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somnambulic-thing · 11 months

Text

This fic is part I of my come as you are universe but can be read as a standalone.

Series Masterlist

greedy Eddie Munson x gn!best friend reader, early 20s, E 18+

Words: 1.8k

| best friends to lovers, fluff, finger sucking, light biting, Eddie comes in his pants, get together, silly and a little cheesy, not proofread |

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“You need something?”

“Huh?” you look up from your book and right into Eddie’s eyes staring at you over the edge of his mattress the way a nosey neighbour might lurk over a garden fence. You’d been so lost in your thoughts about Eddie that you hadn’t noticed him abandoning his own book to creep up close to you. You, spread out your stomach on his sheets. Eddie, perched on his carpet in increasingly uncomfortable-looking positions as the evening progresses, but never more than an arm’s length away. You always could just reach out and give his hair a thorough ruffling whenever you felt like it.

That’s just how it was, just one of the many shapes your togetherness takes. Rituals established and refined over years. You share the bed during movie nights, or when one of you is reading out loud to the other and you settle down on the armchair without even thinking about it the second Eddie picks up one of his guitars to play for you, leaving the bed to him.

“Ah, finally I caught your attention,” he says, muffled by the mattress, his fingers slowly creeping over the edge. It’s adorable.

“What did you say?” you mumble and snap your book close as if the pages could somehow give away that you had been only pretending to read the whole time. He would see smouldering holes with charred edges where your intense stare had lingered and ask you why your brain was producing such intense heat that you ruined the copy of Howl’s Moving Castle he got you for your unbirthday only a week ago.

His brows draw slightly together. His fingers curl to grab the sheets and then he’s dramatically and labourously pulling himself up like he’s climbing a cliff in a storm, huffing and groaning.

“You need any help?” you chuckle; an insufficient expression for the unbridled affection you harbour for this silly man.

“No… no… almost— ahhh.” Chest now flat on the mattress, back bend in one of those ways that made you certain there wasn’t one solid bone in Eddie Munson’s body. He crosses his arms on the mattress and rests his chin on top of his wrist, so close now you could just dip down to press your lips to his forehead.

He smiles up at you. “Book s’ good then?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?” he mocks you. “You haven’t reacted to a thing I said in the past twenty minutes so I assumed the story must be really captivating.”

“Oh!”

“Stop that!” you huff in faux exasperation, tapping that very kissable-looking spot of forehead lurking through his messy bangs with your index finger.

With an eerie speed, Eddie grabs your finger in his fist. You watch in slow motion as he opens his mouth wide and guides your hand closer and closer, large dark eyes fixed on you, daring and full of mischief.

The routine would be to struggle. To say: no, Eddie, bad Eddie! Maybe shove him a little, maybe curse his ass, have a little wrestle, have him breathing hot against your neck as he tries to pin you down; it’s tempting. So tempting. But you don’t.

You just watch, mesmerized, how your finger slowly disappears inside his mouth, almost two digits deep, watch his lips pull back from his teeth, his jaws close.

He’s gentle, not biting to hurt, just playfully chomping down a few times.

Does his heart pound as fast as yours? Does he know what he’s doing to you?

You want to push in deeper, long for his lips to close around you, to suck you in.

He is hiding his tongue from you and that won’t do.

“Careful,” you say with a grin, “could be poisonous.”

And, oh, how willingly he takes the bate.

The soft, wet tip finds the pad of your finger, slides back and forth over and over while the corners of his mouth twitch wickedly. The routine would be to say: gross, Eddie, eeew Eddie and to free yourself from his hold and coat his cheek in a thick stripe of saliva in revenge, feel him shiver when you blow cool air against his wet skin. But you don’t.

Because this is perfect.

And maybe this was how your problem solved itself. It has been weeks of wracking your brain on how to figure out if Eddie too craved to deepen your friendship the way you did without ruining everything in case he didn’t, but maybe the solution was simply to stick your finger into his mouth and give him free rein over it.

“Gnophe!” he mumbles and shakes his head. His teeth clamp down just a little bit harder.

“No?” you ask softly, “You feel good?”

Eddie nods and as if wasn’t obscene already, the way he looks up at you through his lashes, big eyes playful and excited, the eagerness of the gesture only amplifies the spectacle in front of you.

“No weird tingling? No? Or hot flashes?” He sets to shake his head but doesn't follow through. Instead, his eyes widen for a split second; if you had blinked at that moment, you’d have missed it. You can feel the sheet under you being pulled taut, you follow the movement to Eddie’s hand still resting on the bed, twisting the fabric in a clenched fist.

“Because,” you work hard to keep your breath steady, “your cheeks are so very red, Eddie.”

He swallows loudly. The action forces his lips to close around your knuckle, cool and wet, and your mind goes blank.

“Fuck,” you moan softly.

His fingers around your hand twitch, his eyes flutter and then shut. You press your thighs together and your hips into the mattress, mourning the absence of his gaze and before you know what you’re doing, the knuckle of your middle finger nudges his bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. Eddie groans; a long stretched noise fading out into a high-pitched sound you’d almost call whiny. The pressure of his teeth disappears and his tongue darts out, nudging guiding sweeping your middle finger into his mouth as well. Eddie hums, running the tip of his tongue along the groove between them.

“Look at me.”

Beneath you, on the floor, on his knees, with your fingers in his mouth, Eddie opens his eyes and with that, tells you everything you need to know and more than you hoped for.

You push in deeper, just slightly past the second joint and Eddie sucks in his cheeks, trapping you in the wet heat of his mouth.

“You like that?”

The nod is slow, almost heavy. Saliva collects at the corners of his mouth.

Lifting your hips, you pull your knees under your stomach and start to sit up. Eddie sucks you in harder, brows drooping as if in worry you could end this now.

“Shit, you’re adorable when you’re greedy,” you say and come to sit on the edge of the bed. Eddie moves with you, eyes fixed on your face. He swallows again hard when you settle with your knees apart and pressed into his sides. Large hands settle on your thighs, squeezing softly, then running up up up until they find your hips to hold on to.

Your heart races with the new shape your togetherness is forming, with the trust and longing in Eddie’s eyes. Your free hand cups his cheek and he leans into the touch, sighing softly. It’s perfect.

Then the suction is gone, you draw back just slightly and his tongue prods the edge of your palm.

“You want more?”

A moan.

“You sure?”

A moan and a nod and your insides catch fire. You slide a third finger into his mouth and revel in the smooth slide of his tongue between them, the way he’s drooling for and around you. He bites down a few times, mostly soft but testing you with harder chomps in between. Your other hand winds into his hair at the back of his head, testing him with soft scratches, soft pulls and a few firm tugs in between. He likes those, moans and slides his fingertips under the hem of your shirt, digging into your skin, holding on tight; he’s vibrating.

“Look at you,” you breathe and lean in close, pressing a kiss to his hollowed cheek, to his jaw, close to his ear. “You look so much better like this than I could have ever imagined.”

Teeth clamp down, the sting is delicious. Eddie moans, hips twitching between your knees.

“What pretty things you can do with this big beautiful mouth.”

Eddie draws his head back, releasing your fingers all at once and slumps against you. You embrace him, welcome him where he belongs now. His face is pressed to your neck, hands finding your back under your shirt, nails digging in.

“Keep talking, please,” he groans against your skin and licks a dripping stripe along your throat. “Taste so good… please…”

“Fuck,” you drawl out, overwhelmed and buzzing, desperately rolling your hips against his stomach. “Wanna know what else y-you can do with that mouth, can think of something sweet for that clever tongue to taste—“

“H’lly shiii—“ he nearly pushes you over, jerking and twitching in your arms. You feel teeth grazing your neck, then he’s sucking on your skin and it stings he’s sucking so hard. It lasts a little longer until he stills and goes slack in your arms, breathing heavily. You’re dizzy and hot and you want to have him twitch and writhe for you again. You want to see his face when he does.

“Just…” he pants into your shoulder, pulls your collar aside and kisses it. “Just wanted to know if you needed something from the kitchen…”

You laugh and scratch his neck, desperate to feel him shiver again. He does.

“Did… you just—“

“Fucking come into my pants? Yepp… Was that unclear?”

“Just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Minx.” Eddie draws back, cups your face with both hands and kisses you. His lips are wet and swollen from sucking on your fingers and the moan escaping you vibrates hard against his mouth. Eddie’s tongue pushes past your lips to lick into you. He’s sloppy and excited, nibbling on your lips, licking your teeth, smiling and moaning and he’s just perfect.

“That a good time to tell you that I’m in love with you?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.

“Oh yeah,” you laugh softly.

“Yeah? Cool,” his warm hands run up your sides. “Because I’m ridiculously in love with you, sweetheart.”

“Got a pretty bad case for you as well—“

“Nuh-uh…,” he pulls back to look at you, smirking. “Say it.”

“I’m in love with you, Eddie Munson.”

He wiggles his head and laughs, mouth wide open and baring teeth. The hands on your back slide down and straight to the waistband of your pants. You almost slip off the bed when he hooks his fingers in and pulls.

“Jesus, you’re eager.”

“Greedy,” he says nervously, blushing, but with so much determination. “And you promised me something sweet.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #my fic

2K notes · View notes

bambi-slxt · 15 days

Text

🤍𝐈 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠🤍

𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕨 𝕤𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕝𝕠

word count: 1.5k

genres: n/a

warnings: mentions of depression medication and mental health, male masturbation

notes from bambi: here you go!

Matt did see everything. He liked to lurk in the triplet’s fandom spaces, and when his mental health was good, he even found it kinda fun, though he would never reveal this aloud. He definitely enjoyed watching those same spaces work themselves into a tizzy at his knowledge admittance–these kids were so funny. So it came as no surprise to him when the Tumblr TikTok video showed up on his feed.

