#reverend lowe

[bacteriophaggot]

delusional yaoi from a fandom that doesnt exist,, me and my friends love this movie/book tho lol

[goomo-remade]

hi girl <3

[mostlyghostlyy]

Please please just hear me out, PLEASE

[makeupeffectsarchive]

The werewolf form of Reverend Lowe was designed and realized by Carlo Rambaldi. The head itself was entirely animatronic, and according to cinematographer Daniele Nannuzzi, had small holes under the muzzle to allow actor Everett McGill to see.

The animatronic head's expressions were controlled by levers that were connected to the mask via 'cables going out of the wolf's ass' as Nannuzzi so colourfully put it. The bodysuit and head were both coated in bear fur.

[hippiewerewolf]

Silver Bullet/ Cycle of the werewolf is so underrated. ❤️🐺

Reverend Lowe done in ink / posca / alcohol markers.

[randofanficrecs]

From the Cycle of the Werewolf - Stephen King fandom, today's random rec is After The Moon by BannedBloodOranges

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen, M/M

Fandoms: Silver Bullet (1985), Cycle of the Werewolf - Stephen King

Relationships: Reverend Lowe/Uncle Red, Reverend Lowe & Uncle Red

Characters: Reverend Lowe, Uncle Red

Additional Tags: One-Sided Attraction, Werewolves, Horror, Religious Themes, Possessive Behavior, Animalistic Behaviour, Mildly Dubious Consent, Halloween, Mild Gore

Language: English

Words:2,630

Chapters: 1/1

Summery: "You look like you want to eat me up, Reverand."

After the moon, Lowe makes an unlikely friend.

[astralbondpro]

American Rickshaw (1989) // Dir. Sergio Martino

[churchofsatannews]

The Metro #747

This week on The Metro, Rev. Jeff Ivins brings you the following bands for your weekly time warp back to the 1980s: Knack, Eddie Grant, Village People, The Fixx, Nick Lowe, Men At Work, A Flock Of Seagulls, Duran Duran, Public Image Ltd., Jane Wiedlin, Hall & Oates, Dream Academy, David Bowie, Adam & The Ants, and finishing up with some Culture Club. Stream The Metro #747. Download The Metro #747.

[draklorn]

i need to think of a hc to write about so i can rotate devan around in my brain in a productive way

[vinylspinning]

Solitude Aeturnus: Beyond the Crimson Horizon (1992)

I’ve somehow accumulated a lot of pink-ish wax (not easy for a heavy metal fan), so I’m taking a week to unloading it here on VinylSpinning, and today I'll revisit Solitude Aeturnus' sophomore studio LP, Beyond the Crimson Horizon.

As I think back to the state of metal in the late '80s and early '90s, thrash and other speedy styles were so dominant, that one could almost forget that the genre's early '70s roots lay in the slothful doom of Black Sabbath.

In keeping, few were the bands interested in reminding fans about this, and far-flung across the globe, so when Solitude Aeturnus came out of Arlington, Texas, doing just that, I wondered if the band's name was a literal expression of their desperate isolation.

This emotion, among other depressive variations, was certainly integral to the group's 1991 debut, Into the Depths of Sorrow, which, along with its '92's Beyond the Crimson Horizon, soon had critics describing Solitude Aeturnus as America's answer to Candlemass.

If only!

To my ears, vocalist Robert Lowe was such a carbon-copy for original Fates Warning frontman John Arch (especially his ill-advised swoops from low to high registers) that most operatic similarities to Candlemass' Messiah Marcolin were honestly lost on me.

And while, instrumentally-speaking, Solitude Aeturnus' melodic doom style (spiked with thrashy double kick-drums) had so much in common with their European counterparts, I never felt their songwriting was a match for the hallowed Swedes.

But I suppose it was the next best thing, at least when career highlights like "Seeds of the Desolate" and "The Hourglass" arranged their fast/slow, hard/soft ingredients with enough confidence and taste to attain a convincing majesty.

Along with secondary standouts like "It Came Upon the Night," "Beneath the Fading Sun," and "Beyond ...," I think these songs owe most of their success to the titanic, malefic riffs, and jaw-dropping solos from guitarists John Perez and Edgar Rivera.

But an opinionated (or even a qualified) producer is sorely missed on awkwardly assembled numbers like "Black Castle" and "The Final Sin," as well as the almost comically scripted lyrics for "Plague of Procreation."

Surely there are more elegant ways of discussing birth control?

All kidding aside, there was far more to love than there was to hate about Solitude Aeturnus, and the Texans would issue a third worthy LP in '94's Through the Darkest Hour before inadvertently foreshadowing their own fate with '96's disappointing Downfall.

Lowe would later fulfill his destiny (if you can call it that?) by joining Candlemass, but I was personally left unimpressed by LPs like King of the Grey Islands (2007), Death Magic Doom ('09), and Psalms for the Dead ('12).

And, all these years later, I still hear just as much Fates Warning as I do Candlemass in Solitude Aeturnus' works -- all thanks to Lowe's Arch-like vocal presence -- not that there's anything wrong with that!

More Doom: Ahab’s The Giant, Belzebong’s Sonic Scapes & Weedy Grooves, Black Capricorn’s Born Under the Capricorn, Candlemass’ Nightfall, Cathedral’s The Carnival Bizarre, Crypt Sermon’s Out of the Garden, Electric Wizard’s Dopethrone, Graves at Sea’s The Curse that Is, Green Druid’s Ashen Blood, Khemmis’ The Hunter, Krux’s Krux II, Mammoth Storm’s Fornjot, Morgion’s  Among Majestic Ruin, Mourn’s Mourn, Pagan Altar’s Judgement of the Dead, Paradise Lost’s Gothic, Pentagram’s Day of Reckoning, Reverend Bizarre’s In the Rectory of the Bizarre Reverend, Saint Vitus’ Born too Late, Skepticism’s Stormcrowfleet, Sleep’s Holy Mountain, Solothus’ Realm of Ash and Blood, Spirit Adrift's The Curse of Conception, Swallow the Sun’s The Morning Never Came, Toner Low’s Toner Low, Trees of Eternity’s Hour of the Nightingale, Trouble’s Trouble, The Wandering Midget’s From the Meadows of Opium Dreams, Warhorse’s As Heaven Turns to Ash, Witchcraft’s Witchcraft.

[lxnarphase]

𓇼 FUCK HER, FLIP HER, BEND HER BACKWARDS !

❤︎₊‧⁺...synopsis : the church always says sex for pleasure is a sin, and nanami kento is a man of the lord. but fuck, if his wife isn't worth sinning for. wc: 4.3k

❤₊‧⁺...cw : n. kento x fem!reader, religious themes, traditionalist views on sex and marriage, loss of virginity, missionary to mating press, breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, nanami loses himself in your pussy, slight cum play, dirty talk

❤₊‧⁺...lunar's note : am i unintentionally coping with religious trauma? possibly but it is fun :33 anyways based of this! forgive me if my writing is a bit rusty, it's been a while but enjoy !!

the two of you have spoken about eventually having children many times, but knowing the steps it took...it kept you both pushing it back, knowing eventually you'd both be ready.

after speaking with doctors, asking for advice from the church, and having you grumble about the neighbors who welcomed a cute baby girl, the two of you figured it was time.

you did your best to act normal all dayl, trying not to seem to nervous or too excited as you went about your chores for the day.

it may just be an act to procreate, but...it's still your first time with nanami. you want it to at least feel special.

there was nothing in the bible that went against that, right?

well, you have plenty of time to overthink since it seems that your dear husband will be at work late. to pass the time, you wait upstairs in your shared bedroom, the TV on as a distraction.

you're so stuck in your own world that you don't even notice him in the doorway before he clears his throat, leaning in the doorway. "oh! hi, honey, welcome home!" you go to stand up, but he holds up a hand, making you stop before you can get up from the bed.

it's silent, aside from the noise from the TV, and you can feel your stomach flip in anticipation.

has...has he always looked that handsome?

he continues to stand by the door, still not making eye contact. "you said it...starts today, correct," nanami questions, focused on undoing the straps of his watch. it shouldn't be attractive, it's such a simple task...yet it has your stomach doing flips as you nod.

