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e1dritchjackal0pe · 6 months

Text

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ

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

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

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

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

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

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

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

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

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

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

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

Selfish. You're just being selfish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is officially no turning back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sit," he offers. Commands really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

Feyd-Rautha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he everything you had imagined?"

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

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

"I want to meet him."

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

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

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

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

You're on your own now.

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

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

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

"You must be lost."

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

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

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

"And what do you think?"

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

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

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

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

"And you fought anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Beg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All at once it stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More," he demands in a thick rasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I still disappoint?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And without any resistance, you do.

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

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fatuismooches · 1 month

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Every time recruits were assigned to a Harbinger, they were required to give a speech to the new agents. It was simply the way the Fatui worked - everyone must be made aware and dedicate themselves to the Tsaritsa's will through working for the Harbingers. The experience varied from Harbinger to Harbinger - if one were lucky enough to be with the Captain, they'd be filled with a sense of pride and bravery, if they had the misfortune of working for the Balladeer, well... one could guess how that goes.

Dottore's orientations were also anxiety-inducing, no doubt, considering the kind of reputation he had. Most recruits prayed day and night not to be selected to work for him. It was a very popular rumor about how easy it was to end up as a test subject of Dottore's. However, what many recruits quickly realized was that... working for Dottore was not as bad as many claimed.

Sure, some segments were definitely more difficult to work with than others, but it was actually preferable to working for certain other Harbingers. Just continue to produce results, and you'll be fine. Surprisingly, there were a sizeable amount of agents who adored Dottore. They would rave about him at any given opportunity to anyone who was willing to listen, and that didn't even include their signature handbook. It was also said that if you truly impressed him, he wasn't picky about rewarding you. Unfortunately for new recruits, they were still unaware of this and were left to shiver with their hearts in their throats, awaiting their impending doom.

Even worse for those poor souls, was that a habit of the segments was that they were notoriously late to these meetings, diving deep into their research and discarding it until the last minute. You learned this through idle conversation with one such segment, Beta, who especially despised this baptism.

"So... you just stood there and gave a speech to them?" You couldn't help but find the idea very funny, considering the kind of man he was. "What are your speeches like? Are you motivational, Beta?" He scowled at your teasing and focused his frustration on his latest creation.

"I don't have the time to waste on foolish things."

"Isn't it a good thing to encourage your employees?"

"This is the Fatui. They know what's expected of them," Beta scoffed as if he hadn't turned certain agents into flying robots in the past.

"Aww, but it sounds fun! I would wanna talk to them like that," you sighed. Most of the time the agents would bow, stutter, and quickly make themselves scarce when they saw you. Certain ones would just stare at you in awe silently as if they couldn't believe their eyes, and then scribble something in their notepad. You were unsure of their motives.

"There's a reason why Prime has never attended one himself ever since he created his first segment. All of us fill up our schedules to avoid it," the segment grumbled. He was the one stuck with the duty today. You only hummed in amusement.

"So when is the next screening of new recruits?"

"Tomorrow morning. Hmm, Omega's turn this time too. He's best at these things, anyway." You smiled as you had a very good idea.

"I'm going to go!"

"Are you now? Have fun." Beta responded dryly. Now that he thought about it, if you were so eager, perhaps he should have brought you to do most of the speaking.

"I will. I'll get them to be the most motivated Fatui agents there is!"

—

For a small group of people, they were starting their mornings with possibly one of the most frightening experiences of their lives. It was only natural for them to whisper to each other, all huddled up.

"I wonder if the rumors about Lord Dottore are true. Is he going to dissect us if-"

"You know what I wonder? What segment of Lord Dottore we'll get assigned to. I heard-"

"He has segments???"

"Apparently, he cloned himself at different stages of his life, so we'll deal with numerous versions of him."

"... As soon as the time comes, I'm putting in a request to transfer out of here."

"And that will be your biggest mistake. Lord Dottore is far more generous than you lot make him out to be."

"Pardon?"

"Lord Dottore is quite frequently praised by many agents around here. You just haven't heard them yet. Furthermore, he'll always appreciate results, regardless of your actions." The Dottore defender passionately gripped his chest. The group looked unconvinced.

"Are you sure they weren't under duress or something...?"

"Well, I've met his spouse once too! And [Name] was as kind as-" The poor agent was interrupted by laughter.

"Spouse? The sun would sooner shine bright in Snezhnaya than Lord Dottore ever being married."

"Is he even capable of love?"

"It's not a lie. Many agents who work for our Lord know them! In fact, they-"

"Ahem! Attention everyone!" A voice sounded in front of the room, that was... definitely not Dottore's. There stood a person who was... definitely not Dottore either. The room went completely silent as they gazed upon your rather proud form.

"You all were expecting Dottore, but I, [Name], will start this thing off first!" The glint of your wedding ring became all too noticeable for the new recruits as your eyes scanned the crowd. "Oh, hey! You're that guy I gave directions to a while back! You really did transfer over, huh!" You gleefully waved to him as he scratched his head, in both embarrassment and honor, and the agents suddenly had a feeling that the man was not lying about Dottore's marital status.

"Anyway, I'm gonna ask you all the question I know you're all thinking about. You're absolutely terrified of Dottore, aren't you?!" You pointed at them while their throats were dry from the situation. After a few seconds, they glanced at each other before nodding awkwardly. You only chuckled as you puffed out your chest.

"Well, I'm going to erase all those fears right here, right now. As the person who knows him better than anyone, I can assure you he's a great Harbinger to work under! And to do that... I'm going to give you all a crash course on Dottore's segments! So go on, ask me anything and I shall deliver!" Your resounding confidence was met with blank stares, save for the new inductee into the fan club.

"Are they really Lord Dottore's lover?"

"Well, they have to be... no one can just walk around casually claiming to be married to him."

"I mean... if someone like Lord Dottore is able to fall in love, then he can't be too bad, right...? We should listen to them."

One by one the nervous agents asked you a variety of questions - how to deal with them, how to tell them apart, what to do if they were annoyed, a few quirks to look out for, the kind of work efficiency he valued, the kind of sweets they most favored when it came time to pacify them- the more you spoke, the more engaged the new recruits got. You were rather proud of your skills.

"And if that wasn't enough motivation for you, do it for him!" In the end, you pulled out your one and only pet, the strange blue fox creature who blinked at the crowd who was loudly clapping for some reason.

"You know, I feel a lot more confident about working here!"

"I told you all, you just didn't believe me," the one fan said, still over the moon. But even amidst the commotion, a pair of shoes neatly echoed throughout the room, causing everyone to nearly fall silent at his presence.

"Oh... that's Lord Omega, right? His mask is black." Said agent got elbowed by another for speaking, as they all bowed lowly in respect. The segment was more interested in what you were doing here.

"... [Name], what exactly is the meaning of this?" The segment studied you carefully - despite your sweet smile, he didn't exactly have the best feeling about this.

"I gave them a speech of course! You need to motivate them more, you know? For the results you love so much! I just decided to do your job for you." Your lover stared at you and then turned his attention to the group who were standing stiffly.

"Is that so?"

"Y-Yes, Lord Dottore."

"Then you are all dismissed." The group blinked before quickly shuffling out of the room, mostly in awe at how casually you spoke to the Harbinger. You really were married...

"Just trust me Omega, those guys will be some of your most hardworking agents!" Omega looked at you thoughtfully - their demeanor did seem much better than when he spoke. But he still had a lingering thought that bothered him.

"[Name], you didn't tell them anything potentially... inappropriate, did you?"

"Inappropriate? O-Oh, of course not, Omega. I merely boosted their spirits into working for you!" You smiled, ignoring how his gaze was boring into you.

"That's all?"

"Yes, that's all!"

"..."

"Well, actually, I-I may have told them about the sweets thing again- hey- don't get closer!"

#smooches talks #dottore love notes <3 #fragile reader <3 #beta is webby btw #shoutout to my moot for inspiring this whole thing #this is also inspired by how recruits in game seem to love dottore more than be scared of him and also childe's sq #i love the idea of reader being a lil menace and embarrassing dottore #he deserves it.... hits him with numerous hammer #sigh i love being self indulgent #dottore x reader #divider by cafekitsune

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blueberrycig · 2 months

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olympics!au patrick zweig ft. olympic village sauna sex lets go 18+ i'm so sorry y'all i know it stank in there :(

it’s everything you’ve dreamed of and more since you could walk. every room you enter, training area, sleeping quarter is bustling with athletes from places you’ve never heard of. you’re a first-time olympian, shooting up the ranks to represent your country, something that no one had forecasted. the past few years for you have been overwhelming, from competing for your small college to now being surrounded by the world’s greatest athletes and thrusted into a world of sponsorships and media.

despite the stories of instant camaraderie, you can’t help but find it extremely daunting. since you received the call, your parents have been warning you against the out of control parties and debauchery that take place at the olympic village.

you decide to focus on your sport and keep your distance from the boisterous gatherings that form once competitions end for the day. your chats feel limited to your country folk, only leaving room to maintain your training routine and confer with your coaches. you feel safest in the arena when everyone else empties the space.

it’s clear the more seasoned athletes are thriving, taking chances to laugh into the night.

among the whirlwind, someone keeps popping up. patrick zweig, a young and arrogant tennis player representing the usa. patrick is a familiar face. no, not because you particularly like it or you seek him out. he just seems to be everywhere you turn. with the ease of his walk and permanent smirk, he quickly becomes the embodiment of the village that your parents warned you about. he travels tall in a pack, surrounded by admirers and team-mates, obviously enjoying every second.

patrick sniffs out your olympic virginity from the first encounter, “lost, newbie?” although his tone is light, the words sting. it isn’t uncommon to prove yourself when the whistle blares, but patrick’s consistent teasing feels extra challenging, and something you’re not prepared for.

despite your attempts to avoid him, he has a talent other than tennis which is teleporting to where you exactly are. his laugh haunts you in the dining room, eyes loom over you during training camp and he seems to only enjoy the ice bath next to you out of the plethora of metal tubs. your heart rate races upon every encounter, unsure if it’s the pure anxiety that he sends coursing through your body or the show of strength that precedes him, an athlete at the prime of his sport.

your eyes glaze over patrick’s body as you watch him among the sea of shirtless olympians, beads of sweat illuminating his abdominal muscles. his arms flex and ripple as he hoists himself up on the pull-up bar, using his body strength to pull himself up and down, up and down. beads of moisture cling to his black curls, dragging locks of hair down his forehead. he laughs with a boxer to the left of him, suddenly pushing his body to beat the new-found opponent, letting out a breathy “ah” with each pull up. he grins playfully at his competitor, maybe as a means to intimidate him or present how completely unbothered he is by the situation. you notice he likes doing that.

the boxer eventually taps out, clapping patrick on the back as a show of respect and hunching over to recollect his breath. patrick does ten more for fun, locking eyes with you as you continue to jog on the treadmill. for once, you don’t break his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by some random, handsome american the night before the biggest event of your life. you watch as he trails up your bare legs and lands sight on your chest while it rocks with the motion of your feet.

no distractions. you turn up the speed on the treadmill and convince yourself that your climbing heart-race has nothing to do with the cheeky lingering gaze patrick has on you and all to do with your exercise. his stupid smile widens, bathing in the attention while he grabs a mini-towel to wipe the sweat from his face and rub it through his hair. he saunters over, slinging the towel over his shoulder, reeking of insufferable confidence.

“enjoying the view?” he prods. “or studying your competition?”

you scoff, keeping your pace, “you’re not my competition, patrick. you’re a distraction.”

patrick leans on the treadmill handle, his body radiating a fresh cologne mixed with sweat as he comes close to your face, “i don’t know, you seem pretty focused on me.”

“in your dreams.”

he laughs, his eyes twinkling that little bit extra, “hmm. yeah, you’re definitely in them.”

you glance at him, caught off guard by the overt flirtation, your parents warnings ringing in your ears. he can sense the slight embarrassment that’s taken over your expression, an innocence that he’s not encountered in a while.

the moment stretches as you lock in on each other, a thick tension hanging between you before he finally steps back and allows you some space.

“good luck tomorrow,” he says sincerely. “i’ll be watching.”

you nod, battling away the fluttering in your stomach as he returns to his workout. you curse him internally as you hop off the treadmill and to the sauna for some relaxation, frustrated at how he’s gotten under your skin in more ways than one.

the sauna you’ve chosen, the furthest away to be exact, is quiet and the perfect escape from the olympic village. you lie back with your knees up, peeling your bikini straps down to lie against your breasts. your eyes close, letting the heat wash over your muscles.

just as you begin to unwind, the door creaks open and through the squint of your eyes, in walks patrick. he’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and a provoking smirk plastered on his face.

"oh, fuck off." you mutter to yourself, half-annoyed.

he lets out a pleased laugh, sitting down next to your head, eyes gleaming with mischief, "has to be fate, huh?"

you roll your eyes, though a small part of you can't help but smile, "or just terrible luck."

patrick leans back right next to you, stretching his arms over the bench. you can’t help but stare up at his muscled arm as it looms over you. his voice is drowning in humour, "i feel like we should start over. be friends."

you raise a skeptical brow, "friends?"

he nods.

you snort, "and why would i want to be friends with someone who spends all his time annoying me?"

he grins, leaning forward so his face is above yours. his voice drops to a low, almost intimate tone. "because deep down, you enjoy it. just like i enjoy getting under your skin."

you feel the heat of the sauna creeping up your neck and settling on your cheeks. before you can think of words, patrick’s eyes send a look that invites a shiver down your body. the kiss is inevitable as he leans his body down and lowers his lips to meet yours, not asking for permission.

your body reacts as soon as he offers the first move. you pull up off the wood to meet him at his sitting height. his hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you closer, breaking through the pent-up yearning that both of you have built up. you swing your leg over his towel, and melt into him. your hands find their way to his strong chest, feeling the thud of his heart under your fingertips. he groans softly, deepening the kiss, his tongue massaging yours.

patrick pulls from the kiss first, leaning back to admire you and roam his hands all over the shape that he’s been fantasising about for days. your innocence, dedication to your sport, how sweet you look and act around the athletes to try learn from them. the way you’re always in the tiniest little designer costumes, the material sticking to your curves and abs peeking through.

he’s watched your come-up from afar, you’re the perfect story: small town girl thrust into the spotlight and already projected to win. like every person, he’s spent hours stalking your painfully alluring instagram, and now he’s got you straddling him.

he’s never wanted to fuck anyone so bad.

he runs a finger gently over the white tick embossed on your bikini top, following the shape of the swoosh and gliding over the bump of your sensitive nipple, “i saw your nike ad.”

the towel slips slightly, and you feel his hard cock, which is desperate to burrow into you, rub against your thong, “hmm, yeah? what did you think?”

“i thought it was the hottest thing i’ve ever fucking seen.”

a moan escapes your lips as he presses his dick against your core and his tongue finds yours again. your whimpers are muffled into patrick’s mouth, his grip tightening. the room feels like it’s spinning. the heat from the sauna and the blood rushing to your head sends you into a haze that makes it hard to think.

it’s you who pauses the kiss this time, taking in a long breath of air. patrick rests his forehead against yours, his breath heavy as he rolls you back and forwards on his throbbing cock. “this isn’t a good idea,” you whisper breathily, though your hands are still tangled in his dark hair and pulling him closer as you say it.

“no, it’s not.” he agrees, his voice low but not entirely present.

his fingers find your bottoms and there’s no hesitation in pulling them aside, hopelessly massaging your pulsing clit. his tongue is everywhere, licking in and around your mouth, finding it’s way to the back of your ear. he’s making sure to taste every inch of the salt on your skin.

you can hardly respond, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the strength beneath his skin, “patrick, p- mmm.”

“hmm?”

the sauna’s heat is becoming suffocating, but neither of you seem willing to stop although your bodies glisten with sweat. his lips leave a trail of fire down your neck, and you tilt your head back.

“please fuck me before someone comes.”

he doesn’t stall, hoisting you up by the waist slightly with one arm and discarding his towel to the side. his cock springs forward, strong as the person who carries it.

since you don’t have time for boys in your routine, the last time you were fucked was by your equally-innocent high school boyfriend. your mouth goes slightly dry, you’re nervous yet so so desperate for patrick zweig to ruin you.

he gently lays you back down on the wood of the sauna, lining himself up with your weeping hole. his eyes are locked onto you, sporting a familiar smile which you haven’t seen in a while and for once, it brings you a sense of comfort. you can’t help but laugh back, allowing him to meet you with a sweet kiss as he begins nudging past your wanting entrance.

there’s a pleasant burn as he takes his time to bury himself inside you. he’s patient with you, pushing in little by little till he’s balls deep. patrick hangs his head over you as you both let out a satisfied moan in unison. when he’s at the hilt and can’t get any deeper, he pulls out suddenly and slams back in against you.

the temperature in the room is so hot, and you’re burning from the inside out. he’s relentless now, sliding in and out of you as if you were going to melt between his fingers at any second.

“fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he praises. “so much better than i imagined.”

the air is thick and you’re both making filthy noises, the slaps of patrick drilling into you filling the box-room completely. he hugs you around the waist and forces you back onto his lap, holding you tight against body. he bruises fingers into your hips, rocking you back and forward.

you’re dripping so sweetly around his cock, head falling into the swell of his shoulder as he pulls your bikini top down to your waist and eagerly attacks your pebbled nipples with his hot mouth. you find a soft rhythm with him, flowing up and down, up and down, up and down. god, you feel so full, consumed by desire and burning wildly from the heat of the sauna that you’re now beginning to lose tempo.

patrick notices that you’re completely falling apart around his thick cock and decides to take the work off your plate before you pass out on him. he picks up speed, tucking an arm around your waist and pounding into you. you’re sloppily colliding as the wetness beading on your skin slips between you both, but patrick is sure to keep you steady and alert,

“you gonna win for me tomorrow?”

what the fuck, you can hardly think about tomorrow but patrick zweig has casted a fucking spell on you as you melt around his cock like molasses, “uh-huh, ah- ah- ah, y-yeah,”

“you gonna let me fuck you silly wearing your gold medal?”

the thought is enough to send you over the edge. you’re cumming, reaching your crescendo through a medley of: “yes, yes, yes. oh my god, yes.”

patrick can’t take it anymore as your sweet pussy contracts all around his dick, your eyes shutting as he drives into you. you moan into each other’s mouths as he spurts his silky, hot cum into your dripping hole, claiming you as his.

you’re so dazed and light-headed, falling forward on his chest as he groans, laying his head back against the wood of the sauna.

