate, for alongside his demonstrations of love, you may find an unexpected presence creeping into your surroundings. Ghostly apparitions, once mortal souls he dispatched, now transformed into loyal servants, subtly assist you with your daily tasks, a testament to his unwavering commitment to your well-being.

  ࿔ Nest building - He leaves a whole mess of feathers scattered across his bed, evidence of his restless nature and feral instincts. Some of them bear traces of blood, torn impatiently from his own wings in moments of unchecked impulse. Afterward, he may find himself sore and in need of assistance, perhaps even seeking your help to tend to the wounds inflicted by his own fervor.  ࿔ Seasonal variations: Aggressive Behavior - He won't let his brothers come closer to you until his breeding instincts are gone. They won't try either, none of them wants to be hanged from the ceiling for weeks. Scent Marking - Brushes his feathers against you, imparting a subtle scent that escapes human detection but leaves you enveloped in a warm, weighty sensation. Alternatively, he may press his face into your neck, tracing gentle licks along your skin. As he marks you with his presence, you notice a distinct shift in the demeanor of other demons, since no one wants to defy Lucifer himself by getting too close. ㅤAnd of course, an intense craving to ravage you at least 3 times a day. ㅤ

⌞Territorial Behavior⌝

࿔ Aggressive displays/Territory defense: Lucifer wanders around the house when he has free time. Not just casually walking tho, he makes guttural sounds and stomps heavily. No one dares getting out of their room when he is passing the corridor. ㅤ

⌞Sleeping and Resting Patterns⌝

You see, there isn't Day/Night in devildom, just emptiness and darkness, so we are using as reference, RAD's daily activities to measure time. Class time being the morning, class end being twilight and after dinner being night.

 ࿔  Nocturnal (active during the night). The avatar of pride hates waking up early in the morning, he gets more active at night, and you can see a slight change in his behavior at this time, getting more chill than normally. ㅤ

⌞Bad/Creepy habits⌝

  ࿔ Lucifer loves classical music, especially cursed records. Do not dare come close to the music room when his songs start playing, or you might end up piercing your own eardrums, trapped in an unstoppable curse. ㅤ

⌞Defense Mechanisms⌝

  ࿔ Lucifer has the power to hear through walls and can teleport behind someone if they say his name out loud to check why he is being mentioned.

  ࿔ Possesses a remarkable immunity to the majority of poisonous substances found within Devildom. Similarly, he remains largely unfazed by the powers wielded by angels. Only the most ancient and powerful curses have any hope of affecting him. ㅤ

⌞Hygiene and Grooming⌝

 ࿔ Self-grooming: Grooming, or preening, is the meticulous art of cleaning and maintaining various parts of the body. Lucifer, in particular, dedicates himself to keeping his feathers impeccable, adhering to a strict schedule of cleaning every three days. This meticulous task demands much of his time and attention, occasionally leading him to fall asleep in the middle of his grooming rituals. ㅤ

⌞Playful Behavior⌝

 ࿔ How do they release stress? For Lucifer, playing the piano serves as a refuge where he can lose himself in the soothing melodies, calming his mind and easing the burdens of his responsibilities. However, if one were to delve into his more sinister forms of stress relief, a scene of horror awaits. He takes perverse pleasure in seeking out the terrified sounds of lost humans, reveling in their fear as he approaches, a dark satisfaction coursing through him at the sight of their trembling forms. Proud of the intimidating aura he exudes, Lucifer finds solace in the knowledge of his power and dominance over those who dare to cross his path. "Yes, scream, let me hear how much it hurts when I devour you. I could do this all day" ㅤ

⌞Human Interaction⌝

  ࿔ Responses to human presence: Annoyed, he doesn't understand why such an important demon as himself needs to be in the same ambient as an insignificant mortal. Won't attack unless you trespass his boundaries, but will threaten the hell out of you.

  ࿔ Domestication behaviors: None. Jk jk, he has his soft spots, but hides them very well. Give him some ultra-rare cursed vinyl. Or worship his boots. He will pretend it doesn't affect him, but seeing you bend down to his feet? That makes him excited. If you manage to earn his trust and affection, a rare privilege indeed, you may find him unexpectedly responsive to your touch. A shiver courses through him, and a near-purr escapes his lips when you scratch the base of his horns, a gesture that elicits a subtle display of pleasure from the typically composed demon lord.

Hope you guys enjoyed, please give me your opinions! Sorry for any grammar mistakes ＞﹏＜ Check my Creepy AU masterlist for more content!

