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themareverine · 24 days ago

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Who We Are | dofp!Logan x mutant!fem!OC

summary: "What am I, Logan?" Swallowing, "What is this?" And she knows what she is, subliminally.

warnings: angst, brief mentions of PTSD, trauma, mutant!fem!OC

a/n: i should be working on Toy Soldiers and my next series chapter. i really should be. but this came to me this week while at my new job, in my new office, and honestly i'm due for my period so i'm deep into feelings. enjoy this if that's possible. based on concepts i have for my Mare & the Wolverine series, e.g., fem!OC acquires Logan's genetics through Weapon X experimentation. i envisioned DOFP Logan for this but have no idea how it would fit into the timeline.

“Got someone here to see ya, dearie.”

Eyes don’t flick up from the tablet resting face up on the desk, screen illuminated bright with open email and Outlook scheduling only slightly overtaken with Microsoft Teams messaging. A milkwhite pen lazily spins through fingers riddled with turquoise and sterling. Untouched, stale coffee takes up precious desk space in a slightly dented, fading Yeti.

When movement from the doorway doesn’t come, sapphire eyes lift from the wash of blue light. Gaze flicking to the calendar illuminated on the desktop, the office chair rolls lazily away from the desk, toes slipping back into formerly abandoned high heels.

“I don’t have anything scheduled,” elbow finding the chair’s arm, her fingers knead into the flesh along her temple, “you sure they’re here for me?”

“Says he wants to talk to you about some volunteer opportunities,” sleek, silver hair spins around the older woman’s finger, glasses low on her nose only a moment as she lifts a knuckle to lift them, “you want me to chase him off?”

Can’t really argue with work opportunities. “Send him in. Call me in fifteen minutes with an emergency.” Tapping her wristwatch, her brow pops, colleague sent away with a uh, huh sure nod following.

Head canting to the side, she pops from her chair. Stretches her neck. Toes curl inside her heels, against worn once-padded soles eaten away under sweat and miles. Pain ricochets off the heaviness of her skeleton, sending hot licks of pain up her spine. Knocks off the base of her neck like a firecracker. Bones in the back of her hand burn, acidic pain stabbing between knuckles not unfamiliar. A glance down at the thin skin at the back of her hand stirs subconscious magma, stoning in a way she can’t quite swallow.

Sahara heat in the heat of her throat empties into the open air of her gut, and she rousts her tongue against her back molars. Hopes it’ll resolve—it doesn’t. Grabs for a drink of lukewarm coffee. Nada. Zilch.

Damn. “You decent, honey?”

A wry twist of her lips. “Sure,” she waves a hand forward. “Send ‘im in, Donna.”

Turning to retrieve that favorite milkwhite pen she’d discarded off to the side of her keyboard, she spins it through her fingers again. Checks emails, eyeballing the front desk associate from a grim, corner-eye peer.

Donna, bless her soul, nods. Leans back out the door, on her broken-ankle-waiting-to-happen heels that are as pink as they are dangerous for a lass her age. Waves the happy little accident forward with a flick of her near-translucent, arthritic fingers. Bangle bracelets tink as she shuffle dances with the stranger past the door.

Eyes turned down to the keyboard, she entirely misses the figure taking up her doorway. An onslaught of cologne hits her nose like a landing strip, an assault that rips open the void of her memories like an untapped dam—her pupils blow wide. Alarm kicks her heart forward against the sledge of her ribs, she swears to God she can feel cardiac tissue bruise. Animalistic fear swipes at her stomach, tearing it open like it’s ribbons of rare prime rib. Acidic contents of her stomach splash up on her tongue, but instinct makes her swallow it back down the hatch, burying the primal instinct to run.

Couldn’t miss that slick, sensual heat barraging into the room like a battering ram for anything. There was only one man in her world she’d known to smoke contraband cigars of such a sickeningly smoky, thick caliber—one man that could leave her so disarmed, distempered. In shambles.

Logan.

Her sapphire eyes flick over to icy, venomous in all of a heartbeat—she can feel them. Tracking him not unlike a predator cornering prey, she pops tall. Chair rolls back all too hard, with purpose. Bounces off the wall.

Rolled away, her tether to anything pumping daylight between them suddenly vamoose.

Fear licks at her spine like it’s a frickin’ lollipop. It isn’t terrorized fear—it’s that special kind of fear, the one that burns. The one that haunts and visits young. Simmers low. Eats away like corrosion—the fear of not what he’s done to her, anatomically. Never. Logan is many things, but not abusive. Not mentioning—these adamantium bones, these that build out her frame, rattle cold even mere inches from the sun? His curse, wrapped up inside her?

She barely remembered fear anymore.

This instead, it’s— a tender fear of what’s been dangled, shattered. Devastated. Buried six feet so far under it’s been feasted on by worms and twisting, cold fingers of the underworld. More pain, more emotional damage. More visceral, brutish damage than what’s already been done.

Knowing he can feel her heartbeat even across the floor space, she wills her heart to slow down—the small corner of it she can control when he’s anywhere in territory. Strange way over her, he has—had always. From the first day meeting him, signing her name on the proverbial dotted line of the pinkslip that is knowing Logan, he’d enraptured her. Captivated her. Took hostage parts of her she didn’t know were up for discussion. Knowing her inside and out wasn’t enough, even if it’s a literal statement—he’d seen her in ways that could make him a priest, counted her sins splayed across the altar of time.

Devil’s advocate, always. He’d promised to never do the very things he’d deny to God.

And it's cardinal sin, the way he looks at her. Mortal how he ravages her without even batting an eye, expressionless and unreadable like dark midnight. Venial—she can feel him even with five feet of daylight and lifetimes between them. All the times he’d touched her, all the sweet everything’s he’s whispered, lapping back through her brainspace like pace cars. Standing in her doorway like an untouchable Goliath. As radiant as the sun always, but dark as the witching hour.

Her skin chills, long nights under stars when they were both younger, stupider not far away memories but recent ones held close. Gooseflesh flecks across her skin, filling pores and chasing up and down her spine like territorial wolves. A knife somewhere in her gut spins a full three-sixty, any second now her entire gut sack would fall open, bloody, to hell between her feet. She couldn't move, though—eyes welded to him like stainless. If she's still enough, maybe she can watch his pores open and close.

Eternities unfold between them, when in reality, maybe thirty seconds has ticked off the clock hanging on the wall of her shiny, new office. Well, new-to-her office. It's hardly such, complete with tattered carpets and holes knocked in the walls from the rough and tumble of shifting furniture. Paint no younger than it's very 2006 aesthetic, there's the smallest hint of antiseptic in the air, a slight draft from the window's ancient weatherproofing. By normal straits, it's barely anything to be proud of—but it's hers. All hers, and nobody had helped her get it.

Not Charles, not Hank. Not references from the DOD, no apology kiss-assing from the military for what had happened with Cornelius at Alkali. Nada from fancy institutions that the X team had arranged for "one of their own." Her office for her job offered based on her qualifications. Her. No mention of mutations, no favors, nothing.

Eight months of skiptracing far and hard from Westchester, desperate for something, anything that wasn't that. Logan. Pain.

She could be surprised that Logan's found her. But, that would be revealing a whole lot of cards she'd not prepared to show.

Have to pay the ante if you wanna play, Logan.

"'All the places I thought'a lookin' for you, this sure as hell wasn't it, darlin'."

Darlin'. It's her favorite, always had been. He knew it. And if that doesn't hurt something delicious, nothing else in the sparkling universe that is this planet would.

Logan is nothing, if not prepared. Straight for the low blows. What a bastard. The little tip of his lips, the quicksilver gleam that flashes through his eyes. All little signs she knows are designed to chisel hard, deep through her bedrock. It's worked, before. Dozens of times that, really, are uncountable. He shifts a little, arms crossed over the leathers of a new-but-not jacket. Sunglasses slung through the collar of a not-new t-shirt. Jeans, scuffed boots. Even from here the bite of bike exhaust is unmissable, nips at her libido like it always had—because Logan has never been sexier than slung low on his chopper, sunglasses on and tufted hair messed from the wind. Free and careless, wild. As God intended.

And it could be funny—Logan, finding her here, two thousand miles from Westchester. On his motorcycle. Looking dangerous and delicious, traversing the country on some hunch about a wild hair up his ass.

Some things, honestly, don't evolve.

Naked and vulnerable as his eyes cut through her like cold adamantium, she swallows the desert blossom her tongue has become. Thigh knocking into the corner of her desk hard enough for a bruise to chance formation on ever-healing skin, she gnaws at the inside of her cheek. Handfuls of seconds fall through her fingers, until she cuts her eyes away, to the heels of her stilettos.

"No," her eyes snap back to him, brow furrowed in barely sentineled rage, "no, Logan. We're not doing this."

His brow pops, animatedly. Like a curious dog. "No?" Pushing off his stance against the wall, his booted foot connects with the floor a little harder than his usual. "What aren't we doin'?"

Any tighter and she'd taste the marrow of her jawbone. "You heard me. I've decided we aren't doing this—now, or ever. Get the hell out of my office, out of my life, and get back on your motorcycle and go back to New York." Finger cutting through the air, her glare is serpentine.

Cold, lacerating. Hopefully to his core, to the very steel that clings to his skeletal system like plague.

"Run back to Jean, Logan—we both know that's where you think you belong." And God, even her name tastes like wicked poison. Like some type of adder, it's pocketed in low places—released only when the fangs pop.

Could serpents suicide from their own venom?

Wouldn't matter, not with him running through my genetics like wildfire. Never say die, has a whole new meaning, huh, Logan? Turning away from him, she gags on her own hatred. The cold splashing up the back of her throat.

He crosses to her in three, big strides. Grabs her arm and whirls her around all-soldier, aggressively. His eyes are hot, wild, as they scan hers—looking for caveats, avenues to invade. White-hot, his grip tightens deliberately, knowing it can't hurt. Won't. Keeping her upright on three-inch stilettos is not his primary goal, but it's working overtime hours.

"Listen."

Her eyes cut to his, cold. Hopes it empties him of any and all courage he thinks he's got.

"I've listened enough." A growl, low between her ribs.

From the wellspring of years—years. Scouting in and out of the affections of a man she'd idolized since a night in that musty Canadian bar, lingering in the sweat and smoke, illegal betting. Still, she can recall how he'd folded her into her Jeep, introducing himself. Willing her to leave, allowing her to stay.

"'Wolverine.' Catchy stage name, hon. That what God calls you, too?"

"Logan, but, you call me what you want, bub."

She'd never stopped calling him anything. Never had dreamed she'd ever stop. If it were up to her, she'd carve out her own heart and give it to him, beating and bloody, for all of time. What's up to her is limited, however—wildcards in a game of chance.

Every dreamer eventually rejoins the living.

If it hurts him, she'll never know. His brow wrinkles, pulled downward into a hard frown that narrows his eyes and casts deep lines across his features. Canyons. Darkness flints through the light in the eyes, for only a moment, before he slightly shakes his head. Confused or irritated, well—it's Logan. Either is more than possible on any given day.

Pulling against his hold, she swipes at his hand. "Let go of me."

He winces, nails catching against hard muscle. His growl hitches in his chest, knocks against his back teeth not unlike a cat. "Quit. Don't be a brat," he hisses, nails biting into her skin. "Just think for a minute, huh? I come all this way, look all over the fuckin' country for you, and you think I'm hung up on Jean?"

Listening would allow him privileges Logan didn't deserve, but she can't not hear him. Instead, she wrenches her arm. Claws at his arm again, this time with more nail than probably necessary. An animalistic, vicious growl gurgles up from her chest. Snakes past her teeth. Hisses between them, venomous and cruel.

It's designed to cut him. Fatally. "You manipulative sonuvabitch—"

"Baby. Listen t'me—"

And before she can think, before she can reason—Snikt!

Out come the claws. Her claws. His mutation, wrapped up in her genetics. Pure accident, until it wasn't—until so much of him required so much of her. It's unfair.

White-hot pain rips through her like five thousand volts, jumpstarting her heart like a grenade. For a heartbeat she fears her cardiac muscle will explode, but it's misguided—regeneration means she'd just grow a new one. Another he could destroy all over again, and again, and again.

"I said let go, Logan!"

A wide arch of her hand between them catches the air, moving it enough that Logan ducks back with the practiced ease of a light-footed soldier. Hand breaking away, she stumbles back on wobbling heels like a foal. Away from him, creating space. Daylight. Air she tries to drag into her lung tissue.

Unable to breathe, to think, she drowns on room air instead.

Droplets of blood from knuckle lacerations land at her feet, hot pain alive and stinging like flame between her knuckles. He may as well have driven a hot blade between the bones in her hand, burning heat cutting up her arm like it's a fat bass awaiting fillet.

And she can feel the bone and tissues moving in her arm, how her ligaments stretch as adamantium blades rearrange her insides, push aside her bones and ligaments and tendons. Making room for itself, throwing aside anatomical musts for what she is. It's otherworldly, feeling components of yourself move and shake when for the entirety of your life, it comes as naturally as breathing.

Eyes flick down her arm, expecting to see her anatomy ripped open to the air. Anticipating something, anything to show that everything hurts. There's nothing, to the naked eye. Simple flesh. Nothing.

It's all in your head. Was it?

Her guts churn like a roiling pot, stirring deep and hot. She can taste her own blood, spit. Vomit somewhere, milked from her oral tissue. A zing of coppery blood on her tongue makes her think she's bitten the muscle. A clench of her abdominal muscle, and she's certain she'll throw up.

Before she can, Logan is to her in three big, heavy strides. Hard fingers latch onto her wrist, pulling her to a hard stop. Not looking away from the stains of blood on adamantium for a heartbeat, his eyes flick over to hers. Hold them, tightly, like a vice. His brow mottles with effort, deep lines as he struggles to hold her arm steady.

Panting heavily, sweat bubbles up from every one of her pores—she can't suck enough air into her chest.

