#My Dark Rise Headcanons

[thebonekingdom]

Some of my Dark Rise Headcanons

Trans FTM Visander in every world. 🏳️‍⚧️

James would wear long gel nails with heavy nail art in modern time, with pretty charms and soft colours. (This is my love for pretty nails talking) 💅

Will & James talks in the old world language together so people can't understand them (I mean, it'd be such a shame to not take advantage of this ability) (once they remember everything ofc)

Will is the less flexible person ever. He tries his best, but it's definitely not his forte (it just makes so much sense in my head)

Will drinks tea brewed the Chinese way while James drinks tea brewed the English way (thanks to the person who asked 'tea or coffee' for Wames on the discord server 🤣)

What are yours??? 👀

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: referenced mind control / parasites / intrusive thoughts (only in the tags) / ]

(This is just a fun “what if” so bear with me-) I know we make mention of the potential for Krang remnants to be stuck with Raph and/or Donnie, but Mikey and Leo also had a moment with the other two where a type of Krang goop was crawling beneath their skin (this being immediately after Raph broke free.)

So I raise you the potential for all four of them to have a bit of that Krang parasite on them…and for that to have unforeseen consequences.

[pumkshrark]

[voidheartkisses]

In my headcanon, godhood is linked to humanity in general. The more power you have the less regard you have for mortal lives, they are fodder to you. As followers however, the bishops (and Narinder) slowly go back to feeling regular 'mortal' emotions again

It's mostly the reason why the Lamb is choosing to keep the bishops immortal with the golden necklaces, instead of letting them die naturally. They want them to live with what they did, and to serve the Lamb for all eternity, in a prison of guilt and regret

anyways, in-laws amirite

[dysfunctional-doodle]

I wonder how the Turtles would react to Ronin Mikey.

Personally I would like to think they would initially try to persuade themselves that that’s not their Mikey, their Mikey is different. But all Mikey’s, no matter what dimension, know too well that they would be doing the same thing.

So their brothers turn to their Mikey for some kind of reassurance, but only see the hardened stare straight ahead.

“You are all everything to me.” Is all Mikey says, what every Mikey will say in every dimension. “Without that…I’m not sure what will be left of me.”

I have this encounter especially in mind for 2003 turtles because darker glimpses of Mikey are shown throughout the show. Take SAINW. He’s basically a ghost without his brothers.

Eh, I’m gonna draw this at one point now. You got me thinking too much about the tragedy of Michelangelo’s character as a whole, and what role he plays, and just how important his brothers are to him.

Give us more Mikey content. This turtle has been cast aside for WAY too long.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Slightly niche Modern AU Rafal headcanon (Does anyone agree or have a different take?):

I had a random association and now, I'm almost certain Rafal would enjoy Russian doomer music, even solely for its vibes (assuming he is the fantasy equivalent of a Westerner who only speaks a Germanic language because most fairy tales in SGE are the Germanic ones. Honestly, one thing I wonder about, even if we have evidence of Spanish and other accents' existence, is how the Woods as we've seen them are rather monolingual, probably for plot convenience, but that depiction just strikes me as a little strange, like, too deeply suspect that their world is that unified, all by itself—unless the Storian is to blame as usual—maybe we're not meant to allot it any critical thought...), although I've looked up some English translations of this genre's lyrics and they are rather dark, so that fits him fairly well—unless being silent with his thoughts would be preferable.

Yet, one clarification to make: Even if the music might resonate with him, I think he wouldn't be a fatalist until much later in whatever character progression he'd have. Instead, I see him as a doomsday prepper, in probably a more I-will-live-against-all-odds, Western, literally every-man-for-himself, individualist sense as that might be more in line with his character in canon. He'd be obsessed with survivalism and TEOTWAWKI (The End of the World as We Know It) as a concept.

Here is an example of the music I found—I'm not sure if this is actually representative of the whole and I don't know much about it or the historical context though.

Also, here are some English lyrics from various songs under the cut that I just happened to like:

Again the spring has come, And warming rays of sun Are looking in my cell through window-panes Again the heart will ache The feelings will awake And memory recalls auld days

Those days will come to me And I shall feel and see The girl whom I loved so long ago That girl came and left That girl I can’t forget Her image’s always in my soul.

Vladimir prison-house Сold northern wind My transport came from Tver And all my evil deeds Lie on my heart like heavy weights

⸻

Stab me with that stare as i walk by It's like poison in my blood It trips me up just like a stone I'm just sick of people, and they're sick of everything

⸻

My ship is sailing straight ahead, avoiding the land The captain drunk and stubborn He'll protect it till the end Drowning to the right, drowning to the left Not enough lifeboats, there isn't help for everyone Swimming away, I'm swimming away somewhere straight, somewhere away

[delurkr]

Headcanon that the A-boy's are all Very Sleepy tm (I'm sure this has roots in that moment when Andrew thinks he wasn't falling asleep), and what it looks like is Andrew and Anthony being your typical bed huggers getting yelled at to get up for school etc while Abraham is out here journaling stuff like "SO lazy this morning. Stayed in bed until 4:15 instead of 3:45 😱" or however that translates in 1600s speak

