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malvoile · 18 days ago

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Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041.

There was once a time when green was your favorite color.

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you.

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones.

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods.

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.

Even at your sister's funeral.

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister.

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium.

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore.

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles.

Your na-Baron.

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins.

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime.

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey.

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much.

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand.

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already.

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet?

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands.

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically.

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger.

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly.

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end.

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin.

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms.

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat.

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change.

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet.

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done.

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again.

You almost wish he will.

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all.

Even as the doors give in.

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–”

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood.

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage.

Duncan. Why did you wait so long?

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left.

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour.

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed.

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk.

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart.

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted.

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green.

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky.

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams.

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below.

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you.

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment. Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green.

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent.

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge.

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be.

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance.

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke.

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements.

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy.

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore.

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat.

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.”

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears.

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.”

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words.

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of.

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought.

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness.

A place to watch his pets play.

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common.

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.”

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman.

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.”

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue.

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil.

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil.

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead.

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him.

“Threats demand evolution.”

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks.

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea.

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena.

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers.

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall.

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying.

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night.

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed.

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you.

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it.

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate.

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water.

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection.

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.”

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort.

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten.

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t.

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be.

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.”

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore.

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same.

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years.

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”

Your stomach chills.

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing.

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown.

“–Or, I was supposed to be.”

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same.

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon.

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation.

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.”

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike.

She tells the truth.

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued.

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent.

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke.

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind.

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife.

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat.

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.”

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes.

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk.

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride.

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions?

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart.

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen.

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat.

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric.

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts.

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes.

Threats demand evolution.

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade.

follow @sandpoet for notifications & updates.

#the more i edit this story #the more i see the leaking traits of house Stark #its so awkward #i would NEVER be in that fandom!#<- me when i lie #paul atreides x you #paul atredies x reader #dune fanfiction #dune 2021 #dune movie #dune part one #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides smut

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sgiandubh · 23 days ago

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Great for S. Jake will be have a good influence on him. We can't say this for AN

Dear AN Anon,

It is my firm belief AN has but a peripheral role to play, these days. Something shifted for the better, once Ashley Hearn entered that building and hopefully will continue to do so. Let the others believe what they want: I know this young woman is legit and I know she means well.

Jake Norton is exactly what the doctor ordered to mend 2024's abysmal PR mishaps: Dubai burlesque gal (I am trying to be elegant, here), loudmouthed wannabe influencer, 'he's mine and will never be yours' (was that Tennis Chick?) and let's not forget 'Go, Sarah'. All of these have been shamelessly taken by a bunch of thirsty older women (nope, I am deliberately not using that four-letter acronym, because I am sure he doesn't...) to apocalyptical levels. Showbiz reputations have been screwed for less, but remember (ROFLMAO), Anon: 'every saint has a past and every sinner has a future'.

What I like the most about this turn of events is the way S managed to redeem a lost project and turn it into something different and positive. With trooping colors, Anon. Fuck the naysayers - people who accomplish something must be supported, simply because it might encourage them to do better and more. Fair's fair.

#anon #fandom #shitshow #business #Everest trip December 2024

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eatmangoesnekkid · 5 months ago

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What I know from quietly mentoring women over the years is that most women do not need to eat less. We need to eat more, especially more protein, which stimulates our metabolism to become more active. Eating more protein is not necessarily about mindlessly eating and killing more and more animals, these sentient beings who clearly do not want to be eaten by us. It does mean finding more creative ways to get more protein in our meals by centering eating more things that do not have a central nervous system like eggs, plants, fruit, soaked nuts and seeds, and oysters, or reusing bones from homemade bone broth over and over and over again but not just absentmindedly buying more meat from anywhere and everyone. While vegetarian sources of protein are ok like well-soaked, well-cooked kidney beans yet not as dense and bio-available as animal sources especially as we get older (and our digestive systems get older ), we do have to be mindful and thoughtful around our eating habits that can cause us to reap more negative forms of karma. Karmic cycles follow those who don’t close out chapters of their lives properly and live recklessly with no honor, principles, or values. I would love to see more collective care and deep soul ritual around how we relate to and consume animals. In another life, I would be a homesteader and live with intention, prayer, playfulness, and ritual around my farm animals and their rites of passage.

And when there was a sacrifice that needed to be made, I would be the one to do it all as a daughter of Oshun and Artemis, while adorned in the most beautiful elegant cowrie shells and form-fitting, colorful fabric wrapped into a little dress and I would make the ethical kill with love, respect, and precision. Oftentimes this is a missing key code with women—to face and come to terms with death and our need to give death to what is no longer serving, like a long term friendship that no longer feels solid and truthful or a farm animal who constantly attacks and creates fights that injure other animals on the farm. Both scenarios are one in the same frequencies. —India Ame’ye

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milliesfishes · 7 months ago

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Heeey, I cant stop thinking about billy being absolutely hypnotized (basically love at first sight) by either a circus artist or a can-can dancer, if you want to write anything about that 🎀

౨ৎ꣑ৎbilly's love at first sight౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x billy the kid also quick plug- @runningfrom2am has a series in progress called 'Michigan Cherry' that's similar to this idea and it's so good plz check it out

His boys had said there was a performance Billy wouldn't want to miss.

Wondering what kind of show could get them so riled up when they had so little alcohol in them, he'd followed them to a small building on the outskirts of town.

It was a setup with a bar in the corner and tables scattered about. There was a stage on the opposite side of the bar, and his boys found a spot close to it at a long table as the rest of the crowd filtered in. It was a full house- he noticed the population was mostly male, but was intrigued by a decent number of women and children intermixed.

One of his friends brought him a drink and he thanked him, growing more curious by the second about what kind of show this was. Being relatively new in town, he hadn't heard of such a thing until tonight.

He got his answer when the raggedy curtains parted to reveal a group of women in colorful costumes. A band slightly to the side of them started to play as they began to contort their bodies to the music in ways Billy hadn't ever seen before.

