#The Slow Blade Penetrates The Shield

[crazygnomenclature]

[never-trust-anyone-over-30-000]

Dune reference in Anne Rice’s Mayfair Witches

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: i had a "no bald men" rule before he licked a knife... so y'all know my priorities are in order. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (as per usual), Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atreides (it's just such a good prompt i couldn't help myself),

Summary: A month-long engagement to the na-Baron Harkonnen makes you question, whether a marriage can bloom on the grounds of hate. Loosely based on "Special Death" by Mirah.

Pt.2, Pt.3 Pt.4 (finale)

The message comes from the Emperor himself. An indisputable order that renders your Father speechless. You've never seen him quite as distraught, as when he has visited you in your chambers to deliver the news. Hands fidgeting, eyes refusing to meet yours, heavy shadows falling across his face. He seems to expect your reaction, not giving you as much as a flinch, when you scream your protests at him. And he should've expected as much, you were always the more impulsive of Duke Leto's children. 

- But the Harkonnens are beasts - you argue, voice breaking - You've said it yourself, many times.

- Actually, I think that was Gurney...

- You've never denied it!

And he doesn't deny it now, head hung low. Never, not once in your life, have you seen your Father give up. Until today. 

Your Mother enters just a few seconds after him, her dress flowing around her ankles as if she had floated in on a cloud. She stands to the side of your bed, hands folded, and an impassive expression embedded onto her features. And the more she speaks of the centuries of breeding, the importance of an union and the powers beyond your understanding, the less you see of your mother. What stands before you, instead, is a Bene Gesserit sister, veiled in schemes and dark plans, which were in the making before you were even born. You curse yourself for not noticing this stranger sooner, and storm off, out of your room, your shawl blowing out behind you like bat wings.

Paul doesn't visit you, but you can hear him, even through the effort of swallowing down your tears. He fights for you against your Father. He would fight for you against the whole Empire if he had to, and your heart swells, as he throws a particularly nasty curse into the air of your Father's study. It doesn't change anything. According to the decree of the Emperror, the oldest daughter of the Duke Leto Atreides will marry Feyd Rautha, an heir to the Baron Harkonnen. A centuries long dispute is about to be put to an end, and all thanks to the small sacrifice, which is your life. All would be well in the galaxy. Really, you should be honored, to be tasked with such a monumental peace treaty.

Everyone in the court seems to know about your situation. Mournful looks follow you, as you walk into the training barracks, ridding yourself of layers upon layers of flowing fabrics, leaving you in a rather tight costume, light enough to beat your frustrations out on someone.

Duncan Idaho meets your searching eyes, and you know he is aware as well. All it takes is one inclination of your chin, and he's up on his feet, sword in hand. Loyal as ever, he stands in front of you, watches with mixed feelings as you enable your shield, no questions asked. None needed. 

He barely has time to put his defenses up, when you charge at him, fury and despair pushing your movements into stances which are clumsy and ill though out. Still, there's power within your strikes, a strength of someone who needs to move, unless they break. So he lets you, for a couple of minutes. He dodges your attacks, pairing some of them, never moving quite into the offense.

The rest of the soldiers scurry off somewhere, for which you will be thankful in the future. They might hear your cries of anger, but they will not see you break. They will not see the way your blade smashes into Duncan's shield over and over again, with no regard for the slow attacks, which would penetrate it. Likewise, they don't see your sparring partner fall to his knees and swipe you off your feet in a split-second movement, making you hit the floor with a frustrated snarl. And they don't see you finally give up, and cry, hugging your blade to your chest, the severity of your circumstance falling onto you, crushing you down.

- Never fight in anger, Princess - Duncan reminds you, voice cautious, and you growl at him like a wild animal - It dulls your instincts, makes you distracted.

- Did you know? - you demand, your sharp voice cutting through his half-assed lecture.

For a moment he looks truly remorseful. His eyes float around the room, and your heart sinks when he sighs deeply.

- I found out not long ago - he confesses - Your Father told me. 