She can feel color exit her body. Pulse bounding, her muscles begin to spasm. Psychologically unable to process the level of hurt racing through her arms, the room spins. Vision blurs behind a fresh veil of tears, nails bite into her palm. If her knuckles were any whiter, bone would kiss air.

The urge to vomit overwhelms. Wrenching her arm from him, she breaks away to empty her guts into the trash under her desk. Adamantium catches the endge of her desk, and makes short work, cutting deep grooves into the oak. Knees buckle. Ankles wobble in her stilettos like a newborn foal. The lick of humiliation is like a whip, a cruel taskmaster.

Names cut through her brain with surgical precision, whispers of memories matching with whatever idea of faces her subconsious can muster. Cornelius. Stryker. Alkali.

Filmreels. They pass through the back her brain, black and white. Color. Muted but screaming loudly through her nervous system like a white noise—

Cold, sterile antiseptic that she can taste bubbling around her like hellish brew. Chemicals that lap at the moisture from her eyes. An army of needles and drivers pump poison deep between her bones, filling her marrow with nanoparticles designed to protect, but harm instead, laughing at her agony. They march through her like they have orders—and in a sense, they do, to become a part of her. Divide and conquer, controlling interest.

Pain is relentless, unforgiving. Hollow like an abyss, ever echoing without give. Prejudice and without conviction, it chips away. Viscerally. Starving for her soul. Lusting after her flesh.

"And to think you volunteered— for what? For the life of a man who doesn't even love you? Pitiful fool."

Foolish, indeed. There is so much pain.

Claws retract. Slipping back into her flesh, she can feel the muscle contortion in her arm, deep into her skeletal frame. Past her muscles, tissues, blood. No sooner do they vanish than her flesh stitches back together where they'd been born, a quiet squelch of skin sealing in on itself. Rips through her ears like a nuclear blast.

Suddenly it's all she can feel, taste. See and smell, her own blood.

Stomach looping in on itself, she grabs her arm with otherworldly, white-knuckle strength. Unable to realize that deep tremors have set into her anatomical frame, her fingers are little more than blurring, trembling little digits. Clutching her hand to her chest, the world may as well threaten to rip it from her and bludgeon her to death.

In a way, it already had.

The limb is stained with smeared, speckled blood. It'll take hours for the firmament of pain to fully dissipate in her body, for the power high to evaporate. Faintly she remembers the first time this had happened, though it feels like eternities ago. Hell and back, really. Sticky saliva bubbles through the seem of her lips as she bats away the recollections, trying to ground in the now. Heaves a breath—finally, able to breathe.

Eyelids heavy and vision dancing with black spots, she stares at the floor. Pebbles of blood and foamy, thick spit lay at her feet like lovers, in concentrated worship.

And all at once she feels like throwing up again, struggles with the urge. The sensation drops, ringing against hollow air in her gut. Tremors bite at her nerves, muscles. Continue to rip her apart, stitching her back together as she lifts her head, which may as well have taken the strength of an industrial crane. If it hadn't, she'd never know the difference.

Disheveled, stringy hair clings to the sweat on her face, gaze narrowly tracking Logan. He'd seen everything. All her ugliness, all of what she is. Again.

"Get out," it grates, claws at the membrane of her throat. Acidic bile mingles with her back teeth, her molars grind together from the ratcheted weight of her jaw. "Leave me here, Logan," but all the same, unsaid words skip in and out of everything she doesn't mean, everything she says anyway. Between lines and in margins.

Don't leave me, Lo. See me. Help me.

"Please."

Stay.

Wishing her sniffle wasn't the snot-rolling gurgle it is, her head drops. Lolls to the side. She slips from her knees, aching with pain, to her side. Hiccupping ungracefully as she draws the hand clutching her arm against the apex of her heart, beneath her breast, mostly unable to feel it. Halfway to check if she's still got one, mostly to withdraw. Like a caged creature.

Because that's what she is, these days—a beast.

Sapphire eyes flutter closed. Parted lips suck oxygen rich air into her lungs. Flames in her core begin to extinguish, the ball of energy in her chest settling into a familiar ache that gallops against bone.

Starting to fall into the cool darkness—welcomes the thought of oblivion.

Two hands on either shoulder shake her firmly, once. Heat smacks her in the face, overpowers the air around her senses with that smoky, thick scent of exhaust and cigars. Immediately she knows, her anatomy reacts in ways that should be wrong—her ovaries leapfrog. The cradle of her womb burns. Fingers sting with fire, her heart racehorsing behind ribs that seem to flare with heavy deep breath.

"Stay awake for me, darlin'," thick thumbs knead into the tension that needles deep in her shoulders, milking away tension. Eyes flutter open.

Logan.

"You're okay. Stand for me?"

Buzzing with the highs of adrenaline, her head lolls a little as she shakes it, Logan brushing aside the veil of hair sticking to her face with empathetic fingers. She shakes her head, no. Can't feel her legs, can't think about anything but the weightlessness that calls to her from the pull of unconscious bliss.

If she were able to die, now would be perfect. Just an idea, God, it would be funny if it weren't honest.

But then she's airborne, weightlessness achieved as Logan hauls her up into his arms as if she weighs nothing, which isn't truth. Head falling against his chest, her grip on her arm tightens to bruising. Glancing at her fingers, she realizes tremors haven't fully subsided—Logan adjusts her weight but doesn't protest as she sinks against him, teary again.

Moving to her chair, he kicks it around to face him with his foot. Angles his head gently to rest his cheek along the top of her head, a rare and raw show of affectionate. Something akin to a hum rumbles around his breastbone, she feels it—can't place if it's a soothing hmm or a shhh at her sniveling, doesn't care. Not right now.

He sets her up in the chair, probably with more care than Logan's ever shown.

Calloused fingers brush hair behind her ear, catching across her skin softly. Vision leveling, she lifts her head from the back of the chair. Eyes cast over to him, and it feels like it takes a thousand years. She may as well weigh the volume of the sun; everything feels slow and heavy.

"Thought you were leaving," she manages, the thick gravel in her voice all but bleeding and raw. "Need'ta be alone."

Popping a squat in front of the chair, he steadies it with a firm hand. The other brushes fingertips along the apple of her cheek.

"You think a 'lotta things, honey—and the last thing you need is to be by yourself." Right now, you need me.

It's there, in between every word and shift of his eyes finding hers. Trust me, I know. I know this pain, I carry it close. As close as you, always as close as you.

And he does.

Silence cuts between them like wolves, eating away at daylight and heartbeats. Charged energy snaps like a live wire. Attention falling from his face, her eyes float across his chest, frame.

She didn't see blood, but that didn't mean there wasn't any, even scant traces.

"Did I hurt you?" Oh, God.

Impossible, scientifically—and a part of her knows that. But it doesn't stop her from asking. Habits die hard, despite how many times you crucify them. He shakes his head, slowly. No.

She swallows the thick saliva that's risen in her mouth, flushing out the sours of vomit and adrenaline. "I—I don't know what happened—" more tears, hot and fast, surface. It hurts.

Everything hurts. Parts of her she didn't even realize burned. Deep aches, a thousand needles ravage her body like demons. Someone had taken apart her insides and thrown them back together in a hot ball of wax, anatomy rushing to correct the uncorrectable. Affliction sharpens its teeth with her spine, it's all but jelly. Unable to keep her upright.

"It hurts, Logan," Quiet, defeated. Broken, mouselike. "I'm sorry."

Logan's hand moves to the back of her neck, dips her forward until his forehead brushes hers. Allows her to rest against him, sharing breath. His other hand moves to cradle her face between strong hands. Hands that have killed, hands that understand.

More fresh tears. This time, they fall down his face. One of his hands, she doesn't know which, takes hers. Draws it from her chest. Pulls it to his mouth, shaking fingers. His lips brush against sore, burning knuckles. In a way, this is a Logan she doesn't know—has reasoned, perhaps envisioned. But never known.

"Don't be, pretty thing," his smile is soft, slow. Careful. "Don't gotta be sorry for what you are," he stands, slowly. Offers her his hand. Interlacing their fingers, bends to remove her stilettos. Nudges them aside with the toe of his boot, gently tugs her to her feet. He signals her up with a flick of his fingers.

Obedient, he fortresses her against his chest. Thick arms hold back the world, tired fingers curling against the leathers of his jacket. Breathing him in, for a heartbeat she forgets why. Why she's angry, why they're here—why any of this matters. What any of it even means.

She doesn't forget what he's said, Logan gently swaying her side to side on her feet.

"What am I, Logan?" Swallowing, "What is this?" Lifting a hand, she splays out her fingers.

And she knows what she is, subliminally. On paper, in eyes that aren't hers. Deep, her bones have identity of their own. From now until six feet under, she knows what she is. He's told her before. But to hear him say it, to hear it confirmed in the fading sun of tumult, well—it's identity of a different sort.

His chuckle is low, more of growl than anything. "This," he takes her hand in his again, fingers snug between her own, "this isn't who we are, sweetheart. Not exactly. It's just—it's just part of life." His hand releases, moving to tip her chin up. "And you, well—that ain't hard to figure."

Oh?

“You're mine."

And that's more identity than she figures she'll ever need.

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the-fandom-is-now-my-life · 6 months ago

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Obscuary's monster catwalk

Obscuary ghouls as cats

Wc: ~700

The sleepiest chartreux ever. He is always on the cat tower or in his bed.

Maybe it's because he is older than the other two and you see the contrast, but when Rui and Lyca chase each other or play he prefers to lay in your lap and make biscuits.

He used to play fight with Rui but once he acted really hurt to go back to sleep and Rui now feels guilty and still licks him to ‘make up’ for it.

His laziness is such that if you make him walk to his food and not carry him there/ serve him closer he will act as if he has a limp or meow as if he was pained enough for you to feel sorry. Either you or the vet are sure if he is in any real pain but you give him supplements for his bones and joints either way. You do notice he doesn't meow sadly while walking until he sees you and starts the whole melodrama.

What gives him away is how quickly he jumps up the platforms on the wall when Lyca tries to play with him and how smug he looks down on him when he can just meows him to go down.

Either way he is so sensitive to your emotions! When you cry in bed he will hop on your chest and lick your tears. (totally not him liking the salt in them)

Just like Ren you have to control his screen time, he might not like playing but he does stay totally still and has his eyes wide when you put on a conspiracy theorist on the tablet or TV.

Rui

A blond American shorthair.

The sweetest cat that purrs and meows so sweetly and contorts his body trying to ask for cuddles and kisses but as soon as you step a little closer and attempt to catch him he starts sprinting to the hideout. It isn't only you, the few female cats that seemed interested in him made him retreat too.

No matter how many times you chime at him and even spritz him he keeps biting pieces of your plants and flowers and keeps them ‘hidden’ in his hideout.

He is such an innate hunter! And he always brings you his victims, still when he brings you a dead ladybug or bird his appearance is closer to that of an apologetic child than a prideful hunter. It's almost as if he wants you to fix his mistake and return the little thing's life.

He seems to meet up with Romeo and Haru every night on your dining table as they meow (principally Haru, he is such a whiny baby)

He has a habit of picking up small pieces of clothing like socks and underwear and bringing them to the laundry room, even if it's helpful to already have them on the floor when you go load the machine, he sometimes opens your drawers and grabs clean ones to feel he is doing something productive. He did put Ed there once when he was nasty enough for him to refuse to help groom him.

Lyca

A messy and stiff haired Lykoi.

He was a rescue found between wild dogs that you fostered but decided to keep as his forever family.He still has some dog-like mannerisms, like wagging his tail when happy.

He is in kitty confinement jail (cat carrier) until he stops swatting and hissing at you or his brothers. Luckily Subaru was brave enough to stand beside him until he calmed and he behaved enough for you to free him under parole.

The first few days, even though he wasn't hitting anyone, nobody dared to approach him unless Subaru was besides him.

Speaking of, Subaru is the one who took it upon himself to teach him how to behave like a cat again, teaching him how to groom himself and jump high, much to Ed's chagrin.

He likes to stalk Ed, wanting to imitate what he thinks is the leader of the pack. He even annoys him trying to fight him but he just huffs and climbs up furniture or up the cat tree.

Unlike Rui, he is good at hunting and proud of it. He might be one of the few, if not only, who will bring you dead rats to show off. Once you even got a baby bunny that luckily was still alive even if scared.

#tokyo debunker #edward hart #tokyo debunker ed #tokyo debunker rui #lyca colt #tokyo debunker lyca

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starryinkart · 10 months ago

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[CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY]

[WARNING: Comic may contain dark topics, blood and gore as in classic Murder Drones fashion. Viewer discretion is advised.]

[likes and reblogs are appreciated <3]

Some more context with my Murder Drones Skin and Bones AU!

[PART 1 > PART 2 (Coming Soon!)]

This time we are with N, after he was tied to the tree for weeks like in canon, but since they are humans, it was ALOT worst. Basically he went through hell, only to wake up on a surgical hospital bed, his body feeling like it was burning from the inside out and tubes connecting all over his body, bringing a painful yellow liquid through.

V is next to him, all wrapped up in bandages and dried blood all over the medical table. J looks...really weird...and her feet look odd. His vision is blurry and he can barely see, and he's exhausted.

All he can see is his younger sister, but something is wrong with her too. She's not strapped to a medical table, and she is spouting nonsense about a new directive, as well as weird goopy arms coming out of her back.

The Elliot's are nowhere to be seen and CYN says they have went on vacation, that him and his friends weren't briefed about before they left?? Odd....

What is going on?

P.S Guess who got a REAL screen professional drawing tablet! To finally do some awesome art and animations with aside from my IPAD! Im so excited to start drawing on it when it comes! More art coming soon!

>> PS. This is part of my Murder Drones Skin and Bones AU!