"mhm, my, uh...ovulation starts today." it's such a weird thing to say, it just makes everything feel so...clinical. but that's how it's supposed to be, right? those who use sex for pleasure instead of procreation are sinners, or whatever the reverend at the church says.

"mm."

slowly pulling it off, he sets the watch on the dresser before shutting the bedroom door

"good."

dear god in heaven, you think to yourself, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling inside your mouth as he starts to undress. please forgive me for such inappropriate thoughts about my husband.

he removes his suit jacket—black today, it seems—placing it carefully on his desk chair, followed by his cufflinks and tie. his shirt is next, each button popping to reveal his strong, well-maintained physique.

you have to stop yourself from pumping your fist in the air for getting so lucky with such an attractive man as your husband. too busy ogling him like a horny teenager, you miss him undoing his belt before tugging them down and stepping out of his boxers.

once you do realize he's fully undress, you blush hard once he approaches the end of the bed—it took everything out of you not to stare at that...monster hanging between his legs, dear lord—and climbs onto it, making his way to hover over you.

his eyes roam up and down your body, taking in the pretty silky night dress you had on. It’s a soft blue with lacy white trim with little intricate flower designs.

modest, yet sensual.

"this is new," he comments, voice low and sultry. you can't help but wonder if he meant to sound so...so...

you don't find the correct word for it, but this new tone lights a fire in your stomach that has your r thighs squeezing together just a little bit.

"well, i figured it was an important night...you know, finally popping our cherries a-and starting a family?"

it's a weak attempt at humor, your voice clearly giving away your nervousness. you just pray that he ignores it.

a soft hum leaves him, his fingers playing with the intricately designed lace trim. the idea that you want to make this whole ordeal special, that you want to give yourself to him wholly, and that you want to swell with his child...

it pleases him greatly, a small smile touching his lips.

"well, aren't you sweet, my dearest?"

such simple words, yet they relieve so much tension from your shoulders. you can't help but smile back before a little gasp falls from your lips when his hands start to lift the dress up. his hands, they're so big, so hot on your skin.

It's a struggle to remember that this is for the purpose of producing offspring and nothing else, but you try, you try so hard.

but when you hear the hitch in his breath at the realization you didn't have anything else underneath the dress after he pulls it over your head, it's hard to remember.

the thought just about completely leaves your mind at the way nanami, your usually put-together husband, looks so hungrily down at you, a look you've never seen before in those pretty hazel eyes.

his gaze lingers on your body for a moment, mouth opening before shutting instantly, preventing himself from saying something he'd likely regret.

calm down, kento, he reminds himself, taking a second to clear his mind. this is for the purpose of family, not sinful and carnal desires.

even so, he's drinking in the sight of you, unable to stop his hands from rubbing up and down your sides, the soft skin of you, his wife, warming his palms. all his.

"gorgeous," he mumbles, unaware he even said it.

the moment you feel his leaking cock brush against your leg, a thought occurs to you.

neither one of you has a single idea of how to do this.

sure, you both know enough about putting it inside and moving, but that was about it. is there something else you should do? things you should say, places you should touch to aid in the process?

they never explained the actual process of sex in church, and lord knows your mother and father would've keeled over and died instantly if you were to ask them.

'it comes naturally when god deems it your time' the reverend stated once during a sermon. you fight back a frown, realizing that man probably had even less of an idea of how to do it.

however, the feeling of his tip nudging against your slit rips a gasp out of you, bringing you back into the present.

"are you alright? you left me for a bit there," nanami asks, his brow furrowed in worry. if you weren't ready, he was willing to back off. he may want to fulfill this important aspect of marriage, but...not if you don't want it.

"n-no, i'm okay! just...wondering how all of this is going to work out," you softly reassure, giving a weak giggle.

he can't blame you, he isn't very sure either. but as the man of the house and as your husband, he didn't plan on letting you worry. he would do all the work, you just needed to lay there looking so pretty, so soft, so...he realizes he's doing it again, letting his mind wander to places it shouldn't.

"just...j-just relax, we will figure it out as we go along."

with your silent nod, nanami starts to push his hips forward, hissing silently when he realizes the wetness that greets him.

you were this aroused just from...talking?

the thought of scolding you for letting your mind wander crossed his own, but...it would be hypocritical when his cockhead is dribbling precum all over your soft mound.

you choke out a noise of pain when his cock finally notches onto you and starts to push inside. sure, your wetness helped get the tip and the few inches after it inside, but just that is already too much for you, and you're expected to take all of it?!

you do your best not to move, not really sure what you should be doing. you'd be a good wife and bear with the pain if you had to, your nails digging into the pillow under your head as you braced yourself for the rest of his cock.

but this is absolutely unbearable, how do other women bear with this and have 6 or more children?!

a flicker of concern flashes through nanami's eyes at the sound you made, and he stops moving forward. he may be a bit mean sometimes, but he wasn't cruel.

if you both are going to go through with this, he is not going to make you suffer and nor is he going to force you to endure a painful experience.

no true man of god would do such a thing.

"breathe, don't hold it in," he instructs, his voice somehow calm and collected. one of his hands laces with yours, hoping to provide some sort of comfort as his lips brush against your forehead. "i've got you, darling, the pain will pass, just...tell me to stop if it gets too bad. don't hold it in."

giving a soft nod, you try to match his breathing, your body relaxing and making it easier for nanami to slip the rest of himself inside, a near silent sigh escaping him. the tightness and initial resistance that greeted him nearly made him moan, his cock twitching violently inside of you.

something about the physical feeling and knowledge that you saved yourself for him like you promised years before you both got married sent a surge of possession and pride, knowing he has such a loving and faithful wife who is so willing to give herself up to him like this...he can only hope you feel the same knowing he saved himself for you and only you.

so, as a 'reward'—and totally not because he fears you'll strangle his cock off with how tight you are—he's so gracious to you, not moving to let you get used to the stretch and feel of him inside, the room silent except for your matching breathing.

a few moments go by, and you should feel embarrassed when you feel slick drip out of you and down your ass. the realization that your dearest husband, one of the most faithful men of the church, is letting his cock soak inside of your hot cunt makes you whine a little, slick walls fluttering around him.

he's so fucked.

"a-ah...i'm going to move now," he warns, taking your sudden noise as a good sign. nanami shifts his legs just a bit before giving an experimental thrust, his brow furrowing as he slowly finds a rhythm.

the feeling of your hot and gummy walls is absolutely intoxicating, divine, nothing he's ever felt before.

this is what it felt like?

this is what he waited for?

fuck, it felt...it felt so good.

too good.

for you, the pain completely melts away, and you silently thank god and the angels above for giving you a merciful husband who is so kind as to wait for you to loosen up around him.

little do you know, he would rather kill himself than start moving when you're still adjusting to the pain and stretch.

his gentle movements make you all but melt under him, your eyes fluttering at the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

no wonder your parents preached about saving yourself until marriage, and thank the heavens you listened.

the very thought of feeling this way with anyone but your kento puts a bad taste in your mouth.

meanwhile, nanami chants prayers in his head over and over again as he tries his best to focus on the 'true' purpose for this.

the sticky, wet, and gooey sensation of your plump cunt sucking him, practically weeping each time he pulls out is just unfair.

the poor man, he's fighting so hard to maintain his composure, to not succumb to the base instincts that those soft moans of yours are beginning to stir within him.

