#destiny two

[deicide-in-the-sewers]

I honestly love how many people's young wolfs only see themselves as weapons to be used! A weapon to be fired at the enemies of humanity, unrelenting, unquestioning of the one who gives the order,,,

There's only so long they can hold on to that mindset before the blood of those killed by their hands drowns them.

The moment when they finally fail a mission, or do something egregious because of an order, and that loss, that split second, is enough to stop them dead in their tracks, kill all the momentum they had pushing them forward.

In that moment all they can do is simmer in what they've done, in that moment they are forced to come to terms with the fact that they are not a perfect weapon, that who they've been serving may not have the same goals as them. And in that moment.

They Break :).

Tldr: Something, something, the intrinsic sexyness of unwavering devotion and the inevitability of that mindset breaking them down until an explosive meltdown or a slow decay into nothingness.

[lemmegettamcpictwo]

Quick head sketch of my D2 oc, Nyx ♥️ Gunslinger hunter, suck up to Drifter, will drink glowing alien beer for 2 glimmer. planning on making more content of her -- let me know if you wanna see her fireteam!

[erismourn]

HEY EVERYONE

[alex-ravencroft]

New Fic! Hive Sex Ritual!

Back to my 18+ fic agenda hahaha! This time with a new Guardian, The Spider, and some Hive! Made it consensual because consent is hot! Enjoy 🥵

[antlereed]

mikkel-07 | temperature

Space is meant to be cold. Even with all the tumult lately, planets being eaten up by the Dark and the constant trips to the few that survive, Mikkel just feels the same. Their ship cabin is kept at a neutral temperature, mainly for the benefit of any flesh-based passengers he might acquire. Which happens more often than the Vanguard knows. Mikkel is soft, for an exo, so when they make their way back to wherever the ship was parked, the few planet-side beggars who stop them usually end up delivered wherever they wanted to go. Nuren says it’s a hunter trait, collecting odds and ends and organizing them in strange orders. Arok says it’s a titan trait, that drive to protect those who ask for it. Mikkel ignores the pair of them, declares it a guardian trait to want to help those who ask for it, and they all leave it at that. The pair of Ghosts don’t tend to bicker while they fly, both of them usually preoccupied with the different passengers on board. It leaves Mikkel at the helm, alone and wondering over what others consider a comfortable temperature. It’s why solar energy interests them, the heat from it one of the only sensations that Mikkel can properly feel.

Nuren said that their temperature gauge was damaged, when they were first found on Nessus. Arok said that it had been removed entirely, which is why they don’t get one whenever they resurrect. Europa brough no answers, so Mikkel deals with the constant neutral temperature and delights in the small spikes of sensation that their knives bring to the tips of their fingers.

The current passengers, a young Eliksni and their children, are comfortable in the cargo bay. Or, Mikkel hopes they’re comfortable. They toy with the thermostat at the controls, tweaking the temperature up and down by one degree until they find the usual temp that most other Eliksni prefer. The trip starts with no issue, Nuren calling out over comms that Zavala is expecting them at the City as soon as possible.

“Meeting with Zavala, do our guests have a location in mind? Or is it dealers choice?” Mikkel speaks it over their personal comms with their ghost, hands off the steering wheel as they coast past where Mercury apparently used to live. They stare out at the empty space, their fogged over memory of no use. They were found after the Darkness encroached, the solar system an ill-taught memory. A small arm touches them, the contact only noticed from how it pulls at their armor. Mikkel whips around, fingers burning into orange out of instinct, when they come face to face with the smaller Eliksni, a child that doesn’t know how to quite communicate outside of their mother language. They chitter and click, and Mikkel strains to translate the sound.

“Uh, you’re cold?” Mikkel knows how their Eliksni sounds, cringes at how the child obviously giggles at the sound, before they nod and look eagerly up at the hunter. They hiss when his hand goes to the temperature control, to nudge it up a few degrees, and the child tugs on their sleeve again before the request clicks.

“Oh. You aren’t cold, you just want to be hot, huh?” Mikkel grins, a subtle glow of orange under their faceplate, and the child bounces on their feet and nods eagerly, “Right, well. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I like being hot too.” Mikkel leans and whispers it conspiratorily, before their fingers glow ember-orange again and summons one of their heavier knives. It’s one of their personal knives, scavenged and reforged in Light, that springs into their palm. The child lights up, clicking and grinning and clapping as Mikkel flips it in their hand.