Matt hadn’t had a good night. He’d tried to jerk off earlier, all to no avail. His antidepressants were helpful for his mood and overall outlook on life but goddamn did they make it hard to masturbate. With a snarl, he had pulled up his boxers and opened TikTok. That was over an hour ago, and now Matt scrolled aimlessly on his private account. He was quite proud of it actually. He disguised it as some random fanpage and had made it a personal mission that week to reblog a few videos about himself. No one would know, and he was nothing if not a Matt girl.

The video on his Following page was formatted simply–a girl in her room, as most of them were, and he saw it was one of his favorite fan accounts. She always had good takes and the drama in her comment section kept him incredibly entertained. She was expressing her fear at his now-infamous “I see everything” line, and with a chuckle, he pressed the heart icon, preparing to scroll away. In his sleepy haze, he missed, hitting the comment bubble instead. What he saw made his head tilt.

user

oh ik the tumblr girlies shakin rn

user

LMAOOOO REAL

user

i’m so lost 😭😭😭

user

tumblr can’t be worse than here

user

wait what’s on tumbler?

see all 63 replies៴

user

bro does NOT see everything, he’d be traumatized

see all 12 replies៴

user

@ user WHEN I SAW THAT I SCREAMED

user

you guys are gonna make them quit if you keep doing ts

see all 241 replies៴

Matt rolled his eyes at that one. He knew it was a valid concern, but he also knew that there were prices to be paid for being famous, and he would take a few weird stories in exchange for the life of his literal dreams. And besides, he reasoned to himself, they were always so off-the-mark anyway that it didn’t even feel like he was reading about himself.

But back to the matter at hand. Matt had never even heard of Tumblr, so there couldn’t be that many triplet fan accounts on there, and he figured that after everything he’d seen on Twitter, he was ready for anything.

“Well this is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbled to himself, scrolling to the end of the “headcanon”, as it was called. Matt read the name of the “blogger” (he was learning so many new terms tonight) that posted it - some strange amalgamation of letters and numbers, with, of course, “sturniolo” tacked on to the end. Matt elected to keep his thoughts on the spelling to himself. “You’re weird for that. All of it.” He swiped out of the app, fully prepared to roll over, go to sleep, and forget all about it.

…

But what else did they get wrong about him? What did the rest of them think he did when he had sex? Matt figured he should check that “sturniolo triplet” hashtag one more time.

He sat up properly for this, sighing as he flicked on his bedside lamp. It illuminated his room, its soft light showcasing the woodsy decorations he’d furnished months ago. With a grimace, he opened the accursed app once more and began a deep dive.

It seemed the entire community centered around “smut” of him and Chris. He saw a few for Nick, a handful for Nate, all of which he scrolled past quickly, blinking them away. He wasn’t trying to dive that deep.

The first thing Matt noticed was that almost every story had a line of photos at the top, like a faux header. None of the images contained anything amiss–all were photos posted by him and his brothers throughout the years, pictures taken by fans at shows, and the like. No, the real stuff lay in the words. This was a community–he could tell that much from the amount of reposting–of very good writers. Many of their stories spanned thousands of words with multiple parts and real plots woven throughout. And there were a lot. It was dizzying. He adjusted himself.

There were stories for almost every situation, some even making him a drug dealer (though most writers seemed to think that out of anyone, it would be Chris, which he found hilarious due to the fact that Chris couldn’t tell a convincing lie if his life depended on it), a mafia boss, a father, a mechanic, or simply just a doting boyfriend. Some wrote him as a harsh, domineering man, quick to take his bratty girlfriend to task. Some wrote him as a needy submissive individual, and the words they used made his head spin. Matt adjusted himself again. His dick didn’t normally bother him this much. Maybe he needed new boxers.

Matt himself only had a bit of experience in the wide world of sex. He knew there were some wild kinks out there, but he found he was never much interested in watching that kind of porn, and he’d only been with a few girls his entire life, none of whom had ever asked him to perform such tasks on them, so he really didn’t know what he liked and didn’t like. As he lay in his bed, his lamp casting fuzzy shadows over his room, Matt couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

They think I’m capable of actually…spanking someone? Am I? If she wanted it, I guess…Apparently I’m some sort of sex god, super posessive, I have a breeding kink, whatever the fuck that means, and Chris and I fight over girls a lot. To him, that was the most unrealistic–he and Chris had wildly different types.

The sheer amount of stories depicting him absolutely rearranging the guts of the reader or y/n (he still had no idea what that meant) made his brain short-circuit, and he tried to tap out of the one currently pulled up. But alas, Matt still had no idea how Tumblr worked–the images below every story just took him deeper, and it was one of those images that he misguidedly clicked on, an innocuous lilac purple, covered in sparkles. Seems harmless enough.

As Matt tapped around, trying to get back, he found himself on another account and thoroughly lost. An underlined word in the first post caught his attention–concepts. Subtitled below were the words, “short headcanons about the triplets! both sfw and nsfw”. He tilted his head. ‘Sfw’? What does that mean? A quick Google search quieted his questioning. Surely a “safe-for-work” headcanon would be fine to read. He tapped the link, and it directed him to a simpler page, one organized using just his name and Chris’s, each one with links below them. His thumb hovered over one near the top, its title mildly intriguing–“soft!dom!matt”.

Then he paused. Was he really doing this? His dick began to throb. He should have just left the whole thing alone, but now…well, now he had to know.

Five words in and he was pumping his rock-hard cock in his hand. Matt’s neck strained, his left thumb shaking as he tried to scroll to read more. Such a short piece of fiction and yet…

His stomach began to tie itself into knots. The more he read, the more he panted. His whole pelvic region felt tingly and his cock was so warm in his hand, and getting warmer by the second. This was different than anything he’d ever jerked off to before–this wasn’t a video, or even a naughty selfie from a girlfriend. This was pure porn, about him bringing some unnamed girl to completion over and over again. Matt didn’t even know that was possible. The unnamed girl couldn’t even handle his cock, that’s how tight she was-

The moment he realized this fact, his nuts clenched and he spurted cum all the way up to his chest. Pumping furiously, even raising his hips into his hand, he continued his explosive orgasm, letting out breathy groans as he did so. His chest heaved with heavy breath, and Matt felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes from how hard he’d just finished. He collapsed on his bed, sheets askew, pillows rearranged, staring blankly at the ceiling.

And then Matt realized which head had been doing all his thinking for him this entire time. Letting his now-limp dick flop to the side, he let out one more gasp of air. “That was weird,” he said aloud into the empty room. “Never doing that again.”

notes from bambi: i referenced my own work because it didn’t feel right to use anyone else’s without their consent, and i wanted to put this out today, not because i think my writing is better than anyone else's or because i think matt would prefer mine over yours. remember that it’s all just fiction and we write for fun. i hope you all enjoyed!

request to be on the taglist under this post right here

tags: @pinksturniolo @malirosee @st7rnioioss @nonat-111 @cindylcuwho @evie-sturns @h3arts4harry @fanficsbymia @dazednmatthews @sturniolo-rat @mattsmad @sturniolo04 @bellasturn @blahbel668 @yomamaslays4lyfe @stasiesturn @pleasantlycrazyworld @ariqolyx @wh0resstuff @krissy4gov @coochiedestroyer1 @madisturn @mattspolitank @sturnsxplr-25 @xtravrgnoliveoil @raysmayhem-72 @sturnpooks @certifiedstarrr @melanch0lybby @freshloveforthefit @xoxo4chrisss @stunza @meerkatzthings @zivall @sturniolopepsi @that1fangirll @wh0schl0 @sharksworldd @mattscoquette @chrisslutx @sturnzsblog @solarsturniolo

#the sturniolos #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #the sturniolos smut #sturniolo triplets smut #the sturniolo triplets smut #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic smut #matthew sturniolo fanfic smut #bambi slxt

346 notes · View notes

fan-goddess · 1 year

Note

Helloooo love! I'm a fan lurking in the dark with a request idea for Aemond x Reader. Would love to see your take on Aemond trying to win Reader back (his wife) after she found out about Alys. Maybe this happens after the "Dance" , Aemond survives and they have to deal with the aftermath of Alys. Reader loved him with everything she had so she feels betrayed and turns cold to him and maybe because of Alys, something also happened to her (idk lost pregnancy perhaps but PLEASE exclude this if you don't feel comfortable writing it). Basically take everything you find interesting from this request and work your magic - I trust you like no other!!! Thank you I send you all the love there is - you are very very talented and please know there are many like me that think you are truly brilliant, I know it!!! :*:*

Authors Note: Oh my god thank you this is so freakin sweet! 🥺 I’m happy to take the request and spin my take on this, hope you enjoy it! :)

Also, some of the stuff Is made up like the time between Daemons death and end of the war. I don’t know it so I made it up. If you don’t like it take it up with my dms

Word count: 2.6K

Warnings: Cheating, miscarriage though it’s not explicit, she’s kinda depressed? Not sure how to describe it,

Taglist: @blue-serendipity

The Sequels: The Depressive one, The happy One

—————

If Aemond ever regretting not killing anyone throughout the war he technically started, most would’ve immediately assumed that he wished he never killed his nephew. Though they were wrong. Yes, Lucerys’ death became one of the many causes of the war and in turn deaths of so many people, but his death didn’t result in the loss of you and your child.

Alys’ death could’ve though.

When he first met Alys, he had been nearly immediately enraptured and enamoured by had. She was quite different to you. While you had always been headstrong and never afraid to tell Aemond what he needed to do or to be, Alys had been more docile and had no issue in telling Aemond all the things he wanted to hear.

He regretted the first time he laid with Alys in his bed. Though that regret went away the more time he spent with her and the more times he laid with her. He begun to think of possibly taking after Aegon the conqueror, thinking he’d have both you and Alys by his side when Aegon most likely drank himself to death.

That fantasy was soon ruined when he got that letter.