Your blade slides against the floor as you throw it, a raw scream tearing through your throat. Duncan takes a step towards you, hand extended towards your shaking form. But, before he can attempt to touch you, you're up, rolling your shoulders forcefully. Tears stain your cheeks, and you wipe them roughly with the back of your hand, skin becoming irritated almost instantly. There are swords laid out on a small table, just beside you,  your fingers grip the cold handle so hard, your knuckles seem to creak under the pressure. Duncan readies himself as well, dusting off his trousers. 

He's not good at comforting, but he's the best at fighting, and if that's what you need in this cold morning, he'll oblige. 

- You'll make it through, you know - he says, his voice genuine, and you laugh without any mirth.

Your blades clash, faces coming closer as you absentmindedly notice small scars adorning his cheeks.

- You can adapt to anything - you strike against his shoulder, the shield pushes your blade away - We could send you to Arrakis right now, and a week later you'd be riding a damned Sandworm into battle.

To that, you laugh, this time your smile reaching your eyes. The idea is preposterous, but it renders your footsteps lighter, and you twist to dodge a nasty blow to the right arm. Duncan huffs a laugh as well, as you slip through his fingers. He points his blade in your direction, a smirk playing across his lips, and you bare your teeth in a playful display of wildness.

- Careful, Princess, you might scare your betrothed away - Duncan teases, as you roll your dagger in your hand.

- Scare a damned Harkonnen? Do you find me that intimidating? - the idea thrills you just a little bit, you're woman enough to admit it.

- I think you're fucking terrifying.

- Duncan Idaho, you better not be swearing at my Daughter.

Your face falls immediately, as your Father approaches the two of you, shooting Duncan a stern gaze which holds no real threat. Still, your sparring partner raises his hands, his blade tucked away safely into his belt. There's sweat clinging to your skin from all the training, mingling with drying tears on your cheeks, and Duke Leto tries very hard not to comment on your choice of processing recent events. Still, he nods at you, and like a good daughter, you put your blade away, walking from the barracks after him. 

***

The Emperor has called for a traditional, Atreides engagement. A mercy, which you're eternally grateful for. You're not too aware of Harkonnen customs regarding marriage, but given the House's reputation, it couldn't have been pleasant. House Atreides however, took to such matters much more ceremonially, old-fashioned to some. 

Soon, a ship is arriving, with your betrothed onboard, and a month-long courting period willcommence. After that, official engagement and soon after, a wedding. Then, you will be transported back on Geidis Prime, where a life of misery awaits. That's all the time you have. A month.  

The dress, which was picked out for you, is uncomfortable and shows both too much and too little skin at the same time. While your legs are bare and exposed to an almost scandalous degree, a high, stiff collar nearly chokes the life out of you. This whole getup was the idea of your mother, as an attempt to highlight your best features and hide all that might be considered less desirable. 

You have no idea what's wrong with your neck. Perhaps, by cutting off your airflow, your mother aimed to keep you docile. 

She frowns deeply as you tug on the fabric, nerves climbing up your spine, growing more desperate every second. She swats at your hand, and you throw her a look. Out of the corner of your eye Paul smiles at your antics, your only consolation in this hopeless place. 

- Stop fidgeting, you'll tear the dress - Lady Jessica scolds you, and you can sense actual worry underlining her stern voice.

The Harkonnen ship slowly glides into the atmosphere of your home planet, a black, awful thing. Like all things on Geidis Prime, dark and miserable. Soon, you'll join them, adorned in equally black and lifeless clothing, never to see your family again. Never to see the Ocean. Your nails bite into the collar of the dress, you can hear a stitch tear.

- Stop that.

Your hands fall uselessly against your body, as your mother uses the Voice on you. Wouldn't be the first time, you were quite the unruly daughter and Lady Jessica was determined to make a Lady out of you no matter the means. Still, this time, the unnatural tone feels more like a panicked plea,  than a light-hearted scolding. 

- Relax Mother - your voice is sharp, despite the slight tremble - In a months time I'll be gone from here forever, stuck in some blackened cell, wistfully sighing "ooh" "aah".