#murder drones #murder drones n #murder drone cyn #md cyn #md n #serial designation n #murder drones v #murder drones j #md j #md v #MDSAB #Murder Drones Skin and Bones #murder drones comic #this is acutally how I picture it #in canon outside of Uzi hacking N's memories #of what really happened #you know without the skin and blood #and more metal and oil lol #starryinkartwork

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yangkitties · 2 years ago

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sick days ✩ p.sh

pairing: park sunghoon x gn!reader [established relationship] || word count: 0.7k genre: fluff || warnings: sick fic, nudity but in a non-sexual way, surprisingly proof read but as usual im not so sure </3, mentions of pills (hoon gives reader a tablet), lmk if i missed anything!! synopsis: being sick sucked. but it sucked a little less with sunghoon by your side, in sickness and in health. note: ngllll i liked the way this turned out <3 my idiot irl (gonna call her that from now on LMFAO) fell sick last week and i pulled this out of my ass to cheer her up :] oh and i fell sick like. day before yesterday. so. celebratory sick fic !! uhm anyways asks are appreciated plz come talk 2 me !! also sorry for the terrible formatting i couldnt find any other pictures that matched The Vibe yk >:(

You hated being sick. It was the worst feeling in the world. The absolute hatred you had towards the stuffy feeling of a clogged nose and the sluggish fatigue that settled into your bones could never be measured. And the worst part? You couldn’t even kiss your boyfriend to make you feel better.

But Sunghoon was an angel whenever you got sick. He stuck by your side and took care of you and made sure you had everything you needed and more.

And this time was no different. Flopping over in your shared bed, you groaned as you couldn’t move even an inch without feeling like your body was made out of jelly.

‘Y/n stop moving so much, you’re going to make your body pains worse.’ Sunghoon walks in with a tray holding a bowl of hot soup and some tablets. ‘Eat. And then take these tablets. I called Jay and he said these should make you feel better soon.’

‘Hoon.’ You call out softly as you watch him collect the tissues lying around the room and throwing away the empty tablet sheets. He hums in response, mother hen mode taking over him as he moves around the room.

‘Hoon, will you please feed me?’ You ask, voice low and stuffy. He giggles, turning to take a good look at you. ‘Oh my baby, come here.’ He helps you sit up before taking the bowl in his hands. He scoots closer to you, carefully feeding you spoon after spoon, rubbing your back when you cough, and gently kissing your forehead when you finish the bowl.

As you gulp down your tablet, Sunghoon disappears into the bathroom to draw a bath for you. He comes out two minutes later, bottom of his shirt sprinkled with droplets.

‘Hoonie… how’d you get splashed just filling up the tub???’ You question him incredulously. He just shrugs, giggling as he guides you to the bathroom. Slowly stripping you, he helps you walk to the tub, grip on your waist firm.

You slip in slowly, the warm water a welcome feeling after the terrible temperature shifts you’ve had the whole day. Sunghoon silently begins to bathe you, softly scrubbing your arms and legs, and even going as far as to wash your hair.

The silence is comforting, Sunghoon’s slender fingers massaging your scalp as you start to grow drowsy. ‘Hoon… thank you for this. ‘m so sorry you have to run around taking care of me..’ you apologise, genuinely feeling bad for making him work so much.

He playfully pushes your head down a bit, clicking his tongue at you. ‘Be quiet Y/n, it’s literally my job to take care of you. What kind of idiot boyfriend leaves their partner to take care of themselves when they can barely move?’ He finished washing your hair, now moving onto slowly drying your hair with a towel.

You wrap your arms around his damp waist, head nuzzling into the expanse of his abs. Finishing up with your hair, he places another sweet kiss on the crown of your head. He helps you dress into one of his oversized shirts and a pair of comfortable shorts, melting at how cute you looked. ‘C’mon baby, let’s get you to bed.’

Scooping you up in his arms bridal style, he carries you back to bed, placing you gently on the sheets. He tucks you in before moving away to change out of his damp clothes.

A giggle slips past your lips as you watch him undress, a slight blush spreading across your face. ‘Like what you see, hm?’ He teases you, slipping into a shirt before walking over to sit next to you.

‘Ugh, I absolutely hate not being able to cuddle you to sleep.’ You whine as he takes your hand in his. ‘I know baby, but if I fall sick, we just can’t cuddle for longer.’ He uses his other hand to trace the lines on your palm, shivers sliding down your body. ‘I hate it when you’re all sensible. What happened to my silly loser boyfriend?’ You grumble as he laughs, kissing your knuckles.

You settle back into the pile of pillows, Sunghoon’s pretty nails tracing shapes and meaningless words onto your palm. You’ve always found that habit of his comforting, helping you sleep almost instantly. The combination of his lazy tracing and the medication you’ve been taking makes you insanely drowsy, so soon enough, you’re out like a light. You drift off into a comforting slumber, knowing he’ll be here when you wake up, waiting for you.

©️ yangkitties 2023 do not copy, plagiarise, or repost

#enhypen #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enhypen imagine #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon fluff #sunghoon fluff #🖋️: nyx.writes ━ enha ☆

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 9 months ago

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so...I have a new chapter of my Feyd-Rauta/Reader fanfic up and ready.

AO3 link: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 4 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

I also have it below the cut. It does require some content warning/TW and is NSFW/not safe for minors.

CW: arranged marriage, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, dubious consent, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced sexual abuse, implied/referenced incest, rough sex, blood and pain kinks, graphic depictions of violence

Chapter below the cut:

You wake up the next morning to the sound of the timepiece on your nightstand.

Idrisa had assumed correctly when she told you that just a half-tablet would help both with the pain and with getting to sleep later. For half an hour afterwards, you sat in the bath, staring at the opposite wall and hoping the warm water would add to your relief. Five minutes was all it took to start feeling better, your torn muscles relaxing, and half an hour to start feeling drowsy.

It took some effort, but you managed to get out, drain the tub, and clean your teeth before settling into bed, thinking about how this will be your nightly routine at least until you’re carrying his child. Who knows? You might be already.

You’re sipping from the water still left on your nightstand when Idrisa comes in with a tray carrying a couple of mugs. Over the past few days Idrisa’s learned that you like a bit of caffeine first thing in the morning but you’re not sure what the other mug’s for as she sets the tray down on the desk and hands you one. You sniff at the contents; it smells savory.

“It’s bone broth for you, Na-Baroness,” she explains. “I thought it might be nice. It’s not medication but it has healing properties of its own.”

Bones of what, exactly? you think as you accept the mug. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light, avoiding the direct question.

“Sore,” you admit after taking your first sip, and it tastes quite nice. “But what you gave me last night helped.” You expected your womanhood to throb, but there’s also a persistent ache in your legs, your hips, the undefined muscles in your abdomen.

“You still have more for tonight,” she says, “just in case.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” you tell her. She looks away before trying to figure out what she could possibly say to that.

“I can’t help you with that part,” is what she comes up with. “But I can assist with almost everything else.” She turns to your closets and rifles through, picking out a few items for you to choose from. Over her shoulder she tells you, “You’ll be expected at breakfast in an hour. It shouldn’t take too long to get you freshened up.”

One of the few things you quite like about the Harkonnen Fortress is the emphasis on good hygiene. Of course, you have extra features to maintain that the rest of the Fortress doesn’t, but you brought the supplies and ointments needed for that and you know where to have more imported when you run out.

When it comes time to dress you decide on a combination of your own clothing and Harkonnen that doesn’t clash. A bit of a symbolic union of the Houses. You can’t help but think that people will have certain ideas of you today as a newly married woman who had, as clear as day to everyone, fulfilled all the marital duties expected of her last night. Your walk isn’t quite as stiff as last night, though, and if you just walk a little slower then your discomfort won’t seem obvious to anyone not looking for it.

Of course, everyone at breakfast will be looking for it; your family out of concern, your new husband and in-laws presumably out of amusement. It’s all you can really think about as you leave your chambers and descend for the Dining Hall. That and the look on your new husband’s face as he’ll undoubtedly want to assess the damage.

You manage a smile as Idrisa announces your entrance. There’s an open seat next to Feyd-Rautha that’s clearly meant for you and you take into account that your family has only just arrived and everyone’s watching you. Everyone but the Baron stands in respect as you keep your polite smile, the one that projects that nothing could bother you, and you greet the table.

To his credit, Feyd still displays the kind of chivalry your father would expect when in his presence. He stays standing when everyone else sits down so he can pull your seat out for you. The kindness of the gesture’s somewhat undermined by the look in his eye, gauging every movement, every minute detail, and it makes you feel naked again under his shark-like gaze.

You don’t look him in the eye as you sit down, nor when he pushes your chair in and takes his seat beside you, nor when you quietly thank him. You know he’s still watching you, wondering how effectively he’s broken you in already, like a pair of combat boots.

The table is laid with everything you could need as far as drinks, but as a courtesy it’s not until you sit down that food arrives, delivered on massive platters by slave girls in billowy white garb and whose biceps strain under the weight of each tray. You’re sure that the Baron’s patience is a pretense that he’s upholding to appear polite towards your family, not one that will continue after breakfast, especially when you see his enthusiasm when he digs in with the appetite of multiple men.

The food itself takes up most of his attention, but he does discuss trade routes with your father, who seems subdued and withdrawn. Father maintains his end of the conversation but doesn’t offer more and barely touches his food–the latter you can assume is because he’s put off by seeing the Baron eat, and you don’t blame him. Even with the bone broth from earlier you’re pretty sure you’d have more of an appetite if you didn’t have to sit close to someone who inhales nearly half of a spread meant for eight people.

You break away from that thought when Feyd-Rautha says, “Oh, so you don’t need to head back to Arrakis so soon,” and you follow his gaze to the entranceway.

Rabban trudges in, nose heavily bruised and in a splint. He nods in acknowledgement to your family, offering a brief salutation before taking his seat. He doesn’t respond to his brother, but quickly accepts a small glass of what you can only assume is whatever he was drinking last night. He pours it into a mug that he tops with coffee.

“I leave in the afternoon,” he says, addressing his uncle instead. “The spice is abundant.”

As they briefly discuss spice production on Arrakis, you shift in your seat. Sitting down, you’d quickly realized, is also uncomfortable, and you’re glad for your brother-in-law’s entrance causing a diversion.

It doesn’t last long, though. The Baron says, “It’s lovely that we get to reconvene again after such a fruitful wedding.”

Fruitful . You can’t help your blush and you’re sure everyone notices. You wonder if they’re all thinking the same thing and as the meal stretches on, the longer the worry of it eats at you.

It all goes understood, and for you it’s excruciatingly awkward, and everyone senses it, but no one mentions it. Rabban certainly wants to; you can feel it whenever he sneaks glances at you, and you’re certain it’s on the tip of his tongue as he looks at you. You don’t think he’s really lusting after you, though. He just happens to covet his sibling’s shiny new toy. It’s more than a little immature, given that he has nearly twenty years on Feyd-Rautha, and had come of age by the time his brother was born, but you think you can understand. You may love your siblings and they may love you too, but that’s not how the Harkonnens work. For them, siblings are a safety measure just in case the first one dies. They’re taught to fight one another for the approval of their parents–or in this case, their uncle–and are stripped of any sentimentality lest they become weak.

Oh, Great Mother. What does that mean when you do finally have a child? You’ll likely be expected to have more than one even if one is all you need to appease the Bene Gesserit.

You take a sip of water and avoid Rabban’s gaze. He probably would’ve been amused to see how slowly and gingerly you were walking earlier, maybe he would’ve bit down on a cutting remark on how you’d be a lot sorer if he’d been your groom.

Oh, Rabban definitely wants to taunt you over what you all know transpired last night, but he won’t. He can sense the power shifting within the family and if he wasn’t aware that his younger brother was their uncle’s favorite before, he certainly knows now and knows why. He probably just wants to go back to Arrakis where he has unquestioned power.

The Baron is once again the one who actually comes close to mentioning it. “With such a distinct change in environment I’m sure you’ll want to relax, especially once you’re with child,” he says. “We have an excellent system for that, some well-trained attendants as well who can provide things like massage, special baths. We can keep you comfortable.”

After last night, the concept seems nice, but you’ll go out of your mind with boredom if that’s all you have to look forward to. You want to know as much as possible about the planet you’re inhabiting and the family you’ve married into, no matter how gruesome the details. You doubt the Baron or your new husband probably had thought about that, and had just assumed you’d be content as a human incubator for the next nine months.

“That is a wonderful offer and one I’d be interested in another day, perhaps, but I was actually wondering where you kept your library? Maybe a room of archives?” you ask. “I’ve had some education about the history of the Harkonnen line and some of the infrastructure of Geidi Prime, but I’m interested in learning more.”

The Baron considers your interest in his people and his planet versus your dismissal of his original suggestion before saying, “We have a very fine library, young Y/N, and within it a room of records. Your attendant will know where it is and can accompany you whenever you like.”

“I can take her, uncle,” Feyd-Rautha says immediately. “I can give her a proper tour.”

I know you can take and give a lot with your new little pet , you can practically hear the Baron think.

“If you prefer,” he says instead. “We still need to discuss your birthday. It’s only a few weeks away.”

Right. Another gladiatorial “match.” The one in which you’re to paint your new husband’s–-admittedly chiseled–-torso beforehand.

“We have time for that,” Feyd says. “But I’d also like to show my bride the other parts of our Fortress, starting with the library.” He manages to keep his tone casual, but you can tell his rebuttal irritates the Baron. It’s almost comical, his surprise and annoyance that his nephew would want to spend any time with his wife other than the compulsory impregnation.

“Very well,” the Baron says. “You can show her the library after our guests have left.”

They’re already packed up, as it turns out. Worried about leaving you alone but eager to get back home, and perhaps ever so slightly assuaged by the fact that your new husband has some sense of decorum and that you seem intact. Not your virginity, of course, but everything else.