“c’mon let’s get the new star back before your coaches tackle me, eh?” he breathes, squeezing your waist gently. guys would patrick's ass even qualify i'm serious,,,,,

#patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig fanfiction #patrick x reader #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig #challengers smut #patrick zweig x black reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x art donaldson #challengers fic #challengers #challengers x reader

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tetsumie · 2 months

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𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

genre: comfort

content: kuroo hasn't seen you in days and makes his way to your apartment to see what's going on with you

cw: reader has a depressive episode and displays depressive symptoms

a/n: hello! i tried writing something for my pookie wookie kuroo tetsuro also lwk very self indulgent.. love u all and tysm for the endless support and as always likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! i could not be here without you all <333

"hi! this is y/n l/n! sorry i couldn’t answer your phone call. i’m a bit busy right now but leave a message and i’ll call you back the first chance i get than-" kuroo hangs up the phone for nth time today and sighs.

kuroo hasn't heard from you for the past few days and to be completely honest, it’s like you've completely vanished off the planet. your designated seat next to him in both chemistry and english lectures have remained empty for the past week and he can’t seem to get ahold of you at all.

at first, he didn’t really worry much about it. he didn’t want to pry on why you weren’t coming to school. he understood everyone needed their space. but when he intercepted your friends one day and asked them how you were doing and they too were unsure as well, he knew there was something severely wrong.

on the other hand, you’ve been home all week.

you haven’t been in the best place for the past week. you feel like your body is slowly succumbing to the stress and your body is practically giving out on you, working overtime. motivating yourself to study and to work is already difficult enough as is but doing basic things such as getting out of bed and even taking a shower feels impossible.

you feel stuck in this never ending loop of time where the same things just keep happening over and over. you wake up at the prime hour of 12 pm and realize you’ve missed all your morning classes but then immediately head back to bed. you fall asleep and then wake up at 2 pm and stare at the ceiling above you with no particular thought in mind. eventually, you find yourself scrolling through social media on your phone but then ditch it after a few minutes because a wave of social anxiety crashes into you.

it doesn’t help that you’ve also been skipping meals and you’re starting to catch a cold. man, you haven’t even gotten out of bed, let alone left your bedroom. you can’t even get yourself to do the bare minimum right now and making yourself an actual meal is a bit too out of your comfort zone.

and what makes this entire situation worse is the fact that you’ve been pushing everyone away, from your friends to family to the one and only kuroo tetsuro.

there was no justification behind why you were avoiding them. you just couldn’t allow yourself to let them see you in such a lethargic condition. it hurt your pride and in general, you hated having people worry for you. it made you feel, in a sense, hopeless.

you just wanted to shut yourself off from the world.

the week goes by in a flash and friday evening rolls around. your phone lights up again for the nth time. you see it flash white but you roll over away, not having the energy to grab it. doing anything especially talking to other people feels exhausting.

a few minutes later, someone's banging on the door. it sounded like the fbi was at your door with a search warrant as if you were harboring drugs. you don't answer the door, not feeling like leaving the comfort and safe haven of your bed.

but the banging doesn’t seem to stop and you're getting irritated so you’re forced to get out of bed and tell the person at the door to come at another time.

to your surprise, when you open the door, you find your boyfriend, kuroo, staring at you with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

“y/n, where have you been?” he begins the interrogation.

you mumble. “nowhere. been at home.”

he looks you up and down, taking in your disheveled state. your face is pale, the bags under your eyes seep deeply, giving away the countless sleepless nights you've had. your shoulders are slumped and the corners of your mouth turn down slightly, a subtle but constant frown. your hair is unkempt, reflecting the lack of energy to even try to care for yourself. an aura of exhaustion and hopelessness hangs around you, making it clear that you're struggling to find the strength to even function.

“then why haven’t you answered my calls?” he continues.

“i’ve just been preoccupied,” you lie and he catches on immediately.

no words are exchanged between the both of you for a few moments. you take his silence as your cue to end this awkward conversation and to send him on his way.

"i'm sure you have better things to do, just go-"

you're about to close the door on him until he says, "let me in."

you sigh again.

“can you come back later tetsu?” you don’t want to have him deal with you like this. he's seen more than enough of you in this condition.

his piercing gaze locks with your tired eyes and he feels his heart clench. the usual shimmer in your eyes gone and all he can see the numbness in your expression.

"no let me in," he states in a strict tone. "we have to talk."

with no choice, you open up the door entirely and kuroo takes a look at the state of your apartment. he would be lying if he wasn't caught by surprise. clothes are strewn across the couch and bowls of empty ramen are lying on the kitchen counter. your apartment is a mess.

putting his stuff down near the door, he begins to slowly pick up your clothes off the floor and tosses them into the laundry bin. seeing him make an attempt at cleaning your mess made you uncomfortable to the point your skin started to crawl.

"tetsuro, stop."

"no."

"please stop," you plead in desperation.

"y/n, i’m trying to help you!" he replies, his voice growing a little louder with irritation at your refusal.

“what if i don’t want your help?” you shoot back and his mouth closes shut. “i don’t want your help or your pity or condolences or whatever it is! just go home!”

although your mouth said one thing, your mind was trying to telepathically convey another.

please don’t leave me now. please stay.

you don’t say a word as you walk into your bedroom, closing the door behind you, hoping he'll leave on his own. the moment he hears the click of your bedroom door, kuroo begins to try to organize as much as he can in your living room. he takes out your old leftover foods and tidies up the kitchen. he starts working his way through the living room, silently sweeping the dust off the floor and reorganizing your items that were strewn on the floor.

as he’s silently working, he begins to hear sniffles and sobs coming from your room. dropping everything, he finds himself standing in front of your closed door, fist about to knock the door.

“love, can we talk?” he says out loud.

it's silence from the other end.

"y/n... please..." kuroo's voice cracks. "i just want to see you."

"door's open," your voice is muffled slightly through the door.

he opens the door and is greeted by you wrapped around in your comforter, looking away from the door. kuroo takes in the state of your room. the curtains are drawn out and there are tissues littering your night stand along with your computer lying in the corner with a pile of clothes in the corner waiting to be cleaned.

you were always so organized, what started this?

kuroo goes over to the other side of the bed and your face is huddled into your comforter. he crouches down and starts to stroke your hair with his hand.

"baby? talk to me, love. what's going on in that pretty head of yours huh?" he coos in hopes of getting you to open up.

refusing to look him in the eye, you mumble into your comforter loud enough for him to understand. "it's been getting bad again... it’s been bad all week and i'm just tired all the time."

he kisses the top of your head. "and that's okay. not everyday is supposed to be a great day. you're supposed to have good days and bad days."

you finally emerge from your cocoon and the sight he's greeted with break his heart into pieces. your face has a slight red flush tint with the remnants of your tear stains on your face. he sees how you're trying to maintain a steady face, trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

no questions asked, he brings you into his chest and the tears you worked so hard to keep at bay come apart. you start sobbing into his chest. he strokes your back in a rhythmic up and down motion, adding the occasional kiss on the top of your head. he finds himself crawling into your bed with you on his lap as you continue to sob into his chest.

once your crying subsides a bit and your throat feels a bit sore from the crying, you look up at him and he gives that genuine small smile of his that you've grown to love so much.

"i love you, you know that right?" he reassures as your eyes meet.

your eyes shift from one eye to another and you look at him as if he hung the stars just for you.

"i know and i don't know why you love me. i don't deserve you. you deserve someone who's put together and on top of it and just perfect. hell, you could do so much better than me... i don't even know why you're still with me."

his heart cracks at the heartbreaking words, escaping your mouth. he feels so stupid. have you been feeling like this for all this time and haven't said a word to him? he should've done something.

"when we started dating, from that very moment, i knew i wanted all of you. i want everything. i want your bad days and your good days and your lazy days and your rotting in bed days. i want your good and bad. i want your highs and lows. y/n, i just want you." he kisses your cheek.

he continues to reassure you, "i want all of it. and i want to be there for you the entire time. i don't want you to have to hide yourself from me. i never wanted you to be perfect. i wanted you to be just you. that's who i fell in love with."

"i love you with all your 'imperfections' you know that right?" he does the air quotes around the word "imperfections."

"yeah but it's so hard for me to accept-," you start but he brings his pointer finger to your lips, telling you to stop your train of overthinking.

you both are enveloped in a comfortable silence with kuroo's reassuring words hanging in the air.

"i love you so much, you have no idea," you finally say, cuddled into his chest.

"oh yeah? i couldn't tell," he begins to tease. "tell me more actually."

you let out a chuckle, playfully slapping his arm, and that warm, sweet smile of his forms again on hisi lips.

"there's my gorgeous girl. oh how i've missed you."

"missed you too, tetsu."

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yourmomsawh0r3 · 2 months

Text

desire

anthony bridgerton x female reader

The grand ballroom of Wellington House was ablaze with light and filled with the buzz of excitement. Tonight was a significant evening for the Wellington family, marking the debut of their youngest and only daughter, Y/N. The air was thick with anticipation, and Y/N, standing near her mother Iris and the other mamas, felt a mix of nerves and excitement. Her three older brothers, Sebastian, Edward, and George, hovered protectively nearby, their eyes constantly scanning the room for any potential threats to their sister's virtue.

Y/N looked stunning in her debutante gown, the fabric shimmering under the chandeliers as she conversed with the other ladies. She caught snippets of their conversations, comments about how much she had grown and how she was a prime candidate for the Diamond of the Season. She smiled politely, her eyes occasionally darting to her brothers, who stood a short distance away, their expressions a mix of pride and concern.

“Y/N, darling,” her mother Iris said, her voice filled with affection. “You must meet Lady Violet Bridgerton and her sons. They are esteemed members of the ton.”

As if on cue, Violet Bridgerton approached with her eldest son, Anthony, in tow. Y/N curtsied gracefully, and Violet’s eyes twinkled with warmth as she introduced Anthony.

“Anthony, this is Miss Y/N Wellington. She is making her debut this evening.”

Anthony bowed, his dark eyes studying Y/N with interest. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Wellington.”

Y/N felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Bridgerton.”

The two families chatted for a few moments, but Y/N could feel the weight of Anthony’s gaze on her. It was intense, almost disconcerting. She had heard whispers of his reputation handsome, commanding, and unyielding. The thought both intrigued and unsettled her.

As the night progressed, Y/N found herself partnered with Anthony for a dance. His hand on her waist was firm, his movements confident as he led her around the floor. She could feel the eyes of her brothers on them, especially Sebastian, whose protective streak was well-known.

“You have quite the entourage,” Anthony remarked, glancing over at her brothers with a slight smirk.

“They are just looking out for me,” Y/N replied, trying to keep her tone light despite the butterflies in her stomach.

“And do you need looking after?” Anthony’s voice was low, almost a challenge.

Y/N met his gaze, her chin lifting slightly. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m sure you can. But sometimes, it doesn’t hurt to have someone in your corner.”

Their conversation was cut short as the dance ended, and Anthony escorted her back to her family. The evening continued with more dances and polite conversation, but Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling of Anthony’s eyes following her every move.

Days turned into weeks, and the Season was in full swing. Y/N received numerous invitations, but it was Anthony who seemed to be a constant presence. Their interactions were a blend of polite conversation and underlying tension, each encounter leaving Y/N both frustrated and exhilarated.

At one particularly grand ball, the announcement was made that Y/N Wellington was named the Diamond of the Season. The room erupted in applause, and Y/N felt a surge of pride mixed with anxiety. She caught Anthony's eye across the room, and he gave her a nod of approval, though his expression was inscrutable.

With her newfound title, Y/N’s dance card filled up rapidly. Each night was a whirlwind of suitors and admirers, all vying for a moment of her time. She found it exhausting, her heart yearning for the one dance partner she truly desired Anthony.

Her brothers, ever watchful and protective, were not pleased with her growing closeness to Anthony. They began introducing her to other, more “suitable” prospects wealthy, titled gentlemen who were eager to court the Diamond of the Season. Each introduction felt like a test, a measure of her resolve and her feelings for Anthony.

One afternoon, Y/N found herself promenading with Lord Kensington, a charming but uninspiring young man her brothers had deemed appropriate. As they strolled through Hyde Park, Y/N's thoughts were elsewhere, longing for Anthony’s company instead. Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her and turned to see Anthony casually walking nearby, his eyes locked on her.

“Miss Wellington,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk. “Lord Kensington.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” Lord Kensington acknowledged with a slight bow, clearly perturbed by the interruption.

Anthony’s eyes never left Y/N’s. “May I have a word, Miss Wellington?”

Before she could respond, Anthony gently took her hand and led her a few paces away. “What are you doing?” she whispered, her heart racing.

“I can’t stand seeing you with these men,” he confessed, his voice low and fervent. “They’re not worthy of you.”

“And you are?” she challenged, though her tone lacked conviction.

Anthony’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I know I am not perfect, but I care for you deeply, Y/N. I cannot keep my hands off you. Every time we pass each other, I ache to touch you, to be near you.”

His words sent a thrill through her, and she couldn’t resist leaning closer. “Anthony…”

In a bold move, he leaned in and stole a quick, fervent kiss, hidden from view by the surrounding foliage. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “And I will not let anyone else take you from me.”

Their secret moments continued, each encounter more passionate than the last. Anthony found ways to weasel his way into her promenades and social events, stealing kisses and whispering sweet nothings whenever they were alone. It became their little secret, a dance of desire and longing that only they knew.

The tension built until the end-of-Season ball, where Y/N knew everything would come to a head. Anthony had been distant the past few days, and she feared he had given up. But as the night wore on, she spotted him across the ballroom, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

As the final dance began, Anthony made his way to her, his gaze never wavering. He took her hand and led her to the center of the floor, pulling her close. “This is it,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart pounding. “Anthony, what are you doing?”

“I’m choosing you,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “In front of everyone, I am choosing you.”

As the music swelled, Anthony stopped dancing and raised his voice so that all could hear. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement.”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to them. Y/N’s heart raced as she realized what was happening.

“I love Y/N Wellington,” Anthony declared, his voice ringing with conviction. “I burn for her, and I shall love her for all the days she shall live. In any lifetime, I would choose her.”

Gasps and whispers filled the room, but Y/N only had eyes for Anthony. Tears welled up as she felt the depth of his love and commitment.

Her brothers approached, their expressions a mix of shock and grudging respect. Sebastian, the eldest, spoke first. “If you hurt her, Bridgerton, you will answer to us.”

Anthony nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Their wedding was a grand affair, filled with joy and celebration. As they stood together, hand in hand, Y/N felt a sense of completeness she had never known. Anthony’s love was fierce and unwavering, and she knew that together, they could face anything.

In the years that followed, their love only grew stronger, their bond unbreakable. They built a life filled with laughter, passion, and unwavering support, proving that even the most unlikely beginnings can lead to the most beautiful of endings.

#anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton angst #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x wife reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction

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ldysmfrst · 4 months

Text

American Mate (7) - Is This a Joke

Paring: Hybrid!BTS Ot7 x Plus-sized Human FemReader

Status: Ongoing series

Chapter number: 7 of unknown

Word count for Chapter: 7391

Work count for Story: 31,321

Genre: Hybrid Playmate Au inspired by works created by @yoongiofmine

A little about the author: I am a mother of two beautiful children. One of which is special needs, and on 3/28, they lost 75% of their vision. I started a Patreon if you feel the heart to donate towards helping with the medical costs of appointments, medication, and modifications to the house, which insurance doesn't cover.

Warnings: (I am not good at this, but I will try. Let me know if I missed anything!!) NOT BETA READ!! This story will have a bit of angst, fluff, smut, f/m, m/m, and m/f/m. This chapter does have Anxiety, arguments, comfort, Alpha Space, close proximity, and scenting.

BTS HYBRID ANIMAL TYPES: Seokjin - Roan Ferret, Yoongi - Black Jaguar, Hoseok - Marten, Namjoon - Alaskan Timber Wolf, Jimin - Red Panda, Taehyung - White Southwest African Tiger, Jungkook - Flemish Giant Rabbit

AMERICAN MATE MASTER LIST / LDYSMFRST MASTER LIST

Silence.

Total silence.

No one was breathing. Hell, your heart even stopped. Did he seriously just tell you to become a playmate? How can he think that is even a possibility? It is not like one can just become a playmate.

Unknown to you, the pack's eyes shoot to Namjoon, just as shocked as you because he never shared this proposition with them before making it. That is not an option that they thought of. The scents in the room turned this way and that with confusion, shock, and concern.

Why would he suggest that they limit their actions to only what a playmate can do? You are their mate. You are not a toy to play with. How does this promise anything besides you having to stay near them and service them as a companion?

The whole idea of a playmate was to take care of them, be their friend, help them relieve stress, or become a rut fuck buddy. Playmates were never meant to be a long-term commitment. While they wouldn't mind you doing any of that as their mate, the title of Playmate would make you think of everyone as only a job, right?

Giggling rings in the room, and the sound causes everyone to snap their eyes at you as their thoughts come to a halt. Under normal circumstances, such an angelic sound would have them cooing. This time, it has their ears standing straight, their hackles raised, and their Alphas pacing in their minds.

Your giggling bubbled to outright laughter as you looked at Namjoon with a slightly crazed look on your face causing his smile to change into confusion as his confidence in his choice melted away.

"You're joking, right? Hahahaha. Pft... haha… playmate… me!" You looked around the room to see you were the only one laughing, which only caused you to laugh even more. Your scent was spiking in so many ways that the boys were getting dizzy from it.

"You have GOT to be kidding me. This is … am I a joke to you?" You stand abruptly and stomp closer to Namjoon and Seokjin, making the boys startle with your movement

“Do I look like a Playmate?” you ask while gesturing to your whole body and spinning around to accentuate your point.

"I have been doing nothing but abiding by Yoongi’s and the pack’s wishes since I got hurt,” with a deep breath, you close your eyes and stand as tall as your scent shuts off like it was never there to begin with.

“And now you are toying with me." Shaking your head, you mumble, “Just like everyone else.”

"Miss Y/n," Namjoon starts trying to explain himself, but all you can think of is excuses and lies which you have heard before that he might come up with if you let him keep going.

"No," snapping your eyes open and pinning them on the Prime Alpha.

"No excuses,” you step back.

“No lies,” another step.

“No more playing fun and games.” You turn to Jungkook with wide, panicked eyes, and you demand, “I need the address of this Airbnb so that I can call Derek or Evie to come and get me.”

“I want nothing to do with this sick joke,” voice cracking at your declaration. You must get out of here before you start crying, which is your next step.

You really want to cry out of frustration because you thought they would be different. You may not consider yourself Army, but Lily was, and with how highly he talked about the kindness of BTS, you thought they would be different.

Then again, it's you, the plus-sized four-eyed nobody. Why would the hottest band in the world treat you as anything other than entertainment to just pass the time.

You see Jungkook, one of two who actually helped you calm down before, ignoring you and nervously picking at the rip in his jeans. Then you finally notice that everyone is actively avoiding looking at you and realize that no one is coming to your aid. You stand tall and steel yourself to find someone who will, like their manager.

“I am going home.” Heading towards the hall, you are stopped by your black tail leash and a hand on your good wrist. Taking a forceful breath, "Mr. Min."

You turn to face him, only to be met with powerful golden-yellow eyes that stop you in your tracks. You have seen them before, but they have never been this close. The molten gold bleeding into a darker brass surrounding the oblong jet-black pupil.

He steps forward to where you stand, making you practically nose-to-nose with the Alpha jaguar. His eyes searching yours.

His scent crashes over the room like a storming ocean wave. Yoongi may not be the Prime Alpha, but he is strong enough to be one if he wants to be. It is this strength and dominance that cause the members of the pack to hold on to each other, waiting for his next move.