"s-shush, darling," he grits out, hips still following his slow, deep pace. "don't...don't make such noises," he all but pleads, voice tinged with a huskiness that betrayed his growing need for you.

“i-i’m sorry! just, it...feels good, y-you feel good, feels s-so good,” you whisper, hands coming up to cover your mouth and stifle those sickeningly sweet noises.

but of course, that isn’t enough because each push and pull of his cock stirs your drooling cunt, filling the room with wet, filthy squelching sounds.

nothing about this is holy, nanami thinks as he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets next to your head.

look at her.

those soft, muffled noises are truly music to his ears, his pace morphing from the slow, deep grind into a faster pace as your soft body gives into the pleasure.

so wet, so damn tight around my cock., like she never wants to let me pull out.

"k-kento, y-you're goin' too deep, i-i can't be quiet, s'too much!"

messy little pussy, 's beggin' for cum, needs it, needs to feel my tip kissin' her cervix as i pump load after load into her womb.

he knows what that little voice is, and no matter how much he wants to claim that it’s the sound of demons pouring their sinful words into his mind, he knows that it's his thoughts, fueled by those dirty little noises that she can't hold back.

how pitiful, how sinful, doesn't she know she's going against all the teachings they've heard preached every weekend in their church?

doesn't she know she's giving into lust?

doesn't she know her pretty sounds are making his dick throb, painting her insides with his hot, gooey precum?

"hush, 'm not going to t-tell you again, you...you need to be quiet," he growls, the command lacking its earlier authority.

nanami also knows lying is a sin, and he's doing a damned lot of it right now as he tries to convince himself that you need to stay silent. after all, this—this is just a process of giving you both a child, just like you wanted, and nothing else.

but he's lying to himself.

he needs you to be quiet or else he'll lose it.

the poor man is barely holding onto his restraint, and these sweet noises pouring from your mouth aren't helping at all.

"y-you make this so difficult sometimes, my dear..." his voice is rough with need and desire, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. "but, by god, you're...you're. absolutely. exquisite."

he punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his hips into you in a way that has the coarse hair on his crotch to rub against your clit. the pleasure it gives you is electric, your legs coming up to squeeze his hips as you try to grind with him.

his words, his simple praise only makes you hiccup his name, crying out louder as your watery eyes roll back as your needy cunt squeezed down on his fat cock.

you're such a sweet thing, trying oh-so hard to mute your sounds. each snap of his hips is all but driving you insane.

“i-i can’t, ken, y-you don’t understand, i-it feels so good, i-i’m so full! you’re pressing against all the good spots, kentoo, i-i love you s' much, b-but i can't!”

be a good fucking husband and do what you were made to, nanami kento.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying to hard to ignore that temptation purring in the back of his mind.

the voice is so much louder now, echoing throughout his mind and muting any prayers or pleads to be mindful of the sanctity of this whole process.

fuck her. give her what she needs, what she deserves.

but it's too fucking hard, he can't his hips are speeding up, his strong hands moving to grip your thighs, unaware of how they start to anchor behind your knees.

breed your pretty little wife and give her a baby like she deserves.

with a deep groan, nanami finally loses all control, fingers digging into your supple thighs to push them to your chest and practically folding you in half.

this new angle has him openly moaning like a dirty whore, allowing him to plunge even deeper into your tight, gummy walls, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each and every deep thrust.

"k-ken, kenny, k-ken," you sob, tears catching onto your lashes as your entire being is assaulted by the endless pleasure your husband is giving you. he doesn't even look like your kento anymore, his pupils blown so wide that you can barely see the ring of greens and brown of his iris.

"f-fuck. 's all your fault, you know that," he hisses, eyes narrowing as he weakly glares down at you. but you can see the hearts in his eyes as he gives in to the pleasure.

his dark eyes bore down into yours, the wet plap plap plap plap of his hips slamming into yours almost overpowering his voice. "if y-you just stayed quiet like i asked, w-we wouldn't be here."

a little spurt of wet gushes out of you, making his fall forward into the juncture of your neck with a groan at the dirty noise it makes,

"god, i-i can feel it, y'know? can feel this sticky pussy—such a dirty little pussy—makin' such a mess. saved it jus' for me, didn't you, baby? mmhm—fuckin' hell, 's tight—thank you god f' giving me such an angel of a wife." nanami is huffing nonsense against your neck, pounding into you with a force that has the bed creaking loudly.

if you weren't being fucked stupid, you would be worried he was about to break the bed.

"you can keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, b-but you jus' had to have the noisiest little cunt."

he's so mean, but it only serves to make you gush even more, the way juices pour out of you and only make the already filthy noises even nastier.

"she's talkin' to me, baby, y'hear it? i'm...i-i'm gonna breed you," he manages to whine into your ear, pulling away to press his sweaty forehead against yours.

his tongue, so pink and pretty—you want it in your mouth, want to taste it want to feel it against yours—runs over his top lip as he watches drool drip down the corner of your mouth while you nod brainlessly.

nanami's never felt so dirty, so unhinged, but it feels so right, feels so fucking good. he never wants to leave your pussy, never wants to pull out, this is where he belongs, buried deep inside you as his cock pumps load after load right into your tummy, giving you what you need, what you deserve.

"yeah? you want that? i'll give it to you, baby, promise, 'm gonna be a good husband a-and knock you up, gonna make you a mommy."

that has you keening, tears pouring down your cheeks at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. you know you're close, but it's different.

it feels different, feels too much, there's pressure you've never felt before from the few times you'd cave in and play with your puffy, swollen clit in the shower when you waited for nanami to get home from work to kiss you to sleep.

no, you feel like you are about to fucking explode. "ken, i-i can't, 'm gonna—s-something's coming," you try to warn, your hands fisting in his hair as you tug and tug and tug.

the pull of his hair makes him moan like a slut, it sounds so fucking good. his eyes are rolling back before he rushes to comfort you, pressing soft little open-mouthed kisses against your lips.

you don't need to fight it, you just need to give it to him, give him what he needs.

"shh, shh, don' cry, y' look t'pretty, honey. l-let it happen, cum for me, i've got you, angel, cum for me s-so i can fill you up," he coos, his hips growing erratic as he feels your silky walls starting to fluttering around him, feeling you teeter on the edge of release.

he shifts, just barely, just enough to better position himself to fuck deeper into you. but that slight movement has his cock smushing against something soft and spongy that makes you sob, growing softer and more pliant under him, and you know you are done for as all you can do is wail his name.

"please, pretty girl, cum for me, show me how good 'm making you feel, soak my cock, c'mon, you can do it."

with a loud mewl that nearly has nanami soaking your walls in cum, you dig your nails into his biceps as you finally, finally cum. and you're right, it is different, your cute pussy squirting and creaming all over his dick.

the poor man is choking back a whine, eyes wide in shock as your cunt just gushes slick everywhere, clenching around him like a vice as you cum.

your juices are soaking his cock and balls, splattering against his lower abdomen obscenely. the thought of making you do that again crosses his mind for a split moment before the need to fill you up for being so good overpowers any other thought.

not giving you a break, he continues his unforgiving fucking, ignoring your cries and pleads for him to slow down.