They twisted and spun and bent enthrallingly, and he leaned back in his seat, impressed. It was fascinating, the way the music seemed to be playing to them instead of the other way around.

When the act ended, he clapped enthusiastically, turning to the friend on his left, but the man only smirked. "You haven't seen nothin' yet."

Slightly confused by his words, Billy turned back to the stage. As the show progressed, he realized the show was made up of a series of acts, seemingly unconnected but flowing together all the same.

A very tall woman dressed in sequins sang operatically, breaking an offered glass from the audience. Three little girls did backflips across the stage. An older lady pulled butterflies from her sleeves and disappeared into a cloud of smoke. The first group of women from the beginning made several appearances, dancing in ways that made Billy's head spin.

He could see why people were so fascinated by this, why they apparently came back night after night. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

After a woman in a long dress finished a fan dance, Billy's other friend nudged his elbow. "Here it comes."

One of the cartwheeling little girls came out and introduced the next act, calling this performer "a siren". There was a loud cheer from the crowd, and Billy leaned forward on the table as the curtains reopened. Instantly his heart stuttered against his ribs, his mouth going dry.

Standing in the middle of the stage facing the audience was you.

You were stunning, in a light pink dress with a short skirt that made your legs look long and slender. Surveying the audience coyly, a smile grew on your face as you drank the audience's approval like water. It was like you lived off of it.

Billy watched, captivated, as you lifted your hands to stretch above your head, and a single violin from the band began to play. You opened your mouth, a sweet melody pouring from your throat.

He didn't recognize the language, but it was elegant as you sang it, pure emotion dripping from every word. Even though he couldn't understand you, he could understand you.

Tilting your head back, your voice became haunting, lower as the violin dipped down the scale with you. Reaching out your hand as if for your lover, your lyrics turned soft. The music paused, and you sang a single, foreboding line into the silence.

As you were frozen in your position, Billy was surprised by the utter stillness of the room. You commanded the audience with your being, your persona.

When the music continued, you sank to your knees and slid off the stage, trailing into the audience like a snake low in the grass. Now you were singing higher, your voice rich and lilting. As you swayed with every word he grew more and more entranced.

You made his heart beat faster, stole the breath from his lungs. He wanted to treasure you, cherish you as the audience cherished the gift of your performance.

Stopping for a moment and letting the violinist play, you twirled once and said in a mock disappointed voice, "I'm singing in French, but I don't see any French kissing? What's a girl gotta do?" The audience laughed at your little quip, and he found himself chuckling as well.

Spinning again, your little skirt fanned out, and Billy swore he could see glitter fly in your wake. A few of the men you passed fawned over you, but you hardly seemed to notice. It only seemed to make you more desirable.

At the conclusion of your song, you lifted yourself onto the table, his table, and crawled across it, lowering yourself into a pose on your side with your hair falling half over your face. About to grandly finish the song, you looked up and your eyes locked with his. For a second, you stared at him, and he felt something click as he offered you a little smile.

Seeming a little surprised, you smiled at him, and he saw through the character you were playing for a moment in time before you hit your final note, holding it long and clear like a swan's song. Thunderous applause and cheering from the audience ensued and you stood back up on the table, taking a long, well-deserved bow.

As you got off the table you looked back at Billy, giving him a wink and then disappearing backstage.

His friend pushed his shoulder. "What'd ya think?"

Billy was still under your spell, and he could only manage, "It was...it was good."

Laughing at the shell-shocked look in his eyes, his friend nodded knowingly. "Told ya you shouldn't miss it."

Both his boys went to go get another drink, and he followed them, the only thing really on his mind you. And when he'd be able to see you again.

Leaning against the bar, he surveyed the crowd casually, noticing some of the other performers mingling. Perking up, his eyes darted across the room, raking over the crush of people to try and find...

You were surrounded by a group of admirers; mostly male he noted. They seemed to be just as charmed as he had been by you, and you were reveling in the attention.

Billy just leaned against the bar, grinning at the sight. He'd never been this drawn to a girl before; not at first sight. Of course, he knew that likely had to do with you being an entertainer, but there was something else about you. The way you'd met his eyes, there was something raw and pure that had crackled between you.

He wanted to talk to you, but he also didn't want to get in the way of your fans, so he turned and accepted his drink from the bartender, trying to figure a way to get you alone.

As it turned out, he didn't need to, because you sidled up to him, leaning against the counter with that same coy look on your face you'd worn onstage. "Howdy."

"Evenin' ma'am," he tipped his hat, ignoring the rush of butterflies that fluttered around his heart.

Did you enjoy the show?" you seemed genuine in your asking despite the evidence that it had, indeed, been a good performance.

"Sure did," Billy confirmed, and you lit up. He wanted to make that smile stay, so he added, "You were wonderful."

"Oh, that's too kind of you." You seemed almost shy, which surprised him given how bold you were onstage. Even though you weren't all flashy and full of bravado now, there was still something about the way you spoke that was magnetic. All he saw was a sweet, pretty girl in a costume, not the "siren" you'd been introduced as. It was confirmed when you said, "I've never seen you before. Are you new in town or just new to the show?"

"Both," Billy lifted the brim of his hat. "Just rode in 'bout a week ago and I was told this was unmissable."

"I'm glad to hear tales of our prowess have reached the right ears," you tucked some of your hair behind your ear, your hand lingering there and twirling a strand. "What kinda work brought you to this corner of the world?"

"Just ranchin'," Billy explained, feeling like he could tell you anything at all. "I was on the road...well, on the run really, for a while and I'm turnin' to some honest work."

"How noble," you smiled as you said it. not seeming put off at all by his status as an outlaw. "One can always tell a good man by his intentions."

"You're mighty sweet, miss," he unconsciously smoothed a hand over his shirt, hoping it wasn't too wrinkled.

"Would you tell me your name?" you requested pleasantly.

Anything, he thought. "It's William H. Bonney on paper. Most folk call me Billy." Something about you wanting to know who he was had him weak.