He slowly reaches up and wipes away a tear you didn’t notice was falling. Bringing the tear to his lips, his tongue darts to taste it, and his face scrunches with deep concern.

"Y/n scent gone. Tastes hurt. Pain," he says as his hand returns to your face, cupping your cheek. The warmth only makes it that much harder for you to keep your tears at bay.

Yoongi moves to leave the living room with you in tow. He takes hold of your good hand and says, "Come. Keep Safe. Promise. "

You don’t answer, glancing down at the hybrids within your view. After a few more seconds, he looks past you with narrowed eyes at his Prime Alpha.

“Leave alone." Making the decision for you, Yoongi, gently but without room for struggle, walks you out of the living room.

Stopping in the hall, he looks at the door in front of him and then at the staircase down the hall. He turns to you. "Room?" He points to the closed door and then to the stairs. "Den?"

"Umm.." you look at the door, the stairs, and then back at the entryway to the living room. Looking at Yoongi, all you can think of is to get away from them all so you know your answer. "Den."

One moment is desperation. Next is shock, betrayal, anger, hurt, and now you shut your scent off. So many emotions in so little time, ending with you being pulled away by the protective jaguar from his packmates.

The next thing Namjoon knows, a pillow hits the side of his head from an unknown packmate. Turning to look for who it was, he gets hit by another. This one, however, ends up landing on Seokjin as well, causing the shock that had settled over the room to break.

"What the hell was that?!?!" Seokjin demands after hearing you go upstairs with Yoongi. Standing up, he walks over to the other side of the room.

"Prime Alpha, with all due respect… have you lost your mind?" questions Taehyung, leaning back on the couch with arms crossed as he does his best to hold his Alpha back from taking over and storming up the stairs after you.

"Guys, think about it! She can pay for her flat and keep her independence. Come on… just think, it would require her not to leave our side for the length of the contract," Namjoon defends himself.

"Yeah, the contract! That is all she will think it is—a contract. A job. We will only be a source of income for her, Hyung," Jungkook complains, his legs jumping with nerves. Throwing the pillows did his anger no good.

"Namjoon, you know the rules and regulations that fall on Playmates. You know that she won't qualify, and I am not just talking about the ridiculous physical standards that they have in place. She is supposed to take care of us and be there for us. There is cooking, cleaning, and stuff. How can she do that with a broken wrist, huh?" Hoseok chimes in. “How can you ask that of her?”

Standing from the chair, Namjoon circles around it. Gathering his thoughts, he rests his hands on the back of it, almost like it's a wall between him and his mates. "She will be able to care for us. Listen. Rules of a Playmate are pretty much what you said, Hobah.”

“Don’t you Hobah me right now, Namjoon! You are on thin ice. If you cost us our mate, you will not find yourself having a good time—at least not from me any time soon.”

“Sorry, Hoseok-hyung,” Namjoon says, his scent filling with a slight smokiness as he starts to understand just how much he may have messed up.

“But really, think about it. The contract requires her to be with us at the packhouse or when we go somewhere, correct?"

Seeing his packmates nod, he continues, "This, technically, does not mean she has to do anything other than physically be there. No typing, cleaning, cooking, or labor of any kind. She isn’t required to do it unless we ask for it."

"She will take care of us by letting us care for her. All of our Alphas will be happy to do so while she is healing. We all know that Yoongi-hyung will not be able to perform or do anything well if he is concerned that Y/n is not healing well.”

“She already is instinctually being a mate, by allowing our Alphas to act on their instincts. Having her as a playmate will also be the best way for her to care for herself without financial stress. She is independent, and this way, she can keep that while learning to depend on us as mates."

"During that time, we will care for her and follow our instincts. We must show how well we can provide for her by tending to her needs, protecting her, and loving her as only her mates can."

"You want us to court her while she is our Playmate?" Jimin asks, watching the Prime Alpha nod. He looks around at the others, who now have contemplating looks on their faces. “I don’t get how this will work.”

"Namjoon, I can see what you mean and this may work, but what if she doesn't let us?” Hoseok questions.

“I want to cuddle with her, feed her, and feel her, but she wouldn't even take a bottle of water. She tried to run to a solo seat in the van to keep her distance from us. What makes you think that she would feel comfortable accepting our courting gestures?" Hoseok continues challenging the Prime Alpha. "What happens when we interact with each other? How will she be comfortable joining in or being around that?"

"Do what you did with me," Jungkook says shyly. "Show her that we are in it for more than just her being our playmate. That the companionship declared by the contract is required is not what we are wanting because we are wanting something so much deeper and stronger.”

Looking around the room with his big doe eyes, he continues, “She doesn't seem to mind cuddling with me. Next time we cuddle, maybe someone else can join. Or Anyone can try to just cuddle with her, and then if we are cuddling with each other, we can invite her to join in."

"Jungkook is right. Baby steps are our best bet," Namjoon smiles knowing he has the youngest on his side now. “She may not even know what hybrid courting looks like.”

“Y/n has seen plenty of playmate and client interactions. Two of our mates already connect with her on an instinctual level. Since none of us use playmates for our ruts, that won’t be required for her as our playmate.”

“She doesn’t know that though, Hyung,” Jimin whines, “How do we let her know that part but also that she isn’t going to be a regular playmate for us, like the one who left us?”

Silence fills the room as everyone is deep in thought.

Hoseok jumps up, “What if we showed her the other contracts we had had? Show her that we are exclusive to packmates for our ruts. This way, she doesn’t think we just want her for sex but for friendship to start with?”

Smiling at his words, Namjoon adds, “Good. Now, we just need the rest of us to follow Yoongi-hyung and Jungkook. We need to find ways to deepen our connection with her. Show her how we interact as mates, then our desire for her and what we are meant to be for her.”

"Wh… What happens when the contract ends?" Taehyung worries.

After a beat of silence, Soekjin speaks up while looking down the hall, "When the contract ends, we hope she understands that she is our mate and we did our job to prove we are the mates she deserves."

“But first, we need her to understand that she is worthy of being a mate, to begin with,” Hoseok adds.

‘Become our playmate... become our playmate… Our Playmate.’ The words are replaying in your mind. His look of confidence is seared into your brain. Pressing your palms to your eyes as hard as possible, you try to think of what is going on in his head to propose that idea.

The door opens, and you drop your hands to see Yoongi standing a little to the side. “Den not…um… no time but ready,” he says, looking around the room and then back at you.

“I understand you haven't settled in yet. Alpha, may I come in?”

At his nod, you went into the room. It looks similar to the guest room, but it is a bit larger. There is a bed on each side of the room, with a lovely natural wood shelving unit splitting the room in half. There are plenty of windows to brighten the space on both sides.

On one side, luggage lies unopened on the bed. On the other side, luggage is opened on the ground, and some clothes are tossed around. Looking over your shoulder at the Alpha, you hug yourself and wait for him to tell you where to go.

Yoongi notices your hesitance and starts gently pushing at your upper back. He then guides you past the bed to the attached bathroom you didn’t notice.

Inside, the marble on the counters and walls is beautiful black, white, and gold. There is a double sink, a shower that looks like it has enough shower heads for an entire house and a large jacuzzi tub.

You get lost in wonder at the richness of the bathroom alone, and it also allows Yoongi to hug you from behind, catching you off guard.

“Y/n, sorry. Pack, sorry,” he says softly as he rests his head on your shoulder. “Take bath. Relax. Then talk. Towel and clothes on toilet. Outside. I will guard.”

With that, he leaves and shuts the bathroom door.

Well, that apparently was not a suggestion, but a bath does sound nice, and it would be the easiest way of keeping your brace dry. Moving to the tub, you turn on the faucet and take notice of the different bath salts, scrubs, and bombs.

After picking a violet and vanilla bath bomb, you slowly undress. Yeah, buttons are not your friend anymore. Slipping into the bath, you think about your day. So much has happened in the last 24 or so hours.

1 - BTS shows up two weeks early when the big shots are still gone.

2 - They hate all the playmates we offered for whatever reason.

3 - You (and they) sent mixed signals from the moment of arrival.

4 - Yoongi and you got into an accident.

5 - You broke your wrist, which will take forever to heal.

6 - They want you to be a playmate.

Now, you are kicking yourself for not attending some of the seminars on the second gender of hybrids. You essentially learned what you do because you grew up with Evie and her pack.

Your mom had moved you and your brother to California when you were still in elementary. Your brother, however, was in high school already and had a tendency to travel whenever he could. You might as well have been an only child.

When you were unloading (getting in the way of) the moving truck, the neighbors noticed your attempts to help and decided to have you come over to their house. Once the beta Tabby hybrid noticed you ‘helping,’ he introduced you to Evie, and that was it. The two of you were hardly ever separated to the point Evie’s family included you in some of their pack trips.

The only thing was that Evie’s pack didn’t have an Alpha, so you never got a chance to learn anything about them. With how strong Evie’s dad, Earl, was, the pack never sought out an Alpha. You didn’t have much exposure in Colorado, and as far as you knew, Alphas were not very common to run into. Plus, you were human, so why would it be something to worry about to begin with?

Well, apparently, you should have learned something when you took the job at PMS because now you were surrounded by Alphas with little… actually, let’s be honest, no knowledge aside from what you have learned since they walked through the office doors.

“Manager-nim, we need your help. Miss Y/n’s wrist is broken, and she cannot use it for upwards of eight weeks.”

Taking a sharp breath, Manager Sejin starts formulating options: “How did she take it?”

“Well, she took that rather well. She is rightfully concerned about how to function in her day-to-day life without her dominant hand. Also concerned with her… umm… her employment,” Namjoon beats around the bush, not wanting to get yelled at by his manager for his proposal like he was from his pack.

Silence is what comes from the other side of the call. “Manager-nim?”

Placing the container, he is holding down and braces himself against the counter. Manager Sejin has been with the pack since the beginning, and he knows when Namjoon isn’t saying what really needs to be said. “What did you do, now?”

“I offered her to stay at the packhouse as I should, being the Prime Alpha. Told her we would care for her til she healed and that she would not have to worry about paying for anything while she was here. She did bring up concerns about her flat and other bills,” he paused, taking a breath, “ so … itoldhertobecomeourplaymate.”

The next thing Namjoon hears is animalistic chattering intermixed with very human cursing. Yeah, that’s not a good sign. The manager is skilled at keeping his hybrid hamster behaviors at bay unless there are very strong emotions involved.

“Manager-nim, you see, it would keep her with us so that we can fulfill our responsibilities as Alphas. It would allow for her to still work, keep her flat, and not compromise her finances. Plus it will allow her to get to know us while convincing her that she is our mate.”

A deep sigh is heard, “And how did she take that?”

“Umm.. not well, actually,”

“I can tell I am going to get a migraine from this,” Manager Sejin rubs his temple. "Continue.”

“She laughed, but not in a ‘that is funny’ kind of way but more of a ‘that’s crazy’ kind of way. She flat-out refused and wouldn’t let me explain before she basically said we were playing a mean joke on her.”

“Let me guess– none of the pack tried to help convince her of this GRREEAAT option of yours?”

“They didn’t know. Actually, I just kind of blurted it out,” Namjoon sighed. “I was panicking.”

“It serves you right to have her refuse you. Hell, I would have, too, if I were her. Namjoon-ssi, you should know better! For someone so intelligent, sometimes you are…” sigh. “Never mind. Where is she now? Do I need to get a van ready? Do I need to get the lawyers ready?”

“No, no van or lawyers. Well, she did threaten to call her friends, but that was before she left with Yoongi-hyung.”

“SHE LEFT WITH YOONGI!!” Sejin jumps up from leaning on the counter and dashes towards the front door.

“NO! No, no, no… he went back into Alpha Space. He told me to leave her alone and took her up to his den.” After a brief pause, he said, “It sounds like she is taking a bath. Hopefully, she is calming down. Jin-hyung is going to go and talk with them.”

Putting his keys back down, Sejin sighs in relief. “If anyone can get you out of this mess, it’s going to be him. Namjoon-ssi, I think you are an amazing Prime Alpha, but you always get weird when you get a new mate. I thought by now you would be better at it.”

“Namjoon-ssi, I am going to look into how to modify their contract with our lawyers. IF, and this is a big if, she agrees, then you may have something. Is that okay?”

“Please, Manager-nim. Maybe if she sees what we mean written down, it will help as well. Oh, and the pack wants her to see our previous agreements with other playmates.”

Namjoon takes a deep breath as he ends the call. He nods to his mates to confirm that their manager is working to help make this happen, allowing the pack to relax.

The turning on of a shower indicates that you are most likely just rinsing off from your bath and should be out soon. The pack turns to Seokjin as he narrows his eyes at Namjoon.

“You need to find a way to apologize. You need to apologize to all of your mates for springing this on us and be ready to work your ass off trying to prove yourself to her as a mate.” Standing up, Seokjin takes one last look at the hopeful faces of his loved ones, “Let me try and fix this.”

Looking at the clothes that were left for you to change into, you debate on even trying. You are not sure if they would fit but you remember seeing the random lives Lily has shown you and note that Yoongi tends to wear baggy clothes.

You also know that whenever you are around Derek, and he is in one of his moods, he always feels better when you and Evie wear clothes he keeps in his apartment for the two of you that he has scented or has worn himself.

The struggle to put on your undergarments with damp skin ends in frustration. You give up, and they join the bundle of your clothes on the floor next to the sink. So, you go ahead and wear the provided sweatpants and hoodie, which luckily fit sans underwear.

The smell of petrichor surrounds you, making you smile. Your family and friends always thought you were strange for loving the smell of fresh rain and wet earth.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you are happy at how soft and comfy the clothes are. The pants were tight on you but not comfortably, and the hoodie was long enough to cover your backside, so no one would be able to tell you weren’t wearing anything under them.

Wait… what does the big V stand for on the hoodie? You were curious enough to look at the tag, which proudly states that you are now wearing a Valentino Hoodie, of all things.

Fuck! Why can’t he have a normal person’s hoodie for you to wear?

This is totally not like the Walmart sweater you lounge in at home. You don’t even want to try to figure out where the pants are from. For all you knew, you could pay rent with the money you were wearing.

Walking out of the bathroom, you have tried to twist a towel around your long hair and toss it on top of your head to reveal that Yoongi is no longer alone in the den.

“Welcome to our den, Y/n. Sorry, it was not ready for guests, but well, you know. We all got here at the same time,” Seokjin says with a shy smile while Yoongi’s eyes roam your form covered in his clothes.

“Oh, I understand, Mr. Kim. I am sorry for coming into your den without your permission. I didn’t realize it was a shared den until after I was inside,” you bow slightly in apology, sending your hair towel spiraling to the floor.

Grabbing the towel and standing up, you look around, not sure what you should do since Yoongi and Seokjin have taken the bed, and there is no other seating on this side of the room. Looking back at the two Alphas, you smile shyly.

“Come here, dear. Let Yoongi-ah dry your hair while we talk.” Seokjin pats the bed between the two of them, and Yoongi holds up a hair brush.

“Yes, we do need to talk,” taking a deep, calming breath of petrichor, you move to sit cross-legged on the bed with your back to Yoongi. His hands go to your waist to help you scoot into the right spot.

“Comfy?”

“Yes, Alpha. Thank you for your help, and don’t worry about brushing too hard. I am used to having a multitude of knots that won’t come out.”

You don’t get to see Yoongi's look of confusion, but you do see Seokjin’s concern. “My hair likes to curl when wet, and so it knots up really fast. I washed my hair this morning, so it's just wet from lying in the bath. There are no products in it.”

Seokjin chuckles, “Y/n, you are more than welcome to use anything we have while you are here. Yoon offered you a bath, which means you can use anything he has to offer.”

“I used the violet and vanilla bath bomb. Yoongi said to relax, and the smell of vanilla always helps me do that.”

A bright smile graces both of the Alpha’s faces at your confession. The mate scent is a comfort for you and that makes them feel more at ease.

“Dry and brush now. Relax more. Time to talk,” Yoongi says as he starts to gently dry your locks with the towel you brought out with you.

“Are you okay if we talk, Y/n? I know today has been a lot for you. I will respect your request to leave you alone if you really want,” Seokjin calmly states, but the pained worry in his expression has you nodding your head for him to continue.

“I will not excuse what Namjoon did. He didn’t talk with the rest of us before he proposed what he did, so we were shocked, as you were.”

“He didn’t? Is that why Yoongi said the pack was sorry?”

“I am sure Yoongi heard us confront Namjoon once we knew you were upstairs. So yes, the pack is sorry that the idea of you becoming our playmate came out so… abruptly.”

Narrowing your eyes at his choice of words, you state, “But you are not sorry that he went for that option in the first place.”

Taking your good hand, Seokjin pushes out his cherry scent along with the vanilla to help keep you calm as he continues to try to salvage the offer.

“Y/n, I am going to be straight with you. Our Prime Alpha will have a lot of begging to do to be back in the good graces of the rest of the pack for how he handled this, but what he offers… makes sense.”

When you hear this, a scowl grows on your face, but as the scent of cherries, rain, and vanilla fills your lungs, you pause. “How? Why? I mean, like… really, how?”

Pulling your hand closer, Seokjin focuses on rubbing his thumb on your forearm, his wrist brushing on yours. His eyes focused on the movement while trying to think of the best way to explain the situation.

Yoongi takes this moment to rest one leg on each side of yours and scoots closer, “I brush your hair.”

“What do you know of the Playmate contracts?” inquiries Seokjin.

“Oh. Ah… Well, I know there are two kinds: Companion or a friend contract and Partner or rut and heat-based sex contract. Both can be done individually, as a group or as a sub-group. Doctors, lawyers, and managers are also involved. Honestly, that is all Derek’s department. I just schedule meetings and set up health screenings, and such. From my experiences, most of the American Hybrid Idols only take partner contracts.”

“You are not wrong about the types, but it seems you don’t understand their limits or allowances. Also, what one idol does will not imply what others will do.”

“I get that, but Derek said that due to hybrid health, most, if not all, companion contracts will have to include some form of partner option for heats and ruts.”

A soft huff is heard from behind you. You start to turn to look at Yoongi, only to have one of his hands slide around your shoulder and up your neck to your jaw. Your breath hitches at the movement, and you will yourself not to melt into a puddle.

“Keep looking at Jin-hyung, Y/n. Your hair is almost done.” Yoongi orders before moving his hand away and goes back to brushing the last bit of your hair.

Blinking your eyes open you see a smirk on Seokjin’s face as his white little fluffy ears twitch around in amusement. “Sorry, Alpha.”

Looking past you, Seokjin says, “Welcome back, Yoongi-ah. Is your Alpha settled now?”

“Yes, Hyung. She smells like me, and that calmed him down quickly, though her own sweet pea scent has not come out yet.”

Looking at your injured wrist, it dawns on you that you must have turned off your scent again. “Sorry– again. I seem to do that without knowing sometimes, but it will come back eventually.”

“No worries, dear. Anyways, back to the contacts. Our Prime Alpha is having our previous playmate contracts brought over for you to review.”

This comment has your eyes snapping to Seokjin quickly, as those are normally kept quiet, “We want you to see that we have never taken a playmate for more than a companion. All ruts are handled within the packmates because we are a mate-bonded pack.”