"nonono, shh, shh, shush, you can take it," he coos against your lips, no longer caring if this was sinning or not. all he could think about was the constant squeezing and spasming of your poor overstimulated slit that was milking him toward his orgasm.

you try to squirm away, but the way he has you folded in half has you unable to do anything but accept his stupidly deep thrusts that make you swear you can taste his cock in the back of your throat.

"t-tha's it." he's panting, slurring his words, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. it’s so wet, so messy now, but he can't find it in himself to care.

no, all he can think about as he looks down at you is how you'll have that angelic glow as you grow round with his baby, and everyone will know you're his, that he knocked you up, he pumped you full of his cum, that you're his you're his you're all fucking his—

"f-fuck, honey, i-i can't..." his hips stutter as he does his best to maintain his rhythm, but his own release is barreling down on him. his heavy balls are drawing up tight as they slap against your ass, your juices still pouring out and soaking all of him.

"'m gonna fill you up, 'm gonna pump this—this sinful little cunt f-full of m'cum, angel, gonna knock you up, gonna have you drippin' with me, g-gonna give you a fuckin' baby, shit—"

with a deep, guttural groan, nanami hisses your name as he buries himself as deep as possible, his hot tip kissing your cervix as thick, hot ropes of his potent cum pour right into your womb, hips grinding into you and giving little thrusts as you milk his cock weakly despite your overstimulation.

it's—it's so much, he's still cumming, how was all of this inside of him? you can practically feel it sloshing around inside of you, and you whimper when you feel it gush out around his now softening cock, dripping down your ass onto the bed.

a moment or two passes, and he sits up, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face and looking down at you.

oh.

you sweet thing, you're an absolute mess. you have tear streaks down your cheeks, your lips swollen from him unknowingly biting them between the little kisses he was giving you, a pretty sheen of sweat on you, and...

his eyes trail lower to where his dick is still nestled inside of you, and it takes everything in him to not accidentally thrust his hips a little bit.

it's a creamy, sticky mess, a mixture of his and your cum seeping out your poor, abused pussy.

"o-oh. sorry, my love. i'm...not quiet sure what happened there. i apologize for such...foul language," he mumurs, his hand stroking your hip. "'s okay," you softly coo back to him, your eyes fluttering shut as you try to catch your breath. "i-i liked it..."

but you quickly learn you've married both a man of god and a curious, insatiable bastard who can't help but drag his cum all over your pussy, quickly finding your clit. and the reaction you give him is one he decides he likes, your hips canting up as your soft, oversensitive walls squeeze around his cock again.

"k-kento, that's nasty!"

all you get in response is a grumbling noise in his chest as it takes you weakly slapping your hands against his chest to get his eyes to snap away from your gooey, creamy pussy.

clearing his throat, he looks down at you, that heated look slowly creeping back onto his face. "perhaps we...we should try once more. just to ensure it takes," he states, doing his best to show some semblance of dominance.

but it's impossible when his hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, his pupils blown as he gazes down at your panting form like he's about to devour you whole.

"after all, a...a big family is what god wants from man and woman, right? so we...shouldn't delay and keep trying." his hand trails up your side before finding its way to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh.

his thumb experimentally rolled your nipple, and the way your body reacted, a soft gasp of his name...how is he supposed to explain the feeling he's getting in the confessional booth?

"y-yeah," he gulps, leaning his head down. you can feel his hot breath against your tit, and you swear you feel drool drip onto your breast. "w-we'll keep trying. jus' to make sure w-we do what the scripture asks."

may god forgive him for being such a fucking liar and a damned bad one at that.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[makeitworse]

𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔱𝔥

♱ preacher’s daughter x remmick. religious guilt. dubcon. fingering. period oral. 18+

note: guess who watched sinners

what fear a man like him brings upon a woman like you!

poor thing you were, sweet lamb of the reverend’s blood. the mattress creaked under your weight as you tossed restlessly— long abandoned by any sleep.

your sheets were damp with sweat, even with the breeze’s bitter cold streaming in through the crack in your window. outside, the cicadas sang their mournful hymn just beyond the windowsill. the moon hung low, waxing gibbous swelling like a watching eye as the night pressed heavy on the old clapboard house— thick as sin and twice as quiet, which your mind was far from.

inside, you clenched your thighs tight beneath your cotton nightgown. warmth pooled in your panties, slick with the sin you swore you’d repent, and yet failed to feel regret for.

it happened yesterday, the day’s heat still clinging to the chapel as the golden glow of the evening bled through the windows. you’d been alone, splinters sharp on your skin as you recited Psalms on your knees— head bowed, hands folded tight, when his knuckles came rapping at the wooden doorframe.

a stranger. white singlet bronzed with sweat from a day’s work, suspenders loose around his hips and worn boots on his feet; face plastered with a devil’s smile. said he was in need of salvation. said he’d been walkin’ all day.

you could catch the way one’s eyes would gleam when their motives didn’t match their mouths. the cloth raised you— you could tell when the preacher’s gospel was falling on deaf ears. you could tell purity from filth masquerading as it. and this man, you knew what he was asking for was far from what he really wanted. nothing that you could offer him in the Lord’s house.

when he realised you weren’t letting him in, the light in his eyes shifted to something you couldn’t describe— not with any words you’d read in scriptures. you should’ve called for your daddy. you should’ve slammed the door shut in his face; God help you, that handsome face of his.

but his voice— low and sweet like molasses, a honeyed drawl dripping from his words— had coaxed you to come outside with him. he led you by the hand ‘round the side of the church where the sun couldn’t see.

there, beneath the shade of the old cedar tree, he’d kissed you. little sips of your lips, slow and deep like he was drinkin’ up your resolve. and when his hands slid beneath your skirts, you didn’t stop him.

in the quiet of the dusk, he took what was sacred to marriage. not cruelly, nor with force. he’d cradled your neck in his palm, his fingers slow as they worked at you— thumb drawing little circles over your nub, his index finger slippin’ into your damp core.

wordlessly, you had let him. spreading your legs for his hand to dig deeper, parting your mouth for his tongue to slide against yours.

he was gentle with you, but there was a hunger simmering under the surface, you could tell. like he’d been wanderin’ the desert and your pure, pretty body was the saving grace for his thirst.

your cries echoed soft against the chapel wall as you came undone on his fingers. shame rose in your throat like bile, only to be swallowed down with a moan as he’d kissed you like a crazed man.

he’d left without so much as a name. only the ache of him between your thighs lingered.

and now, alone in your bed, the memory haunted you out of any rest. you couldn’t stop thinkin’ on it. on him.

his voice in your ear, his hand on your throat, the taste of him on your tongue. he’d been no man of God. he was temptation dressed in sweat and skin. the Devil himself, with eyes like dying embers, offerin’ you that apple. and foolish girl that you were, took it right outta his hand. lapped it up like a starvin’ dog.

you ain’t prayin’ tonight. tonight, you’re beggin’.

tentatively, your fingers creep beneath the cotton hem. you’d found yourself slick and ready. you press onto your sensitive bud the way he had, calling him back with nothin’ but the memory of his touch. whispering the name you’d never learned into the night, you slipped a finger into yourself. warm, wet. thick. you gasped.

you jolt as you retract your hand from yourself, holding it up to the moonlight streaming in through the window. your fingers were painted crimson.

you stifle a retch, about to stand from your bed when a scraping sound on the windowpane has you jumping. long, curved talons casted a shadow across your room as they scratched the glass. you tell yourself to breathe, that it must just be a stray branch, until on the wind came a man’s humming; a soft lullaby. the Devil’s call.

you know it’s him. it’s why you wipe your hand off on your sheets, why you creep to the window and push the frame up over your head. you peer over on the porch where the deep tune’s drifting in from, heart poundin’ like a fist on a coffin lid.

he’s sat in the rocking chair, legs stretched long as the wood creaked under shallow sways. he draped lazily on the chair like he had a right to it. like he’d been welcomed onto your property.

you hear him clearer now: mumbled words strung in between his hums, the rhythm of a man who ain’t in no rush. his eyes, or what should be his eyes— twin stars in pools of black— flicker up to you. he smiles at you. crooked. nothing good to come of it.