Dear Aemond,

Do you think of me as a fool? I know about that fucking woman Aemond. I know about Alys. I don’t know why you have decided to betray our marriage and honestly, I don’t think care I can bring myself to think about it nor care anymore. This letter was originally going to be happy. A letter letting you know what we prayed near everyday from the seven had finally come true and been answered. I was with child. Our child made purely of what I had thought was love. Though that changed when I was informed of what you had done. I mourned for what we could’ve had. I cried and refused to believe it at first, though soon I came to my senses. Yet it was too late. Our child is dead Aemond. I woke up a few days ago to heavy blood staining our bedsheets. The child was barely two months according to the maester. I wish for you to know it is your fault Aemond. I do not wish to ever see you again. I wish to never hear from you so if you attempt to reconcile or send a letter I will pay for our child’s blood with your own. You have dug your grave Aemond. Don’t try and dig it deeper. If you are to die in battle, I hope it is painful. I hope you suffer like I have.

From, your wife

From your former wife

Aemond had felt his heart plummet to the floor when he read that letter. He could not stop the tears that fell to the floor and stained the letter he still was holding. The ink blotting and staining the page so much the words were becoming near illegible.

He attempted to head into battle with the faint hope that you’d forgive him if he killed his uncle. Though even he knew deep down that no amount of deaths could fix anything. Yet even still he tried. He defeated Daemon, with blood of which Targaryen man he did not know staining and pooling on his ripped armour.

Aemond came home where he was met with his mother and brother, who both congratulated him on his victory. Though even with their congrats he could see the disgust that lingered in his mothers gaze as she looked at him. It made his shame all that more prominent.

He would’ve gone to see you, but Aegon stopped him before he could, claiming he was holding a feast in his name for the defeat of Daemon. He tried to look for you in the amount of people that came, yet he couldn’t. And he didn’t dare ask his mother if you would be coming in fear of her glare and disappointment.

That night he wonders something. Maybe it would’ve been better if he did die by the hand of his uncle? Then it would’ve saved him from all this torture. Though he can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Aemond can only wallow in his drinks that he keeps being given and his own sorrow.

Aemond was back home. The words the maids said echoed in your head. He’s here, and no doubt going to attempt to reconcile. If there was one thing you ever learnt about your husband, was that he never quit at anything he started.

You already made bets with yourself on how he’d attempt to do it.

Maybe he’ll try flowers? No that’s too much of a common move for Aemond to pull… Maybe he’ll bring you some jewellery? No that’d make him feel like he was buying for your forgiveness. Like he was buying something for a mistress. Well… he’s been there and done that…

There is always the chance Aemond will not even attempt to reconcile. Hopefully becoming too overcome by the grief and pain of the loss of his and your child that he’d respect your wishes after reading your own pain on paper. The maids still look at you worriedly, especially when they find you sitting near the window. You know why they worry, you mourned Helaena and Jahaerys and you know you will not become like her.

Aegon was also the one who told you about Alys, and when you lost your child and screamed for the whole of the castle to hear, it was Aegon who ran to you to mourn with you and hold you while you cried for a life you may have been able to have. He held you in the way a brother would hold a sister. He even cried with you and helped clean you of the blood. Oh the blood…

———

It’s been a few long months, but the war between the greens and the blacks is finally over. Aegon is celebrating by holding a massive banquet and all the lord and ladies who supported him are invited. Even though Aemond knows it will not happen, he secretly hopes you will come to celebrate.

Though as he keeps sneaking glances at the door all night he eventually comes to term with the fact you’re not coming. He can only swallow more bitter wine and ignore the fact he’s drinking it like a fish in water now.

He’s attempted to reconcile from a distance ever since the incident but everything he has sent to your chambers has come back in shreds. The flowers from the garden you loved to look after, heads torn from their stems and cut into a thousand pieces. The books he sent on your favourite topic, you had more restraint on them and simply chucked them from your window onto unsuspecting bystanders bellow.

Aegon told him delightfully how after he delivered the books to you, they were seen immediately thrown from the window and one had supposedly managed to hit one knight straight on the head, effectively knocking him out cold.

Though if anything those small acts of defiance made Aemond wish to reunite and return to you even more. It reminded him just why he fell in love with you in the first place. Your wit and your wisdom made him fall head over heals for you, literally.

He had tripped in front of you and some other ladies of the court due to the load of books he was carrying. He had not yet gotten used to the visual impairments the loss of his eye provided and did not see the thrown goblet in his path. Aemond had effectively turned scarlet when the ladies began to mockingly giggle at him, it nearly made his heart beat straight from his chest when he saw you come to his help. “You need to get some help with those. It’s not that bad to ask for help you know? Means you aren’t a stubborn twat.” You grin.

He wished he could go back to those days. They were simpler. They held no knowledge of the war they would face. It held no knowledge of the bastard from Harrenhal.

Aemond had not tried to reunite with you in person. He knew you’d most definitely follow through with your threat and spill his blood. It’s why he attempted to send you items instead through the maids. Though it’s very obvious those weren’t working either. That’s when he got the idea to write you letters. There was easily a chance that you would burn them or tear them the moment you saw the writing. Yet even then Aemond knew he had to try…

———

“Princess. I have another item sent from the prince for you.” One of the maids said as she carefully approached your bed. The sun had already hit its peak that day, though you could not bring yourself to get out of bed. The only time you could bring yourself too was either with the help of your maids, or when Aemond sent a supposed gift to you which you’d immediately destroy.

“What is it this time?” You sigh. “Is it something that I am supposed to eat? Because if it is i’d like it if you took to the servants quarters and give it to them and not-“

“It’s not food related my princess. It’s a letter.” When you look towards the maid you can see the sad expression clear on her face. This maid has brought you many of Aemonds attempts at reconciliation.

“What is your name?” It does not give you any sort of pleasure when the maid looks shocked at the fact a princess is asking for the name of a maid. “Its not a trick question I want to know your name.”

“Klarisa my princess. My name is Klarissa.”

“Klarisa do you think I should read the letter my bastard of a husband as written to me?” You look carefully at Klarisas face, the decision of your lifetime hanging in a mere maids hands.

“To be honest with you my lady…” Klarisa takes a deep breath and puts on a sympathetic face. You appreciate that she wishes to give you honesty, though that sympathetic face makes you want to punch her. “What the prince did was inexcusable after the way the two of you acted before… her. You got to have a husband who loves you and cared for you, that itself is much more than most of the women who are forced into a marriage can hope for. The prince is trying to make up for it and is also respective your boundaries. Not many could say that they got to have a husband who did even one of those things. So yes my princess, I believe you should read the letter.” You take a deep breathe and loosen your hands, which seemed to have clenched so tightly your nails all but pierce into your palms.

“Give me the letter then leave. If you see the prince, do not tell him that you for once got me to think about even looking at his weak apologies. Just put your head down, and walk away. Do you understand Klarisa?”

“Yes my princess.” Klarisa moves swiftly to the doors to your chambers, opening it and moving forward, only to stop for a moment and turn on her heels towards to. “I hope you get what it is you seek my princess. For your own sake.” She turns back to the door and closes it behind her, leaving you alone with the letter in your hand which already feels like it’s burning you. Yet you prevail, and slowly open the letter to read it.

Dear ñuha jorrāelagon,

I will not waste my breath in attempting to gain your forgiveness. I know better than anyone that when you stick your mind to something you keep it that way. Though what I will say is the truth, which I know will hurt you and anger you more than anything but i know it’s what you wish to hear.

Alys was a woman I believed to be falling in love with. She was something what I believed I needed in my life. A woman to be docile and to whisper all the things I needed to hear in my ear. Though after your letter, it became my wake up. I cut off all contact with Alys after realising how much I hurt you. I regret that woman everyday I have not been with you. You are the only woman I need to be with. I love that you are not docile and will not take any man’s shit (as you so clearly and often tended to put it). I love that you challenge me and encourage the debates we so often hold. I love you Rhaella, more than any woman before in my life. I’m sorry it took another woman and the life of our child for me to realise it. I understand wholeheartedly if you wish to never speak to me again. But I hope with this letter, if you ever do decide to read this, which after all my other attempts seem unlikely, you at least know that there will not be a single day that I do not wish that I did not kill that woman when I killed all the other strongs. You are my life. My world. And I hope you know that.

From, Aemond Targaryen

You’ve never felt like you wanted to cry this much since you lost your sweet baby. You can feel the tears leaking down your face the entire time you read Aemonds words. Some of your tears drip onto the page, leaving some of the words to blur together into illegible blobs of black ink.

You feel the urge to destroy the letter. The same urge and desire you felt when you got into contact with all of Aemonds other gifts. Though you resist this time, and instead of destroying the letter, you smooth it out and place it delicately under the mass amounts of pillows that seem to always near take over your bed. That night, for the first night of the many you’d stayed in your room during your isolation period, you slept the whole night in your bed with no nightmares to wake you screaming.

———

When Aemond was standing in the corridor in the shadows and hadn’t picked up on any whispers from the maids passing him of any destruction or damage coming from your chambers, he assumed you must have kept the letter.

He does not hold though any hope that you read it. For all he knows you’ve simply just ignored it or ripped it and used it to keep your fire alight.

When he is waiting for the maid to come out of your room though, he could not help but feel hopeful when the maid takes longer than usual to come out of your room. “Well?” He asks as he steps from the shadows when the maid eventually comes out and nearly passes him. He does not dare to actually ask whether or not you took it. Even though he so selfishly wish to help hold her down and demand for

It surprises him and angers him when the maid looks at him and yet does not acknowledge him. What did you tell her? What does she know?

Aemond grabs the arm of the maid as she attempts to pass him without any real acknowledgment. “Your prince asked you a question.” He growls. He nearly felt sympathy for the woman when she looked at him with fear in her eyes. But he is not Aegon. He can control his desires towards the maids.

“The princess asked that I not speak to you. Please let go of my arm, my prince…” The maid half begs. Aemond lets go of her arm reluctantly after a moment of thinking. Why would you tell the maid to not talk to him? Maybe you really read the letter and do not wish to appear weak to him? Though only if you knew that you could never be weak in his eyes, his strong independent wife.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fic #prince aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond x you #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen #the death of a life au

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thisthatpinkvenom · 1 year

Text

*SHHH!*

COLLEGE BF!SAN / COLLEGE!FEM READER

⤏ Synopsis: You and your boyfriend are two irresponsible college students who just can't keep your hands to innocent hand-holding. and there seems to be a really pretty witness to your intimate shenanigans.

