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malvoile · 4 months 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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soleminisanction · 5 months ago

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So a while back I ran the numbers to confirm a suspicion that fandom trends towards a trans Tim Drake, and there's a lot of bits and pieces around his canon material that I think contributes to that interest. But there's a particular, subtle one that's been poking at my mind a lot because I think it might actually be a pretty significant factor that nobody really notices:

His costumes.

The original Robin costume, the one Dick and Jason wore, is childish but exposing. It's innocent enough when they're being drawn as spunky children, but during the period when Dick's still wearing it into his late teens and early 20s, it's practically as revealing as a lot of the women's costumes (and, in retrospect, almost certainly laid some of the groundwork for him sometimes being sexualized by the art and writing the way female characters normally are -- George Pérez, at least, absolutely put him on display every bit as much as he did Starfire and Donna).

Damian's costumes, meanwhile, lean more into archaic/fantasy armor designs and are thus largely genderless outside some vague allusions to the codename's Robin Hood roots. And Steph's is, well, a minidress, and one designed to show off her figure, drawing explicit attention to her femininity.

But then you have Tim's most iconic costume, his original one, which is not only fully covering in a way the original look isn't, it also, by virtue of being designed in the 90s, sports a very specific feature: molded body armor shaped to look like pectoral and abdominal muscles. In other words -- an idealized male body.

Not every artist always included that detail, but it was an explicit part of the design that you don't see as much these days, at least not for teen heroes. Which means it's inadvertently the perfect costume for a trans masculine Boy Wonder. It's got built-in body shaping. The cape and tunic layers even help to make his shoulders look wider.

Tim's second costume, the OYL later suit, doesn't explicitly have this body shaping element, but some artists still hint at it in the same way that Dick's Nightwing suits do (ie, we assume they're not showing off their real muscles with skintight suits for safety reasons, but who knows). Plus it comes with the bonus gay longing of changing the colors to mourn the dead crush he's too deep in the closet to recognize.

And then you've got his modern Robin look which has the same kind of shaping going on in a sleaker, more subtle way, though it can vary from artist to artist how much the red part of his suit is drawn as a breast plate vs. a part of the bodysuit.

As a bonus, the design also has a tendency to make him look lean and lithe, in an interesting contrast to Damian who, despite being physically smaller than Tim, tends to have a presence that makes him come across as stockier and more solid, possibly because he's more heavily armored.

You even see this with some of Tim'snon-Robin looks. I've mentioned this elsewhere but, the original Red Robin look making him look older when the cowl was up honestly makes a lot of sense. That suit was originally designed for a Dick Grayson who was pushing 60 to conceal the extent of his age while still communicating his maturity and development. It makes sense that it'd work the other way, to make 17 year old Tim look like he's in his late 20s/early 30s.

It's tunic over a body suit design is also just aesthetically pleasing in terms of forming an elegant male body type, the same way a well-cut suit can be. Again, it does especially nice things for the shoulders, which is why I personally prefer it to the fully bodysuit redesign they give him in the latter part of the series. Although as we can see from the details in Marcus To's art, even that body suit has seams strategically placed to suggest muscles.

And then of course there's the 2016 Rebirth era Red Robin costume, which is just a more heavily-armored version of his classic Robin look that's trying really hard to make him look masculine and mature, which means... exaggerated muscles.

And the thing is, it's not that this doesn't happen with other characters' costumes. But for various reasons it specifically didn't happen with the other Robin costumes, like I described at the start.

Which is not something I think people consciously notice. But I do know that, when I was writing my transmasc Tim fanfic a few years before realizing that I myself was also transmasc, one of the images that solidified the story for me was how good it would've felt the first time a transmasc Tim put on his new Robin costume and saw the Boy Wonder looking back at him. And I remember specifically thinking about how nice the shaped armor would be for that sort of thing.

It's kinda funny how an obvious attempt to enforce gender norms wound up, for lack of a better term, backfiring, at least in my opinion. There's just something about exaggerating the masculinity of Robin, a role designed to contrast and foil the already exaggerated masculine ideal of Batman, that makes it feel like a performance.