“well now,” he drawled, voice syrupy and low, “fancy seein’ ya here.”

you gripped the windowsill tighter. “how did you find me?”

“oh, you can thank daddy for that,” he chuckled under his breath, the sound laced with something sinister. you swallowed thickly. “some nights ago down at the tavern, he was tellin’ me all ‘bout this daughter of his. pretty lil’ thing, nice girl of the cloth. had to see for m’self.”

your breath dissolved in your throat. you knew your father’s tongue turned loose when the drink spoke for him— spillin’ gospel and whiskey in equal amounts. but like some other story at the bottom of a bottle, he’d offered you up to some stranger at the bar.

your voice faltered. “and you… you only found me to—”

he tsked softly, leaning forward. the old rocking chair squealed. “now, i know i heard you singin’, missy. wasn’t no song they teach in the church choir.”

silence stretched between you. even with the cold nipping at your skin, your cheeks burned, replaying the memory of how you’d moaned for him outside the chapel— voice cracking as his fingers strummed at you. a stranger.

you exhaled a shaky breath. “who are you?”

“name’s remmick, sweetpea.” he tipped his head, eyes gleaming under the porchlight. “now why don’cha let me on in, huh? ain’t that what you want?”

“i’ll scream for my daddy,” you lied. daddy wasn’t home. tonight, like any other night, daddy was half-drowned in whiskey by now. save for you and remmick, the house was an empty one.

remmick smiled wider, but not kindly. “you and i both know daddy ain’t comin’ home.”

your eyes faltered, falling to the floorboards. you were out of excuses, whether to him or to yourself, to not succumb again. remmick slapped his knees with a sigh.

he stood, crossing the porch over to you with the grace of a man who’d been welcomed with open arms. that stare of his, it’s like he wanted to eat ‘cha right up.

“or, you can c’mon out in the cold with me.”

you think over his offer once, but you don’t move. your knuckles curl into fists on the windowsill, and he sighs at you recoiling away from him. so he steps again, invading further into what little air separated you from him.

“c’mon now,” he coaxed, voice powdered with gentleness. it could almost fool you. “ain’t no shame in wantin’.”

another step closer. “i know it’s in you, girl. heard it. felt it.” he makes a gesture with his hand, recalling that evening at the chapel. your face goes hot. earnestly, he puts his palm on his chest. “i ain’t here to judge. just wanna give you somethin’ warm to hold onto. somethin’ real.”

don’t you want that? you may say your prayers to the sky, but the Lord doesn’t answer. you know he’s plucking your loose strings. you know he’s just telling you the right words so you give him what he wants. but God forgive, you wanted it too.

your body leans forward before your mind can catch up. your thighs press together, already aching.

remmick reaches out, his hand hovering in the air as he offers it to you. a question.

“i ain’t gonna bite, girl.”

he’s smiling, but not in the way that it’s a joke. you don’t linger on that thought, perhaps foolishly, as you hike a knee up to the windowsill. you hear remmick inhale as your nightgown ruches up your thighs, and he damn near moans.

with a hop, you push yourself up onto the windowsill, your tender skin erupting in goosebumps at the night air. you steady your breath— then, you reach out, take his hand in yours.

his palm is rough, calloused from travel and work you’d assumed, and somehow cold, like stones in a riverbed. his fingers curl around yours slow and deliberate.

remmick’s watching you like he’s starvin’, a predator on an empty stomach— like his patience is about to boil over. his eyes follow every shift of your body as your legs slide down on either side of the sill. the cotton parts with the motion, and you wiggle forward, settling. open, vulnerable. his to take.

and then he’s there.

remmick’s between your thighs in a blink— hands on your knees, spreading them wider without askin’ and without resistance. you almost flinch at how quick he leans in, and you cry out when his lips latch onto your neck.

his mouth’s hot on your skin, tongue swirling on the flesh like he’s memorising your taste. you wince, his canine teeth nipping at a sensitive spot under your ear. you shudder at how heavy he was breathing as he kissed you. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was resistin’ the urge to bite a chunk outta you.

his mouth trails over your jawline, kissing to your chin and then finally, his lips find yours. you meld against him with a sigh, body curling closer to him as his hands glide up, up, up on your thighs. you muffle against his lips— frantic.

“w-wait, i’m—”

fruitlessly, you try to push him away, but the fabric of your nightgown’s already hiked up to your stomach. instinctively, you try to shut your legs— trembling at the cold air on your exposed crotch, blooming red— but remmick keeps them pried open with a firm grip on your knees.

you glance at him— you almost don’t want to, but you do— jaw going slack when you see he’s droolin’ over the sight.

you’d been raised to believe that your monthly blood was something dirty, something you speak of in whispers. you don’t talk ‘bout such filth around men of the Lord. but remmick, he was gawkin’ at the blood between your thighs like it’s a river runnin’ through the Garden of Eden— and God, girl, was he parched.

you thought you couldn’t be any more speechless, but then he drops to his knees.

remmick’s head cranes in, breath ghosting up your inner thigh, his lips brushing soft against the skin— like he’s barely restraining himself. right there on the porch, only the night to bear witness.

"you smell so sweet, preacher’s girl," he murmurs, voice low, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

then his mouth is on you.

you damn near scream out— but he’s quick to hook two fingers in your mouth and stifle your cry. you bury a hand in his hair for dear mercy, gaspin’ as he licks a slow stripe up your pussy, copper slick on his tongue.

stars blink down from above. remmick’s mouth moves slow, soft— like he’s savourin’ a peach fresh off the tree. he leaves kitten licks on your tender bud that have your spine arching, head tipping against the frame. his open-mouth’s hot on your pussy as his tongue swirls, like he’s spellin’ his name between your legs.

his sweetness don’t last much longer.

he groans against you— low, guttural— before his depravity bares its teeth. he grips your hips tight, nails leaving crescent moons as his tongue works at you with unholy skill. he devours you like a man possessed, mouth wet and desperate, eagerly lappin’ up every last drop of blood you got.

your knees shake, his fingers on your tongue breaking your moans into the night, only cicadas and pine to hear. your fist tugs hard on his hair when he sucks that little sweet spot, and a growl reverberates on your core— like he liked it.

there’s a sensation bubbling low in your belly; a warm serpent coiling there, like you’d felt that evening outside the chapel. every swipe of his tongue had your voice crackin’ in your throat.

it seems forbidden, what he’s doing to you: it feels too good, it must be bad. every wet sound he draws from you, wrong in all the right ways. but you can’t push him off you. you’re long past saving now— what he’s givin’ you may be the closest you’ll ever feel to Heaven, not after you’ve let the Devil mark you with his mouth.

your whole body seizes, back arching as blinding white burning through your vision— holy and hellish all at once— as you come apart on his tongue.

and remmick don’t stop, not when your thighs quake tight around his neck, not even when you whimper like you’re beggin’ for mercy. he keeps on licking, agonisingly slow and deliberate, savorin’ every last drop. he finally looks up, mouth comin’ off with a wet pop. slick coats his lips, adorned with blood red down to his chin. his eyes are dark— sated.