You place your hand on your forehead in a dramatic display of doubtful acting abilities. When you were younger, your mother would laugh at you, as you enacted scenes from romance books. You would throw yourself at a nearby piece of furniture, pretending to be some wronged lover, or an unhappy bride waiting for someone to liberate her. And your mother would clap her hands, thoroughly entertained.

Today however, she doesn't even crack a smile.

- I don't expect you to be happy about all this - she whispers - But I do expect you to wear your grief with some grace.

A slap would've been kinder, you think, and stare ahead, as the Harkonnen ship opens, and a group of people dressed in black spill out of it like ants from a drowning anthill. Your heart is thrumming hard in your chest, and your hand reaches out, despite all your apprehension, towards your mother. A force of habit, to search consolation within her disregarding the fact, that it was her meddling that put you here. 

Her fingers lace with yours, thumb stroking your palm in an attempt to soothe you. 

Immediately, you know which one of the bald headed Harkonnen is your betrothed. 

He's much taller than you, an imposing figure even despite his rather lean built. His skin is almost completely white, as expected, his teeth are blackened out, as expected as well, and his eyes are bearing into you with an intensity so oppressing, you almost look away. Almost. 

- I present to you, Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen. 

The pale man steps forward, releasing you from his gaze for only just a moment, to trade pleasantries with your Father, who looks beyond miserable as he fixes your soon-to-be husband with a tired look. Then, Feyd Rautha is brought before you.

There's grace to his movements you did not expect, as he pushes his black cloak aside, and kneels in front of you. Harkonnen were known for their bulky ruthlessness, but this one... This one reminded you of a panther, the way his eyes travelled the length of your body, full lips pulling upward into a barely noticable smirk. 

Customs, you remind yourself, as your mother's hand squeezes your fingers. You don't want to let her go, but you do, slowly, with so many mixed thoughts rattling around your brain, it makes your head swim. 

Feyd Rautha grabs your extended hand in such a gentle manner, you're almost convinced the Harkonnens have shaved some poor bastard and dropped him off instead of the real na-Baron. Then, he lifts your palm up, until his lips press against your fingertips, a gesture so tender, your heart does a flip in your chest. And then, it stops all together, when his grip on your palm tightens, and he pulls your hand closer, to kiss it properly. As if he can't help himself, he looks up at you, and you realize. 

You almost got yourself caught, but reading people's intentions have been taught to you as fervently as reading texts, and you can see right through this facade of chivalry. There's darkness in this man, a swirling void, which brings a wave of cold fear upon you. This cunning, depraved creature will soon enough become your husband, and you'll be stuck with him forever. How long will he keep up this impeccable appearence? Was this performence for you, your Father, his own twisted fun, or all the things combined?

With a furrowed brow, you tear your hand out of his grasp, a full body shiver running up your spine at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. He drinks up your reactions like a man parched, and you fight hard to put on a mask of indifference, as he rises from his knees to stand before you in all his imposing glory.

***

You can feel his eyes follow you, as the welcome committee retreats into the Palace. He doesn't let you out of his sight throughout the feast, which takes place immediately after his arrival, and even now, as he gets ready to "entertain" the court by indulging in some barbaric ceremony of his, his eyes are trained only on you. 

It's uncomfortable, to say the least, having him stare at you, while you sit surrounded by your family, who, for the most part, say nothing. Except Paul. Your dear baby brother, your protector in all this madness. As Feyd Rautha throws his coat to the side, showing off his (admittedly impressive) muscles, Paul leans towards you.

- He looks like a hard boiled egg, don't you think sister? - he whispers and subsequently ends your vow of silence. 

The giggle you let out is caught quickly by everyone around, your betrothed included, before you press an open palm against your lips. 

- Behave - your mother warns, and you try, you really do.

But in the serene light of the fading sun, your soon-to-be husband's head does look frighteningly egg-ish. God, you'll get yourself killed, before the wedding ceremony is even resolved if you keep this up.