#tim drake #robin #batman #batfamily #dc comics #transgender #transmasc #in contrast I'd also argue that Nightwing feels distinctly genderfluid as an identity #even if Dick feels pretty cismale out of costume #if that makes any sense #like. there's just something about the way that Nightwing gets 'gazed' upon that's similar but distinct to how the male gaze views women #and of course no one else moves the way he does #plus the identity was developed as a pair with Starfire who was always taller and stronger than Dick in defiance of gender norms #but he also doesn't feel particularly 'feminine' he's just not exactly a 'masculine' either #he's just 'Nightwing'#whereas Dick Grayson is undoubtedly a man just a different kind of man than Bruce Wayne

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sgiandubh · 4 months 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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munchiemomo · 4 months 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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eatmangoesnekkid · 8 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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colettebronte · 3 months ago

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She Rings Like a Bell Through the Night: Chapter 7

Taglist Form

Series Masterlist

Ao3 Link

Bridgerton Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Anthony Bridgerton x Witch!fem Reader

Summary: The Witch makes her way through the beginning of the 18th century and encounters someone with ties to Anthony

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: 18+ for the overall fic. Specific to this chapter: nothing much, it’s a tame chapter compared to the ones that came before it. Minors DNI. I will put this up on Ao3 so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: And we’re back after a break for the New Year! Please do enjoy this part! Thank you as always to @fayes-fics for being the best and most patient beta reader

England 1700-1750

You spend the next few years traveling around England, staying on the fringes; unsure of how the tiny villages you encounter, so much like the one you came from, would receive a wanderer; a woman no less. You only enter on their Market Days, taking care to conserve the coins Anthony gave you while purchasing the necessities you need to survive on your own.

As the new century dawns, so too does your confidence. You begin engaging with local townsfolk and even dare to linger in the small hamlets, taking people up on their offers of hearth and hospitality as they perceive you to be a wandering orphan. You don’t disabuse anyone of that notion and you repay their kindness by assisting in cooking and other chores.

You are ten years or so into your explorations when one night, intending to camp in the woods, you encounter a group of women gathered around a bonfire. From a safe distance, you observe that they are a diverse group in age. You watch as they work together, some of them cooking a meal while others set up tents made from a riot of colorful fabrics.

Curiosity gets the better of you and you approach them. They welcome you into their circle without question, offering you a mug of ale and a bowl of hearty stew in exchange for your story. In their warm company, you find yourself pouring out the story of your early life, leaving out Anthony and your extended mortality. As you share the details of how you were treated by your grandfather and the village, you find comfort and understanding in these women. Many of them share similar stories and you learn that they live and travel together, finding safety in numbers.

And so you find your first coven.

As you travel together, each woman shares the folk remedies and tales from their respective villages and in turn, you share your own. Once settled into your own tent made of billowing bright blue and gold-patterned fabric that you had found and had fallen in love with while shopping at a market one day, you set to work by candlelight, filling page after page of your Book of Shadows with folk magic, learned from these women.

Over the years, women come and go. Some settle into the villages you encounter, while others are there one day and then gone by the time night falls. If anyone takes note of how little you age, no one mentions it.

One evening, an elegant older woman joins the group. She sits beside you, cautiously setting down her satchel. You smile and offer her a mug of ale and a bowl of stew, just as you once were. She smiles at you, grateful, taking the ale but politely declining the stew.

Rather than observe the group as a whole, she watches you. An odd feeling prickles under your skin as something about this woman and her clear, blue eyes strikes you as familiar but you are certain you have never met before.

“That is a lovely dress you’re wearing, my dear,” she says quietly.

It’s the pale blue dress Anthony had given you that had once belonged to one of his sisters.

The woman stares at your dress for a long moment before her eyes fall on your pendant. As she studies it, you feel a fizzing of magic you once associated with Anthony. Without asking, she reaches out and takes your wrist, her thumb gently brushing over the place he drank from you, though you bear no marks of it.

The woman releases your wrist and murmurs a quiet apology before taking up her bag and mug of ale and moving to another spot in the circle.

You’re not sure what happened, but you have a feeling the woman will be gone by morning and will never be seen again.

Later that night, settled back in your tent; after having not thought of him for years only to have invoked thoughts of him earlier, you have your first dream about Anthony.

In the dream, you’re standing in the lake beside your village, the remnants of Anthony’s concealment spell burning away. As the magical fire blazes, strong arms encircle you, pulling you into a warm embrace from behind. Closing your eyes, you inhale his scent: warm, rich and smoky. He presses a trail of kisses into your neck as you reach back to tangle your fingers into his hair. There is so much you want to say and yet, no words emerge. You sigh and bask in the feel of him, the familiar heat of his body, his breath warm against your cheek. You turn in his arms to face him and even in the dark, his eyes glitter. He opens his mouth to speak.

And that’s when you wake up, sunlight peeking through the gaps in the fabric of your tent.