“tell me, sweet thing,” he murmurs, voice a low thunder rumbling against your overstimmed cunt, “that little prayer of yours… it get answered?”

your chest heaved with pants as you came down from your little glimpse of Heaven. remmick almost forgot himself.

the metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue, heady and addicting, and for a moment he’d nearly let the fangs slip. he’d been entranced, in the wet heat of your pleasure, that instinct nearly won out. his claws had already betrayed him, dragging down your thighs to leave welts blooming behind.

he’d almost broken his promise— not to bite. not yet, that is.

it took centuries worth of resilience to not sink his teeth in, not to claim you then and there. but remmick couldn’t strip you down just yet. no, not when the sugar of your purity clung so sweet to his tongue. he’d developed a taste for it— rot beneath ripe fruit.

he wanted to peel you back, inch by inch. to watch your innocence fall away, layer after layer, until there was nothin’ left of the good little preacher’s daughter.

only then, would he mark you with his teeth, leave a lovebite between your thighs that’d ache for days. you’d carry it like a brand, like a promise. so when the last light in you flickered out, when the sweetness soured and all that was left was a primal lust— then you’d be his. to worship and adore. to keep, forevermore.

taglist: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @loveesiren @ttturnitup @bcfcpsh

notes: ooc maybe i just wanted him to b soft also not my usual fandom content but idc i am free

[mostlyghostlyy]

I can't stop thinking about how badly I want to be Reverend Lester Lowe’s safe space. I want to cuddle the shit out of that man after a nightmare.

As the moon gets fuller and he becomes more and more disheveled. Anxiety and irritation building in him, he pays no mind to keeping himself looking presentable. Five o'clock shadow deepening into a darker shade, you can tell he hasn't shaved in days. Usually gentle green eyes blacken to a shade of unease.

Early on he's confused by the changes. Struggling and failing to keep his temperament in check, and he finds himself isolating in the church the more the moon swells. He keeps telling himself he's just tired and that maybe he's caught a bug that's been going around town. Opting out of any social interaction he can.

The nightmares begin shortly after the first full moon. Ripping, tearing, horrid dreams that feel so vibrantly real he wakes screaming. Shuddering breaths and soft trembles in the dark occupy most of his wolf-less nights. Muttered prayers in hushed tones, aimed at protection and comfort. He's scared, but he can't quite put his finger on why.

When he can't fall asleep or doesn't want to, nightmares digging into his subconscious and giving the tell tale warning signs of their arrival, he'll visit you. “Night walks” he calls them, tells you they soothe his occasional insomnia. Tells you that he “decided to drop by and check in.” even though it's 2 in the morning and any decent person would be asleep. Flashing you a nervous smile, while his hands twist and rub together anxiously. He doesn't want to impose, but he can't help himself.

You know what he needs. He wants you to take him in and make him feel safe. Comfort he gives to others but rarely receives himself. It's vital for him, especially nearing the full moon. The nightmares are bad and his mental state worsens. You don't miss how he trembles, the shimmer of unshed tears brimming in his eyes. As soon as you open the door, sleep is the furthest thing from your mind. You can see the damp beaded sweat on his brow beneath the dull golden glow of porch lights. “Oh, Les.” You coo, foot propping the door open so he can come in of his own accord. Holding your arms out, welcoming him into an embrace if he chooses.

He never refuses. head coming to rest on your shoulder, arms either wrapped tightly around you or crossed over himself. hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. Shuttering breaths don't ease, and you brace yourself for a long night. You expertly navigate backwards to the couch, getting more comfortable for the emotional clean up you're in store for.

“What's wrong, Les?” You tilt his head to look at you, but he avoids your eyes. Silence envelopes the surroundings, everything quiet aside from occasional sniffling. The Reverend was a quiet mourner, lest anyone acknowledge that he had demons of his own.

You wait for him to respond. Many nights he'll avoid it, head dipped low and sulking. Not welcoming conversation he has to partake in, preferring to just wallow in your presence and physical touches.

“Just ain't hav'n a good night s’all” his gentle southern drawl is little more than a whisper, “.....I had another one tonight….. Real bad.” he rubs his eyes furiously. You sigh, gently resting your forehead on his. Hands still resting on his face. He's still avoiding eye contact, it must have been a horrible dream. You don't push him to talk about the nightmares, having him relive it and regurgitate the horrid details sounds needlessly cruel. He tells you if he feels so inclined, although most times he would prefer to forget.

“It's okay. I've got you now. You're safe in my arms, Honey.” you repeat this like a mantra, and he seems to settle down a bit. Breath slowing and deepening. “Let's go lay down and I'll read to you, yeah? Put this nasty business out of your mind.” He nods and you rise, for a brief moment he loses the warmth and shivers. You offer him a hand and he greedily takes it, you lead him to the bedroom. It's almost routine at this point, climbing into bed and Lester follows. Planting himself firmly on top of you, so your arms envelop him. Your soft voice above him begins speaking words from the nearest novel you gave on hand. The sound of your heartbeat thumping steadily, it's so ordinary it makes him feel normal. Like all of this is a bad dream.

He doesn't feel worthy to envelop himself in your reassuring intimacy. He feels dirty and wrong, he wants to hide but he craves your warmth. He feels unclean, like he's tainting faith with his congregation, coming to you for comfort instead of relying only on the word of God to see him through. Look at him now, sharing a bed with a woman he is not wed to. Even if it is only platonic, he feels shameful for it, like hes taking advantage of you. You show him so much compassion he can't help but follow you around like a lost puppy. Savoring your sympathy as long as you provide him with it.

[seresinhangmanjake]

An Heir: Part 2

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: You and Feyd intend to be together forever--marry, have children, lead Giedi Prime side by side--but your plans are disrupted when the Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit reveals Lady Fenring is pregnant and, to Feyd's utter shock, the baby is his.

Notes/Warnings: pregnancy

Words: 2100

Part 1

Reader POV

Composed as you can, you rush out of the room, your footsteps melding with the scraping of chair legs against the floor as Lords and Ladies rise from their seats. Through the cacophony, you can almost make out his steps—his distinct stride—but you keep going, keep pushing to reach a haven. Where you will find one, however, you have no idea. Your frantic thoughts are interfering with your once-memorized layout of the fortress.

The door thuds as it closes behind you, forcing the voices of great leaders to blend into one thick mass; gurgly and distorted as if your head has been dunked underwater. You can feel the air being sucked out of you, lungs straining for breath after breath as you hurry down a hallway.

Another thud bounces off the walls, followed by footsteps that quicken in pace. You gasp, pushing yourself to run faster, but your skirts work against you, the fabric catching under your shoes. If only you could kick the heels off, rip through the stitched seams of your dress so it may fall to the floor. But what would that do other than leave crumbs for him to find?

You meet a corner and are faced with three options: two halls with no nooks to tuck yourself into, or a door, which you hope can be locked tight from the other side. You go for the door.

Thankfully, the knob twists without resistance, but as you push open the metal slab, an arm wraps around your waist, a body presses against your back, and you’re shoved inside.

Once in the room, he releases you from his grasp and you spin around to find him locking the door; a click that seals you within your cage. Slowly, he turns to face you.

