#I need no knives: I will cut you with these cheekbones | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonbeammist · 3 months ago

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The Peasant's Secret (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them. taglist from Part 1: @aoi-targaryen

I don't give permission for any of my fanfiction to be posted, this is also cross posted on my account w/ Archive of our own :)

PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Fighter!Reader

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey! l'm excited that I continued this. Honestly, couldn't get it out of my head until I did. I really hope you enjoy it, feedback is most welcome. New readers, read Part 1 for context and character, if not, this can be read as a solo fic too 💖

WARNINGS: (Adults only 18+) DARK! profanity, extreme violence, torture, gore, sadism, masochism, dubious consent, erotic undertones, heavy petting, reader is a fighter who get's extremly hurt, bigotry against the poor, very immersive, intimacy, touching, feyd-rautha is his sick self, public humiliation, light smut

Feyd is at his most sadistic - please mind the warnings. I really wanted to explore that in writing because I feel it's such a big part of his character. Honestly Dune Part Two inspired the hell out of me, and looks like I'm not the only one judging by some of the brilliant writers on this site. Thank you for inspiring me too.. I poured everything into this.

SUMMARY: As a rice-harvester hailing from Planet Caladan, you knew these things to be true. You and your people were "peasant scum". And as far as you can tell, peasant scum deserved a shot at the vast unknown as much as any noble folk did. Even if the only thing protecting you is a flawed battle-tactic and the falsehoods that you tell yourself. Even if it has you riding a wave into the wicked evils that lie.

WORD COUNT: 10.3k words (yes it's long, but enjoy the ride, take breaks, ect.) ❤️

PART 1 PART 2

It’s scalding, the black ebb of the sun in Giedi Prime. But you are well hydrated and fed.

Previously, when you were aboard the ship with Count Fenring in the depths of space, he made sure you and the small group of rice labourers that stayed behind were treated. Various platters of eclectic fruits, aged cheeses, proteins, and beverages were presented before you on a wooden table, the Count encouraging the hesitant Caladan rice cultivators with a wave of his hand. Almost in unison, they dived for the food at his proclamation, knives and forks clashing. You couldn’t tell what animal you were gnawing on as you slobbered it down, only fixated on filling the hole of anxiety that grew, every so slowly, deep in your belly. You volunteered to be here on the basis of... being Harkonnen entertainment, mixed with a blind, selfish jump into the illogical.

And for what?

So you don’t deserve to feel this uncertainty. You did it to your damn self. Wanting to prove... something, anything. What that was exactly you couldn’t pinpoint, except a growing need to see yourself capable of a different path than the comfortable life you grew to know. Your mother’s words came to you again, flying through the vastness of the galaxy.

“You should go.” A pause. “Live for us.”

Her words spread through you like a viper, a sliver of hope returning to you.

You’re covered by the dark canopy of the nestled burrow underneath the stands of the large dome-like arena, filled to the brim with Harkonnen porcelain heads. You can see a partial view from here—a small peek, but enough for multiple stark heads to pop through. The hard, black metal doors were closed all the way, save for that small crack. Their starving, needy chants are ear splitting to you; you can hear them all around you in these walls beside your fellow fighters. Here you are, like a feast for them—ripe, hot-blooded, and ready for the taking.

You keep your hair cropped short just under your cheekbones for battle, falling messily over your face in a choppy cut. The length made sense under these circumstances.

Last night, after filling yourself with food and beverage and thanking the Count on the ship, you pushed your way past the other passengers to the ship’s restrooms with slight impatience, a mulled over idea that has been eating at you finally coming to the forefront. Seeing your hollow, adrenalized eyes in the mirror, your hand reached to your thigh, brandishing the emerald handle of the small blade you were given as a courtesy. Unlatching it from its leather harness with a click, your arm juts out to swipe your tresses away, the ends falling like a blanket on the floor. You did not need to make yourself a target on the hairless planet, that is for certain. Not like this, not so obviously.

They can already see what you are, you know.

Your conscious crows at you, and your teeth come out to play with your bottom lip, chewing it. That’s not why. When you were shoving food down at the table with your fellow people during mealtime, you received a more in-depth, private discussion about Giedi Prime and House Harkonnen’s culture and traditions, along with a long spiel on the opponent you and your fellow peasant fighters would be privy to facing.

The Count’s voice was almost a warning to all, and you could’ve sworn his eyes rested on you too many times for it to be a coincidence. Obviously, being the opposite sex in the Harkonnen arena is going to come with a target on your back. In Giedi Prime, usually, they had a target on your back no matter what, but they usually fell into four prime categories: pleasure slave, handmaiden, visiting Bene Gesserit, or noblewoman. And obviously, they’re going to make out by your form, that you’re not a big, burly slave-gladiator. But some type of amateur, dodging, slave-gladiator nonetheless.

The issue is that you don’t want the nephew, that psychopathic nephew of the Baron—Feyd-fucking-Rautha grabbing a long mop of hair and whipping it around the arena like a toy, a rag doll. And you don’t want something as silly as hair being used as fodder against you, like a joke. You had gathered the length of hair in the disposable bin, cleaning up the mess on the marbled floor in finality.

You glance up to catch yourself in the mirror, and your pulse quickens. You run your fingers through your short locks, the pieces framing your face. You feel renewed, refreshed.

You feel more like yourself than ever before.

The guttural melody seemed to increase in speed across the walls underneath the arena, bouncing off the ground. You could feel the voices, deep in the earth, the soles of your feet vibrating against your boot. You peered into the backs of the heads of your crew. You knew that your time was getting closer. Uneasiness, but also a slight giddiness that shouldn’t belong, bubbled up within you.

Why?

The small group of men that you came with from Caladan were also branding themselves as inexperienced rice labourers. As men, it was common for them to get in spats or tussles about gods-knows-what. They had experience in that sense. For the fairer sex, all you had was your mother’s encouragement to take an interest in the art of dodging, the defensive battle strategy known as "The Peasant’s Secret." There weren't many ladies, as far as you could tell, who were following suit. They had more important things to register, like feeding their children, you mused. The peasant men were taught it too, as they weren’t permitted weapons, armour, and the like. But it didn’t seem like they held it in high regard as often as you did. They practiced being on the offensive with their knuckles for light fun, with a masculated zeal. You questioned why they were here, as it would seem they dared not want anything else than an honest day’s work, being able to daze upon the fields with a wife warming their bed. But you wondered if the few that came grew bored of their mundane life and little free time, and were willing to put themselves on the line of fire today like you.

Stupid, silly peasants you all were. Couldn’t just be happy with what was given to you. Couldn’t just lay your head down on rice grain forever.

Just wanted a small hit of dopamine to the psyche, it would seem.

Without notice, a speaker made himself known above you—and it must have been from the very top, the very perch of the arena. The Baron of House Harkonnen’s rough voice pummelling into the pits below. “Citizens of Giedi Prime, and most welcome visitors,” he began. “We have quite the show for you today, most definitely... Count Hasimir Fenring has brought with him mere-" he pauses to chuckle as it reverberates through your mind, and you make a note of his happiness. It already confirmed what you knew to be true.

He continues. “Rice harvesters from Caladan who would like to join in on today’s festivities. Mind you, they volunteered their time here as well, so we shall see what they have to offer.”

A more ominous-sounding laugh is heard.

“How exciting, dear nephew, for you to enjoy this treat. Some low-born entertainment as a warm-up. We shall commence shortly.”

The audience chanted their sick appreciation at this news, their cheers echoing across the skies.

You gulped your saliva down. A warm-up, yes, of course. That makes sense.

It’s here. You’re here. Pacing, jumping up and down, in your murky, brown cloth. Amping yourself up.

Tight, tattered dark brown shorts adorned your knees, with strings tying the garment in place at your hips. To counter that, a long, light brown quarter-sleeve tunic swamps your form, belted at the waist with a large buckle securing it. Under the belt, the bottom of it is cut into two sections, split right down the middle, revealing your shorts in a fashion with athleticism and movement in mind. It’s lightweight and loose, allowing your bindings and skin to breathe in the hot weather.

In just a moment, the doors to the arena pits would open, and you would face the deviant that awaits. But you would not be alone. At least in the beginning.

You turn to glance beside you at the men accompanying you. The men stood beside, in front, and behind you, their large frames slightly swarming you. You briefly imagined them emerging into the arena like some low-born three-course meal for the Na-Baron. You wordlessly prayed that you would not be considered a part of the appetizer.

“Come,” a man you knew by the name of Rexen, threw his arms around your shoulders and jostled you out of your ponderings. His hair was a deep black, matching his unkempt brows and scraggly beard. His face was warm and friendly, and his stare was earnest. “Join us for a moment.”

You walk with him a mere two steps before he gently pushes your body forward, and your eyes take in the slight change of everyone’s chest now visible to you. Your home planet’s men’s faces rapt with attention on each other. They are now huddled in the formation of a small circle. Rexen leans forward, and you follow suit, huddling even closer into the group, shoulders touching.

A glow of comfort envelops you, a piece of home.

“We are not a skilled people,” Rexen graciously offers, his head dipping low as he mutters this. His eyebrows raise as he anchors his head against yours and the men surrounding. “Most of our people did not want to be here. But for those that remain, we need not concern ourselves with why we are here. Just that we’re here to put on a show, for the holier than thou fucks.” He grins at his quip, his teeth slightly yellow in colour, stained from poor hygiene. Laughter emits from his chest, and the men barrel with much-too-energetic laughter for the situation.

You feel bizarre. You definitely came with the... what would you call those with no regard for their own self-preservation?

Lunatics?

But chillingly, you find yourself chuckling along with them, joining them in their message. Joining their showmanship. You’re here after all. That makes you one of them. You grin ear-to-ear as you laugh along with the men.

Something breaks you out of your glorified stupor. You hear a muffled chant just outside the doors. A pause. They were speaking in syllables.

“Feyd-Rauth-Ah!” Again. “Feyd-Rauth-Ah!” And again. “Feyd-Rauth-Ah!”

Before any of you have a chance to compose yourself, the doors behind you slowly split open, and you eye the entrance to the arena with a spike of endorphins settling like butterflies in your stomach.

It unfolds, unlatches, and stretches out.

Until you’re cast in a perfect halo of light, the bleak colour seemingly burns your eyes for a moment.

There. It’s adjusting.

Your eyes adjust to the toxic atmosphere once again. You now have a more personalized viewpoint of what is to come; your perspective now shows a closer point of view of the arena as you break away from your fellow fighters and shakily take one step forward to the substantial crowd. The energy in the crowd shifted considerably to a higher plane, and you can literally feel the noise cover you in a blanket of sound, and you’re vibrating. You don’t turn to pay attention to your peers as they slowly spill out of the doorway.

The guttural native tongue of the Harkonnen boomed through the air, the announcer’s voice telling a story with his words. It all became white noise next to your thrumming heart.

At the opposite end of the arena, it’s... him.

His bleached, ghostly white silhouette sauntered several yards away with a slow swagger. The distance dwarfs his form slightly. Black on black. Everything he’s wearing is black, jutting out from his body to clearly signify a plate of armour atop his chest, ribs, shoulders, and legs. A combat suit absolutely made for battle.

The good news was that his skull and neck, seemingly attached by his bulging shoulder plates, was exposed. The sight of his hands clutching two considerably large Crysknives on either side of him made you pause. His wrists jumbled up and down, playing with blades.

Moving in an angular motion, you make a beeline for a darker area along the arena wall. You now notice your companions are already scattered all over the arena, the restlessness in their scurried steps now known to the sole Harkonnen. You’re sure he can smell them from where he is, and you want to perhaps blend in with the wall for a bit while you plan your next move.

He hasn’t noticed you yet as he charges forward, the speed in his steps like lightning.

You quicken your pace to the side of him, against the wall, out of sight as he spots a single peasant man squaring up to challenge him.

Your gaze is transfixed on them as you continue to walk backwards to the wall.

Feyd-Rautha is closer now, towards the centre of the Arena. The way he moves is like a freight train, all at once, and not a single part of him is apologetic for it. Your friend, your... companion, who had his head pressed to you moments earlier, had you clenching your teeth in anticipation at his first swivel around Feyd-Rautha’s Crysknife. The man ducked, barely grazing Feyd-Rautha’s blade as it sliced through the air. You hear a deep, grovelling chuckle, the sound making you freeze. It’s alien.. It’s so, so deep.

He doesn’t even sound real.

You glance at him while side-stepping, grateful his attentions are on the burly man’s arms flying at him like a circular typhoon. The man was already so tired; he was slowing down.

Feyd-Rautha exhales, curving the Crysknife in an upward motion, pushing it to the hilt, the squish of the male being impaled hauntingly audible. “That’s the spot.”

Like a caricature of doom, the voice of the man had a guttural, raspy quality to it. So low but with an unusual lilt at the end of his words.

Feyd-Rautha grabs the man by his shoulders and flings his heaving body to the ground, removing his painted red Crysknife from the man’s gut.

He barrels onward, heading further away from you, his eyes lit aflame.

You cannot deny that you’re in shock at the raw energy, but you take several breaths to calm yourself down, reminding yourself you just haven't ever been in an arena before. This is how it goes. Randomly, your back collides with something warm as you're breathing in and out.

Jostled, your breath hitches as you whip around at the feeling.

A clicking sound speeds up at your collision, erupting from a black, horned... genetically modified something.

God knows what that is, but you knew by its circling movements it was there to service the arena as its handler, keeping a watchful eye. There seemed to be another one roaming where Feyd-Rautha was, to your far left.

You raise your hands up, hearing the clicking intensify in warning. “Apologies.” You nervously laugh, wondering if it even cared for your apologies at a time like this.

You hear yet another man falling to the ground behind you, your gaze darting to the sight of him rolling, trying to swerve the absolute onslaught of the animal standing above him.