You smiled something radiant and told him your name. He tested it out and it felt like honey on his tongue. Oh he was enchanted. Billy felt like a fool for falling for your charms, knowing you must capture the hearts of many every time you were on that stage. He couldn't at all help it. Everything about you drew him in, like you were a drug created specifically for the fine tunes of his addiction.

As you searched his eyes, he felt that spark again. It was absolutely electric, the way he felt when he looked at you. Billy had never felt such a connection before with anyone so quickly. Every facet of your being hypnotized him. And somehow, he knew you could feel the fire crackling between you too.

Standing up a little straight, you let go of the strand of hair you'd been holding. "Would you like to come back to my dressing room with me? We could talk more privately there." You said it with a slight air of nervousness that endeared you to him more.

The way you were looking at him he would have walked into the ocean if you'd asked. "I'd love to."

Your smile somehow burned brighter, and you took his hand, pulling him along with you to the back the room behind the stage. He followed you happily, smiling at the other performers lounging about the area, chatting idly. This was a safe space for them, he knew, and he felt lucky to have been allowed in.

Leading him to a back room, you shut the door behind him, turning around and leaning against it, smiling in relief. "What a lot of people don't know about this job is that I have to perform after the show too. But we're alone now so I don't have to."

He grinned, and you motioned to a chaise. "Sit. Make yourself at home."

Billy did, and he watched as you disappeared behind a screen set up in front, adjacent to the vanity on the wall. "I hope you don't mind if I get out of this." You referred to your costume.

"Not at all." He tried averting his eyes even though you were behind the screen, but the glow from the lantern behind it showed your silhouette removing your clothes. He could see you toss your costume over the side of the screen and shake out your hair. Pulling on a light chemise from a hook on the wall, you took a dressing gown and tied it around yourself. Reappearing before him, you came to sit beside him on the chaise.

Though you were wearing a chemise, the hem was short, and your dressing gown unfolded, revealing the skin of your thigh. You were oblivious to it, leaning against the backrest and propping your elbow on it to rest your cheek on. "Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Bonney. You've got me hooked."

That alluring smile again. He removed his hat, setting it to the side and crossing one leg over the other as he began to talk.

Billy found himself telling you things he normally wouldn't have confessed to a soul. The details of his family's immigration from Ireland, his mother's marriage to an awful man, his first arrest...it all came pouring out. He wasn't a man who talked by any means but around you he could feel himself becoming one.

You listened intently, looking at him like there wasn't a soul in the world more interesting than him. He'd never felt like anyone had been so utterly fascinated by him before.

He hadn't realized how many hours he'd been in there until he caught sight of the clock on your vanity. "Oh- my apologies, miss. Been takin' too much time and ya must be tired from tonight-"

"That's alright, Billy," you replied comfortably. "I like talking to you."

"Didn't let ya hardly get any talkin'," he chuckled.

"I enjoy listening to you then," you reaffirmed. He stood and you did too, retying the bow of your dressing gown that had loosened in the time you'd been sitting.

Billy picked up his hat. "Thank you for your time. I'd be pleased to get a chance to talk to ya 'gain."

"Likewise," you smiled. Seeming to have a thought just then, you said, "I never do this, but..." You reached over to your vanity and found a pen, sliding a piece of paper haphazardly across the table. Holding it up and using your hand as a hard surface to write on, you scribbled something brief and folded it in half, sealing it with a kiss on the back that left a lipstick mark.

Holding it out to him between two fingers, you raised your eyebrows playfully. "I've never let a man call on me before...but I want you to."

A slow smile spread across his face and he took the folded paper, tucking it into his shirt pocket. "Then I will."

Leaving the building, he smiled to himself, walking with a new bounce in his step. Billy found himself wanting to know every detail about you, every curve and crack and the flowers that grew between them.

His boys weren't too drunk to notice he was happy, and they pestered him the whole ride back, teasing him and asking relentlessly about who he'd met. Billy's spirits were too high to care, and he dreamt about you the whole way home, knowing he wasn't the only one doing so. But he found solace in knowing he wasn't imagining the seductive persona onstage.

It was the sweet, compassionate, joyful girl who smiled at him so softly that he thought of until sleep, where you then haunted his dreams.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #william h bonney x reader #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x you #william h bonney imagines #william h bonney #billy the kid imagines #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid 2022

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munchiemomo · 18 days ago

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🍓˚｡⋆୨🍡୧˚Valeria headcannons 🍓˚｡⋆୨🍡୧˚

pt-1

a/n: another writing piece pulled from the depths of word from last year. these are my personal head cannons so just fair warning it might be ooc.

🍮About her🍮

she has a suppressed girly side to her only you her partner will see. She loves all the traditional girl stuff- pink, makeup, plushies, bow, frills, the whole nine yards she loves it.

has a hello kitty addiction but wants to hide it

on the talk about girly things, she loves make up brands with elaborate and elegant packaging- ysl, kvd, Anna sui . I feel that she like more of the Gothic packaging.like this:

has a stash of makeup, but barely touches most of it because of her line of work.

she keeps her makeup natural, but when alone with you she sometimes experiments with smoky eyes, bold thick eyeliner, the whole works

she loves the colors pink and red. They are also the colors she chose for her manicures.

she has a private nail tech that does her nails, since he is a busy woman. she tends to get gel nails as they last longer.

she loves gourmand perfumes but doesn't wear them since it might give a bad impression to people as she is the leader of a cartel. Despite this she still has a collection of them.

very strong and independent women from the outside, but little girl at heart

owns two female dobermans she rescued from a dog fighting ring. Their names are Dulce (may her lovely soul rest in peace)& Talia, after he favorite singers .

despite her love for sweet feminine scents she tends to use more masculine ones. Smells like old spice Fiji since it smells more gender neutral.

has a huge car collection

loves the style of older sports cars like the 1997 Acura NSX or a 1998 Chevrolet Corvette.