With a frustrated huff, you smack the sheets under you and get up in favor of burrowing yourself back under the covers. You go about the day, doing your chores and assisting newcomers in learning the ways of the group. Just as you thought, the woman from the night before is nowhere to be found.

But then night falls and she appears again. Though she sits a distance away, you can’t help but notice those wise eyes of hers studying you. And so, you watch her in turn. While she is polite to those around her, she rarely engages in conversation. Once again, she refuses supper but partakes in the offer of ale, sipping slowly from her mug.

When you make your goodnights to the group, she too stands, following as you make your way to your tent. You stop abruptly and turn to face her. Her eyes go wide and she raises her palms up in front of her as if taming a wild horse.

“Forgive me,” she starts quietly. You nod and she continues, “The dress you wore last night, I am certain it used to belong to one of my daughters.”

Your breath hitches as you realize who she is. “The dress was a gift,” you tell her.

Her eyes widen and her voice is full of hope as she asks, “From Eloise?”

You think of the neat letters ‘EB’ stitched into the collar of the dress. You shake your head. “No, Lady Violet. Anthony gave it to me.”

Rather than look surprised, her eyes flick down to glance at your wrist. “Ah, that explains it,” she says sagely. At your questioning look, she adds, “I sensed his magic within you. And now I understand. You share a blood bond.”

Your eyes widen as you squeak, “We share a what?”

Lady Violet’s eyes soften even further. She gestures to your tent. “Perhaps it’s best if we talk in there.”

You nod and then pull open the curtain to let her inside. You light a lantern and gesture for her to sit on a stool while you sit on your bedding.

Lady Violet is silent for a moment as she takes in your living space. Her eyes land on your tiny, portable writing desk and your old satchel, the edges of your Book of Shadows peeking out of the top.

“You are far older than you appear, aren’t you, My Dear?” There is nothing accusing in her tone, just mere curiosity.

You swallow thickly and then, over the next several hours, pour out everything to her, the details you’ve shared with the coven and so much, much more that you haven’t, talking about Anthony and your brief but impactful time together, speaking his name aloud for the first time since you parted ways. All the while, Lady Violet is attentive, fascinated by every detail. Wisely, you leave out the more intimate details but she seems to understand what you infer. It’s when you try to explain how you first shared your blood and then later drank from him that she at last interjects.

“Partaking of each other’s blood, is how you became bonded. There will always be a connection between you,” Lady Violet tells you softly.

Absently, you rub your pulse point. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Lady Violet reaches out to take your hand. “That I cannot answer. Perhaps he didn’t want to scare you.” Her response makes sense and it reminds you so much of Anthony that you feel a momentary ache behind your ribs at the thought of him.

The candle within the lantern catches your eye as you realize how late the hour truly is. “There isn’t much time until daybreak. Surely you must hide somewhere and rest?”

She too observes the lantern and nods. “You’re right. I ought to go. I’ve been staying in a cave nearby.”

The idea that this kind, elegant woman has been living in a cave makes you feel incredibly sad. She deserves better. An idea forming, you take up the lantern and hand it to her. Perhaps it’s time for the next chapter of your journey.

As you accompany her to her makeshift home, you talk more. She insists you drop the ‘Lady’ part of her name as she hasn’t felt like one in a very long time. Once she’s settled, you depart with plans for her to rejoin the camp as soon as it’s safe for her to do so the following evening,

Once back with the group, you manage a few hours of sleep. When you awaken the next day, you pack up your things and, over breakfast, inform the others that you will be parting ways with them that evening. Over the course of the day, you receive small gifts and well-wishes from members of the coven. You feel a genuine pang of sorrow at parting from this, the first true community you have ever known.

Dusk has settled when Violet arrives, her meager possessions stuffed into the three satchels she carries. You direct her to put them into the back of a small, single horse-drawn cart you had purchased earlier in the day. She climbs up to sit and you give your new horse, a fine, jet-black mare you named Midnight an apple and a gentle pat before sitting beside Violet and taking up the reins. The group follows behind for a bit, offering their goodbyes and then you’re on the road, traveling through the countryside to make your way through villages and burgeoning towns.

For the sake of safety, you both resolve not to spend longer than a few weeks at a time in any one place. By day, you stay at your chosen inn, covering and shutting the windows tight so Violet can rest undisturbed. You find warm reception by the townsfolk you encounter as they presume you are a mother and daughter traveling together. You spend a few hours exploring the local area, befriending villagers and learning their customs, before you too, return to your room for the afternoon to sleep so you can spend the evening with Violet.