“Oh, so when he suggested I be your playmate, it wasn’t a sex-driven thing…” you nod in contemplation, “but that still doesn’t explain why. I mean, it explains that you aren’t taking advantage of me, but still…”

Pulling you against his chest, Yoongi hugs you close. Leaning to where you can see his face, he smiles, “We would never take advantage of you and do not think that because our past playmates were not a sex-driven thing we do not find you appealing.”

You blush at the implications of his words. Unable to hold his gaze, you try to clear your head and look to the older Alpha, “How can I be your playmate?”

“Simple. Care for us.”

“Like it is that simple. I have a broken wrist.”

“Caring for us, for a pack of Alphas, is different from how you have to care for your family pack.” Seokjin explains, “You were injured in an accident involving this pack. We all know that you are going to need assistance not only in caring for yourself but also for your things.”

“As a respectful and responsible pack of Alpha’s, we are following our instinct and culture, to provide for you during this time. As Prime Alpha said, while you are with us, you will pay for nothing. If you are contracted as a playmate during that time, it will also allow you to pay for your personal debts.”

“Y/n,” Yoongi calls for your attention as he hooks your legs over his and turns you to see him better. “We… actually no. I will speak for myself. I will not be able to function well knowing that you are on your own trying to make things work.”

With his eyes flashing to his Alpha briefly, “My Alpha and I are not going to be able to go about our schedule without worrying about you all the time. At this point, I would prefer you to stay as close as you can to me or a packmate. I can understand that it can be a bit much.”

“Having you by our side,“ Seokjin chimes in, “granting our Alphas to express the instinct to care for you will be your way of fulfilling the contract.”

Looking between them both, your head swims, “What about the domestic stuff? I hear about playmates talking about laundry, making sure their idols eat, and stuff like that.”

A clearing of someone’s throat quickly draws your attention to the den door. A few other packmates are shyly standing just outside the threshold.

One of them, Jungkook, says, “You won’t have to do any of that. Y/N, we just really want to take care of you. We want to treat you right. We want to support you.”

“Come in, my loves,” Seokjin calls. At his permission, Jungkook bounds forward and kneels on the floor at your feet, resting his head on your knees again. Taehyung joins him on the floor and leans against Seokjin. Hoseok and Jimin also sit on the floor.

Looking toward the door, you wait for the Prime Alpha to come in, too, but no one else does. Confusion and almost a hurt look come to your face for a moment before you look at the boys present.

The next to speak up is Hoseok, “Namjoon is waiting for Manager Sejin downstairs. He didn’t think you would want to see him right now. He knows he went about this the wrong way, but let him come to you, and don’t go easy on him. His Primeness can be on his knees and grovel a little, it won’t hurt him.”

This causes you to blush and giggle, causing the whole room to smile. The scents of cherries, rain, snickerdoodles, ebony, oranges, and lilac fill the room like potpourri with a warm vanilla underneath. Slowly, you start to relax a little more as the scent of your (unknown to you) mates rolls over you.

You lean into Yoongi, “Thank you all for coming up here. Seokjin explained to me what Prime Alpha did was a surprise for all of us,” you look around at the boys on the floor as they nod.

“It is just so much right now for me. I am overwhelmed. I know now that it wasn’t meant as some big joke, and you are trying to follow instincts—instincts that I don’t know anything about. So, if you would explain to me what you each would be expecting, I think that would help.”

With a soft bump of his nose on your cheek, you look at Yoongi, “You already know where I stand. My Alpha made that clear outside on the deck before this whole mess.”

“I want to make sure that you are eating well so that you can be healthy and happy,” Seokjin claims.

“For me,” Hoseok says, “I want to help keep you laughing during the hard times.”

“A friend. I know you have your family pack, but I hope to be your friend while you are with this pack. Be someone you can go to,” Jimin shyly says while looking around at his mates and then you.

“Expression: I hope to help you find a way to express yourself with confidence around me and others,” Taehyung adds.

“Cuddles, pets, scratches, umm... More cuddles. Just think of me as your personal stress ball or life-sized stuffed bunny,” Jungkook purrs as you run your fingers through his hair.

“I will be whatever you need me to be,” Namjoon says from the hall just out of the doorway. "And I will do what needs to be done to earn your forgiveness and your trust as Prime Alpha, even if I have to borrow some knee pads.”

Namjoon looks around the room with a hesitant smile and settles his gaze back on you. “Miss Y/L/N and mates, please join me and Manager Sejin downstairs. We have some things to discuss.”

“He wasn’t lying.”

“Who?” Manager Sejin asks.

“Seokjin. I mean, Mr. Kim… he said that they never took a playmate for more than being a companion. None of these have the rut clause, and to top it off, most have a clause to ensure that the playmate understands it is not even on the table for discussion.”

“That is correct, Bangtan only satisfies their ruts within their mate-bonded pack. They ask for playmates to have someone other than their mates to find friendship with and hang out around. It can be a bit much, even with them being mated, to always have a bunch of men around.”

“Friendship, I can do that, but I cannot do all the other services listed in these contracts. Manager Sejin, how will this even get approved by PMS? I don’t qualify to be a playmate.”

“Miss Y/n, sit down and let us go over the contract that Namjoon-ssi and I had drafted for you. Maybe that will help if you see the modifications which have already been approved by your employer.”

Taking a seat, the two of you go over the contract clause by clause. It broke down to basically say,

1—You wouldn’t be expected to do any housework, cooking, lifting, working out, driving, or video gaming (Manager Sejin said it needed to be in there because of the maknae line) until medically cleared.

2—The Prime Alpha himself would pay for all of your personal expenses while you were staying at the pack house during the contract period.

3—BigHit would grant a salary that was more than enough to pay for your flat, utilities, and other regular bills. To be honest, it was enough to pay off your useless student loan, too.

4—The contract lasted for 8 weeks and can be extended or modified at your request and the Bangtan Pack's agreement.

But what caught your attention the most was they had left out the clause regarding ruts.

“Manager Sejin, What about the rut clause?”

“Ah yes, let me get Namjoon-ssi for that one,” he says while getting up and retrieving the Prime Alpha from the living where they were all waiting.

“Hello, Miss Y/L/N, Manager Sejin said you had a question about the contract for me?” Namjoon questions as he takes a seat on the other side of the table next to said manager.

“Yes,” you sit up, trying to maintain professionalism. “I have gone over the contact, and while your manager has done well explaining it, I have one that, apparently, you must answer.”

Looking him dead in the eye, which causes the Prime Alpha to shift in his seat, you ask, “Why is there no rut clause in the proposed contract? I thought you said that was in it?”

It was cute how red his face became when you asked, “Umm… well... There are a couple of reasons.” Licking his lips, Namjoon glanced at Manager Sejin, who only looked amused and couldn’t wait to hear what he would come up with.

“Firstly, right now, none of the pack are set to have a rut within the time that Dr. Blackwell said you would need to heal. However, and I guess this is more of the real reason why some of the mates have expressed a concern… well, the pack is not…”

“Prime Alpha, I get it. The elder Mr. Kim and Yoongi expressed that I may be appealing,” you smile only to cover the small pang of hurt as you say, “but that doesn’t mean any of you would want me that way.”

Manager Sejin shakes his head as confusion fills Namjoon's face, ”No, no… God, why am I so bad at this?” Namjoon says, running his hands over his face.

“You are appealing, very much so, and the rut clause is not in the contract because the pack doesn’t want you to think that skinship is off the table,” Jungkook startles the three of you from the hall.

“I'm Sorry, Joonie-hyung. We could all hear you floundering, and I couldn’t take it anymore,” he says, walking in and sitting next to you.

“Thank you, Kookie. You all know that I can get lost for the right words sometimes.”

“Mr. Jeon, why would not having the rut clause in the contract make you think that?” you ask, turning to give him your full attention.

“Skinship consists of many things: hugs, holding hands, sniff kisses, pecks on the head or cheeks, massaging, cuddling, and scenting, to name a few. At this point, you and I have done a few of these. You also have done some with Yoongi and…”

Jungkook takes hold of your good hand and brings your wrist to his nose. Sniffing, a smile beams on his face, and his leg starts to bounce, “Yep, and you were also scented by Jinnie-hyung.”

“Miss Y/L/N, many playmates take these actions as openings or requests to have intercourse with us. That is not what we have wanted from any of them. Therefore, it is why that rut clause is always added to their contracts,” Namjoon adds.

“Oh. I am not used to skinship outside of my family pack,” glancing at Namjoon and then at Jungkook. “But… It did feel comforting with Yoongi’s hugs, your cuddles, and the elder Mr. Kim’s scenting. While I am not used to it, it does feel nice.”

A slight blush heats your face and neck. Thinking back to the comfort of Yoongi holding you, the calmness Jungkook and Seokjin brought you, and the warmth you felt in Hoseok's arms. All the men in the room smile at your confession.

“Good, I would have been very sad if I had to stop cuddling with you, Y/n,” Jungkook says while playing with your fingers.

“Miss Y/n,” Manager Sejin calls your attention, “Does that mean you will sign the contract?”

Your eyes drop to the paper in front of you, the empty line above the word ‘playmate’ waiting for your signature. Taking a deep breath, you smell the vanilla again, this time mixed with a leather-like smell and cookies.

“What happened?” asked Taehyung.

“Did she agree?” inquired Jimin.

“Don’t tell me – we lost her already,” demands Seokjin.

Yoongi stands from his seat and makes toward the dining room to try one more time to talk you into staying. However, he stops when you enter the room, holding a packet of papers.

“Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin,” you call their names as your eyes look over the room and come to an end on the last one, “Seokjin.”

The boys and their Alphas shudder at having you say their actual names. Each step forward, like you are taking a roll call as they wait for some indication as to what is going on.

With a deep and respectful 90-degree bow, you say in Korean, “My name is Y/L/N, Y/N. I put myself in your hands as your new playmate.”

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Taglist - CLOSED

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foone · 5 months

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weird thought: I think if I was a teenager now (or anytime in the last decade or so) I think I would have written (and read!) a lot more fanfic than I did in reality, where I was a teenager in the 90s.

See, I've never been hugely into fanfic. Never had anything against it exactly, but it just wasn't something I was into. But I think that has to do with an interesting combination of how my brain works and what time I was first really getting into being a fan.

I've got a "librarian" brain (I'm literally typing this from within a library, WHERE I WORK). It wants to know things like "what are all the works in this series/by this creator?" and "are they all accessible?" and "what info is available about how it was made?"

I'm the kind of person who will watch a show then go look it up on wikipedia to see how many seasons it has, who made it, if they're still making it, check tvtropes for any more info, etc. Or I hear a song I like by a band I've never heard of, so I go listen to their entire discography while researching them. I just focus on things I'm into that way, you know? I don't half-ass my interest. (this is probably related to my autism, of course)

So what does this have to do with fanfic? like, do I go read some fanfics as part of this process? No, and I think the reason for it is when I specifically first got into fandom, as a teen.

See, this sort of fandom-librarian was harder to do in 1997, you know? You couldn't just pull up the wikipedia for that new show and see how many episodes it had. You also couldn't just listen to the whole discography of that band! Forget Spotify or Google Music, even Napster didn't exist yet.

So my interest in fandom focused a lot more on very basic questions: How many episodes/albums/books/whatever are there? Where can I see/hear them all? Like, I remember getting excited because I found some fan magazine that had a list of all the Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes. Just a list! Not even descriptions or anything. I finally could take that list and see how many I'd seen, so I'd know when I saw them all in late-night reruns.

So I'm focusing on these very basic parts of being a fandom-librarian and I stumble across some fanfic. I'm like "oh, is this a transcript of an episode I haven't seen yet?" and I realize it's not, it's a story written by a fan, and I get a knee-jerk reaction of "that's not helpful to my quest to know and find all the episodes". It's like I am on a quest for the holy grail and I found a fake cup. It's not helpful to me, and at worst it's a distraction from my goal.

And the thing is, I think the fact I had that reaction is entirely due to the time and situation in which I first encountered fanfic. It was in that environment of "I can't even find a list of the episodes, let alone a way to watch them all!" and that anxiety that colored my response to finding fanfic.

I think if I instead was first introduced to fanfic NOW, where those fandom-librarian drives aren't so difficult to fulfill, I'd be way more positive about fanfic. If I could get a list of episodes with a quick google search, and watch them easily on netflix/prime/whatever, I'd be less "THIS DOESN'T HELP! I AM STRUGGLING WITH THE BASICS HERE!" and more "yay, more content for the fandom I'm obsessed with!"

Like I said, I'm not anti-fanfic, I never have been, I just never got into it. From the beginning I had this reaction that was "this is not useful" and I never developed any real interest in it. Which is a shame, honestly. Fanfic is great. It just never became one of my interests, and while I've written it and read it from time to time, I imagine I'd be way more into it if I didn't have the weird reaction to it due to the worries of the time in which I first encountered it.

I don't know how many other people have brains that work anything like mine, but if they exist, I'm glad they're now growing up in a world where they won't have these problems. They can get into fanfic without this weird baggage caused by a lack of information.

#fanfic meta

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tojisbbygworl · 1 year

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How Could You - Hobie Brown x Reader

Summary: Hobie was not the best boyfriend. It’s not his fault, he has an obligation to his city and by proxy, the multiverse. But, he doesn’t want to lose you. Unfortunately, revealing his secret does the opposite of what he had hoped.

Tags: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort,Canon-Divergence, (Hobie doesn’t reveal himself after killing Osbourne, Comic villains and events but movie Hobie, He’s supposed to be British but I forgot like halfway through writing)

Words: 3147

author’s note: If I had a nickel for everytime a girl broke up with her superhero bf bcs he lied abt being a superhero I would have 2 nickels.

Honestly tho I rly don’t like the whole ‘I’m upset because you lied to me’ trope in the superhero genre. I feel like there’s a much better reason to break up with a superhero so here’s my idea. I’ll talk more abt it in the end note.

Anyway enjoy!

AO3 Version

My AO3

Masterlist

Soaring through the air with nothing but a thin string as support, fighting monsters 3 times his size sometimes from a different universe, killing the fucking Prime Minister; none of these things have brought him as much anxiety as he feels in this moment.

It was so late, after 2 in the morning, and he was rushing back to his apartment grunting in pain from his injuries. It’s never fun fighting Kingpin, but hopefully after tonight he won’t have to do that anymore. Kamala had finally discovered his new place of hiding, Osbourne’s old bunker.

No matter how badly his ribs stung with every thwip and pull, he didn’t let up or slow down for a second. You were waiting for him. You’ve been waiting for him since he left at 8. Fuck, it’s been 6 hours? How did he let time fly like that?

‘She’s going to kill me,’ he lightly joked to himself. His stomach turned, he knows deep down that you were getting down to your last straw. You’re always so sweet about his disappearances. He tells you he needs to go; “Being in-charge of a non-profit anti-establishment organization dedicated to the dismantling of our government doesn’t allow you to have much free time, love. I’ll be back,” he would say. Your gorgeous smile would present itself and he just has to give you a kiss before he leaves. That smile has become less bright in recent months.

You’ve started voicing your annoyance as well. “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” you would respond. Or, “Duty calls?” With an eye roll. His least favorite response was, “Why don’t you date the organization instead?” The chuckle you let out after that was so dry and your smile was so empty. It scared him.

There were times where he wasn’t there in the first place. He regrets those the most. He’s missed so many important things, some of which he couldn’t understand how or why you forgave him. He certainly wouldn’t have if he was in your position. You had to be an angel or something. Fuck, he loves you.

Tonight was supposed to be a shut-in date night. Just the two of you, some junk food, and a scary movie that you’ve been dying to see. His watch beeped with a message: got a lead on Fisk. He looked at you and you just…let him go. You didn’t smile, you didn’t frown, you just looked into his eyes and turned away.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.” You didn’t respond, and at that moment, he decided that when he got back there would be no more secrets. No more sneaking around. No more lies. He loved you and you deserved to know.

From what he could see through the window, the lights were off. A part of him is relieved, hoping you weren’t awake so he could just take care of his injuries and slip into bed next to you. He would just have to wait to tell you tomorrow morning.

But, that plan is put to shit when he opens the window and quietly steps inside his living room. The tv is off and the snacks have been cleared. Hobie starts to panic. Did you go home?

He slips off his shoes in case you were sleeping soundly in his room and starts to walk slowly towards it. The door is cracked just a bit and the light is off there too. The entire apartment was shrouded in darkness, the only possible light coming through windows from the moon. He looks through the crack and relaxes upon seeing your silhouette in bed. He lets out a quiet sigh and creeps away to the bathroom.

“Hobie?” He freezes. A few seconds pass and he hears the bed creaking and feet shuffling across the floor. He still doesn’t turn around as his door opens to reveal you in your pajamas, face puffy, and eyes red.

You had been waiting for him to get home for what felt like forever. You were so excited earlier today, but there was this unrelenting churn in your stomach telling you that he would leave eventually. And of course, you were right.

Honestly, you didn’t understand why you were still with him at this point. You know he lies about where he is. You’ve known ever since he invited you to a protest his non profit put together. You told him you wanted to become an official member and he shot it down immediately. “Too dangerous for a peng-thing such as yourself,” he told you. He was right about it being dangerous, everyone was gassed and it hadn’t even been 15 minutes. But that didn’t matter. You wanted to be a part of it. Especially after they got to witness Prime Minister Osbourne’s beheading.

He didn’t even use it as an excuse most of the time. When you would wait for him to meet with you, his reasonings were fickle if he even had any.

“Got caught up with something,”

“One of my mates needed me, you know how that goes,”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m here now aren’t I?”

Oh, and there was your favorite, “Get off my back, will you? I’ve got a life too.” The times where he had nothing to say at all, as painful as it was, were much better. You were so sick of it and you just hoped that he could tell.

Right now, in this moment, you’re not sure because he still hasn’t turned around. You couldn’t see much in the darkness of the hallway, but you at least knew it was him and he was walking away. “You can’t even look at me?”

Hobie stood still, his mind racing. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to see the look on your face. He knew you were disappointed. He could hear it in your voice. “…I,” he clears his throat. “I didn’t think you would still be awake.” He cringes.

You blink at him. “You didn’t think I would still be awake?” You repeated vexedly, your voice growing stronger.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hobie tries to save.

You closed your eyes and took in a sharp breath. “You know…if you’re cheating on me, I’d rather you be honest about it.”

Hobie finally turns around. In the dark, you can’t see his mask, but he can see you perfectly. You looked so dejected and it destroyed him. He could tell that you had been crying before he got here, and now you’re eyes were welling up again. His chest pangs.

“I don’t appreciate you leaving me without a word and coming back whenever you want,” you continue, your voice breaking. A tear slips down your face and you quickly wipe it away only for another to follow right after. “Do you think I’m stupid?” You sob, trying to remain strong as he walks towards you. “That I would just be okay with that shit?”