All your planning and all your battle-tactic calculations were lost in the wind, it seemed. It didn’t matter anymore because you were so fucking nervous.

No, it’s okay.

A small voice inside you encouraged.

You need to utilize “The Peasant’s Secret” in front of this crowd of evil eggheads, even if it’s not perfect.

You feel cracked mentally to even be joking to yourself at a time like this, but the fleeting sentiment is all you need to feel better. It was time to give yourself some grace.

You glanced at the horned handler once more as it retreated, before facing the savagery you knew you needed to keep your eyes locked on... Rexen, the man who pulled you aside earlier, was moaning in agony, his eyes bloodshot. You felt a fluttering sensation in your stomach. Alone and gushing, flowing, a stream of blood spilled out from his sopping open wound into the arena pit.

You remember his joyous remark that he was going to put on a show as you watched the life drain from his face.

You feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, like something in the air has shifted.

A BANG snaps you out of your reverie.

Isolating the noise, you lock in on it. There, now dangerously close, a looming presence carefully studying you. Feyd-Rautha’s hard, deep stare. He was standing a few feet away from you on the right side of the arena wall, his leg kicking at the wall animatedly.

BANG

He hit it again, and as he finished, his armour-clad legs seemed to click together. His pale face was plastered with a delighted expression that met the depths of depravity. As your gaze flickered over him, you noticed an open mouth, a row of black teeth, the shade of the darkest midnight, smiling in glee, seeming to be proud of his announcement.

“Just a few more of the rodents,” he sneered, his eyes gleaming with giddiness.

You hold your breath in fear, stopping all at once. You know making a move right now would be foolish at his proximity.

“Did you perceive yourself to be out of harm's way?” His rasp quipped.

You consider him, swallowing a jump in your belly. Unnerved by his misplaced enthusiasm.

You brace yourself, standing at attention, before lowering yourself into a bent stance. The choppy pieces of your short hair fall into your line of vision as your head dips to the ground, trying not to let his overbearing nature shake you.

He doesn’t seem to move from his place as his gaze flickers over your movements.

Those black teeth. You were strangely fascinated by the ghoulish sight of them.

You’ve heard rumours of it being akin to a status symbol, perhaps even a fashion statement in Harkonnen culture. A custom of extreme wealth, beauty, and high influence.

Aristocratic customs are among this absolute cruel and humiliating gore fest. The irony of that was enough to make you thankful for being low-born and poor, minding your business. For all that you represent, at least you weren’t delusional in your value.

“Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” You greet, nodding solemnly, bowing your head from your battle-ready stance. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Perhaps paying your respects to him before the battle would lessen his aggressiveness, if only a little. If you didn’t mindlessly yell and charge at him without thought, like the others.

He cocks his ghostly bald head, black mouth agape, seemingly taking you in. You briefly wondered if he was flashing that blackened mouth at you like some sort of superiority complex.

“How curious,” he murmurs. “The peasant wishes to exchange kind words before I run them through my blade?” His eyes glitter with something primal.

His sick jab makes you scoff inwardly, but you ignore it.

“On the contrary,” you begin. “I’m merely doing the honourable thing. Are we not battlemates, despite where I come from?” I pause, letting the words settle. “Like those of higher status you have fought before?”

I taste the words on my tongue, knowing full well the act may be futile.

Feyd-Rautha’s black teeth open wide with jest. “Mmm, that is what it would seem...” He nods at you. “The honour suits you.”

You pause, realizing that he was paying a compliment.

His eyes darken like decay at once. “But you are a plaything, peasant. A pathetic thing for me to slice open and drain.” He tuts and slowly strolls towards you.

You can’t help the shock that appears in your face at his grotesque words.

“But don’t worry, maybe I'll go a little longer with you.” He emphasizes the last word, a dark promise. His voice was laced with subtle mockery.

He’s put some sort of magnetic spell on you as you stand there, dumbfounded. His face no longer looks friendly as he advances on you, a demonic expression gracing his features.

Fuck.

You jump back, reeling. You’re already failing, and you’ve got to get away, away, away fast.

You shake your head at yourself for letting more than a few moments of speaking pass between you two. That was indeed useless. If anything, it seemed to make him crazier.

He charges at you with ferocity and a face devoid of emotion.

This time I will move.

You let your secret instinct envelop you naturally, closing your eyes.

Dodge. Bob. Weave.

Just in time, and he’s snarling. “Rah!”

His black teeth lurch towards you.

You suddenly swirl your body slightly to evade the attack, his Crysknife missing you by mere inches. You jump backwards, not by a lot.

“Run first.. If they are fast enough, begin your dance.”

Your mother's words about the steps of your teachings sneak into your senses. That’s going to come off cowardly to someone like him. Weak. You don’t care. He didn’t know the hidden ways of the ‘lesser’ people of Planet Caladan.

You bolt, legs pumping with renewed investment in your life. The sand seems to give your shoes just the right amount of grip to propel you. You don’t bear to look behind you, afraid of what you may see, but know he’s at least giving chase.

You zip by yet another man, his neck whipping to watch you run. He feels like another stranger among the men who died, like he’s already sealed his fate.

But you presumed. You did not give the man grace. Like you now give yourself.

The man is living now, unchained. In his most honest form.

You crank your head back momentarily as your feet are hitting the sand. You instantly regret it, your breath catching in your throat. Feyd-Rautha is hot on your heels; his snow-white face is terrifying. His nostrils are flared, and his deep blue irises are lit with enthusiastic vigour. Your eyes widened as his blackened mouth was clenched in malice.

There is still a sizeable gap between the two of you. In a sudden move, you see the flash of the man before, in a blur—he’s purposely throwing his body towards Feyd-Rautha—and Feyd is so intently fixated on you he can’t stop the audible grunt that escapes him when your fellow peasant barrels into him with the strength of a bull.

The movement is so out of place that you falter slightly, side-stepping mid-run, your eyes glued to the man who decided to make use of his body as an obstacle. They hit the ground with a hard slam, the sound cracking through the thick atmosphere of the planet.

What is seen before you resembles a dogpile—the man’s large body attempting to restrain Feyd-Rautha’s snarling form, the man’s back gyrating like a hunter holding down a rabid howling elk.

You softly gasp at the mere seconds that went by before Feyd’s blade ground upward deep into the man’s guts—you could hear the sound of insides sloshing, emitting a horrifying, piercing scream from the man. The lack of care was evident as the man was thrown to the side like common trash.

Feyd-Rautha sits up, crimson staining his face like a splatter of paint, his face contorting, mood soured.

You silently thank the man for his sacrifice. It dawned on you that he didn’t do that for himself, but for you. A way to slow down your enemy’s predatory chase.

Thank you. Your deed today will not go unnoticed, my good man. I shall make a shrine in your honour when I’m through with this animal.

Your eyebrows draw together, and trepidation rings through you as you put a bandage on your reality, cushioning your frantic thoughts with comfort.

You make quick work to paddle your legs from side to side, transfixed on the Na-Baron’s body, using the horrific situation as leverage. You started to do slow, measured side-skips around the man, smart to not use all of your well-preserved energy right away. You couldn’t risk disabling yourself to be slow, but you could be at a good, neutral pace right now.

While he was down. Which wouldn’t be for long.

Feyd-Rautha exhaled hastily as his neck craned towards you. Something akin to a cool, unfazed demeanour washed over his previous frantic behaviour as he allowed himself to engage in a moment's respite.

“Let’s see you now, you pompous little rodent. Your street-gutter ally was desperate to save you... Caladanians, hm?”

The message was clear now.

You bit your tongue, not lowering yourself enough to respond brashly to his mean-spirited words. Oh, the man was loathsome. But you will engage him. It will allow you to learn more about him.

You already know enough. He’s a deviant, a sadist. What else do you need?

You need to concentrate. You won’t respond brashly, but you will plant seeds of doubt in his mind, if you can.

“Caladan has brought me many things, Harkonnen.” You begin, slightly slowing your skips around the arena as you speak. “It is a vessel of life that your planet seems to be drained of, quite frankly.”

His pupils expand at that.

“Harkonnen?” He stands then, rolling his neck, and you hear a pop as he adjusts his broad torso, his blackened mouth suddenly upturned in amusement as he studies you. “What happened to Na-Baron? Is it not to your taste anymore? Is it because I hurt your heart?”

He motions towards the crowd of bodies littering the ground. “Did I hurt your gutter tribe?” His rough voice taunts like a menace, as his eyes sparkle with a sort of dark mischief as he laughs at that.

You swallow, biting back enragement.

“You did, Harkonnen.” You agree solemnly. “But what does it matter? Don’t you treat every untrained, unprecedented fighter the same here?” You pause, seeing his deep blue eyes flicker with interest. “Unskilled fodder to fuel your own ego?”

The air was tense, and his calculating eyes seemed to consume you during the silence. He cuts it then, with a breathy, deep cackle.

“Oh, so she has a mouth,” he sneers. He shocks you by darting towards you, his black armoured frame like a thick smog, coming to ingest you.

He inches closer and closer, and you make the decision to roll out of the way, your body tumbling to the side of him.

“Smart, for street filth. It will be quite a shame when you’re crying under me as I bloody you that you’ll be fodder for my ego.” He mocks chillingly, his cruel words eliciting a spike of nerves within you, but you’re too focused on evading him to let it show. You see him use his Crysknives in short, brutal swifts as you roll quickly.

His Crysknife whips down, but it stabs the ground, Feyd-Rautha not accounting for your multiple movements of barrel-rolling.

He barks a laugh at that, and you hate the sound of it. He pulls out the Crysknife with a rough grunt, and you stumble to your feet.

You’re fast, and you can see that his eyes are trained on you, and he’s smiling. Oh god, that mouth of blackened tar is smiling.

Running away from him again felt more freeing this time, like you were in control. You knew that you could actually keep up with his antics. You were prepared this time around; you two were alone now. Your fellow peasants' bodies are disrespectfully littered at your feet, and it makes you angry.

“Why is she running?” He called, his guttural voice reaching you as you reached the end of the arena. He was talking to you in a strange way, like you were somewhere else, not present in front of him, like a mere object.

You ignored him, and you briefly remember your small blade, strapped under your brown shorts, the strappy harness hidden. You needed to tire him out. That’s your first mission. Tire him out to the point of exhaustion.

Although hesitantly, you knew he was fit and athletic. A powerful, driven force. How exactly you were going to do this remains a sight to be seen.

He growls and chases you like a huntsman, around and around and around. Every time he managed to get in proximity with those two sharp, deadly blades—

Your body moved, just out of reach—like a python.

You feel pride flow through you when, half-way through another lap around the arena, Feyd-Rautha stops, catching his breath. You’ve managed to get the Harkonnen to audibly pant, and what’s more, he’s crouched over, hands on his knees.

So you decide to waste even more of his energy.

As you begin to run backwards, facing him, you cup your hands around your mouth, sucking in air as you prepare to yell. You call to him, drawing his attention to you.

“Tired, Feyd?” You drop the second half of his name, and it feels more personal.

He huffed, springing up in an instant at the sound of his name spoken so comfortably from your lips.

You couldn't bear to look at his mocking, ghoulish face transfixed on you from several feet away. It sent a deep wave of uncertainty and thrill through your very being.

His ebony mouth gaped at you. “Such gall, from someone who’s been fleeing this entire time. Is that what you came here to do?”

You swallow hard. Mind reeling.

“I came here to—” you began.

Feyd-Rautha cut you off, an outpouring of snideness laced in his voice. “It matters not. How long do you think this is going to last you, peasant?”

Your confidence is slightly faltered, but you speak without thought. “It lasted me this long...” and your voice trailed off.

He chuckled darkly. From this proximity, you can see his eyes swirling with a foreign emotion you couldn’t place.

Yes. Your body moved like a python until it didn’t.

He lunged at you, jumping with a prowess that was so quick you barely managed to get out of the way. But you did, feeling his blade slice through your tunic, your abdomen. You let out a hiss, and you’re jumping backwards, regaining your momentum, away from him, and you’re flying mid-air.

But he somehow matches your stride, leaping forward. He snatches the fabric of your shorts, using that to grip you as you are smashed into the battlegrounds by your leg.

The wind is knocked out of you as you land on your stomach, and a sound emits from you that you’ve never heard. Adrenaline flowing through you, you attempt to get up but the heel of his boot digs into your back, pushing you back down, your form collapsing and you sputter, breathing hard - You hear his body drop into the pits behind you, the dust flying into the air in front of you.

Feyd-Rautha pins his entire chest on the small of your back. The weight of the man has your mouth tasting the bitter, dry pallet of the sand. Your face prickles as the sharp grains sting your eyes, crushing your nose and mouth; the pain is excruciating.

Fuck, if he doesn't get off me, he's going to break my nose.

You let out a feral cry as you tried to move underneath him. His arms hold you deeply into his chest, the plates of his armour digging into the ebbs of your spine.

In defence, you attempt to curl your body into a turtle stance, protecting your front, which is where you are most covered in bruises from your fall. You can feel him all around you, his chest heaving up and down. His breaths are deep and disgruntled; sometimes they don't sound human.

His heavy arms start to slowly pry your arms open from cocooning yourself. He could do anything he wants at this moment if you don’t get him off.

It's no doubt he's much bigger than you, and although you were countering him in speed a while ago, his masculine strength keeps a steady hold on you.

You start to shake as you flex every bit of muscle you have, your body vibrating in tremors as he continues to pry your arms away from your body. You continue to try holding onto the fabrics of your tunic, still convusling as you fight his hands, trying to pry away your self-made cocoon.

In patience and in your countering movements. You find your strength in your resilience. You remind yourself that you feel powerful in that, at least.

I still have my grit.