♡₊˚ 🍰✧ 🍫About the relationship with you♡₊˚ 🍰・✧ 🍫

always want to protect you no matter what.

her way of showing affection is through gift giving. loves buying you little trinkets and jewelry that she thinks you might like. loves seeing the happiness on your face when you receive the item

when she is not busy with the cartel she likes to have little makeovers with you. Doing each other's hair, painting nails, doing make up, she really likes it all.

loves when you give her anything girly: any of the makeup brands she likes, stuffed animals, etc.

loves to go on relaxing dates to cafes, bookstores, the park or beach.

#call of duty #cod headcanons #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #valeria x reader #Valeria headcanons #valeria garza #valeria x you #valeria x fem! reader #valeria cod

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kal9bloodbones · 5 months ago

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The second extremely important house for a woman, which is the 7th house. This house is the house of contracts, agreements, marriage, business, and partnerships. If a woman does not have a strong seventh house, she can never succeed in Occultism. This is because after she learns to discriminate between what she needs to grow spiritually, the next step is to find a suitable consort. Once this consort is found, she must be ironclad in her agreement to respond to that source of Yang alone. The 7th house is connected to one's promises and chastity as well. Chastity does not mean never having sex, it simply means the correct use of sexual energy. Chastity, along with fear of God, is the gateway of to all wisdom. Chastity is not moral in nature as some believe, but has an energetic reality. If a man or woman cannot commit and restrict off other influences, no growth can ever occur, as it is like trying to fill up a leaky bucket. When we say something is pure, it means without other influence. When you say you want milk, you would prefer "pure milk". Milk mixed with orange juice destroys the effect of milk completely. All men are ultimately concentrations of a particular planetary ray. When a woman chooses her man, if she is chaste, becomes one pure brilliant color and planetary ray. The woman married to an adept of Venus becomes a Vibrant Green, like the Sephira Netzach or the playful, pleasurable, and Mercurial Venus (in the Mercury-ruled nakshatra of Revati) in which she is exalted in. (Budha or Mercury in Jyotish is an emerald green). She then masters all things in regards to that sphere: beauty, inspiring others, and becoming refined and elegant, and helps humanity out of that sphere. Each man is, however, an Island all to himself, and even though he is under a specific planetary energy he is totally unique. The Ray or Planet a man is under is the one which he first emanated from when he initially separated from the creator. To liberate himself, he must return back to where he began, but consciously and possessing total free will, which he did not have when he separated initially. He returns back to his origins enlightened and helps humanity out of this island or base. When we speak of celestial lineages in Jyotish, such as Ashleesha corresponding to the sage Vashishta, we mean that he is the progenitor of the spiritual beings, which emanated from this constellation at the beginning of creation. For this reason, understanding one's Celestial Lineage is important, as we ultimately return back to it. Out of these Seven Lineages, we were first born into the realm of a single nakshatra under that Progenitor, and also return to that world and realm, which is a complete world in itself. This is why a woman must choose a man based on her aspiration and what she appreciates in a man. Just like how women take on a man's surname, and were given a dowry in older cultures to send her off, a woman becomes part of the house or lineage of the man she chooses. If she were to choose a man who embodies Mercury, she would become incredibly skillful, articulate, and excel at any of the 64 arts, and so on and so forth. She must understand that if she agrees to become receptive to him and "marry" him, he is forced to give her all the energy she ever needs, and if he doesn't he breaks his end of the deal. This is why she must choose wisely and discriminate so as not to waste her time watching a man ruin himself who is not able to radiate energy to her endlessly. On the male end, he must choose to "take on" only what his Karma allows, as there are many women embodying the evil aspect of the Goddess who wish to drain, scatter, and destroy him.

~ Claire Nakti ⚘️

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livingformintyoongi · 9 months ago

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Enchanted | Jung Hoseok

A small drabble I wrote based on Enchanted by Taylor Swift ^^. As to give some context, Reader is younger sister of Jin, Namjoon and Taehyung, who in turn are children of the emperor and Jungkook is the son of a king [just in case, the emperor has more power than the king].

To say you were tired was an understatement. The purple heels decorated with diamonds were killing your poor heels, the corset barely allowed you to breathe, and you were absolutely certain that at some point in the evening you would step on the overly voluptuous dress and fall face first to the floor, feeling too humiliated to even look the guests in the face.

Your introduction to the guests had been a good while ago, now you were too busy choking on food with your older brother to worry about the others. This, you thought, was the only way you could scare off any suitors.

"Seokjin, Y/N" you both turned in the direction of Namjoon's serious and accusing voice. He was the second eldest, but he definitely seemed to have more authority than Jin. He cleared his throat, trying to get the men next to him to ignore his brothers' behavior, "These are the Jeon brothers," he flashed a charming smile at two of the men, who seemed to be wearing clothes just as expensive as those of your brothers. "They are both interested in doing business with our family, so it's important for them to get to know each other better."

Jin and you looked at each other for a second. Namjoon was trying to introduce you to one of the two to be your fiancé, and Jin had to approve before anything happened. You wanted to kick your brother's pretty little face.

You looked at Jeon again. If Namjoon was bringing them in as possible fiancées, it meant they had a high position in the hierarchy of nobles that your middle brother and father were so obsessed with.

You smiled with your lips pressed together, trying not to look as awkward as you seemed, why should you know these people? You were sure they didn't even care about you. Despite that bitter thought, you bowed slightly to both of them and, in the softest voice you could manage, said "A pleasure, I'm Kim Y/N, Emperor Kim's fourth daughter."

The one you thought was the older one, took the back of your hand and left a barely noticeable kiss on your knuckles. You held back the urge to vomit. You hated being touched, let alone kissed without being told that's what you wanted. How rude. The youngest, however, seemed to be too distracted watching something on the other side of the ballroom.

You frowned, watching the direction his eyes were going and following it. It was only then that you realized why he didn't take his attention away from that spot on the dance floor.

There was a group of four people, two women and two men, and each one was even more beautiful than the last, if that was even possible. The first person to catch your eye was the green-eyed redhead. Her hair had unruly curls tied up in an elegant bun, you weren't sure, as the distance was too far, but you could swear she had freckles on her pale cheeks and upturned nose; she wore a red dress that had white flower decorations on the sides and back, highlighting the color of her skin and eyes. She didn't look like she was from here.