You excuse yourself to use the bathrooms, a sort of salon with individual cubicles and sinks but a larger sitting area with vanities and larger mirrors. You tilt your head at it, curious, because it implies that there are women of leisure on Geidi Prime, but there aren’t many that you’ve seen. A single girl stands near the entrance and gives a small bow as you enter.

You also don’t expect to see your mother when you leave your cubicle and head for the sinks to wash your hands.

She stands in the middle of the room, looking like she wants badly to speak but not sure what to say. You give her a small smile as you wash up. The girl’s quick to hand you a towel and patient to wait until you’re done drying your hands before accepting it back without a word.

They truly have people for everything , you think, looking after her as she scurries back to her post and drops the towel in a hamper before you can so much as thank her. You and your mother look back at each other.

“Father looks miserable,” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

“Your father has a hangover,” Mother says.

“He didn’t seem drunk when I left,” you say, leaning one hand against the counter.

“He wasn’t,” Mother says. “He got drunk after you and your…husband…left for the evening.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate. You open your mouth, exasperated, wishing you could explain how it feels to have everyone act as though you’ve been handed a death sentence that they put you up to. She takes your hands without a word and nods towards the salon.

“How are you feeling, really?” she asks once you’ve acquiesced and you’re seated across from each other.

“All things considered, fine,” you tell her. She doesn’t look convinced. “Mother, I…” you try to articulate it. “I can’t say that I’m happy about this arrangement, but I’m going to have to live with it for years to come. If I act as though my life is over then it is.”

She looks down and runs her thumb over the top of your hand. “I kept preparing you for something like this hoping it wouldn’t happen,” she says.

“Well then, you did exactly right,” you tell her with a small smile that feels fake but one that she returns, however briefly. She sighs and looks down. “I’m grateful that you’re worried, and trust me, I am, too. But it would help more if you believed that I can survive this.”

Mother leans forward, eyes widening in hurt. “Your father and I wouldn’t have let you near that man if we didn’t think you’d survive,” she says. “The Bene Gesserit gave us their word that you will, and it’s the reason we’re here right now.”

You furrow your brow. Mother hesitates, glancing at the girl in her gauzy white dress, who remains standing and silent, not acknowledging your conversation. Mother needn’t worry; the Baron would never bother listening to a slave speak even if she had something to offer. When the girl doesn’t indicate that she’s heard anything, Mother continues.

“When the Reverend Mother spoke to us, she assured us that as brutal as he is, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen won’t defy Bene Gesserit orders to make sure you’re safe to have and raise his child. She also said that he has an ingrained sense of honor and loyalty to the Harkonnen line. He’ll ensure your survival and your children’s survival.” And even if survival is the best you can expect right now, you can still count on that.

....................................................

The Na-Baron accompanies you when you see your parents off; neither his uncle nor his brother does the same. He offers you his arm and you could almost laugh at the formality of it, his entire behavior towards you when you’re both fully dressed juxtaposed against last night. He can play the perfect gentleman all he likes, but you won’t forget how he pressed you onto your stomach and fucked you ruthlessly. Still, you take his arm, appearing as his poised and docile new wife. He offers his final respects to your father but otherwise stands back at a distance, watching in silence as you hug everyone one last time. You wonder if he’s ever hugged anyone a day in his life.

He still stands, waiting, when they board their ship, when it takes off. He watches you watch until their vessel is no more than a pinpoint in the sky before he approaches you, arm extended again. “Shall we?” he asks.

You’re still trying to accept that it’ll be a long time before you see your family again, your correspondence with them likely to consist only of letters, and he’s probably waiting for you to speak when you have nothing to say to him. He doesn’t understand what you’re feeling and you doubt he cares to try. You just take his arm and he leads you to the Fortress library in silence.

“I hope you slept well,” he says finally.

“I did,” you tell him. “Although Idrisa had to give me a mild sedative to do so.”

You glance over at him and think that another man would feel guilt over hurting his new bride, but of course you’re stuck–for now–with this one, who keeps his expression neutral but who you can already see in his eyes both that he’s satisfied that he caused you pain and that he doesn’t care what methods you used to relieve it. At best, he’s indifferent to your pain given that you seem fine now.

“Good, because I’ll want you in my chambers tonight after dinner. Same procedure as last night. Your girl will collect you when it’s time.”

“Alright,” you say, and he waits for just a moment before you realize what he wants and add, “ husband .”

He glances sideways at you, as if to say, Good. You’re learning. Don’t get too confident, though. What he says, though, as you reach a set of double doors, is, “Everything and everyone here is at your disposal.” Just as you are at mine .

When he opens the doors and you get your first look, you can’t help but be impressed. Your impression of Geidi Prime was that it was hardly a planet of scholars, but the library is immense.

Feyd-Rautha notes your surprise. Not that he says anything, but you doubt he’s flattered by it. A librarian’s quick to appear at your side, head bowed, and Feyd snaps his fingers in his direction before gesturing forward. “Come with us,” he says, and gives a rudimentary tour of the layout, showing you the Archives room and different wings. It’s even more expansive than you’d realized, and you’re grateful for it. You’ve got your work cut out for you, you think as you see the impossibly high walls lined with shelves up to the vaulted ceilings.

How many of these have you read? you want to ask him but refrain as the tour ends.

“Make sure the Na-Baroness has everything she needs,” he says to the librarian. He doesn’t look at him as he speaks, though. He looks directly at you, then beckons you forward with a simple curl of his hand. When you come forward he cups your cheek in that same hand, and his kiss is neither chaste nor passionate; it’s a simple statement that he’s claimed you. He’s marking his territory.

“See you at dinner,” he says once he lets you go.

............................................

You know what you want to read up on first.

There’ve always been rumors about the depravity of the House of Harkonnen. You’d heard a few of them regurgitated over the years. Some of them, like cannibalism, you’re reasonably certain aren’t true, but there are others you can’t dismiss.

Father implied once that the Baron’s voracious appetite for food was the least repulsive of his desires. You’d been too young at the time to understand what he was saying, nor were they for your ears as you’d been listening in, unnoticed, but you can’t help but think about Father’s disgusted tone, because you certainly know what he’d been implying now. Not that a Harkonnen-sanctioned record is likely to provide such details in their own library, but it’s a possibility you’ll have to consider even as the thought turns your stomach.

You start, though, with Feyd-Rautha. It takes pulling out several books and bound sheaves from a couple of different sections to get started, but a worthy investigation once you’ve found a comfortable place to spread everything out and get to reading.

You hadn’t realized that he was born not on Geidi Prime, but on another planet, Lankiveil. You had , however, heard about how his father, Abulurd Rabban, defected from the Harkonnen line and everything it represented, opting for a different sort of life on a distant planet with a Bene Gesserit woman who gave him two sons born eighteen years apart. This leads you into reading about Lankiveil, how it’s cold and water-based like your own planet. Its main source of industry is whaling, and it almost makes you laugh to picture Feyd in a raincoat on a dock. It’s just so far-fetched, the idea that he almost had a life very different from this one.

Of course, that was never going to happen. Rabban is infamous for one major act that changed all of their lives forever: as a younger man he killed their father for abandoning the bloodline and shaming the Harkonnen name. For the crime of patricide, he earned the moniker “Beast,” which he wears with pride. The Baron had already gotten his claws in his elder nephew by then, but Feyd-Rautha had still been a little boy. You’re not entirely sure how much he even remembers his father. You don’t know if they’re happy memories, or if he’d loved him. It’s still hard to imagine him ever having a childhood, but not only did he have one, his early childhood had been free from the Baron, from Geidi Prime, from the expectations of the House of Harkonnen and with two parents who you’re sure must have loved him.

It's an irrefutable fact that he’d come to Geidi Prime at the age of seven. And that is where rumor and fact intermingle. Some have claimed that Feyd’s mother sent him away for what she thought was his own protection; after all, she had never been on Geidi Prime nor known her late husband’s family, so it wouldn’t have been unreasonable for her to assume that her son would be better off with his uncle. Some believe she sent him away as punishment or for her own self-preservation, sensing danger in him at a young age and fearing what he’d grow up to become. Others have insisted that the Baron had his youngest nephew taken away to ensure the possibility of another heir, having no sons of his own.

You pause only part way through when Idrisa come in and suggests you take a break, maybe retire to your quarters and have something to eat and drink to tide you over before dinner. Apparently no one will mind if you take whatever documents you choose back to your quarters.

“We are at the Na-Baroness’s disposal. Whatever she desires,” the librarian assures you when you ask, his head inclined in a bow and his gaze downturned. It’s still a foreign feeling, the way no one can bring themselves to look directly at you, their fear of you by pure association. You clamp down on that discomfort as you thank him and return to your quarters with as many documents as you and Idrisa can carry between you.

As you reach your quarters and get settled in again, you wonder about Feyd-Rautha’s mother and the theories behind the Baron taking over as his guardian. The first theory, you decide, is unlikely. If she knew that her lover had defected and renounced his lineage, she would’ve known why. He would’ve warned her about them, even if she’d never been and even if he hadn’t, the Bene Gesserit would have. The second theory is entirely possible; you have no idea what Feyd was like as a young child. You’d assume he was made rather than born, and that personality traits aren’t inherited, but perhaps the darkness was always there. Perhaps she’d felt that he was doomed to be an extension of everything the Harkonnen represented. Still not terribly likely, given his age, but possible.

What you can likely imagine, though, is the Baron simply plucking Feyd-Rautha from his home to collect and repurpose as his own. He’s never been married nor produced any children and to simply claim one from a deceased family member, knowing no one could truly challenge him over it, would be an easy solution for that. From what you already know about him, he probably wouldn’t even see it as kidnapping, just taking what rightfully belongs to him.

You’re aware that Feyd’s an orphan, but nothing as to why beyond Abulurd’s murder. You find that there really isn’t enough to go on as far as his mother’s concerned other than her Bene Gesserit training and identity as Abulurd Rabban’s concubine, until you finally find the date and cause of death.

Feyd’s mother, according to the records, died when Feyd was fourteen. She’d been murdered in her own home. No one was caught, which means that the culprit’s been fiercely protected. You’d be willing to bet real money that the Baron had someone kill her and take away the one motivation he’d have to return to Lankiveil. It would line up with something else that you read; Feyd’s mother’s murder would have taken place shortly after Feyd-Rautha had attempted to assassinate his uncle. It had been quickly thwarted and fourteen-year-old Feyd-Rautha had been punished severely but spared his life.

You can easily imagine the Baron killing the one family member left not connected to the Harkonnens so his young nephew would be so isolated that he’d have nowhere else to turn.

Are the lashes on his back part of the punishment he faced? It would make them just over a decade old. You’re still not sure about the scars on his inner thighs. He likes pain; could they be self-inflicted? Maybe done to him at his own request by a lover? There’s an intimacy to them that you can only hope was done in an act of passion rather than a punishment administered by his uncle.

Although, and it makes you feel sick to think about, that option is also entirely possible.

If they were self-inflicted, or done for his own gratification, you wonder if he’ll one day ask you to draw a knife on him as well. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you’d be willing to; certainly rather him than you.

“Idrisa,” you start, looking up as she enters the room carrying what looks like a pair of black dresses. “How much do you know about the time Feyd-Rautha tried to assassinate his uncle when he was a boy?” She hesitates. You wait.

“My apologies, my lady,” she says, looking down, “but I wasn’t in the Fortress then. It was before my time.” Instead of elaborating further, she holds up the dresses, one in each hand to compare. “The Baron wants you to dress in the traditional Harkonnen style for dinner this evening. Which of these would you prefer?”

You glance between the two. Both long, both structured, but one with paneling and a more elaborate bodice that looks like it would take more time to actually get in and out of. “That one,” you say, pointing to it. If Idrisa knows your logic behind your choice, she doesn’t bring it up. She just waits for you to put your documents away and after you’ve taken to the bathroom to freshen up, helps you get ready.

When you arrive for dinner, you’re almost the image of a Harkonnen lady, the only traits betraying you being your hair and eyebrows. As expected, the Baron is already eating and while neither he nor Feyd-Rautha stand for you when you enter, your groom does stand to pull your chair out once more as you reach the table. It’s a simple formality, you assume, to hold up the pretense that this is a normal marriage and as something he can easily take away.

“What did you think of our library?” the Baron asks when you sit down, accepting only one answer.

“Truly impressive, Baron,” you tell him. “A testament to the House’s power and resilience.”

If you were worried what he would think about you wanting to look into his bloodline and history, those worries were unfounded. After the exchange he barely acknowledges you the entire meal. He and Feyd-Rautha, however, discuss the arena and new spice routes. You quietly take everything in and watch them interact.

The Baron switches between backhanded compliments, mean-spirited little quips, and the occasional genuine compliment for his nephew. He oscillates between seeming to respect him as a man fit to ascend the throne and still undermining him as hardly more than a child out of his depth handling any conflict. Feyd’s frustration remains quiet, just beneath the surface, but palpable. He seems to know that the Baron’s toying with him, testing him constantly, wondering which new way he flatter him only to put him down again.

It’s also immediately clear that Feyd doesn’t like that you’re seeing him like this, that once again as soon as he’s gotten what he’s wanted he’ll abruptly send you away. Whatever control his uncle takes from him he can always claim from you.

He tried to kill him once, when he was much younger and weaker than he is now. What changed? Does he still think about killing him now that he’s entering the very prime of his life?

You’ve long since finished eating by the time you realize that the men at the table have probably forgotten that you’re even there, so you clear your throat to get their attention.

“My apologies, but may I go to my chambers to prepare for the evening?” you ask, voice light.

You wait. Feyd-Rautha turns and gives you a small nod. “I won’t be too much longer,” he says, exchanging a cold look with his uncle. You don’t want to think about what they say about you when you’re not around, or what kind of innuendo the Baron will leave.

..........................................

The second time of what you’re sure will become a nightly routine is a little less nerve-wracking, but not one that you’re looking forward to.