As you travel around the country together, you learn what it is to have a mother. Violet is cheerful and doting. If she suspects you have neglected eating during the day while she’s slept, she insists on making sure you eat an extra hearty supper. And while she seems content in her travels with you, you can sense her sadness at the loss of her children. You never pry and eventually she gives you details about them all. If you seem extra attentive whenever she mentions Anthony, she is far too kind to call you out on it.

One evening, when you’ve been traveling together for nearly thirty years, Violet sits you down in a quiet corner of an inn in a port city and informs you that it’s time to part ways. Tears immediately spring to your eyes and before you can protest, she reaches into her satchel. She pulls out a small pouch and presses it into your hand. You open it to find a single bead made of aquamarine. You look up to find her smiling gently at you.

“It’s a little something for you to remember me by, My Dear. The chain that holds your pendant should thread through it perfectly.”

Heaving a deep breath, you unclasp it and sure enough, the blue bead slides on with ease. Violet smiles as you put your pendant, now adorned with her bead, back on. You’re struck by how the stone bead reminds you of her kind eyes.

The next day, you book passage on a ship departing for the Far East that evening. That night, Violet sees you settled into your berth and then you walk back out with her to make your goodbyes. She gives you a fierce hug as you breathe into her shoulder, memorizing her scent. When the final call for departure is made, she makes her way down and watches as your ship departs.

She is a tiny dot in the distance when you move away from the ship’s rail and run a finger over the bead she gave you. Aquamarine symbolizes peace and that is exactly what she’s given you over the years you were together. She brought a calm into your life and managed to make you forget about the treatment you suffered at the hands of your grandfather. You know that when anyone asks about your family, for the rest of your days, you will only mention your adopted mother, Violet Bridgerton.

As England fades behind you and gives way to open water, you can only wonder what Asia has in store for you.

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @laniec03 @sky0401 @kwbaby24 @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch

#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #violet bridgerton #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fanfiction

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milliesfishes · 10 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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vivianleighwishesshewasme · 2 months ago

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The Red Bridge-

"Seeking to absolve himself after Tommy’s imposed quarantine, Michael attempts to make a deal with the revered Chang family. Though he initially struggles to navigate a culture foreign to him, he thrives with support from Brilliant’s younger sister, Mei. As they work together to build a bridge between their two families, they find themselves falling into the river of love."

Night at the Opera

Michael stood waiting impatiently at the base of the gilded grand staircase of the Chinese London Opera House waiting for his family or a glance at Brilliant Chang's younger sister.

He stole glances of the opulence only found in a city like London. He liked London, it wasn't the sleepy green countryside where nothing exciting ever happened and it was the shit filled streets of Birmingham. London was sophisticated and elegant.

The Opera house was no different, drenched in vivid colors of reds, black lacquer and gold leaf. Large glittering chandeliers cast flickers of golden light on everyone's colorful and grand clothing.

Michael's nerves were setting in. They had pulled out all the stops to make this venture successful and now he was waiting on the rest of the Shelby Company before the games with the Chang family started again. This was supposedly the last test.

"Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Gray by chance?" A little man, not even five feet, approached Michael. He was an older man, nearing his sixty if Michael had to guess. He was dressed in an elegant navy blue two piece suit, a tang suit, if he remembered Mei correctly. He looked like one of the many servants that littered the grounds of the Chang residence.

"I am, you work for Chang's correct?" He asked straightforwardly. His hand slipped into his pants pocket where he kept a small concealed blade. He'd learned that enemies could conceal themselves to look like staff, servants or friends even. He couldn't afford to take any chances.

The man bowed deeply, a respectful custom Micahel couldn't get into the habit of. He didn't mind doing it for the initial meeting. He thought like an Englishman, as Changs sister had so curtly pointed out the night before. He found all the bowing demeaning to the staff. She argued for it. He'd let it go. He was in her cultural domain after all, not Birmingham.

"Miss Chang has humbly requested your presence for her private box this evening, come, this way." The man turned and started shuffling off to the stairs leaving Michael behind for a moment. When he finally caught sight of the servant he was standing in a heavily guarded hallway, the only people being security and Opera staff.

A set of large blood red velvet curtains parted revealing a lush and vividly decorated box with two chairs, opera glasses and an elegantly dressed Mei Chang. His breath hitched in his chest.