"Tough," He jeers, and you’re aware of his chin now digging into the little nook of your left shoulder; you don't even have to look back to know he's grinning from ear to ear. His thick armoured legs tighten around your smaller frame.

In one quick movement, he wrenches your struggling arms, your nails digging into the wartorn fabric that covers your body. You are still holding on, but barely.

Your voice comes out in a passionate screech, ripping from your throat when he shoves your arms behind you so that your elbows are touching, his pale fingers clasped around them.

His muscled, battle-born thighs tighten around your hips.

You thrash against him. "No! NO!" Your scream falls out of you in a high hilt. The pain is searing, like your arms are going to pop out of their sockets. You didn’t want to protest this loudly to him of all people, but he’s forced you to. You’re at his mercy if he manages to dislocate them.

"Yes," he grunts, and you don’t know if he’s responding to you or himself. "Who knew these little arms could hold such force?" The questioning lilt in his rasp went up several levels.

Since your elbows are in his grasp, he has your torso tilted towards the sky of the arena, the black sun baking into your tanned Caladanian skin.

You hear the deep chanting of the crowd, pulsing through you like a hymn. A smear of colourless shapes moving up and down. All you see is white spreading into your eyelids—your vision is pure, crystal white. Your head lulls back as it rolls back onto his wide shoulder.

And what he utters next is truly alien.

"Let me see those eyes, Caladanian." Feyd-Rautha croaked. It was a gruff, choked sentence, like it slipped out of him by accident.

What?

A weird feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, flip-flopping at his words.

For fuck sakes, the sick fuck is getting turned on by this. Harkonnens..

A silent weight hangs in the air. And for a moment you both don't move.

A flood of emotions wells in you, like an electric charge.

Albeit in pain, you take advantage of the changed atmosphere.

Your knees are trapped, stuck together like a sweaty mass between his thighs. Your head that was stagnantly leaning on Feyd-Rautha's shoulder now aggressively dips down and slams up into his face, head-butting him and taking him slightly off guard.

Feyd makes an animalistic noise, and something changes in his face.

He smashes your skull into the sand, and you desperately claw at the air, gyrating your body like a sandworm. The impact stuns you, and your vision runs fuzzy. Your brain feels like it's splitting. You see green, blue and pink hues. Strong hands are felt touching you, shaking you out of your reverie.

With feverish disgust, you realize that the Na-Baron is kneeling at your back, hovering over your form.

You feel his palm pat. Once. Twice. Thrice. On your mid-back. He rubs your heaving back in a mock-soothing gesture as you gasp inwardly, sucking in the polluted Geidi Prime air like it was your last time breathing, feeling the air barely satisfy you, feeling like you didn't have enough.

"That has to hurt," he purrs. His hand is warm on your back, rubbing. Your eyes widen with horror.

You cough, hacking now. Taking long, deep breaths. If you could just...

He continues rubbing, and you're glued to the ground.

Your chest betrays you and continues to huff and puff audibly, he must hear everything. It’s screechy, your lungs are burning. His hand movements somehow relax you, which may be considerably fucked up. He hums, satisfied, deep in his chest, the sound making you stare at the ground in confusion.

He stills his caring hand on your heaving back and glides it to the base of your neck, plunging your head into the sand, again and again, not giving you any leniency now.

Well, that didn’t last long.

Your head is concussed, sending short, stabbing pains like a tidal wave to your brain.

You flail wildly, kicking back and upwards, your shoes colliding with his body.

He scoops your short locks in one fluid motion, your scalp searing at the sensation. He removes the grip on your hair to fully cradle your face, whipping you around to face him. Your body is limp, nearly falling to the ground, save for your face firmly held in place by Feyd-Rautha.

"Up we go, no sleeping now." he remarks darkly as his gaze settles on you.

Your throat is bone dry, your lips so swollen and puffy from the gushing blood flowing out of your nose. It's definitely broken this time. But you're numbing out now, slowly, and every so often you see those beautiful, vibrant colours again, shimmering despite the bleached atmosphere. It's such a miraculous sight that it makes you smile dumbly... you're finally happy.

A stinging SMACK knocks your face to the side, and you falter in his grip, eyes widening.

Your shock quickly transforms to frustration as hot, angry tears spill from your eyes.

"Fuck you!" And you violently shove your thumbs into his eye sockets, filled with rage. You dig in with all your might.

Your intrusion makes him stumble, and you both messily fall over. Your body falls into his broad chest, the armour knocking against your worn clothes. By now, the rags have slits all along it, from your near misses with Feyd's blade.

You knock him over onto his back so that you're straddling him, your hands sinking into his eye sockets.

His eyes are fucking gleaming now with delight.

"Yes. Take my vision. End me now." He heartily begs, and his mocking face is seemingly drinking you in, in admiration, despite your thumbs digging into eyes. It’s like he can see past them, and you shiver involuntarily.

His hands and Crysknives lay at his sides, in a strange display of submission. You can see the black teeth behind his lips, widened with glee.

His enthusiasm under these circumstances made you pay far too much attention to his face and miss his ulterior motives.

As you’re about to increase the pressure even more, a Crysknife appears in your vision, like a figment of your imagination—before it’s buried to the hilt in your upper thigh.

You cry out, shrieking, throwing your head back in agony.

The sudden onslaught makes you fall backwards in pain. His blade is still buried to the hilt, tendons throbbing. Only the handle is sticking out, like a thorn in your tendons.

Pulling the blade out right now would be a risk to cause further damage to your blood vessels and nerves. This would lead to rapid blood loss. You couldn’t do that right now.

Immediately, you move. You start to drag yourself—by instinct, fight-or-flight, you don’t know.

You grit your teeth as you manage to find the strength to reach inside your thigh for your hidden blade, letting your hand grasp on the emerald green handle, pretending to cradle your injured thigh.

You keep it there as you continue to drag yourself.

"You've impressed me a great deal," Feyd-Rautha rasps. The unusual deep raspy tone reverberates through your eardrums somewhere above you.

Something inside you quivers at the revelation.

You know it’s best not to believe any of the drivel that spews from his mouth.

Curiously, he’s standing there, the white of his eyes veiny and visibly red from the press of your thumbs a moment ago.

Playing with his now singular Crysknife, tapping his fingers along the stretch of the blade—making no move to attack you.

Then a thought occurs to you. Feyd-Rautha wanted you to survive. Butchered and bloody, still barely hanging on. He wanted to see you at your emotional breaking point. Writhing and begging for his mercy, begging for your life. The sick fuck derives pleasure from it.

So you say the complete opposite of what he's expecting.

"I want to die," the level of your drawl is barely heard over the crowds chants and shouts booming through the stadium. And you wonder if he can hear you at all.

You drag your aching body towards him, the hidden knife in your hand still clenched thoroughly, stapled to your inner thigh. Your eyes feel raw, chaffed with sand, burning. They flutter as they try to remain open. But you use your eye muscles to slowly turn your face upwards from the ground, eyes searching for his.

"I want you to hurt like I hurt," you carefully fabricate your trembling voice, peering up at him behind your full lashes. Testing him, you spit vehemently on his black boots, emphasizing your point.

The sheen of it glistened in the black and white atmosphere, slightly outlined in a pinkish hue. You're determined to feast your eyes on him, to look as enticing as ever. You use your tongue to push the blood out from inside your mouth, in efforts to trigger his bloodlust. Blood dribbles down your chin onto the murky pits, stained from you.

The world shifts as you take your chance.

His black mouth opens wide in a gleaming smile. His interest is piqued.

"Oh," he coos. His pale hand suddenly darts out to grasp your dribbling face. "What a magnificent sight."

His thumbs trace along your bloodied chin. The fresh blood stains his fingertips, and you couldn't place the emotion that was there. Wide, perplexed eyes settle on you. His mouth was not upturned, but in a hard line. His orbs were staring right through you.

The seriousness of his mouth with the stimulated look in his eyes unsettled you. "Look at the blood of this fighter." He croons.

You pretend to struggle with rapid head movements to dislodge your head from his grasp. He only holds it there tighter. Now you show off your crimson stained lips, pouting in dismay.

Guard down.

He leans down, looming over you as he studies you. As you initially remembered, his ebony armour suit covered his body in an efficient way, everywhere except his ever-exposed face and neck.

His thumb moves from your chin to your full, battered lips.

You make your eyes as pathetic as possible, pleading. He tilts his head in fascination, and you beg.

“Please..”

You feel his thumb stutter on your bloodied lips at the sound, and his eyes blacken at once.

Bingo.

His enraptured pale face is the closest thing to you, and you don’t waste a minute before plunging the blade into the skin of his cheek, tearing through the flesh.

He roars, and you think the blade nicked his teeth as you hear a click.

There it is again: the change. His smirking, bemused face is wiped clean and replaced with a demonic, empty expression.

You’re suddenly gathered in his arms, and he slams you against the nearest arena wall. You struggle against him, shouting your protests. His forehead presses to yours—your heartbeat pounds. His magnetic probing eyes are otherworldly as they obliterate the world around you, and it’s claustrophobic.

You writhe and shake in fear, doing everything in your power to throw him off you. You punch him in the nose with a crunch. You punch him again in the face, sending it reeling. Your other hand chops aggressively at his cheek, downward, your palm bruised by the handle of the blade, wanting it to rupture. But all he does is laugh cruelly at you, his eyes glinting.

He withdraws the blade out of his cheek, tensing as he does it. You hear it hit the ground with a clang. He then grasps the handle jutting out of your thigh, wrenching it out.

Your muscles scream. But your voice doesn’t, in shock. He whips the blade away, throwing it to the side.

His tar-like mouth is drooling saliva and blood, panting into your shell-shocked face. Drool hits your chin as devious gaze envelops you, forehead digging into yours.

Your eyes glaze over and your belly flutters at that, mind completely wiped.

Blood begins to trickle—no, outpour from your wound.

You struggle to hold your balance, barely propping up your form.

He falls to his knees then, using his hands to steady you, snaking his arms down your calf. He stops on your ankle, wrapping his pale fingers around it, his other hand clutching the heel of your shoe.

Your blood runs ice cold. You whimper.

“Hush," he coos. "This is what happens when you volunteer to get slaughtered, rodent."

He grasps your ankle, and turns it sharply, the movement emitting a sickening snap, the pain is ice hot, the guttural scream ripping through your chest emits such a frequency...

That the crowd goes silent.

"Oh," his bulbous eyes are wide as saucers, his evil coming off in waves as he mockingly consoles you. “Such a delectable sound, so beautiful.”

The colour is drained from your face.

“Not much longer, I swear...” he moans, about to grab your ankle again.

And now it's your hands that are on his face, clasping his jaw in desperation as you tilt his chin upwards.

"You don't get to fucking do this." You hold his head in your hands as you stumble with your words.

You don't miss the amused expression on his blackened teeth, and, ever so slowly, his hands come to rest on your hands that are cradling his face. His eyes are on fire. Your hands are on fire at his touch.

He tilts his head curiously. "My, my..."

He keeps your grip there. And the eye contact is too much.

He slowly takes your hands down, trying to pin them to your sides, but you aren't going without a fight again. Your worn muscle strains to keep them planted on his jaw, and you’re the one who’s grinning like a maniac now, thumbs digging into the corner of his mouth, stretching that god awful black mouth open.

He chuckles knowingly, his stretched smile guttural, sounding as if Satan himself had spawned.

"You are special, aren't you?" He pauses to consider your gushing, bloody mess of a face. The deep baritone husk of his voice is sickly sweet. "Even with everything beaten out of you,"

You can't believe how vile and how utterly deranged and twisted this man was to be toying with your anguish and consuming it like a life force. Like it makes him stronger, all the better off to treat your broken soul as a means to an end.

You tell him this. You tell him exactly now you feel, past the point of caring. You are out-of-body; you are not even attached anymore, shattered beyond repair.

“Fucking piece of shit," Your voice is hoarse from your screaming, dryer than the desert wastes. You want to see his face as it contorts, need to see him receive your insult as harsh as it was intended.

His face doesn't seem to register what you said. His pale head merely drops out of your hands to be level with your ankle again as it twitches in his scratchy and cut-up, war-torn palms, your soft skin supple in comparison.

Your ankle is yanked in one swift, fluid motion, and you know he heard you. The pain is making you see starry, glittery speckles as your eyelids flutter close.

Death is near.

The crowd says it. That's them. That must be them. All of their voices sound like a chorus—a church choir—as you float in and out of consciousness.

You don't know how long you've been yanked forward; you swear you've been to the end of the arena, doing laps around Feyd-Rautha.

Running in a diagonal line, weaving through him. Mother would be proud.

But no, something is heavy, rooting you to the ground and sitting on your chest, weighing you down like a cinder block.

The flaps on his black armoured legs are covering your face in the struggle; his knees are pressed into your cheeks as he gathers your arms, both of them against his chest, holding them to him like floppy string beans.

You push against him, “Fucking Harkonnen scum!" Your anger rips out of your throat; your hatred is not reserved anymore; it’s open, bearing witness for the crowd to see.

“You forget yourself,” Feyd-Rautha sneers down at you as he collects your flailing limbs in his palms. “Your beauty is the only thing saving you at this point.”

His words strike right at your heart, your chest tightening in dread.

Beauty?

But there’s something else there, amongst the terror. Something you don’t want to acknowledge, and in the desecration of your soul, you feel yourself, your whole body, flush.

You panic at your sickened thoughts, and you dip your head up to see your jello-like arms captured by Feyd-Rautha. Your broken ankle lies horribly twisted. Your anguished, throbbing limbs and fresh wounds are seeping with agony. And your bones—your bones ought to be mush by now.

Exhaustion has caught up to you. You've ignored it for so long... so long.

Trying to prove yourself.

Your eyes flutter close.