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[d-z20]

A Taste of Obedience (NSFW)

Pairing: Avis Amberg x Reader

Summary: Working as Avis Amberg’s assistant means following her every command—always poised, always obedient, always under her thumb. But when she pulls you aside at a gala, you quickly learn that serving her extends far beyond your day job

-OR-

You get to fuck your boss in her dressing room before heading back to the party with a promise of more

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power bottom Avis, service top reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, slight dom/sub dynamics, oral/cunnilingus (A recv), R masturbating while fucking A, orgasm denial(ish), 'good girl' used for R

Words: 1.8k

A/N: Her dress is kind of inspired by her silk robe from the scene in this gif (I may or may not have watched this gif on repeat for 5 solid minutes because 🫠🫠)

AO3 | Masterlist

You have always known your place with Avis Amberg.

You are her assistant, her shadow, the one who ensures everything runs smoothly, from scheduling meetings with studio executives to keeping her martini glass full at every high-profile event. You anticipate her needs before she even speaks them, standing just close enough to be seen but never so close as to overstep. Avis Amberg is a woman who commands a room without raising her voice, a woman who men fear and women envy. And you? You know better than to let your feelings cloud your judgement.

But tonight, she's playing a dangerous game. And she's winning.

The Ace Studios Annual Gala is a spectacle of wealth and power, an evening where the biggest names in Hollywood come together in a grand ballroom to toast each other with carefully measured smiles and whispered secrets. You’ve spent the night at Avis’s side, watching her work the room with effortless charm, exuding elegance in a black silk gown. Every so often, she looks at you—not with the distant acknowledgement she usually reserves for hired help, but with something sharper.

It starts with the fleeting touches. The accidental brush of her fingers against your wrist as she hands you her empty glass. The slow, dragging gaze that lingers just a moment too long. The way her lips quirk upward whenever she catches you staring, amusement flickering in her eyes as if she knows exactly what you’re fantasising about.

And then, at the peak of the evening, when the champagne has loosened the room’s inhibitions and the music swells, she leans in close, her breath warm against your cheek. Her voice is low, just for you.

“You've been staring at me all night, sweetheart. You better do something about it.”

Your breath catches, fingers tightening around the stem of your empty glass. Your mind races, searching for the right response, for the careful line you know you should not cross.

Before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why this was a very bad idea, she was already walking away, expecting you to follow.

And so you did.

She led you down a dimly lit corridor backstage, the sounds of the gala growing muffled as she slipped into a dressing room. The door quietly shut behind you, sealing the two of you away from the glittering world outside.

Avis leaned against the vanity, one manicured hand tracing idle patterns against the cool surface as she regarded you with amusement.

"Tell me, darling," she says, reaching up to unclasp the diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. "Did you really think I hadn’t noticed the way you look at me?"

You swallow hard, heart pounding as she sets the necklace aside, her fingers moving with slow, deliberate precision. "I—" You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to answer when she’s watching you like that, like she already knows every thought running through your head.

"Speechless? How rare." She beckons you closer with her finger. "And here I thought you were good with words."

Your mouth goes dry as she reaches for your hand, guiding it to the bare skin of her collarbone. Your fingers twitch at the warmth of her, the soft pulse beneath your touch.

"On your knees for me."

The command sends a shiver down your spine. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, but the look in her eyes told you she would not repeat herself.

Slowly, deliberately, you sink to your knees before her, the cool tile grounding you, even as your head swims with anticipation. Your hands trace the slit in her dress, pushing the silk aside, revealing the smooth, warm skin of her thighs.

Before you can move further, a finger curls under your chin, forcing your gaze upwards.

"Slowly," she instructs, her voice nothing more than a whisper. "Make it worth my time."

She drags the moment out, watching the way your breathing changes, the way your fingers tremble against her skin. You know she enjoys this—the power, the tension, the way she can make you ache without even touching you.

Your lips brush against her inner thigh, soft at first, barely there, just a tease. One of her hands threads through your hair, fingers tightening just enough to make you shiver.

You take your time, trailing slow, lingering touches up the soft skin of her thigh, your mouth leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses in their wake. You nip at her skin, just enough to earn a sharp inhale, followed by a quiet hum of approval. You soothe the spot with your tongue, letting your hands drift up to grip her thighs, feeling the way they tense beneath your touch.

Your lips ghost over the sensitive skin where her thigh meets her hip, your breath warm against her. She exhales slowly, almost like she’s daring herself to remain composed, to keep from demanding. But then your tongue flicks against her clit—soft at first, a deliberate taste before pressing in deeper.

Avis sighs, tilting her head back against the mirror, her grip tightening in your hair. You feel her hips shift, subtle but purposeful, urging you forward. You indulge her, flicking your tongue again before sucking lightly, revelling in the way her thighs quiver slightly beneath your hands.

A soft, measured moan escapes her lips, but she never fully loses herself, her composure wrapped around her like the silk of her gown. Still, her breath hitches when you push your face further into her crotch, your tongue working with practiced precision, pulling her apart bit by bit.