⤏ Genre(s): drabble*, smut smut smut

⤏ Content: college couple!au, established relationship!au, non-idol!au

⤏ NSFW Warning(s): public fingering, public oral, light dirty talk, light praising because it's always cute <3, getting caught in the act, exhibitionism and voyeurism, these two are freaks please don't do this in real life!!

⤏ Note*: this content is completely fictional.

It was on you for foolishly choosing such a discreet spot where other eyes weren't lurking. You should've known better than to trust San to behave himself at a secluded corner of the library. If it weren't for that, you wouldn't be plopped onto the edge of the quaint little desk with him standing between your parted legs.

It's a Thursday evening, and the library was decently occupied; many were huddled in groups with a few exceptions of lone students staring with half-dead eyes at their laptop screens. Soft murmurs and not so subtle crunching on baby carrots aired throughout the building, and you prayed to any divine being listening that your staggering breaths fell on deaf ears. The last time you checked, it was around six o'clock and with the two very much so distracting fingers lunged between your wet walls, you're sure you wouldn't get anything done by the time it became seven.

Bursts of adrenaline rushed through your veins as you teetered on a thin line between fear and pleasure. You didn't even register how you've crinkled a page of the textbook lying open next to you—the one you've tried so hard to keep without damage—as your hand desperately searched for purchase in anything nearby. Your eyes flitted between the view of your lover's hand disappearing at every two beats under your skirt and nervously checking behind his shoulder for any innocent incoming passerby looking for a book. But it lasted only a measly moment until you were gently pulled by your chin, meeting eyes with the lust-filled ones of your boyfriend who pierced you with his gaze.

"Eyes on me, Baby," he coaxed, pressing kisses to both corners of your lips with cute little chu sounds emitting from each one he gave. The hand on your chin fell to your thigh and you momentarily shuddered at his cold touch.

"What if"—you squeaked when his thumb pressed against your clit—"someone, hah, s-sees?"

He smiled a wolfish grin and muttered, "Then wouldn't that be a sight for sore eyes?"

"Sannie," you whined. "It's n-not funny."

"Don't worry, no one's gonna know as long as you keep those pretty little moans to a minimum."

And you wondered how you were supposed to do that when he soon dove into the crook of your neck, licking and nibbling at your skin in hope of leaving a trail of purple and red petals. His fingers never slowed or lost their rhythm, opting to only go faster while your arousal grew embarrassingly louder. You could feel it dripping more and more with each pull of his digits before they sloppily stuffed whatever they could back in.

"You think they can hear that?" he teased, fingers playing around with the wet squelches of your juices through hasty "come hither" motions. "Don't pretend like you don't get off on this just like I do."

He continued, "I know you like spreading your legs for me whenever I ask—you do it so easily."

"S-Sannie, please," you pleaded. You weren't too sure what you were asking for, but you knew he always managed to understand what you needed somehow.

"I know, Baby," he cooed. "Just a little more, okay? You're doing so well."

And just like that, he dropped to his knees and nudged your thigh with his free hand. You knew what he was going to do and clenched your teeth to prepare when—without warning—he attached his lips to your painfully swollen clit. It took all you could muster to not release the most pathetic cry when you took in all the books around you, remembering where you were as you had to be on your best behavior possible. Which in hindsight, it was a little too late to do much when you've got your fingers tangled in a handful of black hair.

His fingers continuously pumped in and out your pussy and his mouth was relentless on your clit, sucking and licking without any other goal but to please you. Though it proved to be difficult to let loose; you couldn't lie back on the table or moan without shame, not when you caught sight of a book being pulled off the shelf from the other side. And your heart fluttered when a face appeared behind the vacant space where the book once was, your own eyes mirroring how the stranger's tripled in size. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't look away from the image of you trembling on the desk, cheeks drenched in tears as your lover's identity was veiled under your skirt, clueless as to who's watching.

It's useless to stop now, there's a fat chance you'll get reprimanded but at least you'll have a mind-blowing orgasm to make up for it. If you were in the right mind, you would've scolded yourself for acting upon your urges; for exposing your dirty deeds to some poor girl. And now she'll know exactly what you look like when you cum, from the way you bit your tongue to conceal your moans and the way your chest heaved while you worked to catch your own breath. But oh, what's that?

She gnawed at her bottom lip, ogling as if she were in a trance, seemingly waiting for you to reach climax. And you liked it.

It was all too much; your boyfriend's face and fingers buried between your legs and the pretty girl perving on your intimacy did all sorts of things to your head. It was coming, you were so close, so close, so close. You were an attention whore, like it or not; you wanted her to watch—watch your legs quiver and your mouth gape open in a silent scream, your gaze boring deep into hers.

You really wanted her to absorb the view, hoping that she found the cum glazed over your pussy pretty. And like the freak you were, you liked the way her cheeks were adorned with pink when San stood up, his lips glistening under the fluorescent lighting as he sucked on his cum-covered fingers. When he caught sight of the extra lingering eyes, she finally turned around, covering the empty gap in the shelf from her suspecting groupmates who quietly pestered her with questions as to what she was staring at. He looked back at you with a smug grin, tongue slipping out to lick your arousal from his lips.

"Looks like someone's been enjoying this too."

#ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez timestamps #ateez fanfic #ateez drabbles #kpop smut #san smut #choi san smut #ateez fic #ateez reactions

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coulsart · 4 months

Text

About the Unknown

I have a theory. A game theory. And we're going to ignore the fact that delving into this would put me on the Unknown's shit list IMMEDIATELY. It’s fine.

Disclaimer: I do not know what’s canon, and they kept it intentionally vague. Everyone’s valid to have their head canons and this is just the explanation my brain conjured up.

"The Unknown was believed to be a mysterious evil so heinous that investigating it almost immediately invited death. At least that was how the story went. And there were many stories. One story was of a woman in Greenville who disappeared without a trace on stage in front of a room full of witnesses. Her friend disappeared weeks later while trying to investigate what happened. The police were stumped. They had no clues or leads, and that mystery created the perfect storm for amplifying and spreading an urban legend." An excerpt from the very beginning of the official lore page

I want to focus on a few key words here. It was believed to be heinously evil. There were stories about disappearances. Said mysterious stories spread and amplified the urban legend.

The Unknown gains power from people's beliefs and thoughts about it. Not too unlike Pennywise from 'IT'. But there's a catch.

People theorize that it might be an alien, a curse, a cult-created abomination, or just a really elusive serial killer... but it is all of those things. Because people believe that it is.

It doesn't have control over what it is. It's a horrible hodge-podge monstrosity of many things, seemingly mashed and twisted together violently. It likely started as something completely different, or nothing at all. Maybe a vague presence that only observed. But people could feel the presence. And while neither good nor evil, the peoples' minds conjured up visions, explanations of what it might be. Some imagined it to be a man lurking in the shadows. Watching and stalking them. And so the Unknown's body began to form. First as a man. Even still, with this new body, it was inherently off. Uncanny from the start. The Unknown was at its core so far removed from humanity that it still could not pass as one of us. So it would linger in the forest, only venturing to the threshold between town and woods.

Maybe an unfortunate camper happened upon it at night. This shadow in the dark, distinctly the shape of a man. But what does one think first, encountering a strange man in the dead of night? All alone and isolated in the deep woods?

"He's going to kill me with a knife, or an ax!"

And so it did. Because they believed it would.

It only snowballed from there, after the body was found, only a few paces away from their untouched tent. There was no evidence left. No DNA, no footprints to follow. Just a bloodied body, with a skull cloven almost completely in twain; by what was suspected to be an ax. So the theories began.

No one could explain the lack of evidence left behind. It was too perfect, too efficient. And what were the chances of a normal man doing such damage in only a single swing?

More murders followed. At first, people started disappearing, their bodies later being found in the woods, not far from the first victim. They grew increasingly more mangled, to the point that authorities began to question whether it was done by a man, or an animal.

The people became afraid. Paranoid that this insane ax murderer would tire of the woods and enter their homes at night, while they were resting peacefully in bed. The fears were beginning to surpass that of just a serial killer. The Unknown was beginning to become more of a boogeyman figure to them. No human man could have committed such gruesome killings.

People began to disappear from their homes at night. Then the streets. Then the cafe and theater. Then... sometimes in broad daylight. Its territory only grew. Its abilities more and more vast and unpredictable. The theories only escalated... and throughout its rampage, the Unknown grew increasingly monstrous. Its humanoid body twisted and contorted to fit the peoples' beliefs. But nothing was erased - only added on. Which is why it existed in the horrific state that it did.

A body can only fit so much substance inside without tearing itself apart. Without becoming an deformed, unstable, and agonizing vessel to pilot and exist in.

Human beings did this to it. Human beings made what it was. They assumed the worst of it, and it became that.

So naturally, it became hateful and bitter. It loathes humans. They did this. It lives in constant agony and isolation because of them... only for the crime of observing and existing in their vicinity. That's why it killed the ones who dive deeper into its existence and theorize about what it is. They kept making it worse. Inflicting more pain upon it and twisting its body further and further.

It mirrors humans' own words to them. Snippets of conversation, pleas for help. It does not truly have its own voice. It only has what others have spoken about it, and around it.

But its feelings towards human beings are clear, based on its words. Especially in its memento mori. "The terror. The horror. Terribly frightening, isn't it." The way it parrots their words in this case almost seems vindictive and sarcastic. These are all things that human beings have said about it.

Thought outside of what it's been made into became increasingly difficult. Yet, somehow, the Unknown is vaguely aware of this fact: it could have been spared this horrific existence, had human beings chosen differently.

And for the Unknown, it only got worse when the Entity stole it away. It begged and pleaded for help - ironically, seeking it from that which it loathed most. A human being. It was torn from our world and plunged into the never ending loop that are Her trials. All for the sake of feeding Her appetite for suffering and torment. And it isn't only at the survivors' expense. It is at the expense of the Unknown as well. It suffers just as much as they... if not more. They at least have companions to rely on - with varying results, of course. It has nobody.