“Now, this is my favorite knife. I was born with this one. But, you seem smart enough to not hurt yourself with it, right?” More clicks, a determined nod, “Good. Do you know not to hurt others with it?” A confused tilt to their head, and Mikkel glances at the guidance controls before slipping from their chair to kneel in front of the Eliksni.

“It’s a hunters job to know how best to use a knife. It’s our closest connection to the Light, imbued with flame and heat. But, it’s a guardians job to know who to harm, and who to protect. You think you can manage that?” Mikkel flips the knife in their hand again, the flaming blade catching in their palm to be held handle out. The child considers for a moment, one of their hands coming to scratch at their cheek, before their eyes go steely and they look up at Mikkel instead of at the knife.

“I can manage that.” Their voice is rough, heavily accented and unsure of how the words are spoken. But the confidence radiates off of them, so Mikkel lets their smile flicker and grow under their faceplate before offering the knife to the child properly. They take it, turning it over in their hands in awe for a moment before they try to hand it back.

“Nah, I’ve got plenty of knives. You keep that one, just don’t lose a finger. Yours are a lot harder to replace than mine.” Mikkel wiggles their hand at the child, earning another laugh before they skitter off towards the cargo bay with the others. Mikkel laughs before sliding back into their chair, making sure the nav systems are still headed straight before Nuren reopens their comms.

“YOU GAVE A KNIFE TO A CHILD?!”

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

[waltricia]

These dorks. 💚

[dapper-lil-arts]

Sunset Shimmy at a crossroads

[theology101]

Yo forgive the fact that i recorded this on an iphone in an amc, but can we like… discuss for a second

Feyd-Rautha, if he had a single second to live, would’ve started making out with Paul. This man has never been turned on more in his fucking life then fighting his predestined Cousin-Soulmate over who gets to be the Father of the Kwisach Haderach

You know he was pissed as fuck that Jessica ruined the plan. Man would’ve been SO HYPE to make Super Messiah Babies with Paul(ine)

[the-crooked-library]

i think the primary reason why K/S has such overwhelming appeal is and always shall be that it is, at its core, a soulmate bond that has to be forged. the only way a t'hy'la bond can manifest is through shared toil, hardships, and undying devotion; it must be given effort and put together piece by piece - but at the same time, by the nature of its creation, it alters all realities on a cosmic level, to the point that Kirk and Spock must meet in every universe.

t'hy'la is not spontaneous. it is not a soulmate mark, it doesn't spring to life at first sight or first touch or first word. it is destined - because it is chosen, time and time again. you cannot have one without the other

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (III)

summary: your limits are pushed until something snaps

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, blood, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 2k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

Feyd-Rautha is in your dreams again. Black teeth, barking laugh. But it’s not the same. Eyes alight with something you don’t understand. Dress heavy and clinging. Nails dragging down your wet skin. Dagger in your hand pressing against his throat. Poisoned words on his lips. “You wear blood well, my darling.” His image fades as hands cup your cheeks.

The day that follows is endless. Finalizing preparations for the coming days of events. Fielding requests from the minor houses for a moment of your time. A meeting over concerns of recent tectonic activity that your absent father is supposed to attend. Two more run throughs of the dance. The swordmaster demands two more after dinner.

Irulan is entangled in conversation with Duke Leto throughout the meal. Nauseously you wonder when an engagement will be announced. It was the destiny the Atreides had stolen. Paul would be Emperor and you would be nothing but a disappointment. Your father toasts to how proud he is of the woman you’ve grown into. There’s no truth in it. You can only blink at the lemon tart that’s served for dessert as he promises he’s prepared a fun few days ahead. 

When the meal is over you do not seek Fandral. You do the opposite and duck out of his sight at the first opportunity. He knows you’re supposed to return to the Small Hall and practice again. As comforting as his presence has been, you don’t want comfort or encouragement or protection. You want to stab something. Repeatedly.

The training yard is empty. The weapons are locked away, but you have the dagger Feyd-Rautha had gifted. You’d carried it with you throughout the day. Tucked away into the deep pockets of the borrowed gowns. You aren’t sure why today you felt the need to have it and not any other. Maybe you knew you’d need it. Or maybe you made the need for it because you had it. Either way, it serves your purpose.

The mannequin takes the blade with little resistance. It was natural in your hand. No matter how much or little pressure you use, it doesn’t slip and slice your palm like others do. A well made dagger.

You flick on the mannequin’s shield to test how well it handles the added strain.

“I am glad to see you enjoying my gift.”

There’s little resistance as you sink it into the stomach of the mannequin. “I am sick of pleasantries and pandering, na-Baron. Leave me be.”