His breathing is heavy. His chest and shoulders rise and fall with each intake and release of oxygen. Blue eyes are wide, trained on the floor at your feet for what feels like an eternity before they start on a path up to your face.

The stare is agonizing, and within it a mixture of conflicting emotions that shakes you to your core. Then his gaze slides down to your abdomen. He swallows and begins to take cautious steps forward.

You’re frozen solid, a statue vulnerable to whatever he intends to do or say, and your mind runs wild with possibilities. But when all that separates your bodies is a few remaining inches of stifled air, he drops to his knees. His hands rise to rest on your stomach, and as his eyes close, he presses his forehead against the slight bump.

“How could you not tell me this?” he says.

Your throat constricts, trapping your words. You try to ignore the heat of his touch seeping through the layer of your clothes; a burn that works to melt away all barriers and leave you raw and real in front of him.

“Answer me.”

“It–” Your tongue darts out to moisten your dry lips before you attempt to choke down the grit that lines your throat. You shouldn’t say it, but it’s right there, trying to pry out of your closed mouth. “It wasn’t your business.”

Feyd’s head snaps up and he shoots you a look that you've seen many times. One that imbues his opponents with utter fear; a shock of chilled skin and chattering knees. And despite how unenjoyable it is to have that look directed at you, you stand strong against it.

“I’ll allow that to slide just this once,” he says, his voice low in warning. His eyes return to your stomach, hand grazing over the bump. “How far?”

The pause lingering in the air you struggle to admit to yourself is not because you do not wish to tell him. Not that it would matter.

Now that he's aware, concealing the truth would be wasted energy. Not to mention, the likelihood of him ceasing his interrogation is practically zero. But the truth is a hard and unrelenting devastation, and to speak it aloud only ripens the pain.

“How. Far?” he repeats.

You take a breath. “Four months,” you tell him, and Feyd’s brow pinches. His lips part. You think his eyes go glassy, as yours had when you’d learned of your condition, but he blinks before you can confirm it. “I didn’t know it,” you continue. “When I left, I didn’t know.”

You watch as each stage from denial to acceptance passes over his face. “Your parents?”

“They haven't noticed.”

“It's obvious.”

“Not to everyone else,” you say. “I hide it well; you just–”

He looks up. “I what?”

Lost nights pop into your mind, the hours spent in bed under low light where his eyes and fingers would map out your body, attending to neglected skin, loving on the marrings scattered about your flesh. If anyone were to see it—you—it’s him.

You sigh. “You know my body.”

In the beat that passes, Feyd’s adam’s apple bobs, then he stands. His thumb rubs back and forth along the curve of your stomach, and as he stares at his hand, you can see wheels spinning, the thoughts tumbling around in his head.

“I’ll kill them,” he says, and your gut instantly somersaults in rejection. “I’ll kill them both. I don’t care. She is not yet my wife, and that thing inside her is not my heir.”

“Feyd…”

“We’ll inform my uncle that you're pregnant. He will accept it, you and I will marry, and he will acknowledge our child as an heir,” he continues. “All he wants is a guaranteed continuation of our line. He'll be satisfied.” Feyd’s palms cup your cheeks and he plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “I’ll take care of it.” Then he starts toward the door.

It takes a moment for the rapid expelling of his words to process fully in your brain, but once you catch up, a swell of panic fills you. There is a baby in that woman. A child—his child—innocent of it’s mother’s actions.

You rush after him and grab onto his arm. “Feyd, stop.” You pull harder as he reaches for the knob. “Just think about what you’re–”

“No!” He shouts, spinning around so harshly that you flinch back. His eyes are pointed daggers, and your hands fall to your sides. “You left! Those witches plotted and schemed and you left!

“I—I had to leave.”

“Why!”

Feyd groans. His hand runs down his face. “I thought I’d been with you that night,” comes out gritty and harsh as his index finger and thumb press against his closed eyelids. “Until she shoved the memories into my mind, I didn’t remember so much as interacting with her, let alone being in a bed with her,” he says. His hand falls away from his face. “And you didn’t give me a chance to explain that.”

“Why?” you huff, your eyes narrowing. “Why?” He can not possibly be this daft. “Because my heart broke! Did you expect me to watch you marry another woman and father another child? I was not going to be your concubine!”

“Why would I?” you spit. “I followed you. I saw you with her. It didn’t require an explanation.”

“And knowing what she is capable of, you thought I was there by my own choice?” he snaps back.

You open your mouth for a retort, but you quickly close it as the remnants of his voice echo around the room. Your eyes are glued to his, but once his voice fades, you’re the one to break the stare-off. Your head dips, gaze dropping to your feet.

Time passes in silence. Then, in the edges of your vision, you see his tense shoulders relax and his clenched fists slowly release.

“You really thought I wanted it,” he says, and it’s a little blade piercing your heart.

Despite how poorly you’ve hid your emotions, you hate that he has so easily cracked you. That your mind is exposed for his exploration. That he can now probably see every painful image that has entered your mind from the moment you saw him follow Lady Fenring into that room.

You sigh and your head raises. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is what is,” you tell him. “And what she is, is pregnant. The Harkonnen line is secured by another.”

“I don’t want her child. I want ours.”

“Feyd, we are too late.”

“No,” he counters, shaking his head. “I am not losing you twice. I refuse to. You became pregnant before her. You will give birth before her. Our child will be my rightful heir.”

“A Bene Gesserit child will be seen as more valuable than–”

Feyd reaches for you. His hands cup your face again, and his lips meet yours, and as much as you know you shouldn’t allow this, you can’t push him away. It feels too good. Too right. You missed him too much.

Your protective walls crumble so you can take it all in. His taste, which has always been like a drug, pours into your mouth. A warm sensation passes through your veins. Addictive. Pleasing to your brain and nerves. And who cuts themselves off in the middle of a high?

His hands slide into your hair and he holds your head steady as his mouth ravages yours, as his tongue licks yours, as his nose brushes against yours. But then he pulls away.

“Stop this,” he whispers in the hairs-width of space between your lips and his. “You’re staying with me, where you and our baby will be safe. You will marry me. We will have our child,” he says. “I will set this right.”

Your bottom lip quivers, sudden tears surfacing but unshed. “How?

“However I have to.”

—

The Reverend Mother has always been a force—a stony figure; a formidable structure in bodily form—but as she sits across from where Margot stands, her presence has never been more overwhelming, and Margot, who is not one to shrink in front of power, has never felt more squeamish.

“It has been months.” The Reverend Mother’s voice fills the space, her gaze as unbendable as tungsten. “You should be with child by now.”

Lady Fenring bows her head. “Forgive me, Reverend Mother.”

“We can only disguise your lack of progression for so long.”

They’re words Margot has heard many times over the months. However, as the days have tallied, the urgency and threat behind those words has increased. With each visit from the Reverend Mother, her frustration has become more palpable.

“I am aware,” Margot says, “But he grows stronger.”

“Stronger!” the older woman’s voice booms within the cone of silence. “Stronger how?

While not unheard of throughout the millennia, stronger is not a common concern for a Bene Gesserit. Rare can a man’s—or anyone’s—conscious curb the Voice, and Lady Fenring had assured the Reverend Mother of the task's simplicity. After coaxing Feyd-Rautha into her bed on the night of his birthday, she was certain of her success, only to be met with the troubling discovery of her failure. His seed had not implanted within her womb.

At the time, she could not make sense of it. But as she continued to observe him, clarity struck her.