The second person was the one who attracted the gaze of the youngest Jeon. She, unlike the previous one, had wavy blonde hair and wore it perfectly loose, her white skin with pink tones made her sky blue eyes stand out so much that it even looked like it could hurt from admiring them so much. Her dress was of a color similar to her eyes, but darker and with white decorations and sleeves that became loose after resting on her elbows. Yes, you could understand why he couldn't take his eyes off her.

The third was a man. His gray-toned hair stood out more than the rest of the men's, but, without a doubt, the most impressive thing was how pale he looked, for a moment you thought he might faint. He was wearing a dark blue trench coat, very similar to the skin of a crocodile, his black leather pants fit his legs perfectly and the long boots that reached below his ankles shone enough to see your reflection, and you were meters away. You squinted to see what he was wearing under his trench coat. It appeared to be some sort of men's corset, with three thick leather straps encircling his waist.

And the last one that met your gaze was... perfect. His hair, like the girl Jeon didn't seem to want to let out of his sight, was blond, the only difference being that the ends were almost completely black. He wore a black trench coat with gold decorations and black pants that looked much less tight than the boy next to him. He was wearing a vest, which you'd swear was for a pocket watch, the same color as the trench coat and, as a finishing touch, a white tie over his shirt. Now the one who didn't want to look away was you.

You were sure that your brothers and the older Jeon were talking some crap about the kingdom that you were definitely not interested in. There was a blond boy who was too gorgeous not to give him the attention he deserved.

You weren't sure how intently you looked at him, but it was enough that the man turned his gaze in your direction, causing his gaze to collide with yours. Your heart flipped over your chest as you watched him smile brightly at you.

Who the fuck was that guy and why didn't you know his name yet?

Your heart returned to its normal rhythm as the blonde girl caught your boy's eye - yes, that would be his name by now - and dragged him almost to the door leading to the castle courtyard. Your feet itched from the urge you had to follow both of them.

You saw the giant clock beside you. 2 AM, would anyone mind if you left the party for a few minutes? You had been standing here making your presence known for over five hours, you thought you had the right to do so.

Just as you turned to say a polite goodbye to the group of men you were obliged to be in, Namjoon gave you a huge smile and showed you the door through which the blond couple had just left. A great urge to vomit flooded you at the thought of that man with another.

"Can you take Jungkook for a walk in the garden? His brother just told me he loves flowers, I'm sure you can have a wonderful warm time chatting about gardening."

Jungkook, who was apparently the younger of the two, looked at you with eyes full of excitement, but you were aware that this glow was not about you, just as you knew he could tell in yours that you were in the same situation as he was.

"Sure, I'll lead him through the garden until we reach the main entrance," you took Jungkook's hand almost without thinking, running as you lifted your dress with your free hand, you didn't want to let them out of your sight.

When you opened the door, both of you shaken, a wave of disappointment fell over you. There seemed to be no sign of them.

Jungkook, avoiding at all costs to look at you -due to how embarrassed he felt-, let go of your hand and started to walk slowly. You just followed him silently, just as uncomfortable and disappointed as he was.

You couldn't help but imagine the thousand and one scenarios in which that pair would be involved, what if they were kissing? Or holding hands while declaring their undying love for each other? What if he loved her?

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling stupid to be daydreaming about a complete stranger.

You were still cursing yourself internally when Jungkook put his arm in front of you, stopping your movements. You frowned, ready to start questioning him, but then you heard two voices, one female and one male, they seemed to be arguing.

You and the younger Jeon shared a glance, silently deciding that you would go investigate. Taking advantage of the darkness around you. You walked through the shadows of the large bushes until you came upon a large fountain decorated with a human-sized angel at the top; in front of it were they, though definitely not as you expected.

"I told you, Hoseok, I can't do it" gasped the blonde desperately, shaking out her hair and messing it up. You didn't understand how she could look even better like this.

"Well you'll have to, Jiwon, Yoongi isn't going to let his... whatever it is with Chaeyoung, try to mess with one of them, and you know it" the boy, who you had had a ridiculously strong fixation on, spoke so patiently and softly that even you would have given in to whatever he needed. Although, being honest, you would give in to anything he asked for.

"This is ridiculous" the girl growled, resting her hands on her hips and raising her gaze to the sky. Out of the corner of your eye you could see Jungkook's mouth open slightly in astonishment. You thought you looked the same at the moment, but for a very different reason than he did.

"Just this once, you just have to talk to him, nothing more," your throat went dry as you watched him beg the girl for help. You had never seen a man beg so much for something. Now you were curious as to what it was that he was so reluctant to do.

Your intention in getting a little closer to them was not to be discovered, but, just as you predicted moments ago, those stupid heels had ended up getting tangled with the giant skirt and, consequently, making you fall. Face to the ground. With the garden freshly watered. At the feet of both of you. You wanted to die.

Masterlist

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alovelywaytospendanevening · 3 months ago

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Lit Hub: How Oscar Wilde Created a Queer, Mysterious Symbol in Green Carnations

In London in 1892, everybody—or, at least, everybody who was anybody—was talking about one thing: green carnations. Nobody was sure, exactly, what wearing a green carnation meant, or why it had suddenly become such a deliciously scandalous, dazzlingly fashionable sartorial statement. All anybody knew was that one day, at a London theater, someone important (stories differed as to who exactly it was) wore a green carnation, or maybe it had been a blue one (stories differed about that too).

Green carnations may have had something to do with sexual deviance. They may also have had something to do with the worship of art. And the whole thing somehow had to do with Oscar Wilde, the flamboyant playwright, novelist, and fame-courting dandy who—as he never tired of telling the press—put his talent into his work but put his genius into his life. Wilde lived his life as a work of art (or let people think he did). The affair of the green carnation gives us a little glimpse into how.