All hope for it healing is lost. The survivors have no reason not to think it a ruthless, horrific monster. And in turn, it has no reason not to hate and slaughter them.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

#couls art #theory #dbd #dead by daylight #the unknown #the unknown dbd #body horror #horror #gore #death mention #death #tw #long post #TRAGIC MONSTER IS MY SAUCE OK #IM REALLY PROUD OF THIS #also the pics are glazed and nightshaded so i hope they dont look too weird #itd be kewl if the devs saw this

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alavestineneas · 2 months

Text

and if you are there, why do i feel alone in this room?

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, mentions of sa (!), blood and other parts of body, very non-healthy relationships chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 !this work is part 2 to the i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest! word count: 7,3k

author's notes: hi beautiful people! today, I have finally finished this chapter and am thrilled to say that this fic requires part 3! be aware that this piece of literature is explicit and touches on some very heavy themes, including sa and child abuse. Please be mindful of it! As always, your opinions, suggestions, and critiques are welcome in the comments. Love you, and have a tasty read!

There are a lot of books stored in her memory, locked in the neurocytes safely. They are tucked into the cortex with love and tenderness that YN otherwise taught herself to suppress as a sign of her weaker self. But papers were non-living, so she felt like it was less dangerous for her to show warmth towards them; after all, if the objects can not acknowledge your love, does it really count as real? She read everything, mostly in an attempt to prepare herself for something she did not know the face of; she read to build the shield around herself, in desperate hope to be able to help at least her future self. YN read even now, although her foolish childhood desires were long gone, just to get a glimpse of the girl she was before the monsters escaped the pages.

The book she re-read the most was nothing special, nothing suiting the image she moulded herself into—a giant, relatively old encyclopaedia of animals inhabiting the furthest corners of Known Imperium. The letters inside, although faded a little, were left almost untouched by eyes—maybe it was what drew her in in the first place—to cherish something seen as unneeded. YN learned the small paragraphs almost by heart; she liked the idea of someone taking enough time to observe something as small as a roden to know its habits. She liked the idea of it happening to her one day. As it always is, it did not.

She chose her favourite animal without that much thought. Although even the notion of having something beloved was foolish, YN was made to choose; she and her sisters played the game of forest most often. The game was simple: pretend to be a creature you are not, forgetting the countless rules they had to follow. Pretending they have claws and teeth; pretending they can protect themselves not through intrigues and hidden motives but through open, bold force. Irulan was always a Katanga Lioness; she liked it because of the proximity to their house's symbol. YN did not; the grey pages of her beloved book described them as "observed to also scavenge on carrion of animals that were killed by other predators or died from natural causes''. What king of the animals steals the work of others simply to feed themselves? She did not tell Irulan that, of course—why would she?

YN chose a mountain lion for herself. Sure, she may have made a mistake thinking it was just another type of lion, but the game went too far to change anything, so she stuck with that. She even grew to love it—the drawing of the mountain lion on her character sheet, the way it prowled through the forest in her mind's eye. It had many names and many homes. Adaptive. Captivating.

She does not know why it came into her mind suddenly—maybe it was the dim light of the closed arena. The air circulated here freely, cooling through the complex systems of vents, even though it seemed to be deprived of any life—just a mechanical circle of the same molecules moving around her seated figure and returning to the hidden openings again and again. YN looked straight ahead; the two men were still sparring.

From her bench, they looked like one—two bodies moved so swiftly that one was unable to differentiate where the lines of their limbs ended. YN squinted her eyes; she was alone in the seating area, and still, she dared not move closer. The taller, thinner figure possessed skin so white it looked almost translucent underneath the cold light—YN wondered if she would be able to see the structures in his body through his clothed stomach. He moved well, almost too well for her not to press her lower row of teeth to the top one, hiding the tongue in a cave of pearl bones—she had hoped he was worse with his bare hands. YN had counted four hundred and five seconds before he made a mistake in his steps; it was a lot more than her own results, but for a man, he was good.

Feyd-Rautha had style; she had to give him that. He fought like a serpent would: calculated, precise. His fists knew the most effective targets, and his legs knew how to escape the blows of his opponent. If YN was to guess, he relied on muscle memory less than a usual fighter would, preferring to dwell in the moment instead. It made for a good show, sure, but it was not practical. She smiled to herself; of course, the na-Baron could not know what the real battle was like. How unfortunate for him—how delightful for her. YN still can't believe he let her watch his training every morning—was he really that stupid not to realise her motive? Was he too confident to consider having weaknesses?

Regardless, she saw what she needed to do - for three hours every day, she set unmovingly on the third bench in a small fighting ground, imprinting his every move in her mind. There are so many moves you can use and so many tricks you can do before she learns them all. YN did not care for the cold gaze thrown in her direction when Feyd-Rautha collapsed on the ground, taking a moment to rest before lurching onto his opponent again. She can wait.

Mountain lions are stealthy predators.

The days she spent here changed into months, their slow steps morphing into each other until time became a blur, a concept she did not grasp. Feyd-Rautha was a hard one to warm, but before she would mould him into something she wanted, YN needed to heat his DNA to a certain magnitude; otherwise, he would simply break. She would've gladly accepted this turn of fate too, but right now, keeping na-Baron alive is far more convenient for the Bene Gessarit. For her.

A concubine. A slap in the face: it seemed like life was determined to dissolve the small bits of her dignity in its endless pool of secrets. She was not a wife to Harkonnen na-Baron; no, she was to be his whore. If she was not too tired, she would've felt a pang of fear on her rising with oxygen lungs; a concubine's position is even lower here compared to one of a lawful wife's. YN remembers the words of her teacher as she prepared her for the union: Harkonnen concubines are killed after their first night in a position; if one is lucky enough to escape the fate by being with a child, she bears him until it's time for the baby to be born. One of the greatest honours for a Harkonnen is to take the life of his mother as soon as he enters the world.

She was to join na-Baron for breakfast today—a proposal YN waited long to receive, but part of her wishes she never did. It was worded like an invitation; YN knows it was not. Harkonnens rarely spoke when they did not give orders—a creature of habit, she supposed. So, she did what she had to: follow the slave to the chambers designated for the meal. The hem of her dress shone with a colour so foreign to the fort around her; YN needed to make herself stand out. Men are much like children, she learned—the more colourful the toy, the more likely they will want to play with it.

The walls were heavy here. They didn't bend in the shapes she was used to, preferring to stand tall. They didn't have to hide their strength underneath a complicated facade—quite the opposite. They paraded it, wearing it like the honour it is. Staying unremorsefully unbending. Maybe it's the air or a different measure of gravity; maybe it's her habit of soaking up the surroundings and letting them poison her insides, growing rotten in between the folds of her stomach tissue, but her legs are metal, stone-cold, pulling YN deeper and deeper into the floor. She tries so hard to ignore the three creatures in the corner.

They are hairless, much like the man in front of her, and dressed in matching black. YN would've mistaken them for Harkonnen royalty if it were not for the iron collars on their necks and the glowing black eyes that seemed to follow her every move. She would've been happy to have some company and not be forced into solitude with na-Baron if it were not for a still convulsing body on the floor. A body she did not recognise, but it could've easily been her own.

The creatures seemed to enjoy the involuntary moves of the soon-to-be corpse; they closed their eyes in delight and bared the sharp, black-coloured teeth in sheer pleasure as they lurched into the white flesh. They ripped it apart with only their hands, not bothering to use the prepared knives for more than a big incision from head to stomach. The sounds of chewing and gnawing filled the room, echoing off the walls and sending electric impulses down her body. YN was used to the metallic smell and the bright colour of arterial blood, but this was not a simple death. It was a show, and she was the long-awaited watcher.

Feyd-Rautha seemed unbothered by the sight near him. His hands, covered in thick streaks of blood, were deep to his elbows in the body. He dissected the corpse with precision, his eyes focused and his grip steady. He looked calm, even peaceful. Na-Baron was in good humour today. ''I must say, your arrival has graced us with much more than just the dowery; nothing could've made this union more auspicious—such a rare bird you are, daughter of our generous Emperor. A princess, yet treated no better than a common slave.''

Here it was: the thing she was thinking about all the way to this strange, garbage planet in the dress that pokes bleeding holes in her abdomen with each glass she downs. From his lips, it sounds even more bitter; even savages found the way the Emperor sold one of his daughters so easily strange. "Both of our houses have traditions far beyond our understanding," YN shrugs, scaring her thoughts away like annoying flies. Here, in a room so far from the comfort of her home, they moved too fast, bringing nausea to her throat.

She is here to secure the bloodline of House Harkonnen, to ensure the balance needed in the Imperium. YN does not notice how suddenly her gaze darkens or how tightly the hands that rested on the chair are now holding the pleated velvet of her ruby-red gown. Oh, the baby. The tiny creature inside her womb, the future head for the Baron's crown to be placed upon. The yet unconcieved child she could not feel love for. She was given no other choice but to risk its life before even giving it a chance to obtain its gift.

''Then you will find my present to be quite fitting.''

YN watches in silence as na-Baron reaches inside the rib cage of the corpse. He reaps out an organ with one swift motion, almost like plucking a harmful sprout from the garden. The organ is broun and rosewood, a weird mixture of shades that make it harder for her to focus on anything but the thing in his large hand. The gift he meant to give was a human heart.

She feels his walk long before she sees a figure departing from its place at the table; she guesses the end point of his manoeuvres too easily. It's almost funny—a cruel, senseless joke; how obvious the slight tremor in her hands is; how heavy her eyes become at the sight of Harkonnen black. The body positions itself near; if she squints, she can hear the hot breathing somewhere between her shoulder blades. His hand snakes around her neck quickly, positioning the organ right in front of her mouth. YN can detect the smell hitting her nostrils before she closes the receptors in them. She wants to scream, but the notes die in her throat. Who would she scream for? She hears the creatures hiss and whisper—the heart is a good part, from what she can make out. It did not need to be wasted on people like her.