“Closing your eyes isn’t going to make this go away,” the rough, taunting voice of Feyd-Rautha sends a jolt through your body.

You tighten your eyes harder.

Let me rest. Let me take a rest from you.

“I said-” His voice was malevolent, husky. “I need to see those eyes again.”

Your eyes fly open, just in time to see his blackened mouth now hovering over yours, his proximity making your body go rigid. His chest is weighing you down, his body caging you.

His dark, gleeful expression seems to ruin you as your nose grazes his. Your heart sings.

No. This is wrong.

“What are you doing?” You don’t believe your own protest as it spills out of you. Your heart is hammering out of your chest.

The palm of his hand slid over your tattered shorts, over the skin of your hip bone. Goosebumps rise at his touch, and he smiles at that, his wet tongue swiping over his black teeth in perverse fascination.

“How utterly brave,” he whispers, his eyes lit aflame as they locked on yours. He drags a finger down your temple, cheek, and finally lets it rest on your jaw, his touch burning like a brand. “A hero amongst them. One that isn’t afraid to be broken. One that welcomes it.”

“Harkonnen-” your protest dies in your throat when you suddenly feel his tongue dart out to lick the blood gathering at the corner of your mouth.

You freeze. Your eyes widen as he licks it clean. The black pit of his mouth draws closer, and you’re sinking. Your stomach flips upside down. His tongue slithers into your mouth, an overflow of warmth flowing in your belly. You can’t think... You can’t feel. His lips are surprisingly soft as they obliterate you.

He tastes metallic, with a hint of black liquorice.

Your body shakes like a leaf in his arms—the nerves overflowing. He deeply chuckles, the sound reverberating in your mouth, as his tongue punches yours, darting around and around. Your thoughts are so muddied you sigh and you’re kissing him back with feverish passion. He groans at that.

His hand is splayed over your abdomen, and you feel the cool sensation of his rings. Something snaps inside you. You break the kiss.

No, what am I doing, what am I doing, what the fuck am I-

"Wait-”

His hand trails lower and lower, settling on your pubic bone.

“I-”

You're stuttering, scarlet red and flushed with humiliation.

“Shhhh..” His shushes are guttural, and a shiver runs up your spine.

Someone has to stop this, right? Th-They'll stop the battle right, once they realize this isn't a battle anymore.

You watch as his arms slide up and underneath your tunic, deep shame swirling in your belly as excitement and thrill courses through your veins from his attention.

They'll stop it, They can stop, I won't be made a fool of- no I won't-

His other hand's rings caress your ribcage, your skin pin-pricking with want. He traces carefully over every rib bone before pressing. Hard.

You yelp as you snap out of your reverie and dig your nails into his wrist, bucking wildly against him in an effort to get him off of you.

Why would they stop it? You're in the arena with a treasured and respected sociopath—their precious Na-Baron.

His hand slides down your shoulder, down the apex of your arm, goosebumps continuing to rise despite your flailing frame.

Your eyes encapsulated your undoing under Feyd-Rautha’s hard stare. He didn’t believe you for a second as he watched you flail about. His sickly eyes were large and expanding at your blatant but silent need.

"N-Na-Baron, you don't need to trouble yourself. I'm a peasant, worthless all around. Surely you wouldn't dishonour yourself...disrespect yourself..." Your ramble came in short gasps.

It sounded pitiful and sad to even your own ears.

Something flashes over his eyes in amusement as he considers you.

“Oh,” his rough voice muses. “But I do respect you, pet.”

And at that, his ringed fingers cupped you, sliding over your nub.

Your face came alive, then. Like he had never seen. Your eyes swirl, cheeks flushed, pink mouth open—tormented by your enjoyment.

“So lovely,” he encouraged. You shuddered inwardly, your insides like a million shards of glass as his ink-stained teeth smiled down at you.

You’re unable to keep up with his ministrations. A sob wracks through you, the pleasure travelling the whole length of your skeleton down to your toes.

His hot mouth is moving over your collarbone as you struggle to punch him.

He hovers over you, brushing your resisting face with his fingers. He covers your angry fist and snatches it to his chest, holding it steadfast.

"Give in now, you poor thing."

Instantly, your eyes are sucked into his deep blue ones, as he quickens his pace. Flicking back and forth.

You cry out, arching into his chest.

His mouth opens in a mocking, seductive gleam, clearly loving your reactions.

“Can’t-” you think you go to another dimension, a cosmic shift as you try to make sense of what is happening to you.

“Can’t what?” He grovels, low and heavy. His hunger is apparent. His tongue makes a home in your ear, as your eyes roll back into your head.

Faster and faster, he demolishes your entire being, breaking you from the inside out.

You think you go to Caladan for a moment, maybe to Arrakis—your body flying as the pressure builds.

Somehow, in the midst of adrenaline, your battle instinct takes over, and you're able to roll on top of him, bringing his forearm that has disappeared in your trousers with you.

You sit up straight—on top of him, shakily wrapping your hands around his throat.

A sinister laugh erupts from under you. Feyd-Rautha angles his flicking wrist so that it never leaves you, his free hand seizing the cleft of your hip completely still. Your body sputters in shock.

Your glassy orbs flicker over his angular, pale face like a hawk, stuttering with vulnerability, and he senses it.

He hoarsely speaks below you, his desire thick. “I need it, give it to me, I want it, I need you,”

His words hit you like dynamite as the pleasure amounted within you, tears in your eyes at the intensity of the moment. His bulbous eyes never left you, his black mouth opening at the sight of you in utter devotion. Your hands release from his throat.

Your defeated eyes are engulfed by his as you collapse onto his chest. You felt the throes of submission envelop you - needing, wanting to be under his scrutiny, his gaze. His armoured arms fastened you in his grip, anchoring your shaking form in his arms, holding you close.

His pale head went rest on your shoulder blade for a moment, then pulled you back to leer at you.

This intimacy with.. him.

It could not be replicated through space and time.

Feyd-Rautha hauls your crumpled form to him, his white hand digging into your hip as he tosses one of your arms around his shoulders. He's doing most of the heavy lifting as you lean against him, depleted and brutalized. He’s walking you towards the stands.

Your face was caked with dirt and blood, swollen. You were numb - to his violence earlier, to his.. attention.

A bellow is heard above.

"Exquisite, nephew." The Baron nodded at the both of you, his enormous form like a boulder in the stands. “You lest come across a treat among the gutter like that in your lifetime.”

You turn away, your brow furrowing in disdain.

You feel a harsh slap to your cheek, the bite of it temporarily distracting you from your seething anger, but fuelling it nonetheless. “Look at my uncle when he’s addressing you.”

“Just kill me,” you gritted your teeth as you whisper at him, feeling debased, undignified.

His eye contact was immobilizing.

"Oh now you beg, treasure?" Feyd-Rautha says deeply, in awe. "When you've stopped fighting?"

You barely process the term of endearment as it shuts you up.

Feyd-Rautha holds your upper torso, forcing you to stand against him, squeezing your cheeks together as he inclines your face to his uncle.

Plump lips encase the shell of your ear, his hot saliva sending waves of.. something down your spine.

“You should be proud." Feyd grunted out. "I don't service those in the arena often, but when I do...”

He plays with your ribs, his fingers cold underneath your tatted and holey shirt.

“I make sure they are worthy of it, to add to the display,”

You know exactly what he means by serviced, and you feel mortified of the memory, knowing - The Baron, noble ladies and the noble men all have seen it. They must know that nothing is off limits for a sadist - you could imagine he tortured and serviced men and women alike - you doubt it mattered to him.

It was the Harkonnen Arena, everything for the ease of entertainment.

Your protest was instant. “Go fuck yours-”

"Shut your mouth, pet, before I send you away to be a slave, the only worth you'll ever live." He threatened. "If you're to behave, you'll be here, training with me, for battle regularly.”

“I don’t blame you, nephew,” The Baron jeered from the stands. “How did you learn to move like that, girl?”

Feyd-Rautha’s mouth was open again—a tunnel of black tar. “Answer him.”

“A peasant never reveals their secret, my lord.” you bluntly say, not caring for the repercussions.

You hear Feyd growl in a warning before the Baron interrupts him, erupting in jolly, sick laughter. “Oh, what fun you’ll have with this one, nephew.”

“Indeed, uncle.” Feyd’s deep blue irises drink you in as he snatches you roughly.

Feyd-Rautha steps around the arena, presenting you to the people like a spectacle. He allows you your respect, holding you with your arms stretched like a splayed out starfish. The flat of his palm is pushing the centre of your spine.

You do feel like you’ve gone through hell as you hear the crowd roar in applause. You do feel like you’ve earned something. But you didn’t. You failed. Tears roll down your face.

Did I mother? Did I do it?

A flash of your mother’s caring eyes envelopes you. She nods, her angelic presence swarming around you.

“You did well, daughter.” A whisper. “I couldn’t have asked for better.”

She cradles your head in your hands, tilting your head to meet her warmth.

You grin, happiness enveloping you, grasping at her shoulders. You want to hold her, but you can’t. “Really, mother?”

“Yes, Caladanian." Her warm smile is pitch black. Her praise is false, a lie.

With a sick feeling, it’s his voice now whispering in your ears again, breaking you from your dreamy experience.

Feyd-Rautha's chest is pressing into your bruised back as he holds you to him.. Can he.. let you keep speaking with your mother, just for a moment? Would he, if you followed orders, if you made no trouble?

“The honour you deserve, pet..” His thumbs wipe at your tears as they dribble down your sunken cheeks, but his face is devious. “I shall wash and clean you myself, and then you’re going to rest in my arms tonight,” His whispers aren’t of comfort, like hers—his voice is too brazen, too guttural.

His eyes are a bottomless pit as his hand travels to the base of your neck.

“I think you might be my favourite..” He squeezes, briefly cutting off your air supply and you sputter and cough.

You feel faint. A stream of water is forced down your lips, and you drink it, still coughing.

Your vision is hazy, and you decide it’s time to sleep. It’s like he’s rocking you back and forth, the length of your body dragging along the sand, back and forth and back and forth and-

Shushing you, soothing you, like a baby.

Still hearing the crowd congratulate you, the deafening cries of the Harkonnen people clear in your eardrum, still feeling him grip you -

In your weakened state, a surge of lightning flows through your veins. From the gods, perhaps?

They’ve seen what you did; they’ve seen what you’ve endured.

There’s colour now in this bleak, desolate oasis. You’re the colour.

The black sun seemingly speaks as it encases your entirety.

You have won, dear one. You have survived.

PART 1 PART 2

174 notes · View notes

crybaby-bkg · 2 years ago

Text

You try not to rustle the sheets too loudly when you sit up in bed. You rub at your eyes, frowning, as you tap at your phone screen to read the time. 3:26am, and you haven’t gotten the sleep you know you both need and deserve. you sigh quietly, sitting up against the headboard as you watch the dimmed colors pass on the tv.

“What’re you doing up?” A voice slurs to you from your left. You jump a little at the sudden gruff noise, before you deflate. You glance over to Bakugou, where he lays on his side, one crimson colored eye blinking up at you, before he yawns loud and wide, akin to a lion with his golden mane. You can’t help but rub gently at his cheek and jaw and neck, patting him once his eye flutters close at the warmth of your hands.

“Can’t sleep. You go back to bed, though.” You whisper to him, leaning down to peck at the corner of his mouth. You laugh under your breath when he frowns, hard and over dramatic. Silence passes on for a few minutes, with Bakugou’s frown slowly disappearing into a thin line, seemingly falling back asleep as your fingers continue to rub at his skin. Your quiet moment is interrupted though, when your stomach makes a whale-dying-classroom-interrupting-bomb-dropping noise. You don’t say anything, but blink down at Bakugou when he cracks his eye open again.

“You hungry?” He slurs once more, stretching a little in place as you run a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, but I don’t feel like getting up to fix anything, and we haven’t gone to the store yet to get some snacks, so,” you shrug to yourself, convincing yourself you’d fall asleep before the hunger pangs set in. It’s your turn to frown though, when Bakugou suddenly groans before rolling over and standing from the bed.

“Where are you going?" You ask him, afraid you and your loud stomach disturbed his rest too much. You watch how the muscle in his back ripple when he stretches again where he stands, guilty eyes tracking up his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder.

“To fix your hungry ass a midnight snack.” He tells you, finality lacing his voice as he starts stalking off to the kitchen in just his boxers before you can even answer.

“But it’s past midnight!” You call to him, scrambling up to put your slippers on as you try to keep up with his pace.

Bakugou doesn’t answer you by the time you make it to the kitchen, already boiling water, and dumping rice into the cooker. He’s pulling out different ingredients and knives and the cutting board, and it feels like too much to be so late, but you know if you try to speak up, he’ll only shoo you to bed until he’s finished. The only acknowledgment he gives you is when he turns, placing his hands on your underwear-clad hips and lifts you to sit on the counter behind him, pecking your lips once, twice, before he goes back over to the stove.

The next couple minutes go by gently, with quiet conversations about his most recent capture, about the paperwork you had to fill out, about Denki being an idiot, about Denki actually being a sweetheart, about eating all this damn food he’s cooking, about promising to clean your entire plate. The kitchens lights are low and dimmed, and it casts a soft glow on Bakugou’s high cheekbones and his pretty lashes and the sweet curve of his mouth when he grins at you.

And when the food finishes, you share a bowl, a respective fork for the each of you. Bakugou stands between your legs, chewing quietly and scolds for you to slow down when you eat too fast. He wipes away the rice from your mouth and you lick away the sauce from his chin. He grabs a water bottle from the fridge and lets you have the first sip, offers you the rest when you watch some of it dribble down his chin.

It’s a serene moment shared between the two of you, and when you’re both finished, he’s carrying you back to bed. Tells you that you better take your full ass to bed this time, and he doesn’t fall asleep until he hears your light snores first. Then, he can rest.