When you’re stripped down in his bedroom again you choose the same position, even as you feel like a completely different person than you were just one day ago. There’s no fear this time, just resignation. You’re not sure if it’s going to hurt again but it also doesn’t matter, won’t change anything.

He comes out of his bathroom in the same manner as last night, naked and only partially erect. The sight may not scare you anymore, but you still, unfortunately, find his body nice to look at. You’re getting used to everything else, as well. The black teeth and gums nearly made you flinch the first time; now you’ve accepted it as the only mouth you’ll kiss from now on.

He approaches the bed. “Lay back,” he says as he starts to climb into it with you. “Spread your legs. I want to check something.”

You blush, thinking, Can’t we just get this over with? as you comply and take a breath to calm yourself, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking directly at him. You try to tamp down the embarrassment at how exposed you feel.

He inspects the damage, his fingertips pressing against your swollen folds and eyes darting back up to your face at your sharp inhale. He gives your privates a more thorough pass-through than you were willing to give yourself last night. You blink, concerned, as he takes his hand and spits on his fingers.

Why would you? --you think for only a split second before he brings his fingers back down to your torn and stretched womanhood, circling your bud in lazy circles and keeping his thumb there before dipping a finger inside of you.

You instinctively clench around the digit even as it doesn’t actually hurt. “Relax,” he says, as if that’s something you can easily do in your situation. His thumb continues working your bud as he curls his finger inside of you, pressing forward, and you see his brief smirk as you whine, taken aback by the jolt it provides. He does it again, slipping in a second, and the stretch doesn’t burn quite as much, doesn’t pinch so much as it tugs. You glance between his legs to see that he’s filling out the rest of the way from the sights and sounds of you skewered on his fingers. That in itself makes you gasp and flush at the idea that this, warming you up and seeing you aroused, gets him going. In many ways this preparation is just as much for him as it is for you.

Just as last time, you sense when he decides, Alright, you’re ready .

He has enough decency to pause when he’s pressed all the way inside of you, because he still feels massive, and like there’s not enough of you to accommodate him, as though your insides need to rearrange themselves for this intrusion.

It doesn’t hurt as much as last night, you remind yourself. You breathe through your nose as you tremble and hold onto him, gripping his shoulders and remembering how he likes the way you “get your little claws in.” The rocking of his hips is steady and deep but not too rough, not yet. You whimper and adjust your grip on him, managing to breathe, taking in the way he slides in and out of your bruised canal. It’s okay. It’s fine. You’ll get through this .

As soon as he can sense that you’re adjusted he goes harder, faster, relishing the way your nails scratch down his back. You raise your knees up to his ribcage and squeeze, trying to get some leverage in.

It’s no real use; he controls the pace, grips your hip with his free hand and seems to like when your whimpers and moans are laced with discomfort, wordlessly begging for him to please slow down, be gentler. Even if he doesn’t force you onto all fours like last night, it still feels animalistic when he speeds up further, grunting against the flushed skin of your neck, keeping you locked in place around him until you feel him coming, shuddering as he fills you up.

For a moment he raises himself up from his forearms to his hands, looking down at you with an expression he can’t place, before drawing a few errant strands of hair away from your face and pulling out. You don’t look at him as he collapses onto his back beside you. Somehow you feel even more used than before, more like a warm hole than a woman.

The two of you lay together in silence as you wait for the throbbing to subside. It takes a couple of minutes, but when you start to feel better you sit up and slide your legs to the side of the bed. You won’t wait to be dismissed. You sense him turn his head to look at you but don’t acknowledge him. You’ll head back to your chambers, soak in another lukewarm bath, and take the second half of the tablet from last night, even if you don’t need it as badly. It’ll at least help you sleep.

You get up and head for his dresser, reaching for your clothes when Feyd-Rautha’s voice stops you.

“Where are you going?” he asks. “I didn’t tell you to leave.”

You turn and look at him, your eyebrows raised. “You want me to stay?” you ask.

“I didn’t say I was finished with you yet,” he says.

You give his still-softened dick a pointed look. “You look pretty finished off to me,” you tell him, and step into your slippers.

You realize you made a mistake as soon as you say it. Feyd-Rautha’s up and at your back before you can finish pulling on your chemise. He tears it off you, throws it to the floor and wraps an arm around your ribcage as he lowers his head to your ear.

“I won’t tolerate you questioning my own body or abilities,” he says. “If I say I want another go, then I’ll have one.”

You squirm, and he turns you around, pinning you to the dresser as he grabs your hair and tightens. You wince and try to push away from him, but he only grabs your wrist in his free hand and brings it down to the dresser.

“I won’t be disrespected in my own bedroom,” he says, and you force yourself to look him in the eye. It’s the first time he’s seemed angry with you; the harsh angles of his narrow face more pronounced, his eyes pale and pupils blown out, his full lips the closest you’ve seen to a thin line.

Maybe it’s you he’s actually mad at, maybe not. Either way, you’re the one he can take his frustrations out on.

Play along, you tell yourself. Even if he’s not going to kill you for insolence, he’ll find ways to make life worse for you .

“What do you want me to do?” you ask finally. His face seems to relax slightly, and you realize when his chest moves again he’d been holding his breath. After a moment he decides how he’ll punish you for your so-called disrespect.

“Kneel on the bed, hands braced on the headboard, with your legs spread. Make sure to keep ‘em there,” he says.

You slowly step out of your slippers and turn, walking towards the bed. The seconds that pass as you get into position are silent, agonizing.

You wait, and when you don’t sense him move any closer, turn your head to look at him.

He’s still staring, taking in his fill, before he strides forward and settles in behind you, one hand braced beside yours against the headboard, the other cupping your breast.

It doesn’t stay there, though. After giving the soft flesh a squeeze for good measure he moves his hand upwards, around your throat. Your first instinct is to freeze, wanting to move.

He’s not going to kill you; he’s just trying to scare you, you tell yourself, and it’s working. You try to breathe, calm your rapid heartbeat. He can taste your fear; he revels in it. He doesn’t squeeze but he deliberately leaves his thumb against your windpipe, his long fingers curled around your neck.

I won’t kill you but I easily can, he seems to say. Unarmed and naked I could still kill you in brutal fashions you’ve never heard of. And then he gently nuzzles against your hair, and the shift disarms you, makes you feel all the more helpless as you whine.

He releases your neck and you inhale, closing your eyes. His hand trails back down, squeezing your other breast this time, down your stomach and to the apex of your thighs. He idly strokes your bud, and it gives you a jolt despite your nerves.

“Who else has ever touched you here?” he asks. It’s not a threat, but you could easily picture him killing anyone you name–it’s also not lost on you how fucked up that is. Thankfully you can provide none.

“Just myself,” you tell him. He huffs, as if to say, Yeah, I thought so , before taking one of your hands from the headboard and guiding it back in between your legs.

“Show me how you do it,” he says, his hand over yours.

You flush with embarrassment, but comply, bringing your fingertips to your bud and pressing down in a circling motion.

He gives a hmm , as you trail your fingertips to your slit, collecting the combination of his spent seed leaking out of you and your own growing wetness before bringing your digits back to your bud, has you whimpering at the slick of it. He follows, hand tight over yours, learning your movements. Despite your nerves it’s easier to get slicker, and to your horror you find yourself rocking your hips up against both his hand and yours. You give a breathy whimper, unsure how your own body can betray you like this. He finally tightens his grip on your hand and moves it to the headboard, leaving you in shock as he spits on his fingers and takes up where you’ve left off.

He mimics your movements exactly, touches you the way you’ve touched yourself over the past few years, and yet it feels all the more exhilarating to have another hand there that you can’t help but gently move against his fingers, larger and so much longer than yours and yet so precise and deliberate.

Before you realize it his cock, stiff again, slides against the cleft of your ass. You gasp, wanting to turn around but he’s so close to you, chest against your back, and he grabs your hips to jut out further behind you, pulls you down his level, your thighs on top of his.

“Don’t move,” he tells you, withdrawing his hand from yours and settling back. You can feel your body flush, your nipples stiff against the air, holding onto the headboard as you sense him grip himself in his fist and press against you.

It doesn’t hurt this time when he pushes in. He can sense it in your moans, the way you’re wet and pliant for him, ready to take him however he comes to you. You almost hate it, that he can do this to you. That he probably could have from the beginning. He rolls his hips up into you, the glide and pressure of it only on the verge of discomfort, but a welcome ache, a stretch inside of you.

You reach a hand behind you, skimming along his flank, wanting to touch him, but he’s just out of reach and you drop your forehead against the headboard, your moans and whines spurring him on. He grabs your hand and presses it back against the headboard before giving a deeper thrust into you, one that would’ve hurt yesterday but the push of it provides a delicious throb now.

The tension builds. You can feel it like flames licking up your spine and belly, and he can hear it. Your cries become increasingly desperate, your own hips rocking back down to meet his. You hardly register that you’re doing it or why; your body takes over and makes the decisions for you. He brings one hand to fondle your breasts again, one after the other, before bringing it down to your bud, and you can only imagine how smug he must be feeling that not only does he have you exactly where he wants you, that he’s making you enjoy it.

It finally feels good. You’d almost assumed that it never would, but it does. If anyone listened in, they’d hear the unambiguous pleasure in every noise you make and Great Mother, does Feyd-Rautha draw a lot of noises out of you.

But then his hand comes back to your other hip, leaving you so close to the precipice and after several more thrusts he comes, grabbing your hips and pushing upwards with a harsh grunt against your hair. He spears you onto him, pausing, rocking his hips up once more, and once he’s certain that he’s finished pulls out, grabs your jaw, and turns his face as much as he reasonably can to yours.

He sees your stunned expression, can feel that you’re still throbbing and in need of some sweet relief, and nods his head dismissively towards the door.

“ Now you can go,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment, not sure if you want to slap him across the face or pull him in for a furious kiss. He can see the warring impulses on your face and looks at you as though he’d be perfectly content with either, but still will react differently depending on which you choose.

You settle for a kiss, grabbing the back of his head and mashing your lips against his. You think that you’d like nothing more than to push him down and take him for yourself, for your own selfish pleasure like he did. You’re not entirely sure of the positioning but you’ll figure it out. You shift, managing to turn to face him properly before resuming the kiss.

He allows it, even responds to it, for a minute before grabbing the back of your head and pulling you away.

He tilts his head at you as if to say, ‘ Next time don’t question my virility or how I can make you feel, and maybe then I’ll let you come. ’

You bastard, you think, wondering how much he’s enjoying the clear indignation on your face. He likes provoking you, that much is certain, whether it’s fear or lust or anger. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, then, and so after some awkward shuffling you dismount the bed and pointedly look away from him as you walk to the dresser. It would probably be more dignified if you didn’t have his seed leaking out of you, trailing down your inner thighs.

You don’t bother to look back or say anything as you quickly redress and leave.

Neither you nor Idrisa speak as you head to your chambers, but as soon as you’re behind closed doors again you tell her that you’ll need a moment alone in the bathroom.

You’re grateful that she leaves you to it without an explanation this time as you glance in the mirror and the remnants of your blush that start at your hairline and follow down to your chest.

You shrug off your robe and turn on the faucet before finally, shamefully, bringing your hand between your legs and feeling the slick of him there mingling with your own slick and rub down, cursing Feyd-Rautha and cursing this planet and hoping that the sound of the running water drowns out your cries as you brace yourself against the sink, head bowed, and come, shaking and twitching, to the memory of his tongue and fingers against you, of him inside of you.

When it’s over you can’t bring yourself to look in the mirror was you wash your hands and turn off the faucet

You’ll need the half-tablet tonight. Not for pain, but because otherwise there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd-rautha #feyd rautha smut #dune 2 #dune par 2 #feyd rautha x reader

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nutrisage · 2 years ago

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kit-williams · 6 months ago

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Consequences

Male Lead: Konrad Curze/Solruthis Uadasha/The Night Haunter (Sol being his nickname) Female Lead: Reader/Sorsollia (sun that illuminates)

I'm sorry I love Zalgo text a lot it says HIS

tw: yandere, broken bones, physical assault, torture

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog

Another successful compliance! As they didn't receive as much fighting as he had forseen but he was certain that would please Sorsollia. The smile on his face disappears seeing another scribe there waiting for him... you were the main scribe they were to collect when he had to do these frivolous talks of what he had done.

The other scribe bows their head and he feels a sense of anger... perhaps disgust that someone else is here... but he swallows the feeling and gets the talk over with. As they are packing up their tablet he stops them. "Where is Sorsollia?"

There is an upturn in their heartbeat, "She hasn't been feeling well. I don't know what she is sick with all I know is that she's off rotation for some time." LIAR his mind hisses but he knows his Sorsollia will be displeased if the only other Scribe that he has 'dained to be in his presence is dismissed.

"Thank you." He dismisses them as he sits and broods. His Sorsollia is alive... he would have been told otherwise. So he simply waits for a few hours... and waits... and waits... and waits. Sorsollia does not come... she does not message... there is silence... and Solruthis Usdasha does not like this.

He moves with the flickering lights... they turn off long enough for him to move to the next hall... to cram himself into the next crevice. Humans are surprisingly unaware creatures though many are Nostroman he passes... he frowns as he heads into the part of the ship that is inhabited by those who do not like it being so dark. Here the prey tends to act skittish... as he watches how one person turns on their heels when they see the hallway lights flicker hiding his movements. The soft nope from their lips would normally make him smile but he is on a mission.

He could easily also push himself into the service halls and move around that way but no... this is his ship and he can slink about how ever he pleases. He comes to her door pushing his thumb over the reader and overriding her locks... after all it is his ship he is the skeleton key.

He moved with unnatural quietness into her abode; spacious given her rank it had two rooms compared to the typical singular room. His ears moved as he heard her pained hiss.

Sorsollia winced as she dabbed the cotton ball against the cut on her forehead her non dominant arm in a sling as her broken wrist was splinted. Most of the swelling on her face had gone down just leaving the ugly bruising. She sniffled hard feeling herself want to tear up and cry again, her eyes went up freezing as there was someone- "Sol?" Her voice cracked as she turned around.