''Will you not accept it?'' Feyd-Rautha's words are mocking, but his dark blue eyes stay virgin to the laughter. They drill small spots on her neck from behind with such force that YN can almost feel the burnt smell of her sweat-covered skin.

She takes a breath. Her own heart shrinks, its vessels beating with intensity twice as much as needed. Still alive, she notes absently. Still breathing. The feeling is natural and easy; the forced calmness in her body tingles the muscles, braiding her nerves into a pattern similar to the netting. Then, she opens her mouth.

"If I shall lick the blood of your hands, Feyd-Rautha, dare to make it your own."

That's it.

Maybe the Emperor was right to spare her none of the Sardaukars and a quarter of her dresses. She did not need more; she was not expected to survive long enough to use half of her clothes. YN chucked under her breath. Dead over diet preferences—how profound.

After a moment, the pale face behind her also twists, allowing the blackened teeth to escape the grip of thin lips. Like this, na-Baron looks less human and more like the evil he was said to be. He throws the heart to the creatures—they catch it greedily—and places a bloodied hand on her shoulder, the droplets of crimson going unnoticed on the brightly coloured cloth. ''Very well, then. Let us eat.''

YN nods. She looks around almost instinctively; nothing could make her eat a thing after the sight she just witnessed, but she refuses the na-Baron once; she is not about to do it again. The food is a lot, but her plate is almost empty: only a small amount of salad is here, sadly staring into the hunger in her eyes and a now featherless creature in an unnatural pose, suggesting its non-poetical death. The bird is small, almost delicate; its wings are pitifully glued to the body. YN does not want to let her mind draw the comparison, and does not allow her brain to admit a direct analogy; she dissects the bird with a dull knife and puts a piece in her dry mouth. The creature tastes good—almost too good to be expected in this brightly lit hall.

Most often deer is the mountain lion’s staple diet. However, they can survive preying on small animals as well.

The night covers Giedi Prime rather quickly; it never lingers, politely waiting for its masters to finish their daily affairs; it hits like a coward, from behind, trapping those not careful enough to hide before its arrival. The harsh, toxic waves of lazy winds hit the walls of the halls coldly lighted with a few sphears; they look like deep forest clearings, forming a system of endless options, ultimately leading to one, inevitable, end. His work chambers aren't big; he does not visit them often for them to be. The solitary metal desk before him is filled with letters, drafts of laws, and official documents, all waiting for his approval. It exhausts Feyd-Rautha to no end, the sheer stupidity of most of the advisers here; almost half of the documents were riddled with errors and inconsistencies. The forever present in his head dull migraine grows stronger when he opens the shortest letter; he almost busts his skull open when the pain heavies.

He ponders too much—the type of thoughts you can feel running on your tongue but never escaping. He is not used to being in the mist; all of his life is so painfully contrasted that no doubt of its nature can survive the sharp edge of his mind. There are things he can escape—forget, even—but some linger in his ribcage too long for them to vanish. Soon, they grow into his lungs with small, unbreakable threads, becoming him. He used to try to get them away from his heart, as if it held some value. Now, he is smarter, older, and more indifferent, he lets them pierce yet another piece of human flesh with no sorrow.

Of course, he remembered her face. The same face that haunted his sleep ever since she dared to appear before his eyes. Feyd-Rautha, naturally, found her little frolic that day. He spent an entire evening studying her work, analysing every move she could've made with her blade to achieve such outcomes. Sure, some things he would've done differently, but the sheer brutality of an animal he would not have guessed the girl possessed charmed him. Feyd-Rautha was a proud man, but he, too, held a love for beautiful things. For that, he hadn't told the Baron of the sight he discovered in the reading room. For that, he is now willing to pretend to believe her eyes when the fear fleshes in them.

Feyd-Rautha curses; she sickens. Like a bone stuck somewhere down his throat, not letting him live without a pang of mocking. She lurks, and whispers—Feyd-Rautha wants to smash her pretty head against the wall just to reveal the secrets she hides from him so he can finally understand the hold she retains. He is no stranger to the desire to own, or devour, but the fear in the back wall of his stomach is an alien in his body. He tries to hide it—to paint over it with anger or violence—but it remains a constant presence, gnawing at him from within. It's no use; the woman is a shark, designed to sense the fright. Maybe that's what brought him in in the first place—the steel eyes so similar to his own in a narrow hall all those years before. Maybe he was so used to the danger that he craved it subconsciously, looking for it to make him feel like himself again. A reoccurring childhood nightmare he can't escape; he doesn't want to escape.

Feyd-Rautha finds the chair to put his weight on and waits until the tingling, spinning sensation spreads from his temples down his neck, finding its way into his bloodstream and passing his organs one by one, until none are left uncorrupted. Of course, he expects it. The woman slipped into his brain and now chews her way into it like a parasite downs the rotten body. He knows he should be terrified, but instead, he feels a strange sense of relief. Feyd-Rautha can hear the whispers of his own mind fighting to remain the only owners of the secrets and desires buried within. He feels his eyelids heavy; a second later, the whites of his eyes are staring at the ceiling, the blue eye lenses dissolving in light.

Water. The first thing he feels is ice-cold water dripping onto his face, filling his lungs, and sending a shock through his arms. This body does not feel like his; it's too small, too narrow. His eyes are trying to adjust as fast as they can, jumping from one blurred spot to another until finally catching a glimpse of the surroundings. His brain does not have time to process the picture; his nose is filled with fluid again, and his open mouth is gasping for air but only taking in more liquid. He tries waving his hands around, but the stronger grip is firm on his nape, pulling him further down into the depths. The hand yanked him out just as he was about to fall into darkness again, the sound of water changing to loud screeching.

''How dare you hit me, devil child? Let the water wash away your dirt. Repent; beg for forgiveness for all of your rotten nature.''

The voice is unknown to him; it is harsh and filled with fury. The woman's face is twisted in anger; splashes of water on it match his. He can't tell if they are from his antics or tears. The woman's grip tightens, her nails digging into his skin. The black clothes on her figure make her status known - a Bene Gessarit witch. Feyd-Rautha tries to lurch forward and hit her back, but her strength is overwhelming. He feels panic coursing through his veins instead of oxygen—a sensation he did not think he could experience anymore. He wants to bark a response to show her that he is not afraid, but his voice catches in his throat.

Feyd-Rautha has no time to wonder what the woman wants; she brings his face to the bathtub again, and he opens his mouth involuntarily, frantically begging not to do it anymore. He says everything she wants to hear; he cries out and promises to wash his sins away. The voice does not sound like his at all. He is desperate to end this nightmare now, but some force holds him here. The woman is not satisfied; her ears are deaf to his pleas.

His face ends up on the water surface a moment later, his nose hitting the wall of the bathtub as the woman holds him down. He feels his body go limp with utter horror; this time, the shouting woman won't stop. Her voice grows quieter, replaced by the sound of small waves hitting the brim and spilling; from right to left, the water turns red, and his tongue tastes the iron he knows from sliding blades into his mouth.

''Echidna, what the fuck are you doing? Let her go; she is going to choke!''

''Get that spawn to me, for I will not let her ruin my life anymore! I must finish what I have started!''

Feyd-Rautha's head is filled with oxygen once again; his lungs take a desperate breath in, sending too much air to his blood system. He falls on his back, the world spinning. He does not care for the weeping woman in black or the chaos unfolding around him. His only thought is that everything is finally done and that the white floors are a magnificent place for drops of liquid to fall from his normally bald head's waterfall of hair.

He wakes up suddenly, the sensation long gone. His steps are heavy again; the body he inhibits no longer feels like a cage. The voices have left him for now, and the only thing on his forehead left is small drops of sweat and a pathetic, frightened, beating heart. The cold breeze from the darkened sands surrounding the city wishes to prove otherwise—it heavies and plants its spikes into his reddened cheeks. The horizon gleams at him, almost taunting; not a single star is to be seen under the imposing clouds. He will kill her; maybe he will even enjoy it. Feyd-Rautha can handle a lot, but not the shame of being seen. Not the guilt of being caught wanting.

There are only three ways to hunt a mountain lion: tracking, waiting in ambush, and with dogs.

The gliding motions of heavy fabrics across the wooden floors created a strange pattern of a song now centuries old. Here, in a room so long that the wind travelled through the hollows, her careful steps seemed to almost fall silent. Nothing was there for the preying eyes to see. YN closes her eyes; with that, even for a moment, the world stays still. She knows where the hollow staircase will lead her; she feels it in her stomach with every step she takes. YN knows nothing about the future, but the past lives deep in her memories, haunting her every move. She knows she shouldn't have done it. Travelling through one's mind is a sin she can't escape; she will pay the price for it in her blood, but the Bene Gesarit did not send her here to survive, so it's of no use to be afraid now. It makes no difference for the dead if you weep at their grave or not.

The burning sphere of light in the hall stops spinning; the doors open without any noise, although if the pounding eardrums had not stunned her hearing, she could've noticed the faint thuds. YN waits; there are no flashes of her happiest memories or the faces of her loved ones in her drained mind. No, in what seems to be her last moments, she thinks of what she could've been if the world had not given her a sword to turn into.

Feyd-Rautha appears in the hall; his steps aren't rushed, and his expression is stone-cold. She eyes him shamelessly: nothing. She sees nothing; she senses it deep in her crying bones. He drags her by the hair like a mother would with her misbehaving child; roughly, he pulls her towards the exit, his grip tightening with each step until the door behind them closes and her knees meet the cold ground with a nasty thud. The bruises will stain them soon, not that it matters now.

''You should've known better than to cross me,'' he hisses, his voice gruff. It's cold, chilling—the way his lips part to reveal a sinister smile. ''Now, you can think yourself vanished, little witch.''