#this is directionless sorry #I’ve just been sad and really wanted to write a peaceful serene moment with him #I’m gonna go write the other draft I’ve had for a while and I might either upload it tonight too #or just wait until the morning idk #—new treat in the streets! 🍫#bakugou treats! 🍬

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modelbus · 7 months ago

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Sorry not sorry for ignoring all my requests to write this!! Yes this is ANOTHER cod song fic… As a warning I haven’t played the games and reality is what I make it <3

!! this gets VERY VERY VERY suggestive at the end, no devils tango actually happens though !! be warned !!

Pairing: Gn!Reader x Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)

The smoke cloud billows out his mouth Like a freight train through a small town

Unlike Ghost, you don’t smoke. Even though you’re a soldier, you prefer not to cut your life short by smoking death sticks. Ghost, you’re fairly certain, couldn’t give less of a shit if he lives or dies.

You stopped trying to convince him not to smoke a while ago.

Although you have a general distaste for the smell of smoke, you have a general taste for Ghost, so any time he steps out to smoke you follow along like a shadow. The first few times he had ignored you. Then there was a time where he—very quietly—told you that you didn’t have to follow him, that he knew you didn’t like smoking. You, lovesick, stupid, head-over-boots for your lieutenant, kept going with him. You were rewarded with actual conversations.

Ghost exhales smoke, mask pushed up over his nose. “Stop lookin’ at my mouth.”

You laugh, turning your head away. “It’s a rare sight.”

“Not for you.”

He blows out more smoke, and you focus on the lighter he tossed you. An old one, rusted metal that heats up when the flame is on for too long. It’s got a charm to it that you love. Same as him, you once joked.

“You only expose your mouth when you’re putting it to use.” You tease, eyes darting up to gauge his reaction.

“I’d put it to use now, but you hate the taste of cigarettes. Stop teasing because I decide I don’t care.” Despite his threat, you can see his lips quirking up in the smallest hints of a smile.

“Sir yes sir.”

He snorts. “Tease.”

“You love it.”

They shake their heads saying “God help her” When I tell ‘em he’s my man

“Don’t know how you put up with him.” Soap laughs, arm slung casually over your shoulders. “You’re a saint for it.”

“Ghost?” You ask, although you already know Soap is referring to the lieutenant who is currently barking orders at some recruits.

Barking orders and running them into the ground, that is. It’s training course day, which means they get to suffer under Ghost’s command. Price called it “building character.” Soap had called it “cruel and inhumane punishment.”

“No, the other hardhead you’re datin’.” Soap squeezes you. “Yeah, Ghost.”

“He’s not a hardhead.” You protest. As if he heard you, Ghost’s head turns to look at you from across the field. His eyes narrow at Soap’s arm around you, but must ultimately deem it harmless.

“He just threatened me! And he ain’t a hardhead?”

“He didn’t even say anything, Soap, how—“

“With his eyes, stupid. Staring right daggers.”

“He was not.” You shove Soap away, laughing.

“He was! You’re just used to it! God help you, you’re clearly delusional already!”

“The only one who needs God’s help is you and the recruits.”

Soap shouts some curse at you as you walk away, but you give him the middle finger as you hurry off toward Ghost before he kills a recruit. Again.

God help you? Yeah right. You knew what you were doing. God needed to help those recruits.

His hand so calloused from his pistol softly traces hearts on my face

Calloused fingertips brush over your skin before he commits, cupping your cheek. Delicate, in the way he learned from handling guns and knives and explosives. Soft, in the way he learned from you.

“Pretty thing.” Simon murmurs, an accusation or a compliment. It doesn’t really matter which it is, anyway.

“Kiss me.” You whine playfully, although you know he won’t.

He loved staring at you almost as much as he loved you in his bed, both of which he has right now. You’ll get your kiss eventually, no doubts about that, but only after he gets his way. Greedy man, but you knew that the second you laid eyes on him.

“Patience is a virtue.” He warns, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Wait.”

“Wait for you to get tired of looking at me?”

The look he levels at you is unamused, and you shut your mouth quickly.

“Wait for me to memorize your face again. Gotta make sure I see it in my dreams.” He grins at you, subtle and cheeky, aware of the butterflies erupting in your stomach.

Damn him. Damn him and his too-smooth lines.

You close your eyes, giving in and waiting as you always do. There’s a high chance he made that line up, but there’s an equally high chance it’s the honest truth.

“Eyes open.” Simon orders, tapping your cheek until you open them to glare at him. “There’s my pretty eyes.”

“Am I a pretty thing or are my eyes?” You ask rhetorically. You’re saying the retort, but the only thing on your mind is an ongoing chant of ‘yours yours yours.’

“Yes.” Finally, he leans in and kisses you. “Stay.” He gets up, heading to the bathroom.

“Ass.” You groan, loud enough that you know he can hear it. His gruff laugh echoes back to you.

Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man No really I can

Simon, your Simon, mouths at your neck, occasionally biting as he sees fit. Tease. Nasty, horrible tease.

There’s still blood on his clothes from the mission, but he shed the soaked gloves the second he started touching you. Claimed your skin was too pristine to dirty up, too perfect.

Ironic, considering what a mess he’s making of you now.

“Please.” You gasp out, digging your hand into his hair. It doesn’t even deter him as he sucks a hickey that’ll be large enough to raise eyebrows.

“One day I’ll tie you up and teach you how to wait.” He practically growls, tone low enough to be one if you squint.

Low enough to send a whole new wave of heat through you. And it certainly doesn’t help that you’ve still got the memory of him tearing through enemies on the mission. Of him jerking his gun up to shoot a man through the heart, mere feet from him.

If it was a crime to be attracted to his danger, you were in for a lifetime.

“Please, Simon.” You draw out the plea, hoping he’ll stop being a leech to your neck and move lower.

“You can do better, love.”

He reaches around, untangling your hand from his hair to pin your wrists above you. His fingers dig into the intimate interiors of your wrists, not too hard, but certainly not soft.

The worst (or perhaps best) part about his threat to tie you up is that you’d let him. Unquestionably. Simon Riley was a man who could rip others apart with his bare hands, but he was also a man who you’d let take you apart and put you together a thousand fold.

You loved it every time he did, after all.

“I’ll be good?” You try. “I swear, Si. Please.”

He hovers there, body weight holding you down, pressed to the bed, as he considers. Finally, he exhales, and you know you’ve got what you want.

“Atta girl. Now let me take care of you, yeah?”

#simon ghost riley #ghost #cod #call of duty #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #ghost x reader #ghost x you

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bamber344 · 5 months ago

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Whumpee intro: Jordyn's Training - 2

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masterlist

Currently running low on mental energy and fixating on things that are gonna happen in this story ages and ages from now so I don't have much to say about this one

As always, let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list! chapter begins after the cut

CWs: minor medical whump, references to previous torture (whipping), manipulative and creepy old man performing odd powerplays on his vulnerable and confused 'charge,' references to forced haircuts, food control

Jordyn's Training, part 2: Questions

6 MONTHS AFTER WAKING

My eye twitched as the needle sunk into the skin of my cheek again, but I avoided wincing at it. The pain I was feeling wasn’t real, and I was strong enough by now to understand that. Thanks to what Father did to my back, I was forced to endure that irritating sensation for weeks and weeks on end, until eventually I learned to ignore it, just as he wanted. I pulled the suture through and out on the other side of the mostly-stitched slash wound across my face, separating it from the needle and tying it off. There, done.

I examined my face in the mirror, taking pride in my work. It was a lot shoddier than what the medics could do, but it was my first time suturing a wound, so that was to be expected. Father had banned me from the medbay so that I could learn to treat my own injuries as the difficulty of the obstacle course ramped up. This particular one was made by a knife launched from the wall that I had been too slow to block with my shadows. It was my mistake, and as such, it only made sense that I would be the one to fix it. After all, ‘what self-respecting 26 year old woman doesn’t know how to stitch their own wounds?’ or so Father said. Apparently, I was 26. That was good to know. I had been wondering how old I was recently.

The cut stretched all the way from my cheekbone to the bridge of my nose. If it had been even an inch higher, it probably would’ve taken out my right eye. As it was, though, it was just a flesh wound, and it would heal in time. Meanwhile, the constant itch would be a good reminder of what happened when I made a mistake in the obstacle course. I was getting good at blocking and deflecting the knives with my shadows, but evidently, I needed more practice

The door to my room opened and Father stepped in, walking over to me near the desk. He leaned down, peering at my stitched-up face. For a moment I thought he might have been about to reach out and touch me, and excitement flooded my chest, but instead he just stood there, hands behind his back as he examined my work. I tried not to let the disappointment show in my expression.

“Hm, a little messy,” he said. “But I suppose that’s to be expected for your first attempt. Good work, Jordyn.” He smiled, and my whole body lit up with giddiness.

“Thank you, Father.”

He checked his watch. “It’s just about time for lunch. Would you accompany me?”

I nodded and we left my room, heading through the winding hallways of the facility towards one of my favourite places: the mess hall. Nothing was more satisfying than a warm meal after a hard training session, and ever since I regained my dinner privileges, I’d been able to visit it that much more often. Not to mention, it was the place where I was most likely to run into the other people at the facility outside of Father and the medics. We would have conversations and I’d learn about all sorts of things that Father hadn’t deemed necessary to teach me. I didn’t resent him for it; I understood that he needed to prioritise my physical training, but it was fun learning new things. Speaking of which…

“Father, permission to ask a question?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Granted.”

“If you’re my father, why don’t we look the same? And, where’s my mother?”

He stopped walking, his brows furrowing into a frown. “Where did you hear about this?”

“Mr. Sadler, from R&D. He was telling me about his family and he mentioned a few things I didn’t understand, so I asked some questions. He told me what parents were. But, if I came from you, how come we look so different?”

I thought it was a reasonable question. My skin was tan, and my hair and eyes were dark, while Father was pasty and pale from top to bottom. His nose was thin where mine was wide, he was tall where I was short, and even when I looked at his face next to mine in the mirror, I couldn’t see a single similarity. Based on what Mr. Sadler said, that didn’t make sense to me.

Father hesitated. “Well… I suppose you take after your mother. In fact, you’re the spitting image of her. Unfortunately, she… passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh… How?”

Father began walking again, sudden enough that I had to jog to catch up to him. “No more questions, Jordyn. You just need to focus on your training. Don’t worry about anything else, alright?”

Oh well, I could just ask again some other time. I sucked in a breath and puffed out my chest. “Yes, Father.”

He smiled again, and my whole body tingled. “Good girl. Keep up the good work and you’ll be able to start combat training soon. Oh, and make sure you cut your hair before you go to bed tonight.”

I frowned, running a hand through my hair and taking a black lock between my fingers. When I first woke up after my accident, I had no hair. My head was completely smooth. It always upset me for some reason when I saw myself in the mirror. Ever since then, it’d been growing at a steady rate, and the longer it got, the happier I was with it. Nowadays, my fringe was long enough to reach my eyes if I didn’t brush it away. I liked it, and I liked the way it made me look. The thought of cutting it when it had finally reached a point I liked was like a punch in the gut.

“But… But I like my hair like this.”

Father raised an eyebrow. “Cut it, Jordyn. That’s an order.”

I wilted, trying to hold back the tears burning behind my eyes. “Y-yes, Father. How short?”

He peered at me, and it felt as though his gaze pierced through my body, layer by layer, through my skin and fat into the muscle beneath, and further still until it reached my soul. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, he knew exactly where to look to find the small glimmer of hope I was burying; the hope that he would only make me cut a little bit off. His head cocked to the side like a predator eyeing its helpless prey.

“On second thought, buzz it all off. If your helmet comes off in battle, your hair will be a liability. You don’t want any criminals to be able to grab it, do you?”

I couldn’t help it. I started crying, even while trying to nod and confirm the command. “Y-yes, F-Father.”

“Really, Jordyn? Waterworks again, over a little haircut? You’re a grown woman, you need to start acting like it. No one will take you seriously if you become hysterical whenever you don’t get your way.”

“S-sorry, Father,” I said, trying to hold in my hiccups as best I could. He was right, of course. He was always right. Father knew best. I shouldn’t get so upset over such a simple ask; cutting my hair was the least I could do after everything Father had done for me. So what if looking in the mirror upset me again? I just wouldn’t look. It was fine. I could do it.

We continued on in silence to the mess hall, where we both grabbed trays and filled them up from the bain-marie before finding a table to sit at. Since it was midday, most of the tables were already taken, but when Father and I approached one, everyone sitting there immediately got up and left, taking their food with them. Apparently, Father just had that sort of influence on the people here. They’d never done that to me while I was on my own before. It disappointed me, to be honest. I’d been looking forward to talking with them.

I could still feel the tears in the back of my throat threatening to spill out as I sat down across from Father, but with the promise of a nice meal of chilli and rice in the very near future, I could ignore them a little easier. I grabbed my fork and was about to dig in when Father stopped me.

“I didn’t give you permission to eat, Jordyn.”

I froze, staring at him. He cocked his head meaningfully and I put my fork down before I could upset him any more.

“Good.”

Father started eating. He didn’t speak to me once during his meal. All I could do was sit there and watch as he polished off his tray. My face began to itch around my stitches, and when I moved to scratch them he glanced at me pointedly. I dropped my hand and remained still.

Eventually, he finished, promptly standing up and leaving his tray on the table. We made eye contact, and finally, finally, he said;

“You can eat now.”

Father left the room, and I was left alone to finish my meal in silence, wondering what I’d done so wrong.