Feyd-Rautha is predictable. You knew he would follow. You know he’ll take the chance to attack.

There’s the slightest whoosh of air that warns you. You evade the blade in his hands by millimeters, dodging to the right. You push the mannequin towards him. It knocks into him, unbalancing him for a moment long enough to twist your own shield on. His black grin is wide again as he recovers and stands tall. The dagger he carries isn’t much different from his gifted one. The handle thicker and longer, a few teeth in the blade, but from what you can glimpse it’s clear they had been made by the same hands. 

He lunges, expecting your evasion and slices at where your throat goes. He’s too fast and it bounces off. You counter with a jab to his arm, slow enough that it strains his shield. He doesn’t give it the time to penetrate as his blade comes back again.

The dance continues. Both of you manage to knick the other occasionally. You feel blood seeping from a slash across your chest and more from one along your back. He has two along his arms and one on his hip. You’ve held well, but he is taller and stronger and you feel yourself begin to falter.

“Growing tired, my lady?” he teases as you barely dodge another attack. 

“As would you under the weight of this dress.”

“I have no objection to you removing it.” He’s quick even after the extended duel. He strikes, and in your attempt to get away, he catches your hand and turns your shield off. The humming of his shield silences as you're pulled and turned until your back meets his chest. His blade is against your neck with a familiar chill and fingers digging into your hip. “Though it may tempt me into distraction.”

An unfamiliar fire blooms with the confession. “Careful what you share, na-Baron. I might use that sort of information against you one day.” Something twitches against your lower back.

“Let her go.”

The hand gripping your hip, the blade at your throat, and the warmth on your back are gone in an instant. You’ve never heard The Voice before, but it’s unmistakable. It’s not even directed at you, but your mind blurs and your body is pliant, as if waiting for its own command to follow. Fandral’s face blocks your view. He’s questioning if you’re alright, if you feel faint or dizzy. You can’t answer. It’s as if you're treading through the water again. 

You’re turned and pulled again, but now you’re separated from Feyd-Rautha by your guard and Paul Atreides. The heirs point their blades at each other. Paul accuses him of taking and hurting you. As if you were some helpless damsel.

“Stop,” you say. It’s too quiet, your mouth numb. Fandral shushes you and tries to lead you away. You try again, louder, “Stop!”

Neither heir moves.

“I asked him to spar.” It’s only a half lie. Paul’s tense pose eases as he finally breaks his gaze off Feyd-Rautha. “I wasn’t taken. He didn’t hurt me.” Paul's eyes dip to your chest. “Not anymore than I did him, anyways.”

Fandral questions, “In an evening dress? Alone?”

“It is when she is most vulnerable.” Feyd-Rautha has lost his smile. “Given her security leaves much to be desired at the best of times.”

You can feel the loathing radiating from Fandral. But there is no denial.

You nod at your former opponent “Thank you for your time, na-Baron. It was very enlightening.”

“It was a pleasure, my lady. You fight like a Harkoneen.”

The fire he lit burns brightly on your cheeks.

“What was the point in asking for a personal guard?” Fandral huffs when you’ve returned to the palace. His jacket is around your shoulders to cover the slice in the back of your dress. He’d wanted you to see the doctor, worried again about poison, but you refused. “If you wanted to train, you should have asked me.”

“Or me,” Paul says on your other side. “He could have hurt you.” He doesn’t recognize the condescension of his concern.

“That was the point.” You have to stop yourself from touching the wound on your chest. “How am I supposed to know training has been effective if I’ve never faced real consequences?”

Fandral scolds, “If you stay with your guard, you’ll never be in a situation where you have to find out if it’s effective.” He shakes his head, pushing the door to the Small Hall open. It was the compromise he relented to. No doctor visit if you came here. 

“You’re late,” the swordmaster calls out from where he stands in the middle of the room with a guard you recognize as one the Atreides’. His eyes travel across your mussed form. “I hope the other person looks worse than you.” 

“He doesn’t.” 

You glare at Fandral as the swordmaster decides that is a personal offense against his training and decides that practice will be doubled for it. It’s only as you look for the woman who always carries your swords that you realize she’s not there. None of the others are. But Paul still is.

“I shall see you tomorrow?” You hope he understands it’s a dismissal.

The question amuses him. “I intended to practice with you tonight.”

“With me?”

He smiles as if you’re missing something obvious.

The dance isn’t silly anymore. Fandral had been right. It does tell a story. One of submission. 

There are no troubadours, only the sole Atrides guard who plucks at the strings of a Baliset. Your feet move in the familiar pattern, hilts of the swords bouncing against your hips.