YN does not answer—what fool would beg the deaf? The blade against her chin is sharp; she knows how attentive he is when it comes to inflicting pain. It pokes right into the Omehyoid muscle, a dull pain shooting through her body. If she has got to die, it may as well be from his skilled arms. How beautiful he is in the twisted pleasure he finds in her suffering. Unearthly, almost too perfect to be made of simple flesh and bone. Something was unnerving, unforgettable in the net of veins under his pearly skin; it was as if he were a work of art, meticulously crafted to bring physical pain and optical pleasure in equal measure. A silver glint under the defined cheekbones, a redness of lips filled with blood vessels. For a second, YN wonders what it would be like to bite into it, like an apple that lay too long under the golden sun; would the blood slip as generously as the sweet nectar? Handsome as poison, as a black sun on his forsaken planet, as death.

''Go on. Kill me, then; let me escape you once and for all.''

Under the deep sea of his eyes, something moved; his eyes dipped into her, part by part. Like the slow, deliberate dance of a predator stalking its prey, his gaze lingered on her, calculating and intense. YN lowered her head to push the knife a little deeper into the flesh. A strange thought lingered in her brain; she found herself on her knees in front of him, almost willingly. She has worshipped God all her life; who, if not her, can recognise his creation? The Devil. Lucifer. Satan. The man with horns so big they once touched the skies; a corrupt angel, fallen from grace so long ago he couldn't remember way back if he tried. They have warned her about him, but is it her fault that God has disowned her earlier than she could? Did it really matter to her, before whom to kneel, as long as she felt a sense of power and control in her submission?

All that mattered now was that he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her.

She sees the recognition flicker on his face. Caught. The blade slides quickly across her exposed neck, the blood sprouting out in a weak, painfully quick stream. Feyd-Rautha kissed her, biting her bottom lip till the stream of boldly coloured blood trickled down his chin. He did so like an animal would, baring his teeth and dragging them across the pulsating vein on her neck. YN's laughing cry echoes in the empty room; she is forced to admit that he felt good.

Never approach a mountain lion; most mountain lions prefer to avoid confrontations, so never approach them and make them feel cornered.

The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. The beautiful substance of her hair caught the light from the sun like a mirage in the desert, reflecting in his eyes with painful hits. The jewels, too, have found their way onto her clothes, but they were hidden beneath the layers of fabric. They shined brightly, impertinently, framing her figure in a glow that seemed to come from within.

To his surprise, the skills woman possessed spread out to politics as well, with her witch training proving useful in court. Feyd-Rautha did not miss how his advisors grew more uneasy when she entered the room, her careful eyes scanning their faces for even a hint of betrayal or deceit. Like a proud discoverer, he ached to share his new-found wonder with the blind audience, but something in him protested in a mare thought of showing the precious jewel of his eye to the cluster of unworthy. So, Feyd-Rautha did the only thing he knew how— all of his secret observations were done from afar, masterfully hidden behind the facade of casual indifference.

As he drags yet another blade across the surface of the whetstone, he thinks about her delicate hands on his neck, her ringed fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. It doesn't matter; YN is nothing of the sort. A concubine, a possession, a tool for pleasure and procreation—the Harkonnen way was simple.

''Are you done eye-fucking me now, or do you need more time with your blade?'' she sneers, her voice mocking. Only she could get away with such bold defiance in his presence, but she does not seem to care for the unusualness of it.

YN motions for him to come closer, her eyes studying the way his legs move. Feyd-Rautha has no control over them; the steps make themselves. She plays the game very well; the chase fuels something primal within him. Thirst. Hunger. It was the Harkonnen training talking to him—the wild, ancient sensation taking over his insides and imprisoning his mind in a cage of helpless desire. It spread its tentacles down to his fingertips, nesting in his abdomen. He positions himself in front of her, his body betraying him as he leans in closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Feyd-Rautha's hands repeat the ritual almost instinctively, rolling the hem of her deep purple dress up to her waist.

''Stop for a second,'' she whispers against his ear, her breath warm and inviting. ''Can I give you a piece of advice?''

Feyd-Rautha can feel the anger creeping into his body; he does not like to be refused. ''No,'' he grumbles, turning her around forcefully. "I don't need your advice," he snaps, his grip tightening on her arm.

YN does not seem to care for it. ''Don't do it. It will only lead to trouble.''

''What?'' He stops, his eyes narrowing as he absorbs the woman's words. The doubts that had lingered in the back of his mind suddenly grew louder, echoing through his mind. He releases her arm, his expression stoic. ''You are insane, woman. What are you talking about?''

''You know what I mean.''

The unease boils in his stomach. How could she know? He was careful not to slip anything; she wasn't able to cast her spells anymore either. But her knowing gaze tells him otherwise. ''You can not know the future,'' he pronounces.

''I don't need to know the future to see the truth, Feyd-Rautha. Your judgement is clouded by rage, and your mind is not as sharp as it usually is. You are not as invincible as you think you are.''

She is bluffing, he thinks. He hopes she is. Feyd-Rautha almost wished there was no cloth covering her face, nothing to hide her expressions as she lay beneath him. He catches her flamed eyes and the way they circle his face in one swift motion before settling on the ceiling above. It unnerves him, but he refuses to show it. She is no master here; she is simply a servant. That is not what power looks like, if he ever recognised one, and Feyd-Rautha knew power.

''Get out, now.''

Nothing was portrayed on her face as she curtseyed; nothing was there when she turned and walked to her rooms, leaving nothing but the ghost of the human body's warmth.

Mountain lions are more at home in brushy areas than in open prairies.

And then, he disappeared. Like the sound of the morning birds falling silent in the cacophony of voices of the city on her home planet, there was no trace of na-Baron in the entire Harkonnen fortress. YN thought she was slowly but surely going mad; no one but her noticed the usual place by the window empty, and no one but her seemed to care enough to know where he went. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. She looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, her eyes darting around the room in search of any sign of Feyd-Rautha's massive figure. Noon was dragged into the evening, and then night, for three, long days until she heard the long-awaited news: na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had tried to usurp his uncle and had failed.

She has told him so. A fucking brainless ram, with stubbornness bigger than his cock—why did he think he could outsmart the Baron? He will pay for his dumbness with his blood, perhaps even his limb—the thought brought nausea to YN's throat. She was lucky the Baron did not consider her important enough to be knowledgeable of such schemes; she lowered her head in the desert, hiding from the sand storms of Harkonnen politics; she waited for two long weeks until the announcement was made; Feyd-Rautha was forgiven. The celebration in honour of this news is to be today; she is to attend it. Not like his concubine, YN supposed, but more like the princess she still was.

Now, she took her time. YN chose a gown she wanted long enough to make even a tireless slave yawn, savouring each moment before their meeting. She was a victor now, in their small game of cat and mouse. He was a cat, but the mouse could still outwit him with grace and style. YN smiled at the wondering attendants; she looked good, and she was going to meet him.

The walk from her chambers to the Grand Hall wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The doors opened without a sound, revealing nothing but a mere celebration of yet another year under the reign of Harkonnens. The lines of slaves changed one another, the uneven circles of people dancing appearing and fleeing to the cheerful tone of strings. She was set somewhere between two Harkonnen lords she had no chance of knowing; she felt a sense of unease creeping up her spine as she tried to maintain a polite smile. Their gazes didn't look right; something sinister lurked inside them—hiding a secret she had no chance of knowing.

One of them turned to her, a chilling smile spreading across his face. "How are you finding the evening, lady YN? Or, what should I call you?,'' he mastered a fake confusion. ''Perhaps, darling? Concubine has a cheap wing to it; quite unworthy of a face so lovely as yours, don't you think?"

Dirt. The thing that crawled under her skin at his words was like dirt, making her feel unclean and exposed. She forced a laugh, trying to brush off his comments, the crown of her hair moving with muscles underneath her skin. "I am a princess, my Lord. Address me as such."

It would be enough every other noon, but today. The man's face twists, as if he just remembered something; he turns, the wine in his goblet splashing on the tablecloth. ''I think na-Baron wouldn't be too angry if I stole a princess for the night," he sneered, his eyes darkening with malice.

''Does it matter to you either way?''

YN watches as the smirk, so similar to Feyd-Rautha's, appears on the men's lips, although it doesn't feel the same. She fights back disgust as the man nods, biting into a hefty chunk of prey. His eyes, once focused on her, drifted away. YN chose to follow them; the string of fat streaming down the man's mouth onto the silver tablecloth made her nauseous. She looked from one unfamiliar face to another, until the cold feeling in her abdomen crept its way onto her chest.

There he was. His figure is unusually crouching as he sits on the podium reserved for members of the dynasty. The dark blue eyes are red now; the thin blood vessels in them are torn and emptied. His body seemed to suck the light out of the hall inside, casting a shadow over the room. There are no scars on his smooth face, but the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes spoke of a suffering that went beyond physical wounds. YN almost wished she saw him dead; whatever this was, it was surely much worse. He raised his eyes slowly to meet hers; something flickered in them before turning back to their empty state. Feyd-Rautha parts his dry lips to say something to her—she can't understand a word he draws with his breath.

From the place nearby, the Baron's voice booms, his low, almost whisper-like vowels mending into one. His face, covered with layers of skin and dead cells, twists into what was meant to be a welcoming smile—the corners of his paper-thin lips dance, lowering themselves only to jump higher, and his eyes travel from one corner to another, unable to be still even for a moment. He speaks of things YN knows nothing about court intrigue, power struggles, and alliances that shape the fate of their world, heavy with hidden meanings and unspoken threats. She does not listen until he gestures towards her, a scent of spice and decomposing flesh lingering.

''Sergeant Voss has served me well, and his loyalty at the right time is not to be forgotten. Here, I bestow upon him the highest honour of all; what was once mine, is now his. Do not let go of her if she screams, Sergeant; the girl is a fine one.''

No. YN almost does not recognise the hand as her own as the man drags her to the bed that appeared out of nowhere, freezing with horror as the people around her continue to watch in silence, their eyes devoid of any emotion or empathy. The tradition, she notes, is the one she learned so much about bedding in front of the entire court as a symbol of unity. She choked on her own tears as the man smiled at her pleas for help; they seemed to make him even more pleased.