Some part of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen fought back that night. His body had rejected her, and it continues to do so, her capabilities becoming less and less influential with each wasted attempt to seduce him.

“His anger—it aids him in resisting my Voice,” Margot reveals. “And if he cannot hear me, he refuses to touch me.”

The Reverend Mother’s brows dip. Her lips purse in consideration. “He has always been an angry boy. What anger could be potent enough to resist the Voice?”

"He..." Margot swallows hard, “He yearns for her,” she says. “She occupies his mind. There is no room for me.”

The Reverend Mother releases a scoff. “Impossible.”

“We’ve heard of such instances before.”

“And yet, they always break in the end.”

Lady Fenring lightly shakes her head as she recalls her many failed attempts. “I fear he will not,” she counters. “She is here. She arrived with her House this morning. He won’t let her go now.”

The Reverend Mother’s spine straightens in her chair. Her hands clasp the ends of the armrests—a sign of displeasure, not often displayed by a woman of such practiced composure. Margot all but shrinks under her glare.

“Then remove her.”

[lesbiancientforesttroll]

Think about Harrow's AU Bubbles

Thinking about Harrow's AU bubbles, not as fanfic references, but as expressions of her subconscious fears and desires, is so fascinating.

The Harrow Nova one is pretty obvious. Harrow's parents were obsessed with her being a necromancer, were willing to kill for it. It's only natural she'd wonder, "What if I hadn't been?"

And the answer Harrow gives herself is: Your parents and everyone would reject you (except, wildly, for Crux). Also they'd be alive cuz you'd never opened the tomb, and you'd be an unpopular orphan they'd abuse (Just Like Gideon). And you'd still be just as devoted to serving the Ninth with a blade. There's a lot there. But the other really telling bit is her relationship with Gideon. Harrow Nova professes to hate the reverend daughter even as she seeks to (re) create the necro-cav bond with her. But that hatred doesn't seem to be mutual. And the bit about the daughter intervening when Harrow was whipped…

That's Harrow's subconscious saying if their roles had been reversed, "Gideon would have treated me better than I treated her. Gideon would have protected me."

The Ball AU also seems like a reasonable extension of Gideon's childhood query: "What if my other parent is the most important guy in the universe?" Answer: Emperor Dad would throw a big party.

But also… it's a bride-finding ball! That's so very telling. It could have been anything, but Harrow invents another scenario where she's fighting, competing to get to Gideon, to be awarded the role of her sworn partner (first cav, now bride), while outwardly claiming not to want it.

Now The BARI Star AU often gets described as a "coffee shop" one, but it's actually set in a cohort cafeteria. And normally I wouldn't split hairs over that, but I think the cohort setting is actually really significant. The Cohort was Gideon's dream, and also Harrow's rival for Gideon's attention. It's what she kept trying to leave Harrow for.

So now Harrow dreams that she's left Drearburh to join the cohort and will meet Gideon there. Not fight or compete for a role where they're bound to each other, but just meet her there. That feels like yielding. Like compromise. It makes me think Harrow's subconscious has matured past trying to keep Gideon with her always and is instead looking for ways that SHE can be with Gideon. Meet Gideon where she is.

(Also this may be a stretch, but I always find it low-key funny that Harrow imagines Gideon in the cafeteria… I like to think her brain is skimming lists of hypothetical military jobs like... what sees the least action... ah, coffee-adept, she'll be perfectly safe there...)

[heavenlymorals]

Details that I've noticed about Arthur Morgan-

-He, for the most part, despises male touch, especially if it's overly affectionate. He gets tense anytime a man hugs him and wants it to be over as quick as possible (Jamie, Mickey) and he looks visibly offended when Professor Bell touches him. He even sometimes gets annoyed when Dutch touches him on his shoulder, someone who he considers a father figure.

-On the flip side, he does not mind female touch at all. He even initiates it sometimes (Tilly, the girl at Beaver Hollow). Now one could argue that they were high stress situations, but if Tilly was a dude, he would've just set her free, make a snide remark, give her a gun, and then he'd expect her to help him with the fighting. He is completely cool with the nun giving him a hug and doesn't get offended when Mary Beth touches his hand in their therapy session.

- He seems to be pretty well read. He knows Shakespeare, with Romeo and Juliet, and Icarus. He makes other literary references. This is probably due to Dutch. Dutch is clearly very well read and cultured. However, Arthur seems more interested in practical works like guides then philosophy and stories, given that the only book he has on his tent desk is a plant guide.

- He's great at remembering faces and less so on remembering names.

- He does have an amazing propensity to remember physical features, like how he is able to create amazing portraits of the people he meets without consistent reference. It's incredible and works back to the whole great at remembering faces thing. Same goes for animals.

- He is very curious. He is always touching things, looking at things, critiquing things, and trying to understand how they work.

- He generally refuses to be emotionally open with men and does it only with women- this could be due to the idea of the Cult of Domesticity. I've made a post about it before. Compare him speaking with the nun to Reverend Swanson. Compare him speaking to John about Dutch leaving him to him speaking to Sadie about Dutch leaving him.

- He is very connected or is fond of artistic people. He and Mary Beth talk about their journals. He is fond of Albert Mason's photography and helps him out. He is interested in Charles Chataney's artistic work, even if he doesn't like it or connect with it.

- Since a lot of camp members respond to Arthur's antagonizations with something like "not again" or "I knew I'd be next", it's safe to assume Arthur will go off on people from time to time, regardless if you play high or low honor.

- Does not have a fixed temperament. In some missions, he is more energetic and in others, he is more downtrodden. Very realistic and I fucking love it.

- Has direct eye content at all times- will look anyone in the eye and does not give a fuck. NPCs will look away from him if he stares at them.

- Gets mad when men don't behave like men, especially when it concerns women. He gets pissed at John for not stepping up and being a man to his family. He gets annoyed and even pissed off when asking why Beau couldn't have helped Penelope Braithwaite as she is his woman.

- Given how the camp falls to shit whenever Arthur isn't donating, we can safely conclude that Arthur is the most valuable member of that camp, bar maybe Hosea and Dutch.

- He is very reminiscent of the Dark Romantic, which is really interesting as a lot of times, it can be looked at as the middle ground between Romantacism and Realism, two ideologies that were very popular in the 19th century. I will make a full analysis regarding this later.

- Introverted, but not shy at all. In fact, he's very charismatic and is just as good as dealing with people as Dutch and Hosea (The Riverboat Mission) This 'dumb, mumbling' cowboy thing he's dumbed down to in the fandom is an insult to his character.

- He probably acted like a father figure to Jamie Gillis when he was still with Mary, given the fact that he taught him how to ride a horse. Will probably also make a full post about this later.

- Some people say that Arthur is around 5'10-11. Others say He's 6'0-3. Whatever his height actually is, he's still way taller than the average man during this time period, who was around 5'6. Now imagine that with muscles and armed to the teeth- fucking terrifying.

- Very sentimental. He keeps a photo of his supposedly no good Pa and wears his hat. He keeps a photo of his mother who he doesn't really remember at all. He keeps a photo of his dog, a horseshoe that probably belonged to a dead and beloved horse. He keeps a flower from his mother. Keeps a photo of Mary as well. If he had a photo of Isaac, he'd probably keep that too.

-Arthur died at 36 years old from Tuberculosis if you play high honor. The real gunslinger and outlaw Doc Holliday died at the same exact age and the same exact way.

- Genuinely doesn't give a fuck about movements, social issues, and cultural issues, but does care about individual people.

- I love him

- So fucking much

- 😃