“That’s it, darling.” Her voice is breathless, but her tone remains steady, a purr of satisfaction. Her fingers briefly tighten in your hair again as a subtle warning. “I know you can do better than that, though.”

You redouble your efforts, eager to prove her right. Your tongue moves with purpose, stroking and circling in a way you know will drive her arousal higher, pushing her closer to the edge. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you between the warmth of her, her breath coming in faster, more uneven gasps. The telltale signs of her pleasure are there, but still, she maintains control, never fully letting go.

The ache between your own thighs grows unbearable, a hot, throbbing pulse of need that only worsens with every moan she lets slip past her lips. Your body is reacting on instinct, heat pooling between your legs, soaking the fabric between your thighs. You squeeze them together, desperate for any kind of friction, any relief. The sensation is hardly enough, but it sends a shiver through you all the same, making you moan softly against her skin.

It’s these soft added vibrations that catch Avis’s attention.

“Touch yourself,” she commands, her voice rougher now, edged with something dangerously indulgent. “But don’t forget what you’re supposed to be doing.”

A fresh wave of arousal rushes through you, sharp and all-consuming. Your hand trembles as it slips between your legs, pressing firmly against the damp heat waiting there. The moment you grind against your own palm, a needy gasp escapes your lips, muffled against her. The sudden movement of air sends a shudder through her body, and for the first time, you feel her thighs properly shake and you know she’s feeling this just as much as you are.

The power of it, the rush of knowing you’re the one unravelling her, makes you reckless. Dizzy even. You focus on your own pleasure for just a moment too long, your fingers pressing harder against yourself, your hips moving in small, desperate thrusts. Your moans grow louder, more urgent, nearly overtaking hers as pleasure coils in your stomach, building so fast you can’t even think about stopping.

And then there’s a sharp tug at your hair.

Avis yanks your head back, breaking you out of your own haze, her grip firm to remind you who’s in charge and whose pleasure this is about. Her breath is heavy, her eyes dark as she gazes down at you, but there’s no mistaking the authority in her voice when she speaks.

“Don’t get distracted, sweetheart.” Her tone is cool. “I cum first. Understood?”

Shame and arousal mix in equal measure, making your skin flush hot. “Yes, ma’am,” you whisper, lips still slick, your own pleasure momentarily abandoned as you refocus completely on her.

A smirk plays at the corners of her lips. “Good girl.”

And just like that, you’re back exactly where she wants you because Avis Amberg never loses control.

She dictates every movement with soft hums of approval, tilting your chin up when she wants you to meet her gaze, holding you there as if daring you to fall apart before she does. Even as her breath hitches, even as her fingers curl against the vanity, she remains poised, composed—Avis Amberg to the very end.

Her nails scrape against your scalp, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her thighs quaking around you. You know she’s close to climaxing when she lets her head fall back with a whimper—a rare slip in her composure. But just before she can let go completely, she catches herself, her grip tightening, pulling you harder against her as she comes apart.

Her moan is low and devastating, her body shuddering against your mouth. She rides it out with a grace that is infuriatingly effortless, even now, even in the throes of pleasure.

But as she exhales, coming down from her high, the fire burning in your own body is impossible to ignore. The ache between your legs is unbearable now, the lingering taste of her on your tongue only making it worse. Your free hand presses harder against yourself, hips rolling into your palm as a quiet whimper slips past your lips. It doesn’t take much—just the residual pleasure, the heat of the moment, the power of knowing what you just did to her—to make the tension inside you snap, pleasure crashing through you in a shuddering wave that has your breath stalling, your moan muffled against the soft skin of her thigh.

Avis chuckles amusedly.

“How greedy of you,” she hums, her fingers brushing through your hair in lazy, absent strokes. “Barely finished with me, and already chasing your own pleasure.”

You blink up at her, blushing profusely, the remnants of your orgasm still pulsing through your limbs, making you tremble slightly as you try to collect yourself. She lets you stay there for a moment, basking in the aftershocks of it all, before she leans forward, her fingers tilting your chin up once more, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“You did well, darling,” she praises, her voice still thick with pleasure. “But next time, I expect even better.”

Then, just like that, she releases you. Steps away. Smooths out her dress like nothing happened, her composure restored, and her power reclaimed. She fixes her hair in the vanity mirror, dabs at the corner of her lips with a manicured finger, and reaches for the door handle.

"I expect you to be at my house by midnight," she says, not looking back.

And then she’s gone, leaving you breathless, ruined, and desperately waiting for whatever comes next.

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I sort of want to do future Avis fics where reader takes control from and Avis where A discovers she actually enjoys it. She's always had to control so much for appearances sake so never really had someone know her in that way and never let someone get close enough to try until reader and also getting more like exhibitionism stuff staircase scene who?

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