Hobie still doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands a couple feet away from you right next to the light switch. “Are you not going to answer me?” You growl at him. Still, nothing. “Ho-”

The light turns on. His name halts in your throat as you gaze upon him. Your tears don’t stop and you raise your hand to your mouth, a shaky gasp escaping you. Hobie finally peels his mask off to reveal his cut up face.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence as you try and process this new information. Hobie was…Spider-man. Your boyfriend was Spider-man. That’s why. That’s why he was never there. That’s why he can never be there. Hobie opens his mouth, the breath he takes being enough to cut through the tension. “I’m sorry.”

He continues to walk towards you, praying that you don’t walk away. You’re frozen in place. “I’m so sorry.” He holds his arms out and embraces you in a tight hug relaxing into your arms when you lift them up and wrap them around his neck. You bury your head into his shoulders making his suit wet from your tears.

Hobie’s lips begin to quiver. He swallows a sob before speaking again. “I didn’t know how to tell you...” His voice cracks while trying to find the right words to say. “I just…I am so sorry for lying to you. I’m so fucking sorry.”

For a while, the both of you just stand there in each other’s presence. There was a feeling of anxiousness in the air; for Hobie, he was worried why you hadn’t said anything. As for you…

“Come on.” You grabbed his hand and walked the both of you to his bathroom where you sat him on the toilet and tended to his facial wounds. You remained completely silent, still trying to gather all of your thoughts. It made him all the more terrified.

Hobie repeatedly geared himself up to speak to you, but ultimately kept his mouth closed. What could he say? It was you who needed to talk. You needed to tell him how worried for him you would be. You needed to tell him how happy you were that he was okay. You needed to tell him how angry you were at him for lying to you.

You needed…you needed…

He needed you to say something. Anything.

But you didn’t know how to tell him. And when you were done with his face he stood up and took your hand to walk the both of you back to his room. You followed at first, but quickly stopped. He looked back at you in confusion, his heart racing. “What is it?”

You let go of his hand with him refusing to do the same. It went limp in his hold as you stared at the ground. Your eyes filled with tears and fell just as quickly. Without looking up, you finally told him what was on your mind. “I…I was going to break up with you tonight.”

His heart dropped. He releases a huff having been completely floored by that charged sentence. What do you mean you were going to break up with him? What do you mean there was no saving the relationship the moment he left? What do you mean he was too late?

His mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words to convey his shock. “Was?” He decides upon, foolishly hopeful.

The breath that you take in, the look on your face, and the tears falling down it killed anything inside him that held onto the possibility that you still wanted to be with him. So he lets go of your hand too. “No.” You say.

Hobie is appalled. His eyes dart around the hallway as his mind tries to make sense of what was happening. His breathing gets harder and faster. He begins to shake his head. “I don’t-,” he stutters, “I-I don’t understand.”

“Hobie-”

“I mean, I…” he hikes his shoulders up and holds up his hands. Finally, he looks at you. His chest aches at the sight of you, he’s never seen you so dejected. He gestures at himself. “You see…you see why.”

You walk towards him and put your hand on his chest to try and calm him down. It does nothing. Instead he holds his own hand over yours to keep it there. “And I am so glad that you trusted me enough to tell me. Your secret is safe with me, Hobie.” After telling him that, you lose any resolve you had and sob. Your voice is strained when you talk, and you have to take small pauses to catch your breath and remain coherent. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you missed my graduation-”

“I was almost eaten alive.” he quickly defends, remembering that annoying day. The Inheritors have become a very big nuisance since Osbourne’s death and are the reason for so many of his disappearances. He would explain all of this to you if you gave him the chance.

You scrunch your face with a look of confusion, but when he doesn’t explain any further, you continue. “And you missed my recital-”

“So I could keep Kraven from fucking up 38th street.” He was starting to get upset. It’s like you weren’t listening to him. He was Spider-man. Of course he couldn’t be there for every facet of your life. And you knew that now. So…what the fuck? “If I hadn’t done that, your mates wouldn’t have anywhere to live.”

You could hear the annoyance in his tone and body language, and it made you a little miffed. “I understand that-“

“Do you?”

You slap your head in frustration. “You’re not getting it, Hobie. You weren’t there-“

“Yeah, I fucking couldn’t be because I’m too busy trying un-fuck our city and everyone in it. Including you.” He says, slightly raising his voice. How dare you get mad at him when you’re the one who’s leaving? “I mean, I’m showing you why I can’t be there and it’s still not enough?”

You never stopped crying, but now you were pissed. You glared at him. “You think that fixes everything? It doesn’t change the fact that I stood outside the auditorium and waited for you right before and right after my name was called for nothing. Or that I almost fucked up my solo because I couldn’t think about anything besides the fact that you weren’t there.”

Hobie raises a finger at you. “I-”

“Stop interrupting me!” You shout, immediately recoiling but keeping your glare. Hobie blinks at you in disbelief. “Knowing that you were off saving the world does not mean I didn’t need you there with me when my sister was-” Choking on your words, you cover your mouth with your hand in a feeble attempt to hide the sob that escaped. Hobie’s anger dissipated and all that was left was utter heartbreak.

You took a second to recollect yourself, shying away from his touch when he reached out to you. He drops his arm by his side. “I don’t understand,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

Taking another deep breath, you drop the ball on him , finally. “If you’re worried I’m going to go off and tell Jonah Jameson-”

“No,” he practically shouts. “I’m not fucking worried about that. I’m upset, because my girlfriend is breaking up with me!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me!”

Hobie slams his hands against his head and walks away from you, panting. All you can do is watch him, anticipating his next move. Bracing yourself for whatever he’ll say out of anger.

After a few moments of breathing, he drops his hands and turns to look at you. “So what you just-don’t love me anymore?”

“What?”

“Is that it? There’s someone else?”

You furrowed your brows and looked around the room wondering where the hell he got that from. “The fuck? No!”

“So why don’t you want to be with me anymore?”

You groaned in frustration and covered your face with your hands. He just wasn’t getting it. “That’s not what I’m saying-”

“The fuck are you saying?” His voice louder than it’s ever been towards you.

“I want to be with you, Hobie,” you tell him, the tears never ending. Your voice, as loud as it is, shakes and cracks. Hobie grabs his hair, his mind completely scattered. You were confusing him left and right. Why can’t you just come out and say-

“I don’t want to be with Spider-Man.”

Everything seems to stop. The only sound being you calming yourself down as you take some deep breaths. You couldn’t look at Hobie, you just couldn’t. As for him, he couldn’t stop looking at you utter disbelief and heartbreak.

His bottom lip quivered as it hung open. His nostrils began to flare. His chest rose and fell as he felt the lump in his throat grow. Why won’t you look at him? Please look at him…please?

“You…I don’t…” he simply can’t find the words to describe how he felt. To put it simply, you were breaking his heart. He loves you. He fucking loves you so much. It hurts that there’s nothing he can do to fix this. He can’t just stop being Spider-Man, no matter how hard he’s considering it at this moment.

He doesn’t know what yo do. He’s so hurt. He’s so…fucking…angry.

“Get out.” He says, looking at the ground.

You jerk your head up at him. Wiping your eyes, you ask him, “What?”

Hobie angrily puts his mask back on. “Get the fuck out,” he repeats, louder this time. You don’t move. You didn’t want it to end like this. Was it really going to end like this? No…

“Ba-Hobie,” Slip of the tongue. But it was too late, he heard it and it broke him even more.

“I don’t want you here when I get back.” He turns away from you and stalks towards the window. Without looking back once, he lifts it open and hops back out into the night.

You slap your hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. This feeling in your chest, you wanted to lie down and scream at the top of your lungs. You were hoping he understood, that you could reason with him, but now you were left a lonely shell of your former self. You would hate yourself for breaking his heart the way you did. As you gather your things and leave the apartment, you start to wonder, was this even worth it?

On the trek home, you decided; yes. It hurt, but nothing would compare to the pain of him not being there at the hospital when you told him you needed him there. All the moments that you needed the man you loved and he was no where to be found, you found joy in knowing that you would never experience that again.

You weren’t angry with Hobie anymore. You knew why things were the way they were now. But, that’s not a love life that you wanted. That was the most difficult thing you had to do, but you had to do it. You weren’t going to be a superhero’s girlfriend. You just weren’t. You hoped he understood one day.

And he will. But for now, Hobie watches you leave the building with a hole in his heart and hatred in his mind. For now, you just don’t want to make it work with him. Hobie knows the two of you are meant to be, he just wishes you would understand that-

No. He wishes you would accept him. You don’t . And that destroys him.

For now, you simply don’t love him enough to accept him for what he is. A huge part of him was scared of this, and would you look at that, it came true.

He was so confused. So hurt. How could you. How could you?…

ending a/n: Hi! How was it? I hope I wrote it well. I really wanted to make sure it was clear that they both are valid in their feelings about the whole thing. It made sense that it would all blow up and not end well and I think it’s very easy for someone who is dealing with a lot of emotions to not really think rationally or listen to the other person.

If you read this whole thing and was like ‘what is wrong with her’ let me try to explain my thought process. She doesn’t want to be with a superhero. She wants to be in a relationship with someone who can be there for her. Hobie was never there, if he was it was few and far between. And that’s bcs of his obligation to the world and multiverse. That’s no one’s fault. She gets that. So she’s going to find someone who CAN give her the time she needs. Someone who doesn’t have a duty to the world. Someone who can focus on her as much as she does for them.

Of course, Hobie isn’t going to understand that. All he hears is that she doesn’t want to be with him. So, he’s thinking irrationally, not really listening to what she’s saying. Taking things the wrong way bcs he’s heart broken.

I like where I ended it, but I am very open to a pt 2 in the future where they’ve gotten over it (or maybe not 👀) but they’re not going to get back together. It’ll be like closure unless I decide to never let Hobie heal from it. Hmmmm. Idk idk idk!

Anyway, I hope you guys understood my thinking and enjoyed this version of this trope. I don’t think I’ve seen it done before, it would be nice to start a trend of this. I would love to see how other people interpret this. Please feel free to discuss this particular topic more with me if you would like! I don’t bite! Y’all have a good one🩵🩵

AO3 Version

My AO3

Masterlist

#across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spider punk #spider punk x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie angst #hobie my beloved

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its-mekjt · 4 months

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watching exu prime, and oh my god, I'm trying not to cackle or else I'll wake up my siblings.

● orym and opal, dorian and dariax. every dms worst nightmare.

● ash hole

● opal shouting into thin air

● new hairdos (orym gets frosted tips)

● DARIAX PRETENDING TO BE HIS EX

● nancy.

● "but as my friend said, we have other offers to field and other people to see. very important people that we've been discussing going to see for quite a while do maybe we SHOULD GO SEE THEM." dorian was STRESSING.

● 'orym shoots dorian a look that a spouse gives to a spouse'. this is where the dorym shippers were born.

● i love when people (opal) are correct but phrases it weirdly

● "for you i could take off another 150 gold" // "okay, 900 gold got it is."

● butt stab

● orym really is the only one with a braincell. mainly by process of elimination.

● 'that's all good though. 3.'

● glitter diaper

● dorian fucking with dariax saying that he's from a long of trapeze artists and jugglers is still one of the funniest things ever

● 'what's your last goddamn name opal.'

● THE CONTEST

● dariax cosplaying as dorian

● "if you were a GEM what would you be and why?" // "i'd be a peach jam."

● dorian and dariax using the cloak and wearing each others clothes as an outfit is one of my favourite bits

● ashley johnson's laugh is addictive. i love it so much.

● opal kissing dariax cause he messed with her opponent.

● "what's your favourite flower?" // "probably oleander because it has multiple purposes. they're beautiful, they smell great and you can also kill someone if you need to."

● orym being DRAGGED on stage

● "WILL THE HALFLING LOVE, OR WILL THE HALFLING DIE?" (he did die, just a few months later)

● BEST NATURAL 20 EVER

● "DARIAX- oh the jam boy."

● people hitting on dariax gives me LIFE

● "in fairness you seem to be a little confused much of the time."

● whiskey and milk

● 10 GOLD WORTH OF PIES.

● "what's a unifying quality?" // "well, we're all pretty attractive."

● "you're not where you fell asleep." // "oh! that's... a problem."

● "i heard the voice of the spider queen giving me power but you know, nothing to worry about."

● fyra rai is contemplating EVERYTHING

● combat ended because they flipped it over

● 'i rolled a natural 1.' launches dice

● night time lullabye of hot cross buns

● dorian is mothering everyone

● titty racks

● "what is a tal'dorei."

● ALCHOHOL applause

● dariax has a good ass

● mister has performance anxiety

● "don't touch me, stranger! ew!"

● ashley's impression of dariax doing a double take at real-opal while disguised as opal

● "what head, Nancy?" HORROR MOVIE SHIT.

● orym's face as he carries the head. HILARIOUS.

#critical role #dnd #aabria iyengar #robbie daymond #liam o'brien #ashley johnson #anjali bhimani #matt mercer #aimee carrero #dorian storm #orym of the air ashari #fearne calloway #fyra rai #dariax zaveon #opal #exu prime #exandria unlimited

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anistarrose · 2 months

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Thinking of people with dietary restrictions this Disability Pride Month. Shoutout to:

People with dietary restrictions due to allergies

People with dietary restrictions due to related disorders, like eosinophilic esophagitis or MCAS

People with dietary restrictions due to autoimmune disorders

People with dietary restrictions due to sensory issues and/or ARFID

People with dietary restrictions due to plain old food intolerances

People with any combination of the above

People whose allergens/intolerances/etc are never labeled properly on ingredient lists

People constantly seeing "X ingredient free!" labels that just straight-up lie

People whose allergens/intolerances/etc are additives used in fucking everything

People who can't figure out what their trigger foods are, because their prime suspects are inescapably included in fucking everything

People who have such a hard time avoiding every trigger that we're just chronically ill now, apparently

People whose safe foods are impossible to find in stores consistently

People who had safe store-bought foods until they fucking changed the recipe

People who can't travel, because they can't guarantee access to their safe foods while away from home

People whose social life suffers, because they can't go out to eat at a restaurant or get coffee with friends

People with social anxiety about standing out as the only person with a pre-packed lunch and getting questioned about it

People who fell in love with cooking and baking for themselves, but started out with it because it was the only way the could get their needs met

People who can't cook or bake for themselves because of the time commitment, or because of any another disability they have

People who still just struggle with cooking, for any reason

People who miss that one food so so much

People who can never get a straight answer from their workplace about what food is going to be provided for that special lunch, or even if it will be catered versus going out to a restaurant

People whose dietary restrictions are ones that no one has heard of, or is willing to believe

People who would be vegetarian or vegan were it not for their dietary restrictions, but need animal products to live

People who are constantly left out of conversations on the environmentalism and ethics of food consumption because of this

People living places with dogshit healthcare systems, who can't afford to pay for an EpiPen or other life-saving medication

People with social trauma from being forced to sit alone at the "allergy only" table in elementary school lunch

People sick and tired of how all the media discussion and advocacy for people with dietary restrictions focuses on elementary schoolers

People with long term health complications from prior exposure to their trigger foods

People with trauma from medical episodes or the long term health complications

People with trauma from medical institutions not taking their dietary restrictions seriously

People who, despite everything, only hear their dietary restrictions mentioned when they're the butt of a joke

People who, despite everything, get told they're "just complaining" or "having a first world problem"

People who, despite everything, get told they don't count as having a disability

I see you. I'm with you. And you are under no obligation to be quiet about what you go through. We deal with a lot. But we're here for each other. And we are allowed to be visible and angry.

#disability #allergyposting

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corruptedcaps · 11 months

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Something Wicked: part one

So as a result of my recent poll I present part one of my Cheerleader to Goth saga but with a twist. The second most popular option was Goth to Cheerleader (by adding up the Twitter poll numbers too) so I have combined both options into this overarching story. Enjoy!

In the dimly lit supply room at Ridgemont High School, an accident was about to unfold that would forever change the lives of two very different girls. Jenna, the infamous head cheerleader known for her unrelenting cruelty, and Lily, the quiet goth girl who had always felt like an outcast, worked in quiet silence each serving their time for fighting.

Although to say they were both working wouldn’t be accurate as Jenna was browsing social media as she half assed moved around a few items on the shelves. It also wouldn’t be accurate to say they were both in their for fighting as Lily had been more of a target of Jenna’s abuse that an equal combatant. Lily was a prime target for girls like Jenna. She was friendless, goth, and gay.

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew colder, and tension hung in the air like a storm on the horizon. Lily glanced at her phone. Only 5 minutes then she could be free of her tormentor. However as she was tidying up the last shelf she spotted something glimmering in the back. A strange, ancient amulet sat on a dusty shelf, long forgotten and overlooked by the school's staff. Unbeknownst to the girls, this amulet held a power beyond imagination.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Lily reached for the amulet. She held it tightly in her hand, its gold surface feeling pleasurable to touch. Its red gem sparkling in her eyes almost entrancing her.

“What do you have there?” Jenna snarled at her, breaking Lily from her trance.

“N-nothing.” Lily said trying to hide the amulet.

“Like hell it is, give it to me!” Jenna demanded and tried to snatch it from Lily. Lily tried her best to keep it out of Jenna’s reach but the cheerleader was too flexible for her. The moment Jenna’s fingers touched the amulet, a blinding light erupted, and their bodies were engulfed by a mysterious energy.

When the light faded, Jenna and Lily found themselves standing in each other's bodies, a look of shock mirrored on their faces. Jenna, now trapped in the body of the goth girl she had often ridiculed, felt a surge of panic. Lily, confined to Jenna's cheerleader form, felt a rising feeling inside her. Was it pleasure?

Jenna couldn't contain her frustration. She glared at Lily, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and anger. "What did you do, freak? Why am I in your body?" Jenna's voice quivered with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance.

Lily, feeling equally bewildered by the sudden switch, raised her hands defensively. "I didn't do anything! Everything was fine until you touched the amulet," she retorted, her voice feeling foreign and yet powerful. She had always felt sheepish and intimated being around Jenna, but now, trapped in Jenna's cheerleader body, the tables were turned. It felt kind of intoxicating as she took a moment to look at herself in Jenna’s body in a nearby mirror.

A voice inside her head whispered seductively, "Look at you, Lily, you're stunning. You don't have to take shit from anyone anymore. Embrace this beauty, this power." She couldn't deny the allure of her new appearance, the allure that came with Jenna's beauty and confidence. The voice felt right.

Jenna however wasn’t amused and felt out of place in the dorky goth’s body. She felt so sluggish, the baggy black clothes felt heavy on her body and she felt a creeping sense of anxiety flood her mind. She didn’t like it. A soft, voice whispered in her mind, “Be seen, but not heard. Be meek, be ineffectual. It’s the safest thing to do.” It urged her to blend into the background, to avoid standing out. But Jenna’s personality was too strong for it. Grabbing Lily by her own cheerleader straps she pushed her against the wall.

“Undo this now!” She demanded. Perhaps it was the fact that her own pretty face was peering back at her but Jenna felt like Lily didn’t have the usual fear in her eyes that Jenna was accustomed to seeing. In fact they looked almost defiant.

“What are you doing to her freak?” Came voices from the door. Both girls looked over to see it was Jenna’s clique of betas, come to join their queen at the end of her punishment. Jenna’s face lit up with relief as she spotted them, and she hurriedly urged them, "Thank God you're here, come over here and help me with her."