She was breathtaking. She wore a tailored Red and gold spun silk dress with a slit up the side. Tastefully stopping before her thigh, red heels and pearls. If he was ever given the chance to court her he'd buy a sea just for her and fill her home with pearls, no other women looked as classy as she did decorated in the iridescence orbs.

He cleared his throat unwilling to startle the beautiful scene in front of him. She turned slightly in her seat and flashed him a dazzling brilliant smile. Michael could feel his heart slam into his ribcage, he felt like one of Mei's birds trapped in its cage desperate to escape and fly free from its confinement.

He strode towards her confident and pleased that it seemed to be the two of them, alone at last.

Michael bent forward almost in a bow and kissed her supple alabaster cheek. She blushed at his greeting and tilted her head down meekly, clearly enjoying his boldness. Her golden fan snapped open and hid her lips from him.

He wished the booth was far more private and secluded. He wanted to kiss her senselessly. This was neither the time nor place. He took his place next to her, grateful for the plush seat. He could smell the jasmine perfume gently wafting off of her neck and overtaking his rational thought.

“My seat seems to be far from the others. Not that I am complaining about the lovely company.”He added hurriedly as to not offend his date. There was no mistaking the intention behind this private venue.

“Thank you, you look well yourself." She smiled with pleasure clearly in her voice.Michael nodded at the complement. Truthfully he felt a bit puffed out now. She thought he at least looked nice. " I thought you might enjoy the Opera more if you had a translator.” She smiled at him, the cleverness of her plan playing behind her dark chocolate colored eyes.

“You got me a translator?” The disappointment was laced heavily through his even voice. He had stupidly thought it would be just them. Of course it wouldn't be, that would be inappropriate, right? She was clearly a lady in both mannerism and decorum.

“Of course, this is my new favorite opera, Michael. I thought you might not mind my boldness if I were to translate what they were saying for you.” She slid over slightly on her chair making it clear that she was going to need to be physically close to him.

“You're my translator.” The hope filled him again that perhaps she had meant to get him alone. In order to translate over the swelling music, the actors project their voices and chatter of people talking excitedly about the story. Mei would have to be very close indeed. She would be leaning into his ear. Her breath would be softly caressing his face, she may even need to rest her hand on his knee or arm in order to lean in to be heard.

Michael glanced at her and was impressed. No doubt left to linger between them. She felt the attraction as well and he intended to pursue her after the deal went through.

Mei Chang would be his in every sense of the word. She was a complement to him and he knew firmly this evening, no other women would stir the feelings in him like she had.

"Michael, it's starting, you should look at the stage." She said with a giggle. It was his turn to feel flushed and warm. As the music swelled he found himself getting lost into Mei's words, gestures and emotional reaction to whatever the actors were doing.

He found himself entranced more by her than the love story.

Suzhou Mingbao was the name of this particular storyline and Mei had assured him this was her favorite Opera. The low born man fell in love with the fashionable and high born women. He had seen her on the streets and followed her, falling in love through forbidden conversations and meeting.

She took every opportunity to brush her hand against him as she would gesture gently to the stage, her breath in deed touching him and at one point her nose brushed his at an exciting part, she'd learned too far and too quickly. Neither young adult felt embarrassed by the accidental touch.

Michael smiled, the comparisons were not lost on him. He wondered when she had picked this out, after all, she'd assured him she was intentional with everything she did. He knew she hadn't been waiting to see this or show just anyone, she'd planned it for him, no, them.

"When, "The act of the Melody of Winter Clothing," started he noticed a shift in her. She was no longer composed. The male lover handed his padded jacket, only warmth for the winter, over to his sweetheart showing his unchanging love to all onlookers on the street for his high born lady love.

Every single female in the audience had a glistening damp eye. Michael tugged his handkerchief out of pocket and skillfully traded it to his other hand. He snuck his arm under Mei's entwining hands and placed the soft cloth in her palm.

Her tear filled glittering eyes met him with appreciation. She squeezed his warm hand softly before accepting the white cloth to daily dap the corner of eyes artfully avoiding smearing her makeup.

When she gently tried handing it back he shook his head and leaned over to whisper for her to keep it. He was touched when she placed it over her heart and turned to the stage.

He watched her for the rest of the Opera, uncaring for the rest of the story. He knew if he asked she'd fill him in later. Right now all he cared about was watching the tender emotions flit over her beautiful porcelain face.

#peaky blinders fanfic #michael gray #mei chang #falling into the river of love #friends to lovers #polly grey #thomasshelby #chinese love story #red string of fate #red bridge #love story

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kal9bloodbones · 8 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 · 1 year 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.

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