[windsofcourage]

||. 2am link thoughts bc there's something in the idea of a hero whose duty goes unfulfilled . the restlessness of that . the way it sits there , hot and heavy as an undeniable burden . it's how link kept himself silent because he didn't want to burden anyone else with the idea of a hero who had troubles of his own . it's how he bottled it all up and dealt with it all alone and kept his chin held high and let things pass through or around him because faltering isn't an option . it's about how that wasn't enough .

it's about how he's never really lost a battle in all of his incarnations ( save a singular branch of OoT anyways and even then //gestures at training TP!link. ) . it's about how the most ancient parts of link simply can't comprehend that . refuses to accept it . WILL NOT . it's about how he has to anyways . it's about losing . it's about the vengeance of it , at a point . the storming the front gates of the castle because SCREW YOU . it's about the ghosts he constantly interacts with in the king , the champions , the gravesites , the malice , the eventual poes and gloom .

it's about how he fell to the guardians anyways by no fault of his own , or really ANYONE'S fault besides calamity ganon himself , but how link won't ever really see it that way . maybe he will logically . but emotionally ? that's a harder sell .

it's about how they were blindsided and he wasn't ready . it's about the 100 years lost . it's about all of the lives lost . it's about the time zelda spends bridling the calamity in the castle by herself when link knows damn well he's been quite literally born to be at her side during this exact battle . it's about how it goes past that , though . it's personal . that's his best friend and confidante . that's his princess too . it's about how he's lost too much and he's most certainly not losing her . not again . not ever . certainly not after losing everybody else too .

it's about fear holding back instinct and stifling courage when that fear is left unreleased and yet , despite that , fear is exactly the fire to light beneath one's feet to be courageous enough to not repeat the past . it's about how courage isn't being fearless it's about what you do to rise about the fear . it's about how link is oh-so human . he's a teenage boy . it's about the terror and grief and guilt . it's about the courage and love and ( eventual ) acceptance .

[gaygoetia]

Random Dark Rise Poll 4/?

Also this isn't a poll option but let me know in the tags/replies if you think he has a crush on any of the other characters.

All Dark Rise polls here (will be updated as I post more)

[will-kempen]

Random Dark Rise Poll 11/?

Here's something we haven't discussed yet. What was the deal with Simon and Katherine?

EDIT: I stupidly didn't think to include any option for "he was mysteriously drawn to her because Magic" but for the sake of the poll I feel like this could come under "he thought she was hot"

In your personal opinion/headcanon:

All Dark Rise polls here (will be updated as I post more)

[enclosedgod]

Tags

Tags are after the cut :)

IC

( 💢 ) ― Face the endless dark. : IC

OOC

( 💢 ) ― Expect nothing in return. : OOC

Character Specific

( 💢 ) ― …Tribute? Hm. : Visage ( 💢 ) ― …Tribute? Hm. : Aesthetic ( 💢 ) ― …Tribute? Hm. : Musings ( 💢 ) ― …Tribute? Hm. : Headcanons

Memes

( 💢 ) ― I have nothing to say to you. : OOC . Ask Memes ( 💢 ) ― I have nothing to say to you. : IC . Dash Memes

Crack

( 💢 ) ― I need to go to a dark space to put myself at ease. : Crack

Starter Call

( 💢 ) ― Despite knowing my disdain... : Starter Call

Answered

( 💢 ) ― Darkness approaches. : Answered

Promos

( 💢 ) ― This is not where I belong. : Promos

Main Verse

( 💢 ) ― Closing the Path : Main Verse

New Years Verse

( 💢 ) ― Gods Renewed! : NY Verse

Blog Specific Tags

Askr / illuminatedgod ( 💢 ) ― God of Openness : Being in your presence makes me feel as if I am losing my mind… Veronica / elmpire ( 💢 ) ― Princess Rising : I will awaken the power of my blood in you

[sharransepulchre]

Tag Dump

[ sharran shadowheart visage ] — can't afford any mistakes .

[ selûnite shadowheart visage ] — whatever's next ; i'm ready .

[ sharran shadowheart attire ] — being someone else ; even just for a while .

[ selûnite shadowheart attire ] — shame - the colour might have suited me .

[ sharran shadowheart interactions ] — darkness guide me .

[ selûnite shadowheart interactions ] — wits and blades ; always sharp .

[ faithless shadowheart interactions ] — a new church shall rise ; united , in your image , and blessed with the blood of the faithless .

[ sharran shadowheart answers ] — have to keep focused. can't afford to get attached - to anyone .

[ selûnite shadowheart answers ] — always a pleasure .

[ faithless shadowheart answers ] — which path calls to you - darkness or light ?

[ shadowheart aesthetics ] — better stop gazing at myself before someone accuses me of vanity .

[ selûnite shadowheart headcanons ] — i think i may have overdone it with the black and purple for - oh - my entire life .

[ shadowheart character study ] — i wonder how i'll feel when i remember everything .

[ selûnite shadowheart attractions ] — yes ; you sit right there and let me drink in the sight of you .