YN looks, frantically, to the place she saw Feyd-Rautha sitting just a moment before. He would help; surely, he would not let them do it to her—his servant, his concubine, his. But the seat is empty. The scream echoing through the hall does not register as hers right away; he has sold her. For his own freedom, for a chance to be free from the consequences of his own stupid actions. Surely, the Harkonnens could not get rid of her openly—it would mean war—but she was not immune to the man who now owned her. His hands travelled her body with such audacity that YN wanted to cut them off—to cut her chest just so she could not feel the fingers digging into her skin. A sole reminder she was a woman first and a human second.

Mountain lions are solitary hunters.

The man undressed himself quickly; all of the soldiers were trained to do so. She should run; she should fight back, but the pair of unmoving hands pinning her wrists down was a stark reminder of her helplessness. The man lowers himself closer, his hot breath against her neck making her shudder in fear. She can feel him against her skirts; she can feel the weight of his body pressing down on her. The adrenaline is pumping through her veins; she will survive. Whatever it fucking takes, even if her body is bruised and broken, she will survive.

They prefer to ambush their prey from behind by swiftly and cleanly breaking the neck.

She bites—her teeth launch towards his cheek, feeling the warm flesh give way beneath her. She sinks them deeper, making holes big enough to draw blood. It's hot, and sickening on her tongue, but she does not have time for these thoughts; her next blow is in his stomach, with his knee jammed into his gut. She can feel his body convulse in pain, giving her a chance to throw him on the bed, his broad back facing her.

If they haven’t broken the neck, they will suffocate the animal.

There is nothing around that could serve as a knife; her captors made sure of that, and the sheets are too thin to wrap around his neck. She looks around the room, desperate for something to use, but the space around her is empty. YN curses as the man regains his composure and begins to struggle against her hold. Her elbow meets his nose with a sickening crunch, causing blood to spurt out. She takes a breath in; her hand wraps around his neck, forming a tight hold as she goes into the headlock. She chokes him, so desperately trying to live. And the man trashes against her grip, his white face turning a deep shade of purple before finally going limp in her arms.

Shame.

A thing that followed her after every life she took is now absent. Maybe the Giedi Prime's cruelty did have its effect on her; YN feels nothing but a sense of emptiness as she stands over the lifeless body.

''Do you have any more men to gift me to, Baron Vladimir? The night is still young.''

Her voice has changed. It holds a certain hiss now, a rasp that wasn't present before; it has matured and bloomed into half an octave deeper tone. It bites through the noise easily, cutting sharply.

The Baron laughs. His eyes gleam with amusement as he gestures towards the door. "Plenty more where that came from, my dear, but it's enough for today. Here,'' he throws something in her, a smirk ghosting on his lips. ''You've earned it.''

YN catches it and inspects the object in her hand. A small, golden broche catches the light, glinting in the dimly lit room. A head of the Bighorn ram stares back at her, the symbol of House Harkonnen. The taste of victory mingled with the metallic tang, leaving a bittersweet sensation in her mouth. Joy courses her veins—she isn't afraid. Finally, she is not afraid. Finally, she can look at her blood-stained hands without humiliation. Is it her fault she was born a better knife than a person?

Bighorn sheep are not a primary food source in most areas. However, when a lion does kill a sheep, they typically will continue to do so over and over again, until the herd is depleted.

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psychelis-new · 5 months

Text

pick a pile: "How people view you through your (main) social media account?"

take a breath and choose the photo or number that calls you the most to find out what people may think of you or how they may perceive you from what they see of you (what you allow them to see of you and your life) on your most used/most followed social media account. thank you Anon for your suggestion!

don’t take the reading too seriously. only take what resonates with you and leave the rest. if you're not called by any pile, let this reading slid as it may not hold messages for you. if you're called by more than one pile, there may be messages in each of those piles. remember that is a general reading and some things may not resonate with you. energies can change and readings are based on present ones (as you read); you're always in charge of your life.

(photos found on unsplash)

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pile 1

People see you as someone private/reserved. You may be sharing photos or words if something really happens and you really feel like sharing about it but even more... when you remember. You may not be that social (at least online in specific contexts). Or maybe you don't have too much time to spend online for fun and you rather just scroll through your feed and enjoy random stuff (art, videos, photos especially by famous creators/memes or such. You rather be entertained than entertain). You may filter what you post/say or you literally add different filters on or edit your photos/videos a lot... Anyway the result is pretty pleasing to the eye, maybe you follow a certain pattern in your posts (aesthetically, so you cannot always post pictures if they don't resonate with the whole page).

It seems you kinda hide part of yourself or what you do, it feels like you're mysterious/there's more about you; but you don't have to do it (=be this reserved/mysterious) on purpose, it may just be your way to behave online. As said you may just post occasionally also cause you may not like social medias that much or feel too comfortable with them (maybe you don't enjoy the drama around them, the people lurking on you or you don't want to really be seen/found by too many people; some of you may fear your account being found by someone you don't want to discover you or you had bad experiences with someone stalking you and now you're trying to act differently online and use a more-difficult-to-be-recognized nickname and persona). Maybe some of you created an account somewhere just to try how it works or what can happen. You more likely have a specific social media you like and feel good at using and sharing stuff on, while you may not like many others (let's say you feel good on tumblr but not on insta/fb/tiktok/x..., for example). Some of you may even have a private account you made viewable basically only to friends. Wait... maybe you're the one lurking on others (at least to an extent)? If it's so, all I'm gonna say now is: please try to work on your demons before bringing them out on others.

song: i see red | everybody loves an outlaw

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pile 2

I heard "break the internet". So maybe you're some type of internet famous (every post reaches lot of public and gets interactions easily) or you may actually use socials for marketing or work in communication/advertising or something like that. Maybe you are in charge for someone's/some associations' feed or like a shop or something. Anyway, you seem to share good vibes and bring support and encouragement to others. You may share your values (or those the brand you work for represents) too, not just what you do for fun or how to make the best of what you have. And you may have created a large public/community around you, even if you don't know. People do see you as inspiring and really like to know about you or hear from you. You may bring comfort and relief, make them feel special and heard/seen. I don't feel like you have many haters or if you do, they don't seem to be too communicative about their feelings: maybe they also fear you or something. Maybe you also don't care much about them: well done! For a few: you'd like to become famous online and trying to go viral anytime you can or you'd like to work with social medias (even as a social media manager).

We all know social medias have particular rules and in order to make it you need to keep in mind different aspects of your communication, schedule things in advance when possible and be constant (ofc there may be a lucky post, but it needs to be supported by others). But anyway, you kinda have "it"? It seems you have good ideas, you're fun, you give entertainment and many different occasions for interactions with your public: this helps your image/work spread around. You may have a good amount of followers/public waiting for your next post, you may also be good at creating the right hype about it. And ofc, you're good also at what you do, like the main subject of your feed: eg. let's say you're a photographer, you're pretty talented at taking photos; same if you're an astrologer, you're very good at reading charts. But you're also good at how you communicate/share about yourself when you aren't posting about your specific "field". If you're not there yet, I think you mostly need to work on the boring part of this, like learning how to work properly on each platform as all of them have their own rules. It can be really really boring, but if you have the passion and will, and you're ready to say goodbye to holidays for a while... it's worth it. This is also why it's important that you find what works for you.

Ofc, remind yourself of yourself. You're important, you have needs and... it's good to show them to others too. You may at times not share about your lows, and keep them for yourself, but they're part of life as well. You won't lose followers if you do this. I think they'd appreciate you even more. And... having lot of followers won't make your loneliness better. Sure they seem to care about you but, not everyone can stay through ups and downs, they're there mostly for what you give them (find your balance here). Just needed to remind some of you about this. Keep working on yourself, while you also enjoy your time online. Try to not make of it another reason of stress, go with the flow.

song: they don't really know | enbound

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pile 3

I think people see you as very pretty and young. You may seem naive on occasion, kinda childish-like but not in a negative way. People thinks you're cute mostly. I get very feminine and young energy here, no matter what is your gender (if you recognize yourself in any). You may also be a nostalgic person and may like to share events/things from the past, maybe you also like to take photos with polaroids or analog cameras or you add a pretty nostalgic filter/editing to your photos. You may also share inside jokes with your friends or family on social medias.

I think you may have not been that much into social medias at first or you weren't good at using them well, but now you're enjoying them more. You use them mostly to keep in touch with friends, share about your parties/nights out or travels, and every funny event you may happen to be around/join. You may like to post photos/videos taken with your friends indeed. You may end up occasionally posting the wrong stuff by accident like you may share on public some photos you should keep on private and similar but all in all people see you as a funny character. Maybe a little clumsy, but very much pretty and cute. You may also use social medias to too keep yourself updated about celebrities and to gossip with your friends too. I feel like you may be using eg. insta and share pics of your travels, of gifts, shopping/spa days with friends and maybe pics of yourself in beautiful places all taken by your friends. Or maybe by your partner. I get more likely a group of at least 3-4 people tbh but ofc I could be wrong, and it could also be family. I feel some influencer-style vibes here. Kinda aesthetic posts, but more in the sense of the vibe you give through them. Again like, lot of fun and interesting stuff going on in your life. An... autumn-core (does this exist?), cottagecore, travelcore, studycore, whatever brownish-pastels-core you feel like may pertain. Yeah you may be sharing a lot also about your studies those very aesthetically pleasing well written notes or images of you drinking coffee in front of a computer. Since I feel a young energy it may resonate with you still being a student or at the initial stages of a job but ofc it doesn't have to. You may also be studying abroad hence why you share a lot about travels and try to keep in touch with family/friends also through socials and the nostalgic vibe I got in the beginning.

song: don't cry | guns'n'roses (I hope you're really not crying darling... unless you need to ofc)

#pac #pick a pile #pick a card reading #pick a card tarot #pick a photo #pick a picture #pick a card #divination #clairs readings #psychic readings #social medias #tarot readings #intuitive readings #tarotblr #tarot readers #tarotcommunity

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