The fearful beating of her heart died as he knew that rushing hopeful beat. His mind was terrifyingly silent as he took a step closer... as he gently grabbed her face and turned her toward him... it was so quiet when he looked over her face... someone had beaten his Sorsollia. Someone had harmed his Sorsollia while he was away. His eyes look at her broken wrist and splinted fingers too he knew a threat he knew what a threat to someone's livelyhood looked like. His thumb absentmindedly wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks as her legs give way and she lets out a dispared wail. A wail that normally excites him... and oh how it still excited him in a different way. He pulls her out of the small room of the bathroom and holds her close. "Oh my Sorsollia what happened? Did the head scribe order this?" His voice suddenly went cold at the thought of someone abusing her because they were on a power trip.

"No! No... no... no... I don't-"

"Don't lie to me. Sorsollia you know I don't like lying. Don't protect the scum." He snarls holding her tightly, "They must be punished... I am a Primarch no one-"

"I don't know who they were." She sobs into his chest afraid of the repercussions but her Sol was there. "They came to me when you were gone. They didn't tell me who they worked for but to only edit a few documents to make their lord look better. I assume they were thugs for some noble. Because one of them had to have been one... because I talked back to him I was too comfortable in my position working for you because they didn't like a scribe talking back to them." Her voice strained at the end as the tears ran harder. "They knew which hand was my dominant one... so they broke my wrist of the other one to send a message." She was so very ugly when she cried... utterly distressed and distraught.

"And you still told them no?" He probes.

"They told me that they would be back and to use this time to consider it." She hiccups softly.

"When they come back I want you to agree." He says holding her. "I'll make sure I find out who they are and who their employer is." He whispers to her as she sobs into his shirt. Solruthis Uadasha finally truly comes out... there has been a great injustice inflicted upon his charge... upon his Sorsollia. And he will make them pay.

She was withdrawn... hardly holding the name Sorsollia but he played his role just as she did. They stayed apart as he played the distant ruler and not the attentive lover and she hardly needed goading into her role of the cowed submissive. He held her the night he came back... as she was tired and sleep wasn't coming to her... she was afraid and clung to him but for now she was by herself.

Konrad leaned back on his throne as the chirping of the small cogitatior he planted in her room. His impassive face split into an insane grin as he watches how the three... no four, his eyes spy the man at the door, "faceless" mooks walk with such false swagger. His nails dig into his seat as her arm is grabbed and Sorsollia collapses to her knees trying to get her wounded arm free. Konrad had sat and tended to her wounds to soothe her as she had been living in such sweet fear for days.

His dark eyes narrow at the hand touching his Sorsollia far too affectionately. Konrad gritted his teeth in that manic grin feeling the teeth chipping before healing. But once they were gone he quickly collected his Sorsollia taking the document they wanted her to improve and the name of the noble that had the AUDACITY to threaten what was H̷̨̭́̿Ḭ̴̏̕S̷̢͇̐. He hid her away in his room as Solrithis Uadasha got to work.

The lookout lay dead and blind... his tongue shredded to ribbons as they went down without saying anything. His torture felt much like an afterthought much just like their role in all of this. The two guards who had beaten and broken his Sorsollia's wrist he was careful in the application of pressure and pulling away... breaking more and more of their bones and perhaps like a Drukhari he twisted their useless limbs into unnatural shapes as the two bleated for death and each day he brought them closer and closer with more and more bones breaking and each day they did not expire he continued to crush and twist.

The lower noble who felt so big to be perhaps within the fucked up standards of society be able to get away with beating the personal scribe of a Primarch. Perhaps he had the right.... perhaps he did... but unfortunately for him he picked the wrong Primarch to try and get away with this crime. He had cut off the hand that he had dared touch what was his and was slowly peeling it bit by bit and feeding the flesh back to him.

Sorsollia was far too kind for her own good... he'd have to see what the laws from where she was were like... He pushed the flesh into the mans mouth grinning. "You know she said that the sins of the father don't pass on." He laughed, it was a hideous laugh one of disbelief that he held affection for someone so blind to the cruelty of the universe. And yet he hesitated to rip the veil from her eyes because once he did that... he was certain she would see the disgusting creature that he was. He craved her affection... he craved her attention... he craved her seeing him as a man. She couldn't be blind to everything... she was a legion scribe... she knew the methods.

There was a nasty thought planted in his mind now... the paranoia and mistrust rearing its ugly head... he left the torture room unable to find satisfaction in conducting the punishments until he figured out why. "Sorsollia." He said entering the room wiping the blood from his hands as she paused what she was listening too looking over at him from the lit corner of his room.

"Yes?"

"I need to know something." He walked over.

"Of course I live to serve." She said with a genuine smile but that only heightened his paranoia.

"Why did you want to work for my legion? We are perhaps the most cruel ones... and you had personally applied."

"I had personally applied for both your legion and the blood angels." Her lips became a thin line as she thought of words, "While I don't agree with the methods you employ... your rate of compliance compared to the body count is a good ratio. Um..."

"Speak."

"I just don't agree with it... but it leans more into the necessary evil. Not that you are evil Sol." Sorsollia quickly adds, "Just all of this... the great crusade... perhaps there is a selfishness in my part for hoping that I'm on the correct side of history... instead of simply being a conscientious objector... that maybe this will all be worth it in the end. But what do I know of war and combat... I'm just a helpless Scribe." She says looking at her wrist, "I chose you for the low ratio of bodies to compliance."

"And Sanguninius?" He says not betraying the way his hearts were twisting at the thought of his Sorsollia being in the Great Angel's company... being his Scribe. Konrad wants to claw his scalp at the anxiety that bubbles over at the thought of her being enamored with the perfect angel.

"I've heard he is kind. He gives many chances to accept the imperium's generous offer... but I've heard that the Blood Angels can be... scary. " She nervously laughs, "Me talking about how scared I am of the Blood Angels when I work for the Night Lords. I probably sound stupid..." He's noticed since she's been attacked how critical of herself she has been.

He pulls her into his arms his long fingers combing through her hair, "Sorsollia." He listens for her hum, "In a couple of days this will all be over. I want you to return to being yourself."

The pitying smile she gave him nearly had him snarling, "You're very bad at comforting but I appreciate the attempt. Just..." Her voice sounded so small, "Please promise me this won't happen again? Just... I thought I was safe and-" Her voice breaks as tears flow.

Giving her his child would let everyone know who she was... it would make sure no one would touch her... He kisses away her tears, "Shhh Sorsollia I swear upon one of my hearts that it won't happen again."

That gets her to smile, "If I'm keeping track that means you've sworn on both of your hearts so far."

"So it is. I've already taken care of the thugs that hurt you. They've been punished."

She just nods and hides her face in his chest, "I should probably go back to my room."

"One more day Sorsollia. You slept so fitfully last sleeping cycle... it would make me worry to find out you've been struggling to sleep. And I need to make sure you are comfortable so your wrist and fingers heal."

"Okay Sol. One more night." She sighs happily just feeling that she'll soon be able to put this all behind her. For Konrad he was thinking of what he was going to do to the noble who was so eager to get the Primarch's gaze... oh the dark grin on his face as he certainly had it now. He gave his Sorsollia a kiss on the forehead and swore that the sparkle to her eyes was slowly returning and that made his hearts sing.

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embrosegraves · 1 year ago

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𝔸𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤

(request) Sebastian Vettel x Reader Periods are the worst but Seb makes them bearable It’s just very very sweet!

Warnings: Reader has very intense cramps but its not too detailed. Reader's gender isn't explicitly mentioned but I wrote with afab reader in mind

You had never been in so much pain in your life. And you had once broken a bone. Sure your cramps had always been bad, but this was a whole different level of painful. You had woken up this morning with intense cramping and it didn’t take you long to figure out why.

Your period had come a day early.

Part of you was grateful that Sebastian was scheduled to be away for another day. You didn’t want him to have to deal with you while on the first day of your period. It was always the worst day of the whole week because your body was still adjusting to the sudden pain it was enduring.

Sebastian was always a godsend when it came to your period. He was never embarrassed to go to the store and get what products you needed. He always made sure that he stocked up on things that he knew you liked. Things like your favourite sweets, your favourite tea bags and he always always always made sure that you had hot chocolate ready to be made at a moment's notice.

All that to say that this time around, Sebastian had wanted to surprise you by coming home from the race weekend a little earlier than initially planned. Almost as soon as the race had finished and he didn’t have any more media duties to attend to, he got on the soonest flight back home to you.

Once Sebastian had reached the airport and collected his things from baggage claim, he received a notification on his phone.

Flo: 🩸🩸🩸 starts today!

Once Sebastian had seen it, he adjusted his plans slightly and made sure to stop at the store on his way home so he could get you some things to hopefully relax.

Ever since the pre-race events had started earlier that day, you had been lying on the couch, curled up in the foetal position. The pain was so intense that you had only just managed to change your clothes in the morning and make your way to the couch. You didn’t have any extra energy to shower or grab any medicine that you knew you had. There was also the fact that you were trying to convince yourself that you didn’t need any medicine. That you could soldier through your period pain and be fine.

That was exactly how Sebastian found you when he finally walked through the front door of your house. Given the amount of pain that he could see on your face, he knew you would struggle to answer anything he asked you. He quickly put his things down in the entryway, he could deal with it all later, and made his way to the kitchen to pour you a glass of cold water and put the kettle on so that he could make you a hot drink as well.

Grabbing the glass of water and some medicine from the cabinet, he made his way back to where you were, put the glass on the coffee table before gently helping you sit up so you could swallow the tablet without choking on it.

Once he made sure you had swallowed it he went back to the kitchen, leaving you to slowly sip on the water. Quickly grabbing your favourite mug, he made you a hot chocolate and topped it with mini marshmallows and chocolate powder. On his way back to the living room, he grabbed the bag of snacks he had bought. Walking into the room, he set the items on the coffee table and carefully sat down next to you.

He spent the rest of the night comforting you and making sure that you were well taken care of. He whispered sweet things in your ear, both in English and German. It made you feel incredibly loved. Whispering assurances to you, Sebastian made sure that you drank your warm drink and ate some of the things he got for you.

Eventually he got you to the bathroom, helping you shower away the gross feeling of sweat and gently massaging the soreness from your shoulders and neck. Afterwards he dressed you in your designated period pyjamas and laid you down on the bed before going to heat up your microwave heat bag.

Crawling into bed beside you, he gave you the heat bag and wrapped you up in his arms. You grabbed one of his hands and brought it to your face to cradle it.

“Thank you Sebby.”

“I will always take care of you, Liebling.”

I smashed this out in one sitting. Briefly proofread but not at the same time??

Idk but I really enjoyed writing this one and I hope you enjoyed reading it!!

#sebastian vettel #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sv5 #formula one #just seb being the absolute best for his lover #I hope 🦝-Anon (certified Seb Enjoyer™) will love this lmao

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meiandue · 1 year ago

Note

pls do newjeans reaction / headcanon where their s/o and then previously had an argument and their s/o got injured badly?

okay !! but the injuries are not that brutal hehe, once again sleeping late to fulfill your requests. doing this on my tablet is hard bro tumblr doesn't stretch to the screen, BUT is fun bc i'm listening to music <3

new jeans masterlist | main masterlist

MINJI —

why did this even happen? minji asks herself, she's currently tending your cut on your palm. an argument between you happened earlier before dinner, she's supposed to get the ingredients at a nearby store, but instead she comes home holding two bags of chips and coke. was that the reason why she was all smiley before going off?

earlier...

"minji! what the hell did you buy?!" you say as you stood by the kitchen, eyeing the bags full of chips and bevarages and no sign of the ingredients you asked her to buy.

"you said buy something for tonight?" she asks back, putting down the bags and hanging her jacket.

"no. i said, ingredients for dinner tonight!" you reply, there's no way you'll be having what she bought.

"whatever, you're going to eat those for dinner and don't even dare to ask me for some of what i cooked." you pointed your index finger at her before walking off to cook.

now...

"you're so dumb sometimes." minji states while she wraps gauze around your palm. you glare at her.

"says the one who bought chips." you roll your eyes, then watching her take care of you wound with a small blush on your face, she looked so focused...

"hey- i only misheard." minji argues back, slapping your injured hand, seemingly forgotten that it's wounded.

"ow! what the heck?!" you retract your hand from minji, glaring at her while you soothe your poor hand.

"i'm sorry! i forgot." minji sighs.

"now look who's dumb." you laugh.

"oh, now look who can't cook." minji fought back and laughs as well.

"i'm not eating your chips." you roll your eyes.

"but you have nothing to eat." minji replies.

"then cook for me, idiot." she sighs and nodded in defeat, you smile and kissed her, now she's forgiven.

HANNI —

you both had an argument about her clean clothes and laundry. you thought the clothes on her bed were dirty and put them in the laundry, and it was unknown to you that she's going to use them later on their shoot of new jeans zine.

earlier...

"where are my clothes on the bed?" hanni asks, entering the living room where you are.

"oh, i put them in the laundry." you reply, looking up from your phone.

she groans and puts her hand on her head with a frustrated look on her face. "why would you put them in the laundry?!"

"i-i thought it's used and dirty.."

"why wouldn't you ask-!? ugh, forget about it." she walks out before you could speak, you sigh. well it's also her fault for putting them in the bed so messy.

now...

"are you okay?" hanni asks for about 30 times now, you lay on the couch clutching your side which has a big bruise.

good thing you haven't set the pile of laundry that has hanni's clothes in, rushing to get it, there was a piece of your clothing on the ground and you slipped because of it. landing on your side, you groan in pain and the next thing you see is hanni rushing to you with a worried face.