[ faithless shadowheart attractions ] — your heart swells with shadow and silver alike , and the undying love of countless followers . at last , you are whole .

[ shadowheart desires ] — i love a nice secret hideaway .

[ shadowheart skillsets ] — you must inflict pain in order to end pain .

[ shadowheart scenery ] — nothing wrong with a nice subdued ambience .

[ shadowheart playlist ] — the one pocket of light in the gloom .

[ shadowheart games ] — hilarious. you belong on stage - perhaps the bloodstained sort ; with a hooded man standing by ; axe in hand .

[ shadowheart poetry ] — that ' s either profoundly poetic or childishly simple . i ' m going with poetic .

[ sharran shadowheart body study ] — its a form of freedom - if a tragic one .

[ selûnite shadowheart body study ] — forty years of my life ; documented like i was some sort of specimen .

[ ship : shadowlach ] — you ' re a beautiful woman , karlach . i would kiss you if i valued my life a little less .

[ lycanthropy : moon drunk . ]

[ lycanthropy : moon blessed . ]

[boatdriinks]

MAIN TAGS

[sp4ceboo]

Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed you was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife’ - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

‘What are you doing, wife?’

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

‘So now I am of concern to you?’

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. ‘I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - ’

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

‘May I - may I touch you, my wife?’

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘I owe you an explanation.’

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

‘I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle,’ he finally confesses. ‘My uncle… when I was younger, he,’

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

‘All in good time, Feyd,’ you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. ‘I am sorry, my wife.’

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

‘Must you go?’ You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. ‘I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you.’

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. ‘Please, Feyd, I want you.’

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

‘Tell me if you want to stop,’ he says. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

‘Let me hear you,’ he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

[purple-plum-petals]

⊱ What It’s Like Cuddling with Him ⊰ || Mr. Gap Headcanons

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Character(s): Mr. Gap (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): None! Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic or Platonic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~590 words. Request: “Please I've been dying for content 😔 can I get uhhhh mr.gap content plz ?? I can't stop thinking about him popping up between ur blankets on you. Love ur homicipher stuff so far btw 🩷” Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the kind words! I’ve been enjoying writing for the fandom, too. Everyone has been so incredibly supportive, and that just means the world to me as a writer who never thinks their work is good enough. I love you, Homicipher fandom. 😭🫶 I went ahead and did headcanons about how Mr. Gap would be as a cuddle buddy since you mentioned the scene of him popping up between the blankets (and because they’re a lot easier to crank out than full-on drabbles haha). I hope you enjoy!  

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡

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🕳️: The first time Mr. Gap surprised you by suddenly appearing under the covers, you nearly died of a heart attack right then in there before scolding him to never do that again. He simply rolled his eyes at you, calling you boring before disappearing into the void once again. He never did stop like you had asked him to which, honestly, wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Eventually, you got used to his sudden presence to the point where it didn’t startle you as horribly as it used to (much to his disappointment). 

🕳️: Even if you don’t get startled by his appearance as often as you used to, that doesn’t mean you never get scared when he suddenly pops up. He enjoys spooking you, smiling widely whenever you gasp or let out a shriek when he lunges at your face from under the sheets like an alligator shooting out of the water to grab unsuspecting prey in its maws. He leaves with a chuckle if you smack or try to hit him, vanishing before you can do any damage. Your reactions are funny to him, and he enjoys being able to get a rise out of you. 

🕳️: You eventually become fed up with him and ask him with a huff if he wants to cuddle after lifting your covers and seeing his face in the darkness underneath, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He grimaces and asks you what that even means, not familiar with the term. After explaining it to him as best as you could considering the language barrier, his semi-disgusted expression doesn’t change, and he leaves faster than it took you to blink. This continues for a while, you ask him with a smirk if he wants to cuddle with you which successfully manages to chase the trickster away (you just have to threaten him with physical affection... good information to know).

🕳️: However, one day, Mr. Gap doesn’t leave after your half-hearted threat. He stays and stares up at you with a blank look on his face before, to your shock, agrees to cuddle with you. It’s strange laying in bed with a ghost that doesn’t have a body in the conventional sense, his head resting on your chest while his arms rest limply at your sides (he usually doesn’t hold you back, instead laying on you like a dead fish). While you can feel the presence of a form on top of you, whenever you try to catch a glimpse, you cannot see anything resembling a body underneath the covers. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, though, and he reminds you of a weighted blanket. 

🕳️: Mr. Gap doesn’t move or make much noise whenever you two are cuddling, an occurrence that has become more frequent as time goes on. He isn’t the biggest fan of physical touch, but he finds himself not minding the way your hands feel threading through his hair or the sound of your beating heart while his ear is pressed against your chest. The noise is strangely comforting... 

🕳️: If you inquire about his lack of commentary, he looks up at you and smirks, asking if you would give him your heart. You just tell him no with a smile since you were used to his questions at this point and close your eyes, your hands returning to combing out in knots in his black locks without another word… He kind of hates how he doesn’t find himself disgusted by your touch, and he can’t help but wonder why that is. 

[shininginyourlight]

KERRY