Taglist: @steelandblood@sapphicwhump @urnumber1star

Really wanted to highlight Father and Jordyn's power dynamic in this one, and the way that he will just do random, seemingly pointless things just to exert his power over her when he feels it slipping, even without directly hurting her. Also the way that Jordyn's conditioning training is going as time progresses. I really want to get her out of this sort of 'child-like' demeanour soon but it's hard as she literally knows so little and is so sheltered on top of that. Tho I suppose it'll resolve itself as Father leans more on the conditioning and she becomes more of a soldier (which is sad but hey it won't be bad forever i prommy)

there will be either 1 or 2 more chapters in the Jordyn's Training arc, one for 9 months and one for a year, but I might put them both in the same chapter depending on how long the last one ends up. TBH i'm looking forward to moving on so I can start introducing more characters!! I've been thinking a lot about them and wanna show them off to the world :)

Feel free to reblog and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)

#project genesis whump series #whumpblr #whump series #living weapon whump #living weapon whumpee #manipulative whumper #oc whump #whump writing #superhero whump

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tma-entity-song-poll · 8 months ago

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Battle of the Fear Bands B3R2: The Flesh

Knives Out:

“A song about cruelty, about not knowing anything else.”

youtube

An Interlace of Bones:

youtube

Lyrics below the line!

Knives Out:

I want you to know He's not coming back Look into my eyes I'm not coming back So knives out Catch the mouse Don't look down Shove it in your mouth If you'd been a dog They would've drowned you at birth Look into my eyes It's the only way you'll know I'm telling the truth So knives out Cook him up Squash his head Put him in the pot I want you to know He's not coming back He's bloated and frozen Still there's no point in letting it go to waste So knives out Catch the mouse Squash his headPut him in the pot

An Interlace of Bones:

Take my flesh and shake it out Put it in the washing machine My heart is drying on the line While my skin is spinning clean Skeletons are hard to sleep with Bones are all that we have left Shin bones, pelvis, heavy femurs The chuckle of your fingers leaves me bereft I feel the cutting of your cheekbones On the temple of my skull The empty space of unlocked ribcage Once our hearts had made so full And in the morning we'll wake early Leave the curtains closed again Slowly wrap our muscles round our bones We'll take our organs from the wash Freshly laundered, clean as new And carefully replace them in their hollows Because this night will be our last We felt the need to wash the marks Of all the secrets shared together From our bodies and our hearts The teeth-bite bruise on lips and necks The sharp caress on shivering limbs If left too long after we're gone Would fray the fabric of our skin And in the morning we'll wake early Dress our skeletons again Trying not to catch each other's eye We'll smooth out wrinkles, settle seams Rewire our newly polished veins Cause we've already said our last goodbyes Over and again, over and again, over and again I'm just a bag of bones now Over and again, over and again, over and again I don't want you to go now Over and again, over and again, over and again You say it's better this way Over and again, over and again, over and again I'm just a bag of bones now Our memories of love are washed out, we're strangers now (Our skeletons remember) Lace and tie and zip our flesh back into place (Even if our love is over) Put on our clothes (I don't want you to go now) Open the door (You say it's better this way) Sharing secrets no more (I don't want you to leave me) I'd rather keep these memories instead of being clean and empty When we're clean and finally spotless, I give you one last kiss There's nothing, no response From the clean, soft flesh that used to be your lips

#the magnus archives #tma #poll #the flesh #radiohead #the forgetmenauts #Youtube

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the12thnightproject · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1: A Cat in a Thunderstorm. In which Katsuko and Mitsuhide get off to a very rough start.

Mitsuhide x OC; Hideyoshi x MC (Mai)

All Chapters Archived on Ao3

Logline - With Mai, Hideyoshi, and Aki missing, Mitsuhide and Katsuko reluctantly team up. Disguised as a merchant and his concubine, can they outsmart the man known as the God of Deceit?

The first time I met Mitsuhide, I was balancing upside down on my hands while my master flung knives at me. You would think with such an introduction that our relationship would have nowhere to go but up.

You would be wrong.

“What did that one do to deserve this treatment?” The man (for I had yet to learn that this taunting stranger with platinum hair and cut-glass cheekbones was Akechi Mitsuhide - yes, ‘that one’) leaned carelessly against a tree. “Far be it from me to offer pointers on whichever brand of torture you favor, but this seems rather excessive. If you accidently nick an artery, it becomes a race against time to acquire the information before he bleeds to death.”

“Training.” Aki barely acknowledged the stranger’s presence. He sent another dagger spinning end over end toward my throat. I shifted to a one-handed stance, caught the knife, flipped to my feet, and hurled it away.

It buried itself in the tree next to the stranger’s smirking face.

I meant to do that.

Hey, it’s not my fault he chose to lean next to the target.

The stranger didn’t flinch. He pulled my dagger out of the tree and idly examined it. I tensed, readying myself in case he chose to lob it back in my direction. Instead, he simply spun it around his fingers, as if it were a baton, rather than a blade capable of reducing the number of digits on his hand.

Was this man a friend or an enemy? Enemies attack with swords and bullets, not teasing. But something about him made me feel… tense. No. Prickly. That was a better word for the shiver of worried anticipation that passed through me.

Danger, Will Robinson, danger!

I looked to Aki, hoping for a cue. Strangers approaching our campsite weren’t a rarity, and they ranged from friendly travelers wishing for company to wandering bands of ronin, mistakenly thinking we’d be an easy target. Aki’s relaxed posture suggested the stranger was of the former group. “Katsu, please prepare some tea for Lord Akechi and me?”

Oh, this was Aki’s ‘penpal,’ the infamous Mitsuhide. I’d been delivering messages between them for over four years without catching sight of more than the back of his head. Interesting… based on his silver hair, I had assumed that Mitsuhide was Aki’s age, if not older, but this man seemed to be from my own generation.

I bowed respectfully (just because Mitsuhide was kind of snarky didn’t negate his position as a General of the Oda… and, well, not to mention, Aki would scold me if I was rude to a guest) and turned toward the firepit as requested, but Mitsuhide’s voice caused me to stop in my tracks.

“No need for that, old friend. It’s your courier I was looking for. If you will allow me to question…” he paused, and those amber-gold eyes sent a long look at me, starting with the top of my balaclava, which hid my hair. His gaze travelled leisurely down to my feet, as if he, like Superman, possessed x-ray vision. That look upgraded my initial shiver to an artic chill. It felt like Mitsuhide had not only found all my secrets, but also discovered things about me that I didn’t know myself. There was something about that stare that made me wish I had missed the tree and hit him. “If you will allow me to question her.”

X-ray vision indeed. It was only Aki’s training that kept me from reacting. I’ve been dressing as a boy for seven years. So far, no one had ever seen through my disguise. Even Mitsuhide’s own courier Kyubei had never pinged my true gender. Again, though, I deferred to Aki, curious to see how he would respond.

“If you wish to discuss something with Katsu, then you may begin by making the request of her, not me.” Aki beckoned me to his side. “Akechi Mitsuhide, this is my daughter Katsuko.”

Daughter?!

At his pronouncement, I bit the inside of my cheek to remind myself to remain impassive. Trust Aki to cast me in a new role without any rehearsal. Luckily, I was facing him, and not Mitsuhide. Because Aki is not my father. Mentor. Boss.

Occasional pain-in-the-ass.

In turn, I’ve played many roles for him over the years. Courier, maid, old man. ‘Daughter’ was a new cover, but he must have had a good reason to make that claim, so I went with it. “Thank you, honorable and revered Father.” I presented him with what I hope looked like an acceptable filial bow (although, were I ever to meet my actual biological father, I would feel far less respectful).

“Ah, yes, there does appear to be somewhat of a resemblance between the two of you.” Mitsuhide inclined his head. “Miss Katsuko, if you would be so good as to answer a few questions for me?”

Aki had already given me tacit permission, but I couldn’t imagine what Mitsuhide wanted to ask me. Did he know about the ‘observing’ I had been doing in Azuchi a couple weeks ago? If so, why would he care? He was already aware that Aki’s bookstore existed, and what its true purpose was. He’d used it himself on occasion. “Of course, Lord Akechi, although I am not certain I possess any knowledge that you are not already aware of.”

“Dear me, child, you would be wise to wait until you have heard my questions before determining your usefulness to me.” This statement was accompanied by a patronizing grin that made my ‘like meter’ dive from ‘business contact’ to ‘the sooner we say goodbye, the better.’ It was the annoying diminutive ‘child’ that really tweaked my nerves. Sure, I am, as they say, ‘vertically challenged,’ but I doubted he had more than three or four years on me.

Fine, let’s get this over with.

“As you wish.” Spoiler alert. This will not be the first time I tell him ‘as you wish,’ and mean ‘I hope you fall off a cliff.’

Mitsuhide settled himself on a rock with as much je nais se quois as if he were lounging on a chaise being fanned by slave girls. To counter the impression of ‘child,’ I gracefully knelt across from him and folded my hands politely in my lap. At this close distance, I could see that his eyes were more gold than amber, though that could simply be a reflection from the campfire. A faint scent of incense clung to him, something mixed with sandalwood…. Cinnamon, maybe.

Meanwhile, Aki ambled over to the fire pit – he was close enough to listen to us, but he allowed Mitsuhide the illusion of privacy.

My interrogator got right to the matter, without bothering to ease into a conversation with small talk. “Perhaps you have heard that last month someone tried to assassinate Nobunaga at Honno-ji temple.”

Or maybe that was his idea of small talk… it could use some work.

I nodded, as I had not been living under a rock the past few weeks. In fact, I had been living under his nose, disguised as an elderly bookseller in Azuchi, but… details.

“As you are one of the couriers who regularly delivers messages throughout the Kansai region, I believe that it is possible that you may have witnessed someone, or something that night.” His eyes stayed on my face, but he managed to broadcast the impression that he would notice if I even twitched my pinkie toe.

Another time, I might have been impressed by that skill, but having it focused on me was somewhat unnerving. “I was returning home from Osaka that night when I saw the temple fire. I did go closer to see what was happening and I joined the monks and the Oda vassals to help douse the flames. But if you want to know if I saw someone out of place at the scene, I honestly would not have noticed. It was smoky and confusing.”

One eyebrow went up (a skill I have never been able to develop, in spite of much practice). “What did you do after the fire was out?”

“I knew Aki would want a full report,” I risked a short look at Aki, who was still by the fire, still pretending not to listen. “There was nothing more to be learned at the temple, but when I got to the forest outside Kyoto, I climbed a tree. The forest was full of soldiers – most were Oda’s but some had the blue and white Uesugi banners. All I learned was that Nobunaga had been rescued by a woman, who had then run off. Is he still looking for her? I’m sorry, I never saw her.”

Are we done? Please be done.

“This all has a ring of truth, and yet, as Akihira’s daughter, you surely have been well trained in scouting and reconnaissance. This feels like the rough outline of a story.” Those eyes stared into mine, and a brain freeze started in the center of my forehead.

“It’s a rough outline because it, as I just mentioned, it was dark and smoky. But if you want more…” I thought back, trying to recall any details safe to share. “One of the soldiers asked if Nobunaga was alright. Another one said that Hideyoshi took him back to the camp, and that Masamune was out looking for the woman.”

I did that whole opening my eyes wide and staying still and calm, hoping that it would project the illusion of truth.

Big mistake.

He leaned closer, pinning me in his gaze like a butterfly in a museum. “What are you not telling me?”

“What makes you think there’s more?” Actually, what did make him think there was more? I am very good at this.

“You’re breathing faster.” He touched his throat, mirroring my breath. He was close enough to touch me to make his point, but the fact that he projected it into the air between us made it all the more menacing.

“Maybe I’m simply out of breath from talking… or thirsty.” I eyed Aki, hoping he’d take that as a cue to interrupt. In response, he rattled the tea kettle – maybe just as reassurance, but otherwise, he seemed to believe I could handle things on my own.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand the question. What are you not telling me?” He didn’t raise his voice at all. He might have been discussing the weather for all the passion he was displaying… and it was creepy as hell.

Letting go of my piously folded hands (he’d seen through that anyway), I rooted myself to the ground. I tried to harness the feeling of soft forest grass and pine needles under my fingertips, the heavy solidity – the honesty - of earth, to calm my so-called fast breathing; to dispel that buzzing feeling from my nerves. “I cannot tell you anything more.”

“Can not?” He leaned closer, but his voice quieted even further, tempting me to close the gap in order to hear him clearly. I stayed put. I was close enough as it was. “Or, will not?” He was clearly trying to Darth Vader me into telling him everything I knew. But this knowledge was not for sale, not for money or torture, no matter how condemning that cold amber gaze became.

Miming a zipping of my lips would be useless in an era where zippers had yet to be invented, and yet I had a childish urge to do just that. Instead, l lifted my chin and stared back at him, determined not to be the one to blink first.

We were trapped in a bubble, and the air around us felt almost too thick to breathe, even as that aroma of insense tickled my nose. From that moment onward, I would always, always associate the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon with Mitsuhide.

He tapped his fingers on his legs, once, twice, three times… then paused. Those long fingers resting patiently on his knees kineticly warned that his calmness was an illusion. If this man wanted something from me, he would keep pushing until all my resistance evaporated.

Enough of this.

I tried to get control over the conversation, push that storm-laden air away, push him off balance. “The end result is the same, isn’t it?”

I had recognized two people in the forest outside of Kyoto that night. Two people who were not part of Nobunaga’s forces. One was a friend, and I would not rat out a friend. The other was someone who had once saved my life, someone I owed – and though a man who would save a stranger’s life might in another circumstance kill another, I could not condemn my rescuer for walking through the forest that night.

“Not at all, Katsuko.” He smiled then, as if my attempts to deflect him were amusing. “If you are unable to tell me more, so be it. If you are unwilling, then I will simply have to discover what would make you willing. Mark my words, I will discover it.” He paused, long enough for me to start to imagine how exactly he intended to discover it, before adding, “you are aware of my reputation, are you not?”