"yes, i'm fine now hanni, thank you for asking." after you said that, your side aches and you clutch it in pain, another reason for hann to be worried again. she slaps your hand away and lifted your clothes up to check your side, gasping when she saw a big purple bruise.

following her eyes, you gasp as well. "do you think it's a broke bone?" you ask, getting scared now, you're definitely not okay. she sighs in relief when she just misread tha date today and there was no filming, she has to take you to the hospital now.

DANIELLE —

she never starts the argument, she gets scolds by you, it was raining outside and the girl decided to shine her light outside and play outside like a little kid. but you said something that really hurt her. rushing to her room, you follow behind, saying a lot of sorrys.

SLAM-! THUD!

you fell down, holding your head after you groan in pain. danielle didn't know you were, that, close to her door and she accidentally slammed it too hard.

"are you okay?! i'm sorry.." she asks multiple times, her hands fly everywhere, not knowing what to do.

she hugs your head, but every minute passes, the bruise forming on your forehead gets worse. danielle panics once more, reaching for your hand and helps you stand up, leading you to the kitchen.

danielle took some ice from the refrigerator and wrapped them around her precious handkerchief and held it against your bruise gently, she was so worried but at the same time guilty.

"i'm so sorry... i didn't mean too..." she whispers, her lips quivering. you look up to her with a small smile through the pain.

"it's okay, i'm sorry too, baby." you held her hand, took the ice and aid yourself. before she can reply, she sneezes, you sigh.

"i told you not to go outside, it's raining." you chuckled and ruffled her damp hair.

"but it's nothing compared to your bruise..." she sniffles, pouting.

"it's okay, really. i just don't want you sick." you hug her, and you both watched as the rain falls outside your kitchen window.

HAERIN —

you sat on the floor, checking your wounded knee, she stood in front of you in silence. you bleed from the cut on your knee, because you were following after haerin as she walks to her room to avoid the argument. but while you do so, a sharp edge of an object wounded your knee.

haerin stood there is shock, not knowing what to do, shaky eyes stare at the blood dripping from your leg. her unsteady legs kneels down beside you.

"i'm sorry.." she silently says, looking at you from the side. she's apologising even if it's not her fault? poor girl.

"no, no, don't apologise. it's not your fault." you reassure, holding her hand tightly as you endure the pain.

"i-if i didn't try to go back. you wouldn't have gotten injured." she mumbles, looking at your knee and back to you.

"no, haerin, it's fine. i can just bandage it up." you struggled to stand up, but a pair of hands helps you up to the kitchen.

"look, i'm sorry for what i've said earlier. i know you were tired." you spoke, caressing haerin's cheek with a weak smile. besides it's better to have a cut than continue the argument and you'll hurt haerin more. seeing her cry hurts more than a wound.

haerin nods, "it's okay... but let's worry about your wound? yeah?" she made you sit down as she kneels to bandage your knee.

feeling so guilty and thinking you got this wound because of her, even if it's not, she can't help but feel that way :( like minji, she's very focused on aiding you, but winces when she presses too hard that your wound gushes out blood. so sad about it, her eyes won't even leave it for a few seconds. very careful about it, reminding you not to put too much pressure on your knee :(

HYEIN —

earlier...

again, you scold her for the 3rd time of the day, was very picky about her food and acts very dramatic. telling you that she doesn't want to eat anymore and storms to her room. sighing, but still, you went to the kitchen to cook some food for you and her later, just incase she gets hungry. plus you won't let her starve because of a stupid argument. knocking on her door for a few times, asking what she wants, she just tells you to go because she'll just order her own food.

now...

she finally exits her room with her phone in hand, ignoring you on the living room while she pays and takes the food she ordered. placing it down the coffee table, she noticed that you're wrapping gauze around your three fingers. her face turning into a worry mess.

"what happened?" she quickly sits down beside you, takes your hand and helped you with the gauze. glancing up at you, you were avoiding her eyes.

"i got cut, while cooking." your face flushes in embarrassment, after being so professional and bragging about your cooking skills, you got cut? eh, it's part of the cooking life anyways. hyein lets out a breathy chuckle, cupping your cheek.

"don't be embarrassed, it's okay. i just ordered food for us, you don't have to worry about anything related to food." hyein pats your palm, indicating she was done with the bandaging. she motioned to the bag of food on the coffee table, handing yours and taking her own. it's good to see her happy again, and not so mean, like earlier.

p/s : laziness season done! i'm terribly sorry for the wait anon :( i had to do so many chores around the house, weather updates, and it's raining heavily here 😭 anyways, hope you enjoy !!

#kpop #new jeans #new jeans x reader #new jeans imagines #minji x reader #hanni x reader #danielle x reader #haerin x reader #hyein x reader #cein's new jeans #cein's anon requests

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estellan0vella · 30 days ago

Text

Love In Print│Bang Chan

Chapter One: Satan And His Hellhound SS: 9 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 2.7K Content Warnings:

Previous Next Masterlist

The tension in the Levanter-Miroh Publishing office is so thick it might as well be listed as an official department. Two years post-merger, the open-plan layout still feels like a no-man's-land, with the remnants of Levanter's creativity-first chaos clashing violently against Miroh's sterile, data-driven efficiency.

Somewhere in the middle of this battlefield, Ayame and Chan continue their daily war, a slow-burning feud that keeps the office on edge and entertained.

Ayame strides through the building, the click of her stiletto heels echoing against the polished tile floors. Her light blue mini skirt swishes with every purposeful step, the fitted corset-waist blouse tucked just enough to appease HR.

She sips her coffee and catches up to Nari near the elevators. Nari, ever the image of poised chaos, juggles her phone, a tablet, and the sheer weight of dealing with Kang Haechul and his corporate minions.

"Morning, Ayame," Nari says, barely glancing up from her phone.

"Morning," Ayame hands her a sleek folder, one corner decorated with a small smiley face sticker she slapped on last minute. "Here's the pitch for that YA series I mentioned. It's fucking gold. I'd bet my coffee budget it'll trend for years."

Nari flips through the file, her lips twitching in approval. "Has Kang Haechul seen this?"

Ayame raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching with a dry smirk. "I sent it to the dementor, sorry, I mean Chan, so I assume so. But if it has even a drop of creativity, I doubt it'll survive his soulless, corporate vacuum."

Nari lets out a low chuckle as they step into the elevator. "Quarterlies?"

"Lower than projected, but not a disaster," Ayame replies, leaning against the wall and crossing her ankles. "Better than Q2, at least. I already talked to marketing about alternative print strategies to cut costs without touching the quality. Sent you a breakdown this morning. Oh, and I emailed about the team-building event I'm planning."

Nari pauses mid-scroll, looking up from her phone with a sceptical arch of her brow. "Team-building? You? I thought you'd rather eat glass."

"Rusty nails, actually," Ayame corrects, smirking. "But Minho's drowning in complaints, and HR's been a shitshow since the merger. Figured I'd throw them a bone before they all quit."

As if summoned by her words, Seungmin appears just outside the elevator as the doors slide open. He steps in, sharp in his suit, holding a stack of perfectly aligned documents. His expression is neutral, but his tone is dripping with quiet amusement. "Half of those complaints are about you and corporate stick-up-the-ass."

"Morning to you too, sunshine," Ayame replies sweetly, rolling her eyes.

Nari shakes her head, grinning. "Oh, Ayame, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Be stuck with Satan and his hellhound," Ayame quips, nodding toward Chan and Kang Haechul, who are making their way across the lobby. Chan is in his usual sharp suit, his perfectly styled hair somehow looking both effortless and infuriating. His gaze is piercing, clipboard in hand like a weapon of mass destruction.

Seungmin mutters, just loud enough for Ayame to hear, "Pretty sure Satan and his hellhound would be less of a pain in the ass."

Ayame smirks. "Exactly."

As they part ways, Ayame makes her way toward her desk, only to be intercepted by Hyunjin, who's rushing toward her like a man on the verge of collapse. His tie is crooked, his shirt slightly untucked, and his expression is nothing short of desperate.

"Ayame, please, I need a favour," he blurts, running a hand through his already messy hair.

Ayame groans, holding up her coffee like a shield. "What now, Hyunjin?"

He exhales dramatically, pacing in front of her. "Okay, so, my new puppy, his name is Tofu, by the way, he got into the peanut butter last night, and, uh, well, he fucking exploded. Shit everywhere. I'm talking walls, furniture, my expensive rug-"

"Jesus Christ, Hyunjin." Ayame cuts him off, holding up a hand. "What is it you want from me?"

"I need an extension on the monthly report," he says quickly, clasping his hands together like he's praying. "Just a couple of days. I swear I'll have it done by Wednesday."

Ayame takes a slow sip of her coffee, staring him down. "You'll have it Monday. Wednesday at the absolute fucking latest, or I swear to god I'll make you clean the conference room after next week's catered lunch."

Hyunjin's face lights up like she's just saved him from certain death. "Thank you! You're a fucking angel."

"I'm a fucking sucker," she mutters as she brushes past him, heading for the meeting room with a tray of cupcakes she brought for the morning meeting.

Just as she reaches the doorway, she's blocked by Chan, who leans against the frame with his arms crossed and that damned clipboard clutched like it's part of his anatomy. His dark eyes flick to the cupcakes, then back to her, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips.

"That was pathetic," he says, jerking his chin toward Hyunjin. "You could just tell him to do his fucking job, but no, you have to play saviour."

Ayame snorts, brushing past him without missing a beat. "Being a saviour is better than being a corporate dick-sucking yes-man."

"Interesting philosophy," Chan calls after her, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Inside the meeting room, the atmosphere immediately shifts as Ayame sets down the tray of cupcakes. Minho, seated at the head of the table, grabs two before anyone else can move.

"God bless you, Ayame," he declares, unwrapping a cupcake like it's Christmas morning. "Honestly, this is the only reason I come to these fucking meetings."

Ayame smirks, folding her arms as she leans against the table. "Don't stuff your face yet. We're supposed to at least pretend to talk about quarterlies first."

"I can multitask," Minho says around a mouthful of frosting.

Ayame slides into her chair between Seungmin and Seonghwa, expertly balancing her oversized coffee mug in one hand and a battered notebook in the other. The chair creaks slightly as she settles in, crossing her legs and shooting a quick glance around the table. Seungmin is leaning back like he doesn't give a single fuck about being here, casually scrolling through his phone, while Seonghwa greets her with a bright smile, his ever-present aura of calm cutting through the simmering tension in the room.

"You know," Seonghwa begins, his voice low and conspiratorial, "I watched this insane documentary last night. It was about the history of baking."

Ayame raises a brow, intrigued despite herself. "Was it good, or was it just weird enough to hold your attention?"

Seonghwa shrugs, his smile widening. "A little of both. Did you know Da Vinci invented the blender?"

Ayame snorts, nearly spilling her coffee. "Are you serious? That's what he spent his time on? Art, science, and fucking smoothie-making?"

Jisung, sitting across the table, immediately jumps into the conversation like he's been waiting for his cue. "Speaking of inventions, I've got something revolutionary: the pizza plate."

Ayame squints at him, her laughter tapering off as she processes his words. "The what?"

"The pizza plate!" Jisung exclaims, clearly proud of himself. "It's a second pizza you put under your first pizza to catch the crumbs. Genius, right?"

Minho groans from the end of the table, dragging a hand down his face like he's suddenly aged ten years. "No one fucking cares, Jisung. Literally no one. Please, for the love of god, stop."

Jisung smirks, undeterred. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

Minho doesn't even look up, waving him off like he's swatting at a particularly annoying fly. "I'd rather think of literally anything else. Like how to end my suffering in this goddamn meeting."

Seonghwa leans toward Ayame, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do they ever stop arguing?"

Ayame sips her coffee, her tone light but laced with exasperation. "Never. It's like breathing to them."

Before Seonghwa can reply, Chan's voice cuts through the room like a fucking guillotine. "Alright. Can we please get started, or do you all need another minute to play kindergarten?"

The table falls silent, though Ayame, Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Minho simultaneously mouth the word dementor. Ayame bites down on her lip to keep from laughing outright, her eyes darting to Chan, who looks like he's five seconds away from snapping his clipboard in half.

"We're good to go," Ayame says sweetly, turning to Chan with a saccharine smile that's practically dripping with fake innocence. "But you? Your tie's crooked."

Chan frowns, glancing down at his tie, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as he catches her smirk. His tie is, of course, perfectly straight. He looks back at her, dark eyes narrowing dangerously as Ayame sips her coffee, her smile widening.

Before he can respond, Nari steps into the room, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown timer. Kang Haechul follows closely behind, his posture rigid and his face locked in its usual mask of condescension.

"Alright, everyone," Nari says, her voice calm but commanding as she takes her spot at the head of the table. "Let's try to keep this short. Haechul and I have an announcement to make."

The room collectively stiffens, the air practically crackling with unease. Ayame leans back in her chair, notebook in hand, her pen poised but motionless.

"We're adding a new position to the team," Nari continues, glancing briefly at Haechul before pressing on. "A managing director role."

Haechul nods, clasping his hands behind his back like a fucking monarch addressing his subjects. "He will oversee all departments and report directly to me."

Ayame's brows shoot up at the pointed emphasis on he, and she isn't the only one who notices. Eyes dart around the table, and the tension thickens.

Nari's polite smile tightens, though her voice remains steady. "He or she will report to both of us," she clarifies smoothly, though the strain in her tone is impossible to miss.

Haechul doesn't flinch, merely inclining his head as though the correction doesn't bother him in the slightest. "Of course. The job will be open to external applicants, but I'd like to prioritize hiring from within."

The subtle glance he throws at Chan doesn't go unnoticed, and the room shifts again, silent but charged. Ayame watches Chan out of the corner of her eye. He looks composed as ever, his expression unreadable, but there's a tension in his shoulders that only someone who's worked alongside him this long would notice.

Ayame leans back in her chair, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Interesting," she mutters, her voice just loud enough for Seungmin to hear.