One story about what exactly happened comes from the painter Cecil Robertson, who recounts his version in his memoirs. According to Robertson, Wilde was keen to drum up publicity for his latest play, Lady Windermere’s Fan. A character in the play, Cecil Graham—an elegant and witty dandy figure who rather resembled Wilde himself—was ostensibly going to wear a carnation onstage as part of his costume. And Wilde wanted life to resemble art.

“I want a good many men to wear them tomorrow,” Wilde allegedly told Robertson. “People will stare…and wonder. Then they will look round the house [theater] and see every here and there more and more little specks of mystic green”—a new and inexplicable fashion statement. And then, Wilde gleefully insisted, they would start to ask themselves that most vital of questions: “What on earth can it mean?”

Robertson evidently ventured to ask Wilde what, exactly, the green carnation did mean.

Wilde’s response? “Nothing whatsoever. But that is just what nobody will guess.”

Within days, carnations were everywhere. Just two weeks later, a newspaper covering the premiere of another play, this one by Théodore de Banville, reported a bizarre phenomenon: Wilde in the audience, surrounded by a “suite of young gentlemen all wearing the vivid dyed carnation which has superseded the lily and the sunflower,” two flowers that had previously been associated with Wilde and with fashionable, flamboyant, and sexually ambiguous young men more generally.

A little over a week after that, a London periodical published another piece on this mysterious carnation. It is a dialogue between Isabel, a young woman, and Billy, an even younger dandy—heavily implied to be gay—about the flower, which Billy has received as a gage d’amour (the French is tactfully untranslated) from a much older man. Billy shows off his flower to the curious Isabel with the attitude of studied nonchalance: “Oh, haven’t you seen them?…. Newest thing out. They water them with arsenic, you know, and it turns them green.”

The green carnation is something desperately exciting, understood not by ordinary society women but by Brummell-style dandies, shimmering with hauteur. It’s deliciously dangerous, perhaps even a tad wicked; the carnations are colored with poison, after all. It’s also, in every sense of the word, a little bit queer.

The green carnation’s appeal as a symbol of something esoteric persisted. Two years after the premiere of Lady Windermere’s Fan, an anonymous author—later revealed to be the London music critic Robert Hichens—published The Green Carnation, a novel that appears to be very obviously based on Oscar Wilde’s real-life homosexual relationship with the much younger Lord Alfred “Bosie” Douglas.

The Green Carnation, though it is certainly a satirical exaggeration, can tell us much about this strange, new class of young men cropping up not only in London but also in Paris, Copenhagen, and so many other European capitals during the nineteenth century: the dandy. Inheritors of the mantle of Beau Brummell but far more flamboyant in their affect—John Bull would certainly have turned around to look at them in the street—these modern dandies didn’t just live their lives artistically.

These dandies believed—or at least made out that they believed—that the highest calling a person could have was a careful cultivation of the self: of clothing, sure, and of hairstyle, but also of gesture, of personality. And behind that belief lay a kind of bitter nihilism, as poisonous as arsenic itself. Nothing meant anything, unless you decided it did. A green carnation could signify homosexual desire, or aesthetic dandyism, or “nothing whatsoever,” depending on your mood and what you felt like conveying to the world that morning.

(Full article)

#oscar wilde #robert hichens #the green carnation #history #gay history #lgbt history #lgbtq history #gay #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lit #literature #gay literature #lgbt literature #lgbtq literature #victorian #19th century

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nardo-headcanons · 1 year ago

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i was looking at your naruto headcanons and they are amazing especially the ones about kirigakure!!! i was wondering if you'll have somes about gender dynamics and expectations in kiri. just asking... also i found out you do art as well...NICEEEEEEEE (im canonsinthehead btw...)

Hii! I'm happy to hear you enjoy my ramblings about Kiri and my art!! Makes me feel like I'm not just screaming into the void.

cn: mentions of colorism, sexism and queerphobia

Gender Expectations in Kirigakure

The role of women in Kirigakure

Generally speaking, it used to be rather uncommon for women to become kunoichi. One of the women who did was Ameyuri Ringo, who quickly became an idol to many young girls in her time. The idea of a woman swordsman was ridiculous - yet she fought her way up to the top. The shinobi affilitation was a very men-oriented field and those women who did became fully fledged shinobi were battle hardened and didn't take shit from anyone.

However, it was very common for women to be part of the workforce, since many citizens are on the poorer side, women from higher ranked families being the exception. The most common jobs taken on by women used to be rice and fruit farmers, seamstresses or business (co-)owners.

This has changed, however, once the fifth mizukage, Mei Terumi, rose to power. She encouraged young women and girls to fight for their dreams and become shinobi as well.

Women of the middle and higher classes are expected to take care of themselves, look pretty and be gracious, elegant and soft-spoken. Arranged marriages were nothing uncommon, often leaving the women with no choice in the matter.

Men's role in Kirigakure

Men are expected to be hard workers, providers for the family, but the image of the ideal man does differ from other cultures. Men in Kirigakure are rather comfortable in their femininity and it is not uncommon for men to wear makeup, do skincare and sleep with silken bonnets to take care of their hair. This often leads to Kiri men being seen as effeminate or flamboyant.

The exception to this are Kiri fishermen and sailors, who have adopted a more 'westernized' view of masculinity. Often foul mouthed and abrasive, they have formed their own subculture of 'new masculinity'.

Gender outside of woman and man

It is not uncommon for youngsters and teens in Kirigakure to reject the idea of being either a woman or a man, however it does lead to scrutiny and condemnation of Kirigakure's older population. People assigned female at birth are more often scruitinized than people assigned male at birth.

The beauty ideals in Kirigakure

Fair, pale skin Fair skin is seen as a sign of wealth and beauty in Kirigakure and a very desirable trait to many people. Skin bleaching creams are widely available and there are many problems with colorism in Kirigakure.

Long, luscious hair Another sign of wealth, long, open hair is seen as the beauty ideal because it means not having to work a tedious job where long hair would be seen as tedious.