However, when her friends laid eyes on Jenna, in Lily’s goth body, their expressions soured with disgust. "As if, freak," one of them sneered, and they turned their attention to Lily, who still pinned by Jenna in her cheerleader body. With an air of menace, they asked, "What do you want us to with her, babe?"

Lily's initial surprise quickly gave way to a newfound feeling growing inside her. She no longer had to fear Jenna's friends or their judgment. In fact, they were now in awe of her, standing before them in Jenna's glamorous cheerleader persona. They were waiting to take orders from her. The voice inside her head was telling her to be ruthless and she was inclined to agree. With a smirk on her face, Lily replied, "Grab her."

Before Jenna could react, her friends quickly swarmed around her, grabbing at her limbs, causing her to drop the amulet to the ground which Lily quickly scooped up before anyone else could see it.

“No stop! I’m Jenna! She’s Lily! She took my body!” Jenna yelled in vain as Lily clip clopped over to her slowly in high heels intimidatingly. Jenna looked at her stolen body and somehow didn’t see an ounce of Lily inside it.

“What is she talking about babe?” One of her clique asked.

“This freak brought tried to put a spell on me to swap bodies, can you believe it? Maybe we should burn her at the stake like other witches.” Lily said with a smile that made Jenna worried for a second that she was serious. The clique giggled. Lily felt empowered by their sycophancy, losing herself more by the second.

“Loser probably wanted in my body so she could make it all gay or something. Yuck.” Lily added, feeling the disgust be almost authentic. The growing voice in her head, praising her for her cruelty, spurred her on.

“It’s time we gave this stinky bitch a shower don’t you think girls?” Lily said with a superior hand placed on her hips. A wicked smile appeared on all the other girl’s faces as Jenna struggled to get free but it was no use as they led her out of the room and into the nearby bathroom.

Jenna was helpless as her former friends held her tight as Lily grabbed her hair and dunked her over and over again in the toilet bowl. Each dunking seemed to have a profound effect on each girl. Jenna felt her confidence and resistance sap with each dip in the water while Lily felt invigorated, powerful and deliciously cruel every time she shoved her former head into the murky water. It felt good to be mean.

“I think she’s clean enough girls, come on let’s get out of here and hit the mall, all this fun has ruined my nails and I need a new set.” Lily said with a now natural bitchy tone that perfectly matched the stolen body she inhabited. Lily led her new friends out with a confidence she had never had before. Her head held high and her chest sticking out, she loved how her new craven friends snapped to her orders.

Jenna meanwhile sat beside the toilet, soaked, wondering how this could get any worse. As if to answer her, Jenna heard the door swing open once again and Lily clopped in alone.

“I hope you have learned your lesson Jenna, that bullying is cruel and mean. Now come on let’s switch back.” Lily said with a strangely kind face as she produced the amulet from her bag and for a moment Jenna felt a glimmer of hope. This was quickly dashed when Lily dropped the amulet to the floor and stomped on it with her heel, smashing the red jewel at its center.

“Oops! How clumsy of me! I guess I’ll have to Jenna forever now. No scratch that, a new reign deserves a new name. I’m Jennifer and I’m going to make your life a living hell you lesbo goth freak!” Lily cackled as she turned and left to rejoin her waiting besties.

All hope seemed lost for Jenna, her cruel ways had caught up with her and now she would be forever the victim at the hands of her own body no less. As the seconds passed she heard the meek voice inside her tell her it was alight, that this was how the world worked.

Getting to her feet she walked over to the mirror and rung out the water from her hair. Her makeup was smudged and ruined, she looked like a sad clown.

“Don’t worry, once you learn how to dress invisibly you’ll be able to avoid most of the bullying. Not all of course but most.” Said the voice in her head that had been growing louder and louder.

Jenna nodded solemnly as she began to accept her new role but deep inside her an ember of defiance was still lit.

To be continued…

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #female possession #corrupted cheerleader #corrupted goth #cc2023

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spatialwave · 11 months

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i'm sorry but i NEEEDDDD a scene of limoreau TALKING about everything that happened, their first kiss, their first night together, the blackout caused by cate, what are they feeling right now about each other, I NEED TO SEE THEM TALKING!!! and if prime video is not going to give to us then i'm here, begging for you to write something about this😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

aye aye! have no fears because your local limoreau tumblr writer is here! (this takes place literally right after our lil ep 7 limoreau scene.)

jordan looked back at marie, their jaw clenching a few times. "neuman? how the hell are you going to talk to neuman?" they asked her, almost a look of worry flickering in their eyes, "just going to waltz into the forum and ask her from the audience?"

"no, of course not. look, we go to shetty's office and find some information and we'll figure it out from there, okay? as long as we can find a way in there." marie was adamant about the plan, looking between jordan's eyes, "we have to go."

just as she was spinning around on her heels, she heard the sound of jordan's shift. a second later a hand over her elbow, a soft grip.

"wait," their voice cracked.

marie stopped herself, looking back to them, "jordan we need to-"

"i said wait," they snapped, brows furrowing together, "can we just talk? for like ten fucking minutes, just... please."

marie's expression softened as she looked at them, seeing the sincerity shaking in jordan's eyes. she smiled knowingly, "see? you can still prove a point as a girl."

that quip managed to get a laugh out of jordan and a smile that almost reached their eyes. they dropped their hand, instead stepping closer to marie and looking deep into her eyes.

the silence between them was deafening. the only thing breaking it was the slight rustle of the wind in the nearby trees and the deep rumble of a truck that drove down the street. between them, it was quiet.

"we need to talk about what happened. everything." jordan broke the silence, their brown eyes shaky with worry.

marie could see it immediately, the fear and insecurity that was beginning to fill them. there was a reason both of them were avoiding this conversation, it was easier to dance around it because they were blithely ignoring their biggest anxieties.

she straightened up slightly, clenching her jaw as her breath hitched in her throat. she was caught on her words, mouth parting to speak but unable to say anything.

"i like you, marie," jordan kept on, their eyes flickering over her face and seeing the way this conversation had put a halt on her thoughts. they didn't blame her, they both seemed good at avoiding what needed to be said for the sake of everything else going on. jordan clenched their fists, trying so hard to keep themselves from shifting back into their comfort zone around marie, "i like you so fucking much and i'm worried you only like me when i'm-"

"don't shift," marie had stepped forward in an instant, her hand moving up to caress jordan's jaw much like they had earlier. her eyes were wide and soft as she looked at jordan, admiring their feminine features, "that's so not fucking true, jordan. i mean, yeah, it's a first for me but, like... i think i like it."

jordan's lips cracked into another smile.

"no, i do like it. i really like it. i mean i like you," she explained further, voice breathy as she spoke fast and tried to explain her feelings.

that only made jordan break into a quiet laugh, unable to hide their amusement at the way marie rushed through her confession of attraction. they felt giddy, like everything good was finally happening.

"you're a dork, moreau," they snorted, their face rubbing against the hand that held their jaw, "a cute dork."

marie's adrenaline was still skyrocketing through her veins, but the fear was gone. she was left with this odd culmination of elation, butterflies and the inability to wipe a toothy smile from her lips.

"it's true," she breathed out through a returned laugh, letting the two of them even out their breaths and enjoy each other's presence before daring to speak up again, "i want to spend more time with you... you know, go on cheesy little dates and not dance around the idea that you might not be-"

"your girlfriend slash boyfriend?" jordan interrupted through their smile, lifting a hand to rest over marie's as their thumb rubbed along her hand, "i'd like that. being together."

marie's eyes lit up and she wore a smile that matched jordan's. she leaned forward and pressed their lips together. the kiss was soft and foreign, but familiar. a piece of jordan that she was missing out.

as the two of them broke the kiss, they let their breath linger and mix, enjoying each other's closeness.

"let's go to shetty's office and get this fucking mess figured out," jordan murmured against her lips, kissing her just once more, "then i can take you on a date after."

#limoreau #jordan li #marie moreau #jordan li x marie moreau #gen v #AHHHHHH #spatialanswers #wordsbyspatial

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chelleisamazing · 1 month

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One year ago, I saw a trailer for an upcoming prime movie and thought the concept was right up my alley. I decided I'd read the book if I liked the movie but wanted to wait to see it first.

One year ago, I stayed up late to watch this movie the day it came out; I remember I'd gone out with my friends that night, so I came back home slightly tipsy but still determined to watch and oh boy, what a ride it was. I laughed, I swooned, I cried sad and happy tears at 3 AM in my bedroom and by the end of it, I thought I'd never seen anything else like it: so unique and wholesome, warm and hopeful ❤️

One year ago, I decided to read the book and got even more trapped into this story than I already was, already watching the movie daily for weeks. I felt for Henry. I related so much to Alex... I could see myself in him, especially in his struggles of trying to define who he was and how he felt about it... I'd never been brave enough to let myself think about those things, but this story gave me that last push. Alex's story made me believe love can win. Henry's story made me brave. For me, it wasn't just about the romance but a journey of self-acceptance and courage.

It's been a year of fun, creativity, positivity, love, and joy ♡ thank you to everyone in this fandom who makes it brighter every day with your wonderful creations, whether it be fics, gifs, manips, fanart, etc-- ya'll make this such a wonderful place to be at. We loved this movie and story so much that we even made a sequel happen, and I still can't believe we managed to do that sometimes!

Thank you to Matthew for deciding to bring this story to the big screen and bring more visibility to it, so that all the people who hadn't even heard about the book like myself, found it's way to it ♡ thank you Nick for being our beloved Henry, and being so loving and caring of our dear heartbreak prince, the prince who decided to be brave to live as he truly was ♡... thank you to Taylor for being the most perfect Alex we could've asked for-- as many have said, he's the embodiment of so much goodness in a person, I can't think of anyone better to play our dear bisexual menace ♡. He loves this story so much and knows how much it matters to many of us who are like Alex-- queer or latino or relating to Alex's inner struggles with anxiety/adhd. He did the job with so much love that I can't wait to see what's next ♡

And the most thanks to Casey for sharing with us this story that was in their heart, a story of hope for a better world full of the acceptance that everybody deserves ❤️

Happy Birthday RWRB, it's a joy to be here 🎂❤️🤍💙

#i feel sappy after rewatching #im so bad at words but i had to try to say how much this story means to me 🥹❤️#rwrb #stuff

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littlelostmabari · 2 months

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The Wrath of Talos

Happy birthday, BG3! I didn't have anything prepared so I decided to offer a snippet of what could be for Irradessa and Gale after A Touch of Darkness... but it's reader-insert today because that's the vibe I had going.

For the beautiful and wonderful @alpydk, @miradelletarot, @sorceresssundries, @the-real-housewives-of-waterdeep, @gale-force-storm

(continuing the list bc Tumblr is being silly) @mumms-the-word, @weaveandwood

(divider here)

Pairing: Gale x gn!Reader [SFW, angst, hurt/comfort] CW: violent storm imagery, nightmares, PTSD, anxiety/panic Word count: 1.4k

You are a chosen of Talos, and you know that storms are not meant to be enjoyed — only feared. Gale promised to be home before the storm reached the tower, but he's not here and you're forced to prepare for Talos' wrath yourself.

The thunder rolled in with the tide.

It was the storm of the age, if the newsies at the corner in the market could be believed. Anyone with windows facing the water was buying up plywood or protective charms, often both, and storing enough food to get through the next ten-day in case the diviners at Blackstaff were wrong about how terrible the storm would be.

If you were less occupied, you might wonder what the Blackstaff wizards were even doing to let such a storm strike the City of Splendors.

Instead, you were mirroring the terrified preppers and pulling everything you needed for a ten-day into a central room of the tower — one with windows that were only enchanted to reflect the outside weather instead of reaching the outside air. Water. Rations. You'd dragged a pair of spare bedrolls down onto the floor as well, since there was no way you would be able to heft the down mattress through the winding stairways. Sheets, though; those were perfect for covering the windows. Even enchanted, you doubted they were safe from His gaze. Tara found you with a medicine kit under one arm and a supply of canned fish under the other, just as the first rains began to fall.

"What in the heavens are you doing, my dear?" she squawked as you passed her by. Her tail poofed up, and she had to jump up to the staircase railing and flap her wings in indignation just to make room for you to pass.

"Storm," you said hastily, throwing the supplies into the room and then holding the door open for her. "Are you in or out? I'm closing up."

"You needn't worry about the weather, dear, the tower is enchanted six ways to Tenthday. There shan't be any —"

You slam the door behind you and lock it and slide a chair into place beneath the knob. It doesn't matter how many charms Gale has put upon the bricks of this tower, nor whether or not the room you were sitting in was in fact in the Prime Material Plane. You knew better. If He willed it, Talos would have His due.

Storms were never something to be enjoyed, they were only ever something to hide from. Lightning was a weapon, thunder the rolling hooves of steeds approaching with armaments. Sleet and rain was meant to limit vision, clouds meant to prevent sun- and moon-lit protection. You'd served the Lord of Storms for long enough to know that not even his faithful were safe when his ire was raised.

You double check the ties on the windows, fluff up a pair of pillows, and settle in to wait with the sending stone clutched between hands, knuckles white with fear.

----------

He had promised to be home before the storm hit, and the rain on his face and hood is a pounding reminder that he had broken that promise. It was the night after the rains began, and he worries what he would find at home. He bounces between the balls of his feet which squish in the traveling boots not meant for the flash flood he had just waded through. One more thing. It was always one more thing.

A password is uttered too loudly so to be heard over the roar of thunder. A flash of an uneasy smile. An exchange of coin. A waxed bag to hold the raging waters back from pages that would undoubtedly crumble at the first sign of liquid. He had it.

He had to get home.

Gale turns his face up to the clouds above, brown eyes lit up under the heavy gray hood with a burst of lightning from not but a hundred yards away. He clutches the waxed leather bundle tightly to his chest and reaches out a hand. The Weave is only a breath away.

He says your name, takes a deep breath, and teleports home.

----------

Your nightmare is one you have had before. For as many times as you have been here, the landscape is still unfamiliar. Sand-like granules fall underneath your feet as you trudge through a cemetery of upturned obsidian shards. They vary from inches to hundreds of feet tall, and you can only see them with flashes of lightning that strike the tips of them irregularly.

The taste of ozone on your tongue means one thing, and you dive into the sands just in time for a bolt of electricity to instead strike the obsidian shard next to you. It alights with Weave and you glance up to see yourself — prone and pathetic — staring back at you with eyes full of the same lightning that threatens to strike you down. Your reflection stands easily and tilts its head, grinning as they snap a hand to the side and wrangle the next lightning bolt into a spear of sparking blue.

Then the sight is gone and you're left staring into the black glass at your regular reflection, still on the ground and covered in black and brown sand. With the next strike of lightning comes rain, and the sound of someone screaming. Another, and the scream turns into your name, and you find yourself turning towards the sound because that sound means safety and comfort and another thunderous boom, this time without lightning, and the sand reaches up your legs and begins pawing at your waist and shoulders and hands and face and you can't breathe and

Your eyes fly open into darkness, the lights of the room snuffed out by the magic swirling in the air from your connection to Talos. The chair under the door handle has flown across the room, the doors themselves blown off their hinges and now open to the tower. You try to move to remedy, to protect your safe space, your sanctum, but the blankets and bedroll won't let you up. You scramble against them, and they call for you to stay, to calm, to be safe, you're safe, you're safe, my love you are safe!

You recognize that voice. Your eyes drift back to coffee hair and chocolate eyes and olive skin and your face is wet and he is soaked and everything around you is spinning and your forehead finds his shoulder and you crawl as far into him as you can and you weep.

----------

An eternity later, you let go of Gale only long enough for him to shrug off his traveling gear and prestidigitate the moisture from the rest of his clothing. You don't mind that he still smells of his travel. He is home.

Your home is home.

"I am so sorry, my love," he murmurs into your ear as he wraps arms around you once more. He has moved you over to one wall away from the doors or windows, so that he can lean back and hold you across his lap. Your tuck your face into the side of his neck and stifle the next sob. "To say I was delayed is an understatement and ignores the very reality that I promised I would be at your side when the storm front reached the tower. You should never have needed" — you feel him intake a quick breath as if he his holding his own tears back — "I am so terribly sorry that I was not here to protect you from this."

He rocks you in his arms, back with the inhale and forward with the exhale and presses kisses against your forehead and your hairline. He continues his murmurings of how brave you have been and how awful that nightmare seemed and oh how safe you are tucked away in this tower where, with a wave of his hand, the now-unadorned windows show a moonlit night over a field of white flowers blowing in an unseen breeze. You don't see the doors repair and close by themselves, nor a fluffy tail and feathered wings disappearing as they do so, her contribution to your state of mind complete. In here, the winds cannot be heard, the thunder cannot be felt, the lightning cannot flash across your skin. There is only the smell of petrichor and beard oil, the flavor of rosewater Weave, and the arms of your beloved surrounding you.

#happy birthday bg3 #bg3 anniversary #bg3 #bg3 gale #gale x gn!reader #gale x reader #gale angst #angst #hurt/comfort

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the-lonelybarricade · 10 months

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A Blaze in the Dark - (10/12)

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

All my love to @itsthedoodle for beta-ing this when my anxieties were running amuck, I appreciate you! And also shout out to the angst eding anon for being so nice, I hope you enjoy!!

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

An open doorway stood between Elain and Lucien.

One glimpse at her husband’s expression and Elain’s memory was cast somewhere far away. Her mother had once warned that a doorway should always be approached with great caution. She spoke of curses upon thresholds—woven nets of magic that could trap the thoughts and memories of anyone who walked through, if not careful.

But at the Archeron manor, magic was not a concern. When Lady Archeron advised her daughters to always brace themselves before passing through a doorway, it was not because she believed their memories would become trapped. But rather because she wanted her daughters to learn to use the concept as a tool. To act as if a curse had been enacted in every doorway, they crossed and to use that small, ingrained warning to remind themselves that any unladylike behavior should be stripped away before crossing the unseen barrier.

A doorway, she said, was always an opportunity for transition.

Elain recalled sitting on a plush stool in the powder room of the Archeron manor, quiet as she observed her mother pressing a cold spoon to her puffy eyes. She must have swiped it from the dining room after she had excused herself. Elain hadn’t heard what was said over the chatter and clinking silverware, but the unusual tightness in her mother’s expression had compelled Elain to follow.

It was the first time she’d seen her mother cry.

She met Elain’s curious gaze in the vanity and sighed. “Now remember, Elain. We came into this room because we were feeling overwhelmed—and ladies mustn’t look overwhelmed where others can see us.”

Elain nodded because her mother had put on the voice she used when she was imparting wisdom. The spoon clattered against the table as her mother set it down and practiced a smile in the mirror. Elain practiced one, too, despite the odd tightness in her chest.

“When we go back through that door, Elain, we leave our overwhelmed feelings in this room, understood? We let it take the unpleasant memory. And we pretend we’re thespians, putting on our masks to play our part.”