We have ways of making you talk…

Pulling a cartoon villain into my mind – well maybe it was bad timing, or maybe it was what I needed to become braver. Or some might say my response was reckless. Would I have been less brave or less reckless if my ‘father’ hadn’t been close enough to rush to my aid if things escalated?

With more bravado than intelligence, I said, “I’m aware that many people believe you were the one responsible for that attack – if I knew something and if I revealed it, maybe I would be signing my own death warrant.”

Truthfully, I didn’t believe that Mitsuhide had anything to do with the attack. (Even though, even though in the future, that is what would be taught in schools… that Mitsuhide betrayed and murdered Nobunaga at Honno-ji, and he himself lived only ten more days before Toyotomi Hideyoshi killed him in battle. In this timeline, however, things were different, and Nobunaga and Mitsuhide had already lived past their expiration date).

As they say, the best defense is a good offense.

And I had just offended Mitsuhide.

“If harm comes to Nobunaga – harm that you could have prevented – I will make you wish for your own death.” He reached out and cupped my chin. I braced myself, anticipating that he would dig his fingernails into my skin, but all that happened was that he lightly stroked the underside of my jaw with his finger.

It was a threat all the same.

I felt like a cat in a thunderstorm, fur standing on end as the seconds elapsed between the flash of lighting and the anticipated crash of thunder; willing myself not to shudder or flinch while I waited for the boom.

He held himself equally motionless, except for his thumb, brushing slowly along my chin.

Once…

Twice…

Thr-

That feeling of his hand caressing my jaw became too much, and I flipped my spare dagger out from the inside of my sleeve and held it in front of me. “You could try.”

“Enough.” Suddenly Aki inserted himself between us. Though he had no weapon, the menace in his voice was clear. He turned to Mitsuhide. “You are my friend, but if you harm my daughter, I will not let that go unpunished.” Then, more calmly, he continued. “When Katsu returned from Kyoto, she made a full report. If there had been something in it worth mentioning to you, I would have let you know.”

“Are you certain of that?” Though Mitsuhide seemed to hold Aki in respect, he did not immediately stand down.

“Katsuko has never had any reason to lie to me.” Aki’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, and he squeezed it gently.

No. I never had. When a random twist of fate had flung me from modern Japan into this era, it had been Aki who rescued me from bandits, taken me in and taught me how to survive. I had only disobeyed him once, and it nearly got me killed. I owed him everything… but more importantly, he was family. I might not be his daughter by birth, but I was in every way that mattered. I would do anything for him.

That aside though, had I told him everything I remembered about Honno-ji? I’m sure that I mentioned seeing Kennyo – I don’t know if I specifically brought up seeing Sasuke, but I had told him about seeing Uesugi warriors.

Mitsuhide finally stopped looking at me, and if I hadn’t already been sitting, I might have fallen back a few steps. It was like the opposition in a game of tug-of-war had suddenly dropped the rope. It took all of my willpower not to react.

“Tonight, I am staying at an Inn in Nagahama. If your memory improves before morning, you will know where to find me.” Mitsuhide got to his feet. “If it doesn’t. I know how to find you.”

His parting bow to Aki and myself was far less polite than his greeting had been. Moments later, he had disappeared into the forest.

Perhaps realizing that I would need some food and sustenance after this encounter (or perhaps suspecting Mitsuhide had stayed nearby to listen to whatever conversation came next), Aki was silent while he served up our dinner and tea. It wasn’t until we had finished eating that I dared say anything, and even then, I kept my voice too quiet to be overheard over the crackle of the fire and the hum of summer cicadas. “You knew I didn’t tell him everything.”

He nodded. “I imagine you had your reasons.”

“I did.” I swirled the tea around in my cup – Aki at least deserved the full explanation. “I owe him my life.” No need to state Kennyo’s name out loud. I was certain Aki remembered that day as well as I did. “You obviously never mentioned it to Mitsuhide either… and you could have. I know you saw him while we were in Azuchi.”

His jaw clenched for a moment – if I didn’t know him any better, I would have said that the reminder of that time was painful. “No. As you say… he saved your life.”

I had never known Aki to be that sentimental about the bits of information that found their way into his hands, but since I was currently the beneficiary of that, I let it go. Besides, I had something else I wanted to discuss with him. “So. Field promotion to daughter?”

He hesitated a moment. “It seemed to be the best way to protect you.” He poured the rest of his tea on the fire and watched the coals sputter and steam. “I am …proud to consider you as a daughter.”

“Awww… that’s sweet.” If Aki had a family, he never mentioned them to me. “Better you than my real father.”

He looked away, as his hands briefly spasmed. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

Well, when you’re trying to avoid telling people you’re a time traveler, you don’t bring up your past. “He’s not worth mentioning. I’d rather have you as my adoptive dad… especially if I can have a pony for my birthday.”

He laughed, as I had intended. “Don’t you think Moonlight would feel slighted?”

“Might be the best way to teach her some manners.” I glanced over to where my occasionally bitchy horse was grazing next to Aki’s, then tossed her a piece of carrot. Though I loved her unconditionally, Moonlight had a few quirks… one of which was her habit of dumping me in mud puddles when she was in a bad mood. Or wet. Or… both, as getting rained on often was the cause of the bad mood.

I watched the coals sputter and pop before I returned to our previous conversation. “Should I have told Mitsuhide that I saw Kennyo in the forest that night?”

For a while, he too gazed into the fire, although I guessed he was calculating out different scenarios in his head. “Mitsuhide makes a good ally and a formidable enemy. But if Kennyo had anything to do with the attack on Nobunaga at Honno-ji, Mitsuhide has other means to discover that, and is likely to do so in the near future. The Abbot is not exactly quiet about his intentions.”

That was profoundly true. I’d been hearing rumors about a renewed Ikko-Ikki uprising for a while now. “You think my information wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.”

“I believe he already has the information he needs.” Aki reached over and gruffly ruffled my hair. “That said, Mitsuhide is not someone you want to make an enemy of.”

Duly noted. I hadn’t missed the furious look Mitsuhide had aimed in my direction when he left. But I pushed back that memory, and the frission that went down my arms at that memory. Aki would keep me safe.

Unfortunately, what didn’t occur to me in that moment was the possibility that Aki would not always be around.

@mllorei @selenacosmic @tele86 @bestbryn @akitsuneswife @lyds323

New chapters on Mitsuhide Mondays... plus secret unscheduled Mitsuhide POV "gacha" chapters (five total) will appear without warning.

#10things #ten things i hate about mitsuhide #mitsuhide monday #ikemen sengoku #fanfic #mitsuhide akechi #ikesen mitsuhide #ao3

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inafieldofdaisies · 2 years ago

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Five songs that remind you of the Seeds (outside of the game's OST) | Tag seen from @direwombat | Leaving the tag open <3

*I thought to include a snippet of the lyrics too when available

John Seed:

Kleptomaniac by DEZI

I'm a parasite I do anything to feed my appetite I'm gonna make this Hell look just like Paradise Sacrificial lamb, you think you've seen the light

Am I sadistic, do I do it on purpose? Antagonistic, am I making you nervous?

I crave the self-indulgence And I blame it on compulsion And I try to fight the urges But underneath the surface I'm a kleptomaniac

I'm gonna take it all And you're ok with that

Saints by Echos

You were standing there like an angry god Counting out my sins just to cross them off Saying that my tongue was too loud to trust And that my blood couldn't keep you

My dear, you're not so innocent You're fooling Heaven's gates So you won't have to change You're no saint, you're no savior

Looking at the Devil by Seibold

I like the taste of the poison I like the rush of the pain

I come alive in the darkness You know that I love the game While there's a snake in the garden No one's safe

See you bleed by Ramsey

I just wanna see you bleed Open you and set you free

Luci by ZAND

He's got a great big smile and cheekbones cut like knives But I know he's real ugly inside

Think there's gonna be a showdown Between my new hot friend and I My pocket knife is cutting up the ropes now Gotta try, gotta try I think there's gonna be a showdown Between my new hot friend and I 'Cause in the end, the ultimatum is that one of us has to die Not I

Jacob Seed:

Will you fight by Klergy, Beginners

Your time has come Can't tell hell from the sun When it's all said and done Who will you become? When nothing's as it seems Don't let 'em bring you down on your knees When nothing's as it seems Who will you become?

Will you run or will you fight? When the war comes

The Hunter by Sam Tinnesz

There's no rest for the fallen Oh we're burning the fields You're the snake in the garden And you're under my heels

Who's gonna save you Who's gonna save you now When the hunter comes

World Gone Wild by UNSECRET, Sam Tinnesz

Feeling the tension Pushing at the seams There's no way to stop this You can't stop this

The pressure is building It's getting hard to breathe No end to the madness

Four, three, two, one There's nowhere left to run

It's a world gone wild

Here come the wolves by Lola Blanc

Hеre come the wolves They're coming to get ya I run through the woods I'm not gonna let you go I'm baring my teeth, I'm ready My tongue is a sharp machete

Fighter by Jung Youth, Sam Tinnesz

I can feel the desperation All my dogs can smell the fear If you ain't ready for the belly Why you even coming here They been waiting for the end Before the game even begins And I've been fighting for my soul For my family for my friends I ain't ever giving up

Faith Seed:

River by Oh, be clever

I used to keep my dark a secret I used to keep my heart in pieces He said he liked me better as a mess He said he wants to save me from myself

Mermaid by Skott

Believe me, it is true You know that I would jump too Ooh, into the blue, into the blue It's proof, because we got nothing to lose And there ain't nothing to prove You know I'd jump with you

All I need by Roniit

Embrace me, I swear I'll be safe, I'll show you the way, open the gates I'm careful and believe me I'll stay I could be all that you're looking for

You're aimless, but you gotta be brave

Her & The Sea by CLANN (instrumental)

Chimerical by Roniit (instrumental)

Joseph Seed:

Reborn by Galleaux

I'm watching in silence Burying all I've lost Let this be the end Let me start again

Let the fire burn it to the ground Feel the world of ashes as it crumbles down Breathe the smoke, breathe it in Don't stop until it cleanses my sins

And I am reborn

And so It Begins by Klergy

You've been waiting Looking off into the night Search the horizon Watching out for smoke and fire You knew this day would come You aren't the only one And so it begins

The Beginning of the End by Klergy, Valerie Broussard

Reckless behavior is looking at a man Like he was a savior

Blind leading blind Everything looks darker When you close your eyes

Deity by Demo Club, TENDER (for the life of me I can't find the full lyrics, and I don't wanna guess them bcs TENDER be mumbling at times)

Shepherd of This Flock by JT Music (it's inspired by FC5 so ofc I'm including it)

Who found you while you were lost? When blind, who helped you see? Cuz I'm the shepherd of this flock I guide my righteous sheep Of your sins, I'll see you washed Then I'll set your soul free The word of God is one you trust So thank God He speaks through me

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nightmarecountry-a · 2 years ago

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❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜

"Oh but I did, though."

A Corinthian is a Corinthian, and this one wears blood just as naturally as its predecessor. Natural, too, is the way it crouches down by the gutted bodies, ignoring Miecz's state of shock, and raises its knife again to cut out the--

[old memory of eyes in his hands, blood between his fingers, the sweet pop. the boy looks just like the profiler that paralysed him, but the paralysing didn't seal his fate: the touch did.

You looked into my eyes, Mieczysław. You saw me.]

Slowly, the second Corinthian wipes its knives on one of the bodies instead. It touches the corpse's cheekbone, every atom of it protesting the decision it's already made: he can't take the eyes. This cannot be a Corinthian kill. Not when Mieczysław can be traced to it.

"I'll dump the bodies. Just tell me where."

#ic.#v: the remake #zloslwy #[ i was too fuckin tired to go into Why he doesnt want a corinthian kill being associated with miecz but like.#GESTURES AT THE WHOLE WITNESS PROTECTION SUGGESTIONS WITH THE FIRST ONE.#gestures at him just not wanting miecz to be in Trouble. lmfao. ]

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infernal-lightning · 8 months ago

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Ilaera trailed behind Alastor as they descended into the basement, her excitement rising in droves. The photographer hadn't been able to indulge in the more macabre aspect of her work since arriving at the hotel - and, to memory, since manifesting in Hell, though her portfolio indicates otherwise. But to Ilaera, the last time she'd felt a life end by her hands had been when she herself was alive...

She couldn't wait to see how death was different down here.

Ilaera watched as he summoned first a tarp, and then his chosen subject - prompting a grin to spread on her features.

"Well, you do know how to treat a girl to a good time," she murmured, slowly circling the squirming body bag. The lights were already set, various cameras mounted for different angles and focal points... all that was left was to paint the canvas.

With a lightning-fast ripping motion, she tore the zipper down to reveal a bound and cowering, butterfly-like sinner. Ilaera's eyes flashed with inspiration - oh, she had never seen something so gorgeous. As fond of humans as she'd been in life, sinners provided such variety - she would enjoy finding out just how easily these wings could rip apart and shine for the camera.

"I believe it's time to get started," Ilaera purred with a glance down to the sinner, then up to Alastor. She crossed the room, adjusting one of the camera's f-stop before walking over to a table. Various knives had been laid out, along with small vials, scissors, and strangely enough, paintbrushes. Sometimes she needed to move the blood to where it would look most striking, after all.

Opting for an old classic, she picked up a small, sharp knife before kneeling next to the bound subject. With a delicate hand, she fanned out his wings before placing the knife on his cheekbones. "Shallow cuts to start..."

The knife glided over the sinner's cheeks, and Ilaera only had to apply the slightest bit of pressure to start the blood flowing, a thumb reaching out to swipe at one of the first drops in what might have been a soothing motion in any other context.