Brown eyes In a country where people with kekkei genkai were frequently hunted down and killed, it is to be expected that anyone with a rare or unnatural eye color would automatically be seen as a freak, leading to brown eyes being the beauty ideal in Kirigakure.

A plump, well fed looking body This is pretty much self explanatory, as more plump bodies are seen as a sign of being well fed and able to afford leisure time.

That's all, folks!

#naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto headcanons #naruto fanfiction #headcanons #kirigakure headcanon #kiri #kirigakure #naruto meta #naruto worldbuilding #kirigakure worldbuilding #hidden mist village #mizukage #mei terumi #kisame hoshigaki #suigetsu

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eiloveir · 7 months ago

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𝖙𝖎𝖉𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖆𝖛𝖊.

🔞 definitely ain’t for minors (contains frequent strong language and alludes to sexual content)

none are affiliated with the canon naruto series; this is solely an alternate universe of my own creation, purely fictional and set in a modern context compared to the original manga and anime plot.

pairing: uchiha itachi x female reader

gently bathing the streets in hues of reddish neon, an almost beautiful ambiance enveloped tokyo, a city that lived day and night. a woman glided with grace and elegance amidst the steady stream of people. everywhere she went, her appealing appearance attracted admiring looks from those nearby. driven by a thirst for attention, excitement, and power, she smirked quietly beneath her veil of black mascara. she had mastered the art of overcoming life’s challenges by leveraging her beauty in a society that often rewarded charm and appearance.

she understood the harsh realities of their world: those with the face of an angel were granted privileges others could only dream of. it was a brutal truth that even when harboring hatred or committing crimes, they could escape consequences with a mere flutter of their eyelashes.

her beauty was her shield, her weapon, her means to an end.

her heels clicked in time with the pavement as she moved, her movements purposeful yet worn out. she was surrounded by a plethora of sounds and images from the city, yet she didn’t lose focus because she knew where she was going. she eventually found herself at her designated spot after what seemed like hours of dealing with the streets that resembled a maze. she took a moment to compose herself before skillfully removing a phone from her sling bag.

“dei, are you there?” she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

the connection crackled, and after a moment of silence, a voice responded tersely, “hm. what is it?” she grimaced and rolled her eyes, a subtle display of frustration meant as a signal that her task was nearing completion, yet all she received was a nonchalant nod in return.

irritated, she demanded, “what am i supposed to do here, idiot?”

“didn't the boss brief you?” deidara asked, his voice is steady with amusement. her frustration seemed to amuse him rather than bother him. “so, are you already there?”

“god, deidara, just tell me!” she commanded firmly, her tone uncompromising. deidara chuckled softly, clearly enjoying her irritation.

“y/n, you need to infiltrate that place. the club is owned by kara. your mission is to gather evidence to bring them down. they’re our rivals, and you know how things work in the mafia world.” deidara’s explanation was concise, devoid of hesitation. almost as an afterthought, he added, “don’t worry, i believe someone’s already there to assist you.”

she exhaled slowly, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface. the implication that she needed help stung her pride. it seemed the leader’s decision was not without some disregard for her capabilities; she prided herself on being competent and self-sufficient.

“it’d better not be hidan.”

she prepared herself for the challenge ahead. glancing at her phone one last time before returning it to her purse, she straightened up and made her way towards the club’s entrance. above, colorful lights flickered ominously. with her senses sharp and her mind focused, she was ready to step into the lion’s den.

the game was on, and she intended to play by her rules.

pausing for a moment in the midst of the crowd, she took in her surroundings. her eyes scanned the scene: older men leering at dancing women with predatory gazes, friends sharing a joint enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and a couple lost in a passionate kiss cheered on by their friends.

nothing appeared overtly suspicious yet.

she ascended the stairs towards the second floor, where secrets might lurk. just as she was about to climb, a hand unexpectedly tapped her shoulder. she turned to see a man, visibly intoxicated but well-dressed, not much older than herself.

“oi, deepa, do your damn job! boss will kick your ass!” a red-haired man suddenly appeared beside him with a commanding voice that cut through the noise.

boss? she wondered, intrigued by the possibility of a potential asset in her investigation.

“don't interfere, code,” deepa retorted sharply, pushing the red-haired man aside to approach her with a drink. she hesitated, cautious of the drink’s contents, but accepted it with a feigned smile. perhaps playing along could work to her advantage.

“thank you,” she purred, adopting a coy grin as she prepared to adopt a new persona. “but what about him?” she teased, gesturing towards the red-haired man, mischief twinkling in her eyes.

“damn it, you’re insufferable.” code muttered to himself, glaring at deepa, flipping him off, and ruffling his hair in frustration before walking away.

she found herself face-to-face with deepa, the man she intended to exploit for her ends. his invitation to retire to a private room seemed to be an attempt to lure her into a familiar situation. yet, she maintained her charade with a smile. as they settled onto plush sofas, deepa poured drinks, offering one to her.

“so, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here?” he asked, his compliment catching her off guard.

“can’t girls have fun?”

clearly enjoying her banter, deepa smiled at her witty response. “of course. you’re welcome here.” he said, pouring himself another drink. he extended another offer to her, though she refused to sip from the glass, knowing they might be poisoned.

“you know, i’ve never seen you here before,” deepa said after a moment, breaking the silence. “are you new in town?”

she shook her head slightly, projecting a shyness. “just passing through,” she responded firmly yet gently. “i heard there are some exciting spots around here.”

“and what do you find exciting?” deepa chuck as he leaned back, studying her intently.

lowering her gaze playfully, she murmured, “you know, good music, interesting company,” she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “and perhaps a few surprises.”

he grinned, clearly enjoying her company. “surprises? i like surprises,” he said, locking eyes with her. “and i guess you do too, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

raising her gaze, she met his with a playful glint. “you could say that. and what about you? you seem to know this place well.”

“you could say i have a vested interest in this place, i’m responsible for its operation, after all.” he replies, swirling his own drink in his glass.