Nari clears her throat, clearly sensing the unease. "To ensure fairness, we'll be assembling an independent panel since Haechul and I don't always see eye to eye on things."

Haechul's mouth twitches, his attempt at a neutral expression barely holding. "The final candidates will present their strategies to the board after the New Year. May the best man win."

Ayame's jaw tightens at the deliberate phrasing. "Man," she mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes. "How fucking progressive."

Seungmin snorts beside her, his voice low. "Careful, Ayame. Your sarcasm's showing."

She doesn't bother replying, leaning forward instead to jot something in her notebook. Chan catches the movement, his gaze flicking to her with the faintest hint of curiosity, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

Nari steps in again, her tone firm but measured. "Let's stay focused on the task at hand. This is an important step for the company, and we'll need everyone's cooperation to make it successful."

Haechul nods, his gaze lingering on Chan like a fucking spotlight. "Exactly. Cooperation."

Ayame fights the urge to roll her eyes again, settling instead for a long sip of coffee. Beside her, Seonghwa leans closer, whispering, "This is going to be a fucking disaster."

Ayame sighs, her voice dry. "When isn't it?"

The meeting ends in a shuffle of murmurs, forced goodbyes, and the obnoxious screech of chairs dragged across the floor. Ayame barely lets the echo die before she gathers her notebook and empty coffee mug, making a beeline for the kitchenette like it's a lifeboat in the middle of a shipwreck. The room is blissfully quiet, save for the low hum of the coffee machine, and she takes a deep breath, relishing the rare moment of peace as she rummages through the cabinet for a tea bag.

Her peace lasts all of forty-five seconds.

The door swings open, and she knows who it is before she even turns around. That insufferable clack of dress shoes on the tile, deliberate but unhurried. Bang fucking Chan.

He strides in like he owns the place, leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed over his perfectly tailored suit. His dark eyes lock on her like a predator sizing up prey. "You know the job's mine, shortcake."

Ayame doesn't even flinch, too focused on pouring hot water into her mug. She hums noncommittally, not sparing him a glance. "Cute. When I'm your boss, I'll make it a requirement that you have to do everything with a smile."

Chan lets out a low snort, tilting his head. "A smile?"

"Yeah," she says, finally looking up, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "It's this thing where the muscles in your face move to react to positive things. You should try it sometime. It might help you seem... less like a soulless corporate dick."

He smirks, sharp and cutting. "You've never smiled at me."

She lifts her mug to her lips, her own smile threatening to betray her composure. "Make of that what you will."

His eyes narrow, his smirk not faltering. "Enlighten me," he says, leaning in slightly. "Why won't I get the job, huh?"

Ayame sets her mug down on the counter with an audible clink, crossing her arms as she leans back against the counter to face him fully. "Because you're the most hated man in this office."

Chan laughs at that, a low, deliberate sound that's equal parts condescending and amused. "Oh no, shortcake. No one hates me. They fear me, which is what makes me so fucking good at my job."

Ayame raises an eyebrow, tilting her head. "Fear doesn't make you effective, Chan. It makes you a pain in the ass."

He steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through the lingering smell of coffee. His smirk deepens as he lowers his voice. "And yet, here I am. The most effective pain in the ass you've ever met."

Ayame rolls her eyes, scooping up her mug and pushing off the counter. "Congrats on the self-awareness, Captain Obvious."

She starts toward the elevator, but she can hear the inevitable click of his shoes behind her. Of course he follows. His insufferable confidence radiates off him like heat, practically filling the space as they step into the elevator together. The doors slide shut with a soft ding, trapping them in yet another standoff.

Chan leans casually against the elevator wall, his gaze sliding toward her as he takes a slow sip from his coffee. "When I'm your boss," he says lazily, "I'm implementing a dress code. No more dressing like that."

Ayame freezes mid-sip, her mug halfway to her lips. She turns her head slowly, narrowing her eyes. "Like what?"

He gestures vaguely toward her outfit, his smirk unwavering. "Like... that. The mini skirts, the corset blouses, the whole look. It's distracting."

Her laugh is sharp, biting, like the snap of a whip. "Distracting? From what? Your spreadsheets? Grow the fuck up, Chan."

He shrugs, taking another sip of coffee like she hasn't just insulted his entire existence. "Just calling it like I see it."

She sets her mug down on the elevator railing, facing him fully now. "Let me tell you something. When I'm your boss, I'm enforcing casual Fridays. No suits allowed. Hell, no ties allowed. And for the record, if you get that job, I'll fucking resign."

Chan raises an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something closer to amusement. "Oh, you will, huh?"

"Absolutely," she replies, her voice light but her words firm. "Just like you will if I get it."

His chuckle is low, almost inaudible, as he leans back against the wall. "I don't quit, shortcake."

She picks up her mug, her lips curving into a wicked grin as she sips her tea. "Oh, but I could fire you."

Chan laughs outright at that, a deep, rumbling sound that makes the elevator feel ten degrees warmer. "You'd have to beat me first. And we both know that's not happening."

Ayame tilts her head, her eyes sparkling with mock innocence. "I'm getting the distinct impression that's not the first time you've said that to a woman in your thirty-something years on this planet."

His smirk falters just slightly before returning full force. "Touché."

The elevator dings as it reaches their floor, the doors sliding open. Ayame steps out first, her heels clicking against the tile. She glances over her shoulder, her tone smug as she says, "So, we agree? If one of us gets the job, the other has to quit."

Chan follows her out, his pace deliberately matching hers. He considers her words for a moment before nodding, his smirk turning downright devious. "Fine. Agreed."

"Good," she says, turning away with a satisfied grin. "You're going to look adorable when I'm your boss."

Chan laughs under his breath, shaking his head as they reach their shared office. He pauses at the door, watching her with a look that's equal parts amused and competitive. "This war's gonna be fun."

Ayame doesn't look back, but her smirk is visible in her voice as she replies, "For me, at least."

Taglist: @fackeraccount @ot8girlfie @nightmarenyxx @reimaybeidk

@ismelllikechlorine247 @drewsandsebastianswife @my-neurodivergent-world

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judesmoonbeauty · 8 months ago

Text

WC: 1,745 Writing Prompt: Play Fighting/Playing with Hair Pronouns: She/Her Tags: SWF ┃Modern AU ┃Road Trip ┃Fluff ┃Slice of Life ┃Pinching Kisses┃Established Relationship┃Teasing Dividers: @/natimiles This may potentially have a part two! Part 2: Here. [Master List] [Invitation to Crown]

Arid desert air swept through the hair of three beautiful Crown members riding in a black convertible as it sped down the blacktop that stretched for miles beneath them, just as the boundless blue sky did above them. The static of an FM radio played even though no one was listening to it, and a cloud of smoke that breezily escaped Jude’s lips, quickly disappeared into the air. Lying reclined in the passenger seat with his feet propped on the dashboard, he finished the cigarette he smoked right after he woke up from a rare nap that he usually wouldn’t take.

As Ellis drove them towards their destination that was still a few hours away, Jude had intended to review his prospective business partner’s profit and loss statements they’d submitted to him one more time, but the hot climate had relaxed his tense muscles into a much needed slumber. Jude lifted his black, round sunglasses and massaged his eyes in order to rid himself of his last bit of drowsiness, when he started to wonder if she had gotten any rest herself?

She hadn’t slept since departing from London for their overseas trip. It was like she was hardwired the entire flight. If she wasn’t looking out the window snapping pictures of the clouds or of the food that was served to them in the first class cabin, she was hard at work, arranging Crown’s ever-growing missions itinerary, along with his own work schedule. She was skilled and diligent, but this was concerning.

Subtly turning his his head to find her laying down in the back seat, Jude found her typing away on her tablet and check her watch for messages.

“That damned princess is going to work herself to death,” Jude grumbled under his breath.

Ellis said, “She’s been awake the entire time. What’s wrong, Jude? I thought you liked it when we work hard for you, it makes you happy doesn’t it?”

“The hell it does. I may wanna work ya both to the bone, but if ya work yourselves to death, then I just lose out when ya both die of exhaustion.”

The entire point of inviting her to tag along on this trip was to get her away from Crown for a while. Yes, while it was her choice to be a part of it’s darkness, and by extension, the darkness of his world due to the enemies he’s accumulated along the way of growing a successful business. But, Jude still felt disgusted at himself for grabbing hold of her and keeping her in his clutches when she offered herself and her love to him.

Poor lil’ bird. He’d often think this since she had no one who could save her from him now, but every once in a while, he simply wanted her to experience a somewhat normal life - one she would’ve had if she hadn’t chose him and Crown. And this business trip for his first overseas venture afford the perfect opportunity to do just that.

After a short while, Jude felt her wrap her arms around him from behind, and looking up at her as she looked down at him, he watched her hair dance wildly in the wind.

“So, how much longer before we get there?” she asked him.

Jude grabbed her face with his hand and slightly shook it, “What are ya, five? Get off me.”

“No.” she snapped back playfully while sticking her tongue out at him.

“Careful princess, I’ll clip that tongue off if ya get too sassy with me.”

She laughed at him and shifted her head around the head rest to place her face closer to his, and asked him, “Really? Ya promise? Remember, contract’s a contract, even if it’s just a verbal agreement.”

Imitating his accent and snarky attitude, she kissed his cheek and chuckled at him. The sweetness of her kiss spreads over his skin, prompting him to return her love with his own by pinching her cheek hard.

“Owww!”

Jude snickers evilly at her pain, “There’s more where that came from princess. Keep it up.”

She pulls her face back and rubs her cheek when Ellis speaks up, “Kate, it’s not safe to be moving around without your seatbelt on. Jude would be unhappy if something happened to you, please put it on, or do I need to hand the wheel over to Jude to go back there and restrain you myself?”

A pair of twilight eyes teasingly peek at her through his sunglasses with a slightly mean smile, and before she could even be attracted to drown in their wicked sweetness, Jude shoved Ellis’ face away.

“Quit makin’ eyes at my woman, ya nutcase and keep ‘em on the damn road instead.”

“Yea, okay,” Ellis smiled and turned his attention ahead of himself.

Turning her attention back to Jude she asked again, “No, but really, why did you have to rent a mansion in the middle of the desert, hours from the city when there’s a perfectly suitable hotel 10 minutes from the business meeting?”

He let an exasperated sigh, “’Cause I can afford to, that’s why. Now, sit back ‘n get some sleep. I don’t want my woman lookin’ haggard for our meetin’.”

Jude puts another cigarette in his mouth, but she grabs it from his mouth and puts it in her own as she goes back to her seat with a triumphant grin on her face.

“I’m not tired, and I’ve rested plenty. Oh! We should pick up some items from the market after the meeting….let’s see….we’ll need a cooler for the cold items, bags of ice, meat, vegetables, fruits…..”

No sooner had she lay back down on her seat had she started making lists and researching local markets.

“Oh, Jude, can you please confirm the tasks that I sent you while you were sleeping? I need to coordinate them with your schedule when we return to London, and - Oh, Victor just sent us more missions that require intelligence gathering, and Ellis there is another scheduled assassination for yourself….”

Growing weary of his love’s constant prattle about work and irritated that she stole his cigarette, Jude climbed into the back seat.

“Hey, Jude! That’s not safe!”

“Can it, Ellis.”

Jude steps into the back seat, grabs his love’s arm to pull her off the seat, and seats her on top his lap.

“Woah, Jude!” The unlit cigarette that she chewed between her teeth fell to the floorboard.

“What? Don’t trust me? ‘Fraid I’ll toss ya out the car?”

“No! But you scared me. What did you miss me that much?”

“Ha!” Jude pinched her thigh through shorts.

“Ouch! Stop pinching me!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and put her forehead to his.

She looks so tired. The silvery, thin bags under her eyes were worse than he thought, and all of a sudden he felt a pang of guilt for falling asleep while she stayed awake. How was that protecting her well-being? Feeling frustrated at his self-proclaimed failure, Jude determined that he was going to kill that guilt right now.

“C’mon princess, we both know ya love a little pain. Like when I do this….”

His lips caress her earlobe sending a tingly spark through her as he slowly sucked on it for the some time before he bit down on it hard.

“Nngh…”

“That’s for stealin’ my cigarette and droppin’ it on the floor.”

“S-sorry..”

Hearing her soft moan-filled apology blend into the wind, Jude gently kisses her all over her face, the tip of her nose, her eyelids, and brow bone. Saving her forehead for last he planted the most tender kiss there.

His eyes found her smiling at the shower of love he had just poured onto her, and when she opened her eyes, he said, “’Night, princess.”

Poking her on the forehead, Jude caught his beloved and laid her head to rest in his lap, rolling his eyes that he had to go to such lengths in the first place, but at least now she’s resting.

“That was mean, Jude.”

“Hah? Do ya not see the bags under her eyes? She’s been actin’ like a hyper-active lemur since we left Crown, and now she looks like she damned exhausted panda with circle under eyes!”

“That’s not what I meant….I meant the lie you told her. Aren’t you going to tell her the real reason why we’re staying in the desert? You know about toni-”

“Shuddup, or I’ll shove tumble weed down your throat, ya idiot!” Jude kicked Ellis’ seat as if she would over hear their conversation, though that wouldn’t happen due to the strength of Jude’s ability.

“Sorry…..”

Jude’s nerves chaffed when he thought of the real reason why they were staying in the middle of nowhere, so he tried to distract himself from that any way he could. Jude stared down at his other half, both stroking her cheek and pinching it to his satisfaction now that she couldn’t protest. Noticing her fly away hairs whipping around, he decided to braid her hair to prevent them from hitting her face, and he did just that. In the heat of this quiet desert, he carefully separated and twisted her hair until everything was neatly in place.

She truly was like the Sleeping Beauty of his cursed fairytale, the only good thing about it, the blessing that offset his curse. Lifting her hand to lips for a kiss, he gently mumbled against her warm skin, “Love ya, helpless princess.”

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