"Shh. Don't squirm; you'll ruin the focus," she muttered with darkening eyes, shoving at the sinner's shoulders when he began to wriggle more at the touch of her knife. Once he stilled, Ilaera glanced up to look at Alastor for the first time in minutes, her grin half-mad.

"Any requests, before I go any further? The canvas could be a collaboration, if you wish it."

Now that the details were arranged - or at least, the location for the shoot - Ilaera made preparations posthaste after gathering up her portfolio. True to his word, there was a basement ready and available the next time she checked; a door tucked away in the corner of the lobby that she couldn't recall seeing before. Thankfully, the hotel was busy enough most days that no one noticed her slipping off into it at all hours.

It took a few days to stage everything properly. Tarps had to be set, lights set up, backdrops fixed... She didn't have everything she needed - hadn't expected to be working directly out of the hotel, so Ilaera had left most of her equipment for shoots at her old apartment that she still kept, just in case. Lugging that to the hotel was not on her agenda, but she begrudgingly called a few taxis all the same. This needed to be perfect.

And a few days later, it was. Or, as perfect as she could make it without knowing exactly who or what her subjects would be, of course.

She sought the Radio Demon in his broadcast tower, camera in hand, not wanting to mention this little arrangement where prying eyes and ears could catch wind of it - Alastor had made clear that no one could know of what would take place in the basement, after all. With a confident knock on the door, the feline sinner called out to him, eager to begin this little venture of theirs.

"Darling, are you in there? It's Ilaera Llewellyn, sorry to bother. Preparations are complete on that little project of ours - we just need something to photograph..."

Her voice dripped with barely concealed excitement. It had been some time since she had been able to indulge in a shoot like this; since arriving at the hotel she'd had to be extremely careful about what projects she planned.

#tw gore mention #tw blood mention #tw blood #tw gore #tw torture #tw violence #｡ₓ ू ₒ ु wretched thing #radioiaci #┈ ⋞ all mirroring gone from the world : ic ⋟ ┈#[ well that got away from me a bit LOL but that was very fun to write ]#[ ive never written a scene like this before ]

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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

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Close Combat [Avenger!Loki x Fem. Reader] 18+

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: A combat training session with Loki in Avenger Tower is more educational than you’d anticipated (w/c 3k) Warnings: Light smut, 18+ advised, NSFW, minors DNI. Language.

Nat folded her arms, head cocked. "You have another training session?" she drawled questioningly. You nodded. "after that?!" She gestured towards the skipping ropes sprawled at your feet where you had thrown them in desperate relief.

"Yes – it’s with-", your breath hitched, bracing for blowback, "...Loki."

Nat remained with her arms folded, eyebrow poised.

"I asked him if he would teach me some close combat techniques, you know – knives and stuff’"

"Knives?" Nat repeated back to you while you nodded sheepishly.

"and stuff?’" her voice dripping with cynicism, "gosh, if only there was someone who had trained oh...I don’t know, her whole life that could help you out with that".

Suddenly you were glad your face was already pink.

"Look it’s just a different perspective – and I thought I’d make the most of him making more of an effort these days, who knows how long it will-"

Nat cut you off before you could dig yourself in a deeper hole, "Look Y/N, honestly...it’s fine. I have no idea why you’d voluntarily want to spend the rest of your morning off with the dark side of the Asgard moon but hey, whatever floats your boat…" she re-adjusted the sports bag on her shoulder as she glided towards the double doors, "...have fun while I’m driving down the coast in Cap’s convertible"– and with a wink, she was gone.

The smooth tiles of the gym bathroom were blessedly cool against the soles of your feet as you peeled off the clothing sticking to your body, slick with fresh sweat. Jarvis had already turned shower five on for you, the one in the corner – your favourite. Standing in front of the mirror, you closed your eyes for a moment, taking in the white noise of the water and the stillness of the empty room.

You needed focus, Cap had said. A weapon that wasn’t your mind and the power it wielded. And that was where Loki came in. Not only a master of magic, but a master of blades – he was handy in a tight spot which he had proved many times over the past six months. As it turns out, Loki as an Avenger was one of the smartest ideas Thor ever had. There was, however, a slight problem – you were absolutely infatuated with him.

His aloofness, the swagger, his witty retorts when Steve said...pretty much anything. God, he was so handsome. You could cut yourself slapping those cheekbones and if he looked at you with his incredible blue eyes for more than a second you felt like your stomach would drop through the floor. Loki. How inconvenient. With his tight fitting leather armour and even tighter mid-guardian leisure gear he’d taken to wearing around the Tower. It wasn’t fair on mere mortals to be expected to remain sane around that level of utter perfection, never mind professional.

‘Y/N?’

Loki’s low, inquiring voice reverberated around the empty gym next door.

"I’m here." You shouted, pushing through the bathroom doors and finding him standing in the middle of the gym floor. You made your way over, careful not to get too close. Personal space was a priority with him, and you didn’t want to piss him off before you even started.

"Right" he said abruptly, passing you a training knife. He observed you under dark lashes, a smile curling at his lips "let’s get to it, shall we?".

For the next two hours he instructed you on points of contact, the correct strike motions for maximum impact, footwork and blocks. Perhaps it was his natural authority, or maybe his hypnotic voice that had you hanging on his every word. He certainly didn’t dumb it down for you – Loki was a fighter and he expected you to be a decent one too.

"Good..that was good, do it again’" he murmured as you cycled through the strike points with an enemy circling you projected by his magic. The feeling of travelling through the strikes was cathartic, rhythmic and graceful in a way you never expected. Perhaps it was the Asgardian technique – or maybe it was just the influence of your teacher.

Suddenly the projection vanished with the touch of your blade to its neck and Loki appeared in it’s place, a low smile playing on his lips at your look of shock at the transformation. You froze, the knife quivering under his earlobe pressed ever so lightly on his skin.

"Good" he said darkly, "holding your nerve when surprised is a mark of progress". He raised his right hand and guided the blade back to your attack stance position. You realised that you had never been so close to the god. If I reach out, you thought, I could slide my hands in the back pockets of those tight sweatpants.

Glancing down to where he re-positioned your knife, you couldn’t help but notice how his thick forearm dwarfed yours. How his hand grazed your fingers one by one with his own as he slipped the edge downwards to point to the floor, away from his chest. "I think you have a solid grasp of the basics now Y/N, how about we try something a little different?" He spoke purposefully, his voice thick with intent, eyes glinting mischievously. Before you had a chance to process a response, his other hand came up to grasp your wrist and twisted it expertly, spinning your body 180 degrees in a flash. The muscular forearm you had been ogling seconds earlier was suddenly at your throat, pressing at your windpipe as your breath was knocked out of you from sheer surprise.

"Loki.." you managed to choke, automatically clawing back at his shoulder with your one free arm, the other pinned behind your back, pressing into your shoulder-blades. "Yes, darling?" came the casual response, his warm lips brushing your ear as his breath ghosted your cheek. "My apologies, were you not expecting that?" Every syllable of his faux apology was enunciated. Every moment savoured.

Suddenly, you were free. You stumbled several steps forward and turned to face him – fire in your eyes. "What was that?! Why didn’t you warn me!" Loki chucked and slipped his hands in his pockets, "Y/N you cannot expect your adversaries to allow you the luxury of a warning, consider it a favour in the art of close combat – one that is not easily taught through...less abrasive means." He regarded you in silence, before continuing. "You must be prepared for any eventuality, even being temporarily overpowered as mortals are prone to be – an unfortunate feature of your design".

You drew yourself up to your full height, shoulders back and facing the smug, ethereal figure in front of you, "show me how to counter, then. If someone has me like that...show me’" You memorised the look that shimmered across his face, surprise combined with...was he impressed? His eyebrows raised as he nodded once and gestured for you to come closer. "Come at me, as if you’ll be stabbing me in the stomach...slowly". You assessed your target, knowing what he was about to do this time you could feel butterflies building in the pit of your core, readying yourself for the sweet pressure of his strength on your body. You lunged.

Once more in a flash, he overpowered your strike, swiftly spinning your body and pulling it against his own. It was different this time. His right hand held yours twisted behind your back, flush against his firm chest muscles with no chance of escape. His left arm encased your neck, forearm spread horizontally to your right shoulder, encasing it in his palm and forcing your face to fall to the right from the pressure of his inner elbow on your jawline.

His palm skimmed down your bare right arm, thumb grazing your breast and came to rest on your ribcage as you inhaled at the sensation, your core muscles tightening. The feeling of him touching you, rendering you helpless before him, was electric.

You could feel your legs growing weaker, surrendering control as your back remained pressed to his solid chest, his hot breath ever-present on your neck as he drank in the situation in which you found yourself. You were suddenly very aware you were only wearing your sports bra as his index finger began toying with the spandex edging, massaging the line of your waist. Small movements filled with need came like gunfire. You heard another moan escape him as he raised his head from its lowered position to force your jaw to the left with his own, exposing your long neck to him. He had you right where he wanted you, and you fucking loved it.

Seconds felt like hours as you stood, your breathing laboured under his tight grip – this time you didn’t make a sound as you felt his left leg snake around your ankle and knock you off balance, immediately using the counter leverage to pull your body even closer to his. In that moment you could have sworn you heard a small exhale before he caught himself, the pressure of your hips colliding with his groin too much to hold in. "Loki?" you whispered, your eyes finally meeting his only inches away above your shoulder, "what now..?"

"I may have misled you Y/N, you see – if you find yourself in this position with an adversary there’s really very little you can do. Especially when that adversary is me."

He looked at you through hooded eyes, his breathing shallow, with dark curls strewn around his forehead just within your limited field of vision. You had never been more turned on in your life, the sultry voice escaping your lips seeming to belong to someone else, ‘so, are you going to let me go?’. You knew full well that the cock hardening against your ass had no intention of relinquishing this position easily. The sound that came from Loki was primal, a low growl of frustration buried into your shoulder like a scream into a pillow. His teeth grazed your exposed skin, a wordless promise.

"Are you sure want this, darling?" he murmured seductively, "it’s not too late to stop, I will free you if that is what you wish…" His words trailed off as he buried his face in your hair, pressing against the curve of your neck. "Yes, Loki…’ the two words were all you could muster as he moulded his huge frame to your curves, enveloping you. You could feel his growing hard-on pressing desperately against your thighs, stealing friction with indiscernible thrusts as his primal subconscious spurred him on. Your words hung heavy in the air as you felt him re-adjust himself against you, another small groan escaping those perfect lips as he attempted to regain composure.

Wordlessly, your lips touched. his iron embrace tightening around your waist. He freed the hand bound behind your back. Still positioned forwards, your arm immediately found its way in front of your body and swooping up to run through his hair, pushing the errant curls back to his crown and fixing your hand to push his mouth harder onto yours.

Now was no time for chaste pleasantries, you wanted to make him burn.

From this angle, he was still poised above you – the attacker bearing down on your slighter form; but now he sought a very different type of control. His mouth melded to your with new urgency, tongue slipping in with passionate force to claim you while you felt the vibrations from deep rooted groans ready to erupt from his chest.

You pushed back in to his kiss, tasting every drop of energy between you, drinking in the scent of clean sweat and oaked musk that coated the air. Panting, you broke for air – but the god was relentless. As you struggled to compose yourself, he buried his head in your exposed neck. Deep kisses pressed to your carotid artery down, down, further to the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping and sucking your soft skin as he held back from devouring you where you stood.

Your hand was still fixed in his hair, willing him to continue the assault on your senses with his insatiable need to close his mouth around the areas within his reach. "Gods Y/N you have no idea how long I have wanted this, how long I have wanted you…" he hummed against your collarbone before sucking on the dip at the base of your neck. "I will destroy you, are you prepared for that?" You released your grip on his hair and turned to face him as he straightened, making sure your bodies still did not allow a sliver of sunlight between them. You smiled coyly. "Is that a promise?’"

In answer, he descended on you in a flash with one hand fixed to your cheek forcing your mouth to his while the other found its way magnetically between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the tight black leggings. His gathered fingers moved together flatly in a sheet of indescribable pleasure skimming the soft fabric, ghosting over your aching core with the lightest of touches that flirted with the fireworks ready to bloom if he would just press upwards with his palm.

"Darling, it seems we have company." he muttered.

The words whispered in your ear sounded like they came from miles away, taking you a moment to process, "hmm?" you answered – before the realisation hit you. Your eyes flew open, meeting his gaze with trepidation before scanning the empty room. "They are outside the door, never fear." He looked down at you with a kind smile creasing the corners of his piercing eyes, leaning to kiss you gently as his hand withdrew from between your legs.

You saw a green shimmer encase your right hand, as the blade previously discarded reappeared. Amazement flickered across your face as Loki ran his hands through his hair, smoothing evidence of mischief, ‘perhaps we can continue our session later tonight Y/N?’ he said casually as the door to the gym swung open and Steve strode in.

Startled at the sudden change of events, you nodded. There was a contrast between the casual smile that traced his lips and the blanket of lust which still hung in his gaze as he traced your body a final time before the others stole you away.

"Hey, Y/N – we need to be in mission briefing in five, come as you are", Steve looked at you expectantly and then to Loki, whose stance remained poised toward you. "Sure thing Steve, I’ll be right there", you murmured towards the unflappable Captain as he nodded and turned to leave.

"Tonight, then?" you murmured – grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. The skin was marked, increasingly reddened patches showing the evidence of Loki’s work.

He covered the several meters of space between you in a couple of strides from his long legs, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and bending down, taking time to slowly suck your earlobe in a lasting kiss as a single word was uttered, his voice thick as treacle. "Tonight". You shivered with a need that ran straight to your core. You walked through the doors without looking back, the slick wetness between your legs reminding you of his needful touch with every step.

"Tonight." you repeated again to the empty hallway.

@lokischambermaid has graced us with an amazing PART TWO to this fic....HERE

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