This was a trick Elain had already discovered. She nodded, showing her mother her best impression of a lady’s mask—chin tilted, shoulder blades pinched, smile primed. Her mother strained a hum of approval before returning to fixing her own mask. It was perhaps the first time Elain fully grasped that what stepped out of a doorway was not always the same as what initially stepped inside.

Now, Lucien was staring at Elain from the doorway to the bathing room. And she had the sense that something had changed. Been left behind and filtered through that invisible net.

He offered her a lazy smile, wet cloth in his hand as he’d promised.

And yet she found herself sitting up. Asking, “What’s wrong?”

Lucien crossed the room in long, casual strides. “Nothing at all,” he said.

He pressed the cloth into her palm before turning his back politely. As if it wasn’t his own release she was wiping from her thighs.

“If you don’t want to stay the night…”

Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

What reason did he have to stay, anyhow? She had asked for help in making a child, and he had done just that. She had been the one to hint that he should stay, and like the gentleman he was, he’d spared her the embarrassment of rejection.

They had separate bedrooms for a reason. They’d agreed to a platonic marriage for a reason.

Once again, Lucien was making his feelings and intentions perfectly clear and she was choosing to complicate the matter with affections he did not ask for. And if she thought there had been something more to his tender touches and gentle words, that could only be blamed on her own hopeful misinterpretations. He was a kind man. Of course he would ensure the experience had been pleasurable, exactly as Vassa had said. Any further examination would be a disservice to them both.

This had been strictly a matter of child-making, she reminded herself.

“I will stay the night,” he said. Ever dutiful.

Elain should have left it at that for her own well-being. But she could recognize his heavy swallow, how the bob in his throat took the familiar form of unspoken words. And she risked cutting herself on their jagged edges as she pilfered the debris of his silence, guessing at what he was too kind to say to her.

But I do not want to.

But do not let this be an expectation.

But I will be gone before you wake up.

She set the cloth on the bedside table with too much force. Lucien’s shoulders jerked at the wet slap, and she suppressed an apology for startling him. It would not be what she was truly saying sorry for.

“Lucien,” she started—

“Elain.”

He turned to look at her. She could see him fighting to hide it, but there was a hollowness to him that hadn’t been present before. The flame in his russet eye was guttered. The golden one was spinning as though recalibrating. Lucien touched her thigh, much shyer than the bruising grip he’d kept when his head was buried between her legs. Had all that passion, all those honeyed words, been driven solely by lust?

His voice was quiet. “I’m staying because, just this once, I’d like to know how it feels to fall asleep holding my wife. I’ll do better by you in the morning.”

Just this once. Like he was doing it as a favor.

An indignant part of Elain wanted to tell him not to bother at all, but it was outweighed by her longing. She wanted to know how it felt to fall asleep in Lucien’s arms, too. Even if it was just this once. Even if it would break her heart in the morning.

Elain leaned over to snuff the gaslamp before her expression could slip into dismay, and Lucien took that as his cue to sink down beside her and pull the blankets over their bodies. It took a moment for their weight to settle, where the snaps and pops of the hearth filled the spaces between their breaths. She was afraid of what her voice would reveal, and Lucien clearly had no words to offer that would spare her unrequited feelings. Had she made herself too obvious? Too eager?

After a moment, as though he had been waging some internal battle with himself, Lucien shuffled closer to Elain and slipped an arm around her waist. All it took was a slight tug for her back to find his warm, solid chest. He curled around her, knees pressed behind her own, face against her neck, hips flush.

“Cauldron, you’re cold,” he murmured, rubbing his palms over her arms like he could banish the chill. She supposed, with the magic heating his skin, he was doing precisely that.

“You were in the bathroom for a while,” she said.

A subtle question, which was met with crackling silence.

She could sense him calculating his response, and perhaps she was vastly overthinking things. Maybe nothing had changed at all, and the time he’d taken in the bathing room had simply left space for reality to creep back in.

“Apologies for my neglect, then.” He kissed her on the shoulder. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

His heated palm slid from her arms to her stomach, moving in slow circles. Up her abdomen, along her hips, up and around her breasts. She arched into the touch, feeling her eyelids grow heavy as she focused on the soothing sensation. How infuriating—that he could be so doting and reserved at the same time. She wanted to scream at him, but all of her temper was being quelled beneath the movement of his hand.

“Allow me to call on you during my next cycle,” she said, only mildly joking.

“Please do.”

The ease with which he offered, the sincerity in his voice… Elain could not understand him. There was amity between friends, there was fulfilling their marital obligations, and then there were the fingertips dragging against her skin with a reverence that spoke of more than simple duty.

Elain summoned the courage to speak his name, prepared to ask him for the truth of his feelings, but it clashed with the sound of her own name on his lips.

His idle strokes paused.

“You go first,” she said.

“Do you remember what you said in the carriage, that secrets are a currency?”

And like currency, they can be exchanged, traded, lended. Or stolen.

She had said it to wound him because she’d been irritated by his secret-keeping and had wanted to remind him that he was not the only one capable of seeing beyond what a person wished to reveal of themselves.

“Yes,” Elain said, wary of its relevance here, now.

“I was going to propose a trade. In the interest of knowing more about my wife. One secret from you and one secret from me.”

A very dangerous game if she did not play it correctly.

“A secret of our own choosing?”

“No,” he said carefully. “It would be too easy to choose something irrelevant. I get to ask you a question met with honesty, and you receive the same.”

Elain fought to keep her body from tensing up, knowing that with Lucien’s body pressed against hers in every way possible, he would be able to feel it. And she would betray her guilt before he could ask anything condemning.

“You can go first,” Lucien offered.

Was it better to go first? She would be able to measure the vulnerability of his answer to gauge how much she should reciprocate. But he had clearly started this game with a question in mind, one that she would not be able to return by going first. And one she could not hope to guess at.

Then there was the matter of what she should ask him. There were too many things she wanted to know. And far too many of them would give away the hope turning on a spit in her chest. Lucien began moving his palm again, unaware each touch was another laceration. She shut her eyes, ignoring what she truly wanted to ask because she couldn’t bear the truth of it.

“How did you lose your eye?”

Lucien stiffened.

Elain was instantly flooded with guilt. “I’m sorry. It is surely a painful memory—let me ask something else.”

“No, it’s okay.” His voice had taken on a solemn quality that chilled her bones, even as Lucien’s arms tightened around her. “As you can imagine, it’s not a happy story.” He cleared his throat. “Before I reached maturity, one of my brothers had an illegitimate child with a commoner woman. As a result, my father forbade us from having any relationships outside of the matches he explicitly approved. All of my brothers broke the rules—quite frequently, I might add—but I was the only one who got caught. And my father decided to make an example of me. He took my eye and left half of my face scarred so that I would be… less desirable. I can’t say if it had that effect, but it kept me in line and coaxed me down the aisle, so he got what he wanted in the end.”

Elain’s stomach knotted. Not only had Lucien been given no choice in their betrothal, but he had been punished, severely, for seeking any other match for himself. No wonder he resented her, this marriage. She winced, recalling the accusations she’d hurled at him on their wedding day.

“Lucien—”

He was quick to press his lips to her neck like he might temper her horror with gentle touches. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel any guilt. This happened well before I was betrothed to Elain Archeron. Though I hope you might forgive me that I was too stubborn to court you properly before our wedding. And that I acted in haste trying to separate our lives.”

There were no words to fully express the deep, abysmal horror caving open inside her. She only managed a weak, “When did this happen?”

“Over a year ago now. My father gifted me this palace shortly after as an apology, though I think he simply grew tired of witnessing everyone’s sympathy. It might be the closest he’s ever come to remorse.”

Elain had guessed that King Beron was cruel, but she hadn’t known the depths. She thought of the Queen’s sunken eyes and the way Lucien’s hand trembled standing before him. How Vassa kept her voice low, always cautious of listening ears. For a man whom she had never seen step foot in this home, he haunted every corner.

“He’s a monster,” she whispered.

“He is.”

And this was their King. Her father-in-law, the man who would grandfather any of their future children. Elain pressed a hand to her stomach, contemplating if her desire to be a mother was worth one day exposing their child to Beron Vanserra. The thought of him holding their baby, knowing what cruelties he’d exacted on his own son…

Lucien’s hand fell over Elain’s, intertwining their fingers. “I am doing what I can to keep him away from you. Once tensions settle in the North, he’ll fix his interest elsewhere.”

“And if they don’t?” She struggled to stay her rising panic. “If Rhodes and the Eastern Kingdom go to war?”

“Then I pray my father will see no further use for you and Nesta as pawns. And that he’ll leave you in peace while I go off to fight.”

Then, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t become his hostage. Especially with Lucien gone, sent away to lead some war camp on the other side of the Kingdom. Would she ever see him again if that happened?

Lucien added soothingly, “Eris is convinced this conflict will resolve without war.”

She thought of his eldest brother’s cutting gaze, so similar in nature to Nesta’s icy stare. But where Nesta was all cold temper, borne from feeling too much, there was an underlying ruthlessness to Eris that caused Elain to suspect he felt very little for very few.

“And you trust Eris?”

Lucien huffed, not quite a laugh. “I trust that Eris will act in his own best interest. This war will serve nothing but Beron’s pride.”

“I hope you’re right.”

His voice was little more than a whisper. “I hope I’m right, too. And if I’m wrong, I’ll find a way to get you out. Maybe back to Carterhaugh or—somewhere else.”

Fleeing the Kingdom while Lucien stayed behind to fight a war? As the Lady of the estate, it would be disgraceful, even if she risked becoming a hostage in the dispute. But the way Lucien’s voice wavered gave her pause.

“Where else were you thinking?”

Lucien was quiet for a long minute. Then he said, “Before I left on my trip, you asked me what I would do if your True Love demanded I give you to him. I asked if you would want to go, and you didn’t give me an answer.”

“I-Is that—” Elain, tripping over her tongue, stopped for a moment to compose herself. She forced her voice not to wobble despite how the thundering in her chest tried to shake her. “Is that the secret you want in exchange?”

“No,” Lucien said, too quickly. Like he couldn’t bear the answer. “No, it’s just—It occurred to me that there is a true love somewhere, searching for you. And if everything here went to shit, I could take you to him and trust that he would look after you. He could give my wife a chance at happiness where I have failed.”

She twisted to face him. It was dim in the bedroom, but the hearth cast enough light to see his face. His cheeks, smooth and scarred and dusted with dark freckles. She raised her hands, drawing the backs of her fingers along both cheekbones. Those beautiful eyes watched her beneath pinched, wary brows. Her fingers curled beneath his strong jaw, and she rose to kiss each side of his face.

A pleased, startled noise kindled in the back of Lucien’s throat.

Elain held his gaze, saying with every ounce of her conviction, “You have not failed, Lucien.”

She could see him fighting the urge to add yet. He had not failed her yet. Elain didn’t want to press him on what he feared this conflict would bring, why he felt it would be necessary to smuggle her out of the Kingdom if war truly did break on the horizon.

Forcing lightness into her voice, Elain teased, “And how do you know that you aren’t my True Love? You could be delivering me to yourself, for all you know.”

But she knew. And she was a wretch for pretending she didn’t, but it was a nice thought. Lucien and her True Love, the same person. It would spare her the guilt of betraying her husband before their wedding while painting him as some callous monster.

Elain brushed her thumb over the pulse in Lucien’s neck, faint with a rhythm so familiar she could have sworn she’d listened to it all her life. As if all along, they’d been tied together by a thread that spanned the ever-changing distance between them. And their hearts were the expert musicians, plucking a song that could only be heard on the other end, through Autumn and Spring and the vast stone walls of the Archeron manor. She’d heard his song even before she’d had any awareness of him. She could hear it now.

And she knew what her heart, swelling in answer, was telling her, even if magic—if fate—said differently. Her heart beat more surely than a butterfly’s wing, anyway.

Lucien’s voice was strained. “I doubt the Mother would look upon me so favorably. I’ve done nothing to deserve a wife as lovely as you.”

“Nor I a husband so insufferable,” she said, hoping to draw out his smile.

His lips twitched. The world’s smallest victory. He leaned forward to brush a soft kiss against her forehead. “Sleep, wife, and I’ll endeavor to be less insufferable tomorrow.”

“But you didn’t ask me for a secret in exchange.”

“Another time,” he said, shutting his eyes decidedly. But he didn’t withdraw.

His lips were still pressed to her forehead when his breathing leveled out. And Elain, content in knowing he wouldn’t be sneaking away once she was asleep, allowed the warm darkness to slowly overtake her.

Falling asleep in Lucien’s arms was a perilous thing.

Elain knew just this once would be an excruciating promise the next time she tried to fall asleep and there would be no warm, sturdy arms to wrap herself in. She’d expected that by morning, she would wake to cold sheets and a deserted bed, her husband long retreated back to his own side of the palace as they had agreed upon the day they were married.

She wasn’t expecting the slow waking of lips against her neck. A nose, dragging behind her ear and burying in her hair like he was trying to memorize its scent. Elain made a soft, sleep-contended noise and turned her head to bury deeper in that warmth. His laugh rumbled against her cheek. She felt his arms tighten, readjusting to curve his body around her. The hearth had died in the night, but the morning chill was somewhere far away, a concern only for the maidens who weren’t presently cocooned by their husbands.

Elain hummed, her sleep-addled brain taunting her as she thought, this is how it feels to wake in the arms of someone you love.

Lucien kissed her again, this time on the crown of her head. He must have thought he could get away with more while she was asleep because those were his fingers lovingly tracing the shape of her spine. Warm, like all of the rest of him was.

She wanted to luxuriate in this moment for eternity.

A knock on the door reminded Elain that the Mother and her Cauldron would never be so generous. With a noise that sounded decidedly like a grumble, Lucien pulled away from Elain. Cold air invaded the space he left, persistent against the protest that rose in her throat. Even as she pulled the blankets back around her, the cold stayed, an unwelcome reminder that their evening of bliss had finally ended.

And Lucien was again the husband who wanted nothing to do with his wife.

At least he was a naked husband who wanted nothing to do with his wife.

Elain peeled her eyes into the bleary morning and found that the sight of his firm, rounded backside eased some of her disappointment. Lucien had nothing to cover himself, which was ever so fortunate for her, though less fortunate for the poor servant on the other side of the door.

Lucien cracked the door just enough to peer through the slim opening, shielding the worst of his indecency.

“Clothes for you, Your Highness,” came Vassa’s response. The dry humor to her voice caused Elain to duck her face into the blankets, hiding her laughter from Lucien lest he think it was at his expense.

If he heard, he didn’t glance over his shoulder to see what had tickled Elain. He merely extended a hand to accept the clothes and nodded to the lady. “Thank you, Vassa.”

He began to shut the door, but she hovered.

“Shall I have the cooks prepare a breakfast to be served in Her Highness’s room?”

There was a question behind the question, one which carried more weight than perhaps Lucien understood: will you be staying to dine with your wife?

At this, Lucien paused. Paused as if he did understand the significance. That here, now, he’d be setting a precedent for what came after these attempts to produce an heir. He could stay, could allow them to connect their hearts just as much as their bodies.

Or he could leave. And with something so simple as passing through a doorway, the memory of all those fervent touches would be caught and tangled in that infernal net, and the evening prior, which had meant so much to Elain, would be reduced to little more than a fulfilled obligation.

The floorboards creaked beneath her weight. Elain hadn’t meant to get out of bed. In truth, she’d wanted to preserve what precious warmth remained of their night together before the phantom heat of his body became only a memory. But her body acted of its own accord, and the old wood groaned loud enough to turn Lucien’s head.

Elain had not drawn anything to cover herself. Her skin prickled in protest at the sudden exposure to cold air. She felt her nipples harden and resisted the urge to cover them up, particularly as Lucien’s gaze dipped, shameless in raking his eyes over the sight of her body in the full light of day. Was it less alluring without the flickering candlelight, the golden fire?

It didn’t appear that way.

Indeed, there was nothing covering Lucien either, and she was able to witness precisely how her naked body impacted him. And maybe, in a fair bit of turnabout, Elain let her eyes wander, too. To the swelling arousal between his legs.

No wonder she felt sore.

“Your Highness?” Vassa asked, oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the door.

Elain tried not to squeak at the thought that only a plank of wood separated her friend and her fully erect husband. Lucien didn’t seem to mind or care. He was simply staring at her, not trying to hide the longing in his expression.

“Sorry,” Lucien answered distractedly, still not taking his eyes off Elain. “What did you… Was there a question, Vassa?”

“Would you like me to bring your breakfast to Her Highness’s quarters?”

From the look on his face, if he stayed, Elain had a feeling that she would be the breakfast.

After a long moment of consideration, Lucien’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “Bring it to my study. I’ve much to catch up on in my absence.”

There was a small pause in which Elain imagined Vassa bowing her acknowledgment. Her tone was more frigid than usual as she said, “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Vassa’s footsteps retreated down the hall. Lucien shut the door.

He hovered there, forehead pressed against the wood. Like he wasn’t prepared to face the fallout of his decision, the devastation she knew was plain on her face. She wouldn’t let him. By the time he turned around, Elain had slipped on the perfect mask of a lady. She was halfway to the armoire as if all that preoccupied her mind was what clothes she might wear today. It likely wouldn’t wound him to think she was indifferent to his answer, but at least she’d be spared the embarrassment of mistaking his desire for affection.

Neither of them made an effort to chase away the silence as they dressed on their respective sides of the room.

She thought he might even leave without saying goodbye, but Lucien paused with his fingers curled around the ornate door handle. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and turned to stride across the room. Towards her. Elain froze midway through buttoning her bodice, worried now that she’d upset him in her refusal to speak. Even as he stopped in front of her, she said nothing, hesitant to guess at his motives.

He lifted his hand, and Elain stood perfectly still as it glided over her cheek, so warm in contrast to the air pressing around them that she couldn’t suppress her shiver. He stopped with his fingers captive in her hair. Even Elain’s pride couldn’t keep her chin from tilting up when he leaned down.

Nothing—not silk, or flower petals, or the whisper of a butterfly’s wings—was softer than the press of Lucien’s lips against her forehead. He lingered there, allowing her to carve the sensation into her memory. The heat of his breath brushed over the crown of her head, the fingers curling into her neck. As if his body and mind were at war, half wanting to stay and the other half desperate to go.

She imagined it must be awful to desire someone he didn’t love. How conflicted his heart must be. One eye of russet that saw her for who she was—his wife, a woman with no greater control than he, who was struggling to make the most of their situation. And one eye of gold that must surely gaze upon her and see his injustices made flesh—a woman who caused him misery, who served as a lifelong reminder that he served the will of a tyrant.

Though it was painful to love and not be loved in return, Elain thought she preferred it this way. Love had always been something she expressed outward. First, with her sisters, with what ways she could find to bring a smile to their faces. Then, with her plants, where she learned to nurture the soil until the flowerbeds bloomed. She would not know what to do if the warmth in her chest went hollow and there was none left to extend to the world around her.

And she pitied her husband. Because she sensed he had never been treated with very much love and perhaps had never truly learned how to extend or accept it. He’d believed, possibly all his life, that even his marriage was to be loveless. They were so different in that regard. Even as he pulled away without meeting her eyes, Elain let herself hope that a day would come when he wouldn’t need to leave her bedroom on such a somber note.