"so, you’re the boss, huh? that makes sense, considering how well you know the place.” with slightly raised eyebrows, she pretends to be surprised. she just caught the largest fish to aid her in her quest. with slightly raised eyebrows, she pretends to be surprised.

deepa chuckled softly, amused by her assumption. “let’s just say i have a... role in the operations here,” he corrected her. “i’m not the official owner, but i do have a fair amount of influence.”

bingo.

as y/n prepared to advance her mission by cornering him, an abrupt and silence fell over the room. in an instant, he moved swiftly behind her, pressing her against the sofa with a deadly quickness. stepping onto the back of the sofa, he loomed over her, the cold barrel of a gun unforgiving against her temple.

his breath was hot on her neck as he whispered, “you’ve played a convincing game of innocence so far, but i’ve always had a sharp eye for deception.”

heart palpitating, y/n’s thoughts whirled as she considered what to do next. though she had been waiting for this moment, the realization that he was so close still made her shudder. remaining composed, she cocked her head slightly, letting her hair cascade down like a curtain to partially veil her face from his inquiring stare.

“funny,“ she replied softly, her voice laced with confidence that masked the tension within her. “i could say the same about you.”

deepa’s grip tightened on her shoulder, a subtle warning of his control over the situation. “don’t mistake my curiosity for ignorance. who sent you here, and what do you want?”

y/n stayed composed, her thoughts racing to reassess her strategy. when she was this close to getting the information she needed from him, she could not afford to give away too much. she answered his focused look with a measured glance, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered how to respond.

“does it matter?” she countered smoothly, her tone measured with defiance. “you’ve clearly taken an interest in me. why spoil the fun with unnecessary questions?”

his fingers tightened on her shoulder before he released her, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. he straightened up, his expression hardening as he regarded her with suspicion.

“you’re playing a dangerous game.” he warned, his voice low but firm.

y/n leaned back against the sofa, her posture relaxed yet poised for any sudden movement. “aren’t we all?” she quipped, her words a reminder of the balance they both maintained in the world they inhabited.

before deepa could respond, the door to the private room swung open abruptly, startling them both. standing in the doorway was a tall man with long raven-black hair, his silhouette imposing against the dim light of the bar beyond. his manner emanated an authority that immediately altered the atmosphere in the room.

“deepa, you should know better than to handle your guests so roughly.” the man spoke—a calm yet authoritative voice.

deepa’s gaze flickered between y/n and the newcomer, his jaw tightening with restrained frustration. “who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice edged with disbelief.

the man’s eyes, dark and piercing—met deepa’s with an intensity that left no room for doubt.

“i’m here to ensure she gets what she came for.”

y/n didn’t have any idea who this man was, but she played along—better than having someone pull the trigger of their gun on her head. she looked at the man, examining his face; she didn’t recognize him at all. but thanks to him, deepa’s attention was diverted.

“y/n of the akatsuki, you surely didn't come here unprepared, did you?” deepa asked, her heart skipping a beat with a sinister edge as he spoke her name. it was unsettling that her membership in the akatsuki was acknowledged; she had never disclosed it to anybody outside the group.

“you’re underestimating me, aren’t you?” she said confidently, getting closer to his face. she grabbed his hair and yanked it, making him wince in pain. “bitch.”

y/n cautiously stepped away from deepa, feeling a sudden coldness against her arm—a sharp pain from his stab. shock momentarily froze her, her mind struggling to grasp the sudden violence. “when did he?”

before she could react, a gunshot rang out, breaking the tense silence. the sound reverberated in the club, blending with screams and the abrupt cessation of music that intesified the panic that gripped the air.

her eyes widened as she saw the man, gripping a blazing gun with a tense expression. her voice shook involuntarily, confusion clouding her thoughts. “what have you done?”

“you’ve already messed this up,” he retorted sharply, drawing his gun swiftly. his intense stare unnerved her. ignoring her questions, the man grabbed her arm and guided her through the panicked crowd of the club. “let’s go before they catch us.”

the earlier atmosphere of the club had collapsed into anarchy within. screams that were high in pitch with the smell of alcohol and perspiration. the unexpected hush that followed the music’s abrupt cessation, which emphasizes the seriousness of the situation—fueled panic like a wildfire.

a police megaphone exploded, sending a strong voice resounding off the walls with its urgency among the chaotic scene. the words hung heavily in the air. “this is the police! immediate evacuation is mandatory! leave now to avoid any involvement!”

the man hurried y/n through the crowd and out into the parking lot, his focus solely on escape.

as they drove away, y/n tried to collect her thoughts, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. glancing at the man beside her, she finally spoke, “you can slow down now.” eyes flicking from the road to his unreadable expression. the changed from city life to the quiet of suburbia was abrupt; the car suddenly parked in a secluded spot surrounded by tall trees and silence.

the man complied silently, cutting the engine with a decisive click. stepping out into the cool night air, he opened his door, the quiet rush of the breeze filling the silence. as she took in their surroundings, y/n trailed behind, her footsteps leaving gentle imprints on the ground. contrary to the earlier chaos, her breath formed little clouds in the cold air.

the shock of the sudden events began to subside, replaced by curiosity and a need for answers. turning to face the man, y/n’s voice broke the quiet of the night. “how do you know this?”

for a little period, the man stared at her, his face difficult to interpret in the low light. with his cigarette shining brightly in the dark, he took a contemplative drag. his face was lit by the glow from the ember, which produced deep shadows that showed his features. he let out an exhale, the smoke curling around him like thin, spectral tendrils before vanishing into the evening air.

“i cleared your mission.”

“who are you?”

the man turned to face her, his black eyes meeting hers with a gentle, yet intense, stare. his features’ distinct contours were brought to light by the way the shadows moved across his face. he carefully extinguished his cigarette, allowing the flame to disappear into the night. his presence was dominating and mysterious as he moved to close the distance between them with a subtle ease. he took off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. the material smelled warm, somewhat smoky, and very much like him.

“you might catch a cold.”

she silently exchanged emotions with him as his gesture made her heart skip a beat. she felt oddly protected and at ease because of the jacket’s warmth in comparison to the cool night air.

“i’m uchiha itachi.”

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