Even without the additional instruments you recognize the melody. The blades gnash against their sheaths in protest as you pull them free. They shriek in the air, spinning easily between your fingers. Faster and faster they spin until the music nearly dies.

Once, twice you clink the blades’ together before you stab one into the plush stool. Fandral claps to the beat the drums usually play as you turn your back to it. The sword that remains drags its tip against the stone floor. Sparks follow when you twist quickly.

Paul stands there now, sword pulled free. He brings it in front of him as he drops into a defensive stance. The Baliset begins again now you fight. Thrust, retreat, parrie, circle, advance, lunge, parrie, retreat, parrie, parrie. On and on it goes until he flicks the sword out of your hand. You take the hand he offers and spin into him as the music reaches a subdued crescendo. Chest heaving, you stay there and stare into the eyes of the person who has taken everything from you until the music and the last of your dignity finally dies.

Three more times you are subjected to the humiliation. It will be once more tomorrow.

When Paul and his guard are gone, jolly at the surprise they’d sprung on you, you round on the swordmaster. He answers your unspoken question. “Your father did not want you to know until the last possible moment.”

“Perhaps you should wait until morning,” Fandral attempts to persuade you as he shadows you down the empty corridors. “Or at least remove your swords?” You don’t bother with a response. 

The guards stationed outside his door attempt to stop you, but you’re quick to dip under their arms and push into the room. You're unsurprised to find a courtesan in his bed. There’s a scandalized shout from her and curses from him as they scramble to cover themselves.

“Get out,” you tell her. 

Your father objects, but she is quick to comply. She pulls her dress from the floor and slips into it with practiced ease. She’s gone within a minute. The door closes behind her.

“You’ve gotten bold,” he growls.

“Why didn’t you want me to know?”

With a huff he says, “Because you wouldn’t have done it if you did. I told the Atridies you’d be too shy to do it if you knew and the boy thought it was enduring.”

“Why have me dance with him at all?”

He shrugs. “It was their suggestion.”

You stare at him. He’s pathetic. “You were wrong,” you tell him, bile on your tongue. “I would have done it if you asked. I would’ve done anything for you.” You leave before he sees the tears slide down your cheeks.

Feyd-Rautha doesn’t have a chance to visit you that night. Sleep never comes. Anger too potent to allow any rest.

When morning comes the maids work on making you presentable. There’s comments on the bags under your eyes and the new scar across your chest. You let them cover the former, but insist on keeping the latter. “Your father won’t like it,” one cautions. You're not inclined to care what he likes anymore. It’s something they soon realize.

They’re hesitant to style your hair in the way you instruct, but relent. Then the dress they offer, another of his choosing, is refused. You see their realization when you tell them what you’ll wear instead. Their efforts to sway you are in vain as you threaten to leave the room as bare as the day you were born.

Fandral stops in the doorway after the maids leave. “You look…”

You're still standing in front of the mirror. The dress is lilac, frilly and feminine in a way you’ve never been allowed. Your hair is braided, save for the pieces that frame your face. You look soft. Delicate. Like a painting that had been tucked away when you asked too many questions.

“Like my mother.” 

There’s only one thing missing. The rogue lies abandoned on the vanity. It’s vivid enough that a single dab of the brush colors both your cheeks.

your thoughts & reblogs are appreciated!

join my taglist 💕

[deicide-in-the-sewers]

[xdestinykey]

always been a big fan of the ✨fingertip touch✨

[astr0lumina]

destiny lore (idk i never played the game)

[alex-ravencroft]

New Fic! Love in Outer Space!

My 18+ fic featuring Rohan and Nimbus, and Osiris and Saint-14. Love love love how Osiris and Saint-14 are actually canon!!! A mix of both explicit and non-explicit scenes for you all ❤️

Peep the four husbands from Love is a Million Little Words 👀

[onehundredandeleventropicalfish]

honestly though i do think dream and destiny have one of the more underratedly funny sibling relationships

do they get along? no, not really! they care about each other, sure, and it looks on the surface like they're on good terms, because there's never any anger in it and they're both excessively formal

but then you actually look at their interactions and it's like watching two kids fight in slow motion while speaking only in a monotone

and my personal favourite - dream gets imprisoned in a black hole, in overture. desire is the only one who cares to do anything about it. but they don't have the power to pull dream out of there by themselves, only destiny has that

so what do they do instead? pull a ship out of the dreaming and drop it in destiny's garden. so that destiny summons him out of there to be like "dude get your shit off my lawn"