For now, it brought her peace to know that their marriage would not be loveless, so long as she loved him. A small part of her delighted in proving him wrong that way.

Elain stared blankly down the long dining room table.

It was longer than any table her family possessed at the Archeron manor, equipped to fit as many as two dozen guests. She tried to imagine the clinking glasses and laughter that bubbled as readily as flowing wine, but all she could see were the countless empty chairs. Had such a thing ever existed in this palace? It was clear that the ballrooms and banquet tables had been constructed with lavish parties in mind. This was a place that was designed to be filled with music and dancing. Life.

That seemed a laughable concept to Elain, who’d spent the better part of the week with only herself for company. Vassa checked in regularly with tea and cakes and idle conversation, but this was Elain’s honeymoon, and it was improper for Vassa to take up much of the time that should be spent with her husband.

Should.

“His Highness will be taking lunch in his study,” Vassa said. She did not try to hide her irritation.

Nor did Elain restrain her sigh. She had not expected differently. Lucien had taken every meal in his study for the last week. He claimed it was a consequence of being away for so long, but Elain suspected he was trying to reestablish the separate lives they’d promised to uphold. They’d started off on the wrong foot, with her fever and the exchanging letters. The lovemaking. She’d become too accustomed to their proximity.

Once your fever has passed and I have returned from my journey, I’ll see to it that this palace feels far from empty.

He’d promised that before she’d asked him for a baby. Before they’d made love. Elain thrummed her fingers against the wooden table, staring at the vacant seat her husband had occupied on the one and only occasion they’d dined together. Maybe she’d asked for too much.

“Do you know what he’s doing in there?”

Vassa shrugged. “Paperwork from the looks of it, Your Highness. And lots of reading.”

“He’s been in his study all this while?”

“I think he’s slept in there a few nights, if he’s even slept at all.”

What was he doing? Surely, his governing duties had not accumulated so significantly that they required his attention day and night.

Elain rose from her seat. “Tell the cooks not to fuss. My appetite is fragile this morning, and I’d much prefer to garden.”

The servants had been bemused to discover her love of gardening, but she had not met the resistance she’d encountered at the Archeron manor. Vassa merely insisted she wear a fur cape to ward off the Autumn chill, and the gardeners had been happy to supply her with the tools and seeds she needed.

The grounds of the estate were well cultivated with short grass and perfectly trimmed conical shrubs, but aside from the yellow and gold leaves decorating the forests in the distance, there was no color. Elain was determined to change that, and she’d been using this week of silence to dedicate her attention to the flowerbeds on the east side of the building.

Maybe she was hoping that Lucien would open his window and see her crouched below. And maybe within the flowerbeds, she was trying to quietly grow the courage to storm into his room and demand justification for his neglect.

An hour into gardening, Vassa appeared with a tray of tea and small finger sandwiches.

“You’re too doting,” Elain said, brushing the dirt from her hands before reaching for one of the steaming cups.

“Well, someone ought to dote on you.”

She said it loud enough that Elain glanced towards the open windows above, nervous that the words might have carried. She was certain Vassa had raised her voice intentionally.

“Thank you,” Elain said, meeting Vassa’s eyes so she could see the sincerity of her words. These days, it felt like Vassa was the only one keeping her sane. Nodding to the second cup of tea, Elain asked, “Will you be joining me for a moment?”

Vassa shook her head. “Oh, no, Lady. I thought you might be tired of my company, so I’ve brought an extra cup of tea, hoping to lure someone to join you. If not your husband, perhaps one of the handsome guards stationed by the door? I imagine one of them would be grateful for the warm tea and warmer company.”

At this, Elain laughed. “Do you think so? I found the one with auburn hair rather charming.”

“The guards have a job, you know,” came a voice from above. Both Vassa and Elain glanced up to see Lucien, forearms propped against the windowsill of his study. His hair was tied loosely off his face in a braid, exposing the full cut of his jaw. Elain was grateful for the distance between them so that he couldn’t hear her breath catch, though she still earned a raised brow from Vassa.

“And you, husband?” Elain called. “Do you not also have a job? I’ve heard it’s so demanding you have little time for anyone else these days. Yet here you are, idle at the window.”

Vassa pressed her lips together. “Speaking of jobs,” she said, “I must return to mine.”

With an apologetic—or perhaps encouraging—squeeze on the shoulder, Vassa fled back into the palace.

“My curiosity drew me away from my work,” Lucien said. “I wanted to know what my wife was up to while she spoke so discourteously about her own husband.”

Elain drew herself up and crossed her arms. “If you were listening as closely as you’re pretending, you would know I didn’t say a word against you.”

“Nor did you speak in my defense.”

“Well, a lady mustn’t lie,” she said primly. “And, in fact, it has been so long since I’ve engaged with my husband that I’ve forgotten his true nature.”

Ignoring the jab, Lucien nodded at the plants and the dirt on her hands. “What are you growing? You mustn’t forget this land rests in eternal Autumn. No spring will come to reward your efforts.”

Elain huffed. “You underestimate their tenacity. There are plenty of flowers that can bloom in Autumn.”

“Even with the chill?”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Do you anticipate that beauty thrives only where it meets no resistance?”

His lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Having met you, sweet wife, I’ve learned that beauty may thrive under any condition.”

“Even solitude,” she said.

That dealt the killing blow to his smile. His voice took on an edge as he said, “While these flowers may survive the Autumn, surely they do so in spite of the conditions. Would they not be happier in a more fertile land, one blessed with warmth and sunshine?”

Elain looked at the flowerbeds she’d spent a week tending. She shook her head at the arrogance. “No plant is the same, husband. Which is why you must learn about them to understand what they need.” She gestured to one section of the soil, which appeared to be little more than dirt at the moment but, in time, would be bright, blooming flowers. “It’s true that flowers like these asters and dahlias prefer warm weather, and they’ll bloom here despite the conditions. But here—” she pointed— “These violas will flower because of the cooler temperatures. Put them in a warmer climate, and you will be hindering their growth.”

There was a moment’s silence in which Lucien seemed to mull over this description, weighing how much of her words held a larger meaning. “How strange that a flower would require adverse conditions in order to grow.”

“It’s not strange at all,” Elain countered. “Steel tempers in flame, doesn’t it? And humans grow wiser with each new encounter, particularly the unpleasant ones. Nature is no different—it’s likely where we learned it from.”

“You have a curious mind, Elain,” he said, his voice softer now. More like the curling steam from her tea. “I’d like to know all your thoughts one day.”

Elain took a sip before she responded. “That would require spending time with me, Your Highness.”

He looked pained. She thought he might turn back into his window entirely, but he burst out— “Tomorrow?” She only raised her brows. He added, “You asked me once if we could look at the autumn leaves. We could go on a ride through the woods together.”

She was surprised he remembered. And though she wished he had sought her without Vassa’s taunting, it was progress.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

The next afternoon, Elain waited patiently for her husband to appear in the dining room. He hadn’t said he would join her for lunch, but she reasoned they would need to eat before setting off on their afternoon ride. The slightest sound from the hallway made her glance towards the doors, and though she coached herself not to seem too eager, she couldn’t help fiddling with the tablecloth while watching the entrance.

Finally, the dark mahogany wood swung open, and Elain was graced with company at last. Her smile faded once she saw that the arrival did not take the form of her husband but rather a scowling Vassa and a handwritten note which read,

My dear wife,

I’m afraid I am still held up in estate affairs and must postpone our ride.

I beg your patience for another tomorrow.

Your husband,

Lucien

Another tomorrow. She could see it now, their life made up of thousands of stagnant tomorrows, perpetually waiting for the one where Lucien would pity her enough to emerge from the eastern wing. She would not wait for another tomorrow.

“Pardon me, Vassa. I need to speak with my husband.”

Vassa flinched as Elain’s chair scraped back against the floor, but Elain marked approval in her fierce blue eyes. She bowed her head, stepping aside to allow Elain straight passage to the large double doors. From there, it was a matter of winding the halls back into the entryway, where the double-helix staircase stood proudly in the center.

Climbing the grand marble steps, she could admit that the staircase was an impressive feat of architecture, even as she fantasized about burning it to the ground. Besides being a tangible barrier in her relationship with her husband, she could not understand the practicality of a staircase that only connected to one side of the palace. It must have been a horrendous experience for the servants who had to climb to the bottom and back up any time they needed to move from one end of the palace to the other. But then, the architect likely hadn’t cared about the extra burden on the servants—the impracticality of the design was boastful in itself.

It did serve one purpose, however, and that was the slow kindling of Elain’s temper as she circled around and around, replaying all of her husband’s empty promises. That they would be friends, that the palace would feel less lonely on his return, that he would be present whenever she needed him. Up, up, up, she could feel her rage rising with every step, carrying her forward until she was before the door to his study.

Elain didn’t bother with knocking. She suspected he was up to something other than estate work, and she didn’t want to give him an opportunity to cover it up. Thankfully, a prince didn’t bother to lock the door. He expected that the respect of his servants was absolute and that his wife would accept his flimsy excuses with a meek smile and swallowed protests. Not any longer.

“Elain,” Lucien started, standing immediately from his chair. His russet eye was bloodshot. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” she repeated, fighting the instinct to raise her voice lest he dismiss her as hysteric. Her eyes flickered to his desk to see that it was littered with books upon books upon books. Many of them open, words scribbled in the margins and pages of notes scattered about.

What was he up to?

“What’s wrong,” she said through gritted teeth, “is that we have not spoken for a week, Lucien. And you dismissed me today with some meager note as though this is not supposed to be our honeymoon.”

Lucien opened his mouth, but before he could slip in some silver-tongued excuse, she pushed past him and surged for one of the books on the desk. The small black and white rendering of a butterfly made her heart sink, but what was worse were the words written beside it: How to contact your true love.

She looked towards him, not trying to contain her hurt. “I see.”

“You don’t,” he said stiffly, reaching for the book.

Elain reared back, holding it over her shoulder, though she knew he towered her in height and could take it from her with enough force. Lucien let his arm drop, saying nothing as she hopelessly glanced toward the other tomes on his desk. Spellbooks, all open to similar pages.

How to reveal a true love’s identity.

Locating a true love.

Magic and true love.

Her anger drained as quickly as it swelled, retreating like the tide from the shore.

“At last, the silence makes sense,” she said. Hardly more than a whisper. She shut her eyes. “If you are going to be taking a mistress—”

“I’m not,” Lucien said quickly. He stepped toward her, arms out like he didn’t trust she wouldn’t launch the heavy tome at his head. “Elain, I promise you—”

“I have had enough of your promises, Lucien!” Her voice cracked, and she dropped her head so he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes. She set the book back on his desk. “This has all made it plenty clear to me. My apologies for interrupting. I will return to my side of the palace, and you can keep to yours. Precisely the way you wished.”

Elain attempted to dodge around him, but Lucien stepped into her path. “I have not wished for any of this,” he said. She took a sharp breath, his words a knife in her chest. Lucien reached for her as if to offer comfort but stopped himself when she flinched. His eyes darkened, and his hand fell back to his side, fingers curling. “Elain, this is laughably far from what I wanted.”

“I know,” she said, more like an accusation than anything else. “You never wanted a wife and now you are shackled—”

“You are the one who is shackled.” He said it quietly, his voice so raw that her words dried on her tongue. Lucien ran a hand through his hair. “There are things about this universe that I will never fathom, Elain, and winding up married to you is one of them. This was supposed to be a punishment, a misery, and somehow, I’ve been gifted with the best of wives. And the only curse I can think of is that I’m to have this taste of happiness, and it will not be permanent. That you might be taken from me or worse.” He expelled the air from his chest in a dry, brittle laugh. “Or perhaps the torture of it is that I will be helpless in love while knowing that you loathe me, that I will forever stand in the way of your happiness.”

“I…” Elain blinked, looking again at the books on the desk. “Lucien, I don’t understand.”

“I think this is precisely what my father wanted,” he said, like that explained it all. He threw his hand out again, gesturing vaguely at her person. “He must have known that you would be lovely beyond comprehension. That you would bewitch me so thoroughly I would seek nothing more than your happiness. And that by trapping you in this marriage, that aim would be forever unattainable. Perhaps he wanted me to see myself in him. To understand how it feels to bear the resentment of a wife and watch her wither, knowing she would rather be anywhere else.” He followed her eyes to the desk, shaking his head. “I am not my father, Elain. I will not be my father.”

Love. He’d used the word love to describe his feelings for her, this marriage. Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she couldn’t let herself hope, not yet. “You want to know what has been making me unhappy, Lucien?” She ventured a step toward him. “That you have been in here. All I have wanted this last week was to see you, talk to you. You promised me that the palace would feel less lonely when you returned. So what happened? Did I—”

Don’t say it, she could hear Nesta warn. Don’t let him know how much his absence has wounded you. It will give him too much power.

Elain’s lip wobbled, and she decided she didn’t care if it exposed too much of her heart. She wanted him to understand it, understand her. Voice broken, she choked, “Did I do something wrong?”

She watched his throat bob, working past whatever truth clogged his throat. Then he said, “I saw the butterfly wings, Elain.”

Feeling as if he’d struck her, Elain stumbled back. She laid a hand on her chest like that might keep the pieces of her heart from shattering. “W-what?”

“Beneath your sink,” he said. “I found them the night we made love, and I knew immediately what they meant.”

It was dreadful to think of what Lucien might have concluded. He didn’t sound angry, at least. She sensed there was no threat of him raiding the lands for whichever man was having clandestine meetings with his wife. At least not imminently. But did he think she’d been seeing her True Love in her sleep all this time? Did he believe her claim of loneliness was a farce, that she was trying to make a fool of him?

Elain shook her head, trying to quell the anxious thoughts swelling around her. “Lucien, please, you must understand—”

“You don’t need to explain it to me.” Rolling up his sleeves, Lucien returned to his desk. “Given your circumstances, why wouldn’t you seek him out? You deserve that happiness, and I won’t stand in the way of it any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

He reached for one of the spell books, skimming through the pages. “I’ve been trying to find a way to contact him. Perhaps you and Nesta can flee with him to the North. I’m sure your sister will provide the three of you refuge.”

“Lucien—”

He continued speaking, mostly to himself. “My father will lose his bargaining chip, and our Kingdoms will likely go to war, but the majority of it will be fought on our lands. You should be safe in Rhysand’s kingdom.”

“Lucien.”

At last, he looked up. It was midday, but with the curtains drawn, it was dark enough in the room that he’d lit the golden sconces on the wall. Elain maneuvered herself between Lucien and the desk, intentionally blocking the books from his sight so that he was forced to focus solely on her. Candlelight flickered in his red-rimmed eyes as they met hers.

Elain set her shoulders the way she was taught a lady should. Despite her shaking hands, she managed to keep her speaking voice level and deliberately slow, so that the full weight of each word had a chance to settle on him. She said, “I will forgive you for making so many assumptions about what I want without once consulting me. But I need you to understand three things, Lucien Vanserra.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before continuing, waiting for him to nod his agreement that he would listen without interruption.

Once he did, she plucked one of the books from his desk and chucked it to the floor. “Firstly, I have no intention of fleeing these lands or this marriage. I’m insulted that you so greatly overestimate my cowardice. Did you think you married a woman who runs away when things get difficult?”

Lucien, wisely, shook his head.

“Secondly.” The next book, which was thicker and heavier, hit the ground with a satisfyingly large thud. Lucien spared the leather-bound tome a brief, mournful look before he snapped his attention back to Elain. “I’ll admit that I sought my true love before our wedding. I was anguished that we had not had a proper courtship, and in truth, I did it largely out of spite. But I have not contacted him since I arrived at this palace, nor do I have any intention to. Burn the wings for all I care. True Love alone is not enough to earn my affection.”

Those full, perfect lips parted like he intended to say something. She cut him off by sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, “Finally—”

“Elain.”

She threw another of the books to the floor.

“You will listen!” She snapped in the wake of its silencing echo. He shut his mouth. “Finally, Lucien, I need you to understand that it does not matter that you are not my True Love. You will never be your father. Because I do not resent you, I do not loathe you. In truth, I love you so desperately that even fate cannot shake my conviction. I love you despite all of your foolishness and all of my own. You are my husband, and you are the man I choose to walk alongside, even if that may only ever be in parallel.”

Lucien said nothing once she finished, but she could sense him tracking her every breath like he was waiting for her to add something that would take it all back. His mechanical eye clicked as his gaze roamed from her eyes to her mouth, to her chest heaving out of her tightly laced corset. And finally, to the carnage she’d wrought on his study. The ancient—and likely valuable—books were tossed carelessly about, some of the spines likely now damaged, the pages folded over.

He offered her a sly smile. “Am I permitted to speak now, Your Highness?”

Just like that, all of the tension eased out of her. A small, astonished laugh bubbled out of her throat. “Only if you say nothing foolish.”

“In that case, it’s advisable I remain silent.”

Words weren’t required, anyhow. The way he reached for her hand and drew it carefully to his lips said enough. That soft kiss against her knuckles was a silent apology. The second, an admission that unfurled something warm in her chest.

“I have been a fool,” he conceded, bowing his forehead to the back of her knuckles. “I have been a fool helplessly in love with his wife. And you have been so patient with me.”

Elain winced. “I did wreck your study.”

“It was in need of redecorating,” he said, tugging gently on her arm now, trying to guide her into his lap. She obliged, perching herself delicately across his knees. One of his hands moved to brace her hip while the other raised to her chin, drawing her face down towards his. “You love me?” he said like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I love you.” She leaned down to kiss him, stroking a hand through his hair. His body was shaking. “But no more silence, please. I cannot bear it.”

“Consider it done,” he said.

“And the agreement we made on our wedding day, that we should live our lives separately?”

Lucien pressed his forehead into her chest, inhaling deeply before saying, “I am happy to cast it out of my memory for eternity. You can move into my bedroom in the east wing, or I can move to yours in the west. Or we can maintain separate bedrooms if you please, but I’d like us to at least be on the same side of the staircase.”

“And our meals,” Elain said. “We take them together from now on.”

“Happily. Our baths, too, if you’d oblige me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he laughed.

“You’ll forgive me for trying my luck.” He kissed her shoulder. “There is one agreement, though, I’d like to keep if you’re willing.”

Elain felt wary at the suggestion. “Which agreement is that?”

She could feel the wicked grin spreading across his lips. His voice dipped low. “I’d like to continue our attempts to conceive if that still sounds agreeable to you.”

Oh. Elain felt something heat in her gut. She lowered her voice, too, to remind him, “It’s been over a week since our last attempt.”

He hummed against her skin. “Something I think we should rectify.”

With a grin, Lucien withdrew far enough to reach an arm around her body and swipe the remaining books off his desk. Then he lifted her so that she was sitting atop the wooden surface, his body wedged between her legs.

“I believe the study will do nicely,” he said. “What do you think, wife?”

Elain reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, the top button already loosened by the time she said, “I think it’s a good thing someone relocated all of your books.”

#A Blaze in the Dark #Elucien #Elucien fic #Elucien fanfic #Elucien fanfiction #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain

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