You're seated high in an outdoor theater. One of your grandfather's favorite places, where he used to dance with bulls for sport. Where he met his demise.

Feyd Rautha presents his knives to you and your family, their blades glint ominously in the setting sun. Again, you are struck with the sheer grace this man exudes. His movements, despite being forceful and wild, have a beauty to them, as if he was rehearsing ancient dance moves, rather than killing blows.

And, despite your brother's earlier comment, there is something enticing in the way his pale skin catches the rays of bleeding sunshine, slowly creeping towards the horizon. He's almost beautiful, almost handsome enough to consider. 

The thought leaves your head almost immediately, as the Harkonnen servants bring in his apparent opponent. Your heart drops to your stomach at the sight of a beaten, dark skinned warrior. Immediately you recognize a Fremen, you've read so much about them in your free time. You know how they filter water, what they eat, how they move through the sands, and despite your knowledge you can't fathom, why this poor man has been brought here. 

At your side, Paul shifts in his seat, all jokes leaving him in a hurry. The both of you watch, as the man you're promised to toys with a clearly drugged victim. Slashes bloom on the prisoners skin, blood sprays in the air. You refuse to look away, to show such weakness, even as Feyd Rautha grabs the poor man by his hair and with a forceful push impales his throat on the blade. Blood pours down onto the sand, paints the Harkonnen's face and chest a deep shade of red.

It's a brutal display of power, of cruelty and wildness the Harkonnens are known for. Suddenly, everything Gurney has warned you about, while training your fighting skills, rings like a thousand of bells in your ears. This is who you will marry, who you will spend your entire life with. 

You swallow down an urge to throw up, and stand up from your seat. 

The show must go on, you think, throwing your Mother one, venomous look, trying to force her to understand your pain. Then, you lock eyes with your betrothed, who watches you from below with a cruel smile, blackened teeth on full display. You meant to congratulate him, to play the part as instructed, but you can do nothing of the sort. Instead, you stare back at him, disgust flowing from your features like a broken faucet. 

Lady Jessica opens her mouth, but before she can, without a doubt, scold you again, you're out of the seating area, your footsteps echoing in the halls. 

Once you're sufficiently tucked away from prying eyes, your back hits the wall, and you allow yourself feel the luxury of unbridled panic. Your breathing comes out in fast, shallow pants, as cold sweat forms on your forehead. Thoughts racing, your fingers tangle into your hair, tugging at the roots. This is your future, the only future waiting for you, and it's filled wth pain and blood.

- Have you enjoyed the fight, my Lady? - you immediately know it's him, despite not hearing him speak before.

A gasp of surprise leaves you before you can catch it, and your back straightens almost painfully fast. 

There he stands, tall and lean, and terrifying. Blood still decorates his torso creating a contrast that is both terrifying and hypnotizing. He watches you, curiosity and humor swirling behind his eyes. You can't decide whether they are completely blackened out, or if they hold a blue, almost serene hue. 

- No - you answer, finding your voice entirely too shaky for your liking - I did not enjoy it.

He laughs, a guttural, low sound that makes the hair stand at the back of your neck. You know he wouldn't dare try anything here, right under your Father's nose while the engagement is still in the making. Yet, as you stand frozen, just you, him and the marble walls around you, dread finds home in the pit of your stomach.

- Was that man Fremen? - you ask, partially to fill the silence, partially because you're genuinely curious.

The man shrugs, you can see muscles moving under his white skin. He takes a step towards you and you will yourself not to run.

- Sometimes we bring a couple of captured desert rats home - he explains with a nonchalant tone - Mostly for entertainment.

The almost bored intonation he uses to describe this barbaric ritual makes something boil deep inside you. 

- That's cruel - you counter, emotions flowing freely onto your face, much to the man's delight - To deny those men the honor of dying on their home planet. To drag them into a completely foreign place, just to kill them for sport, like some animals... It's...

- Some of them live - he cuts you off, taking another couple of steps towards you, but in your growing outrage, you barely notice - Our brothels are filled with Fremen whores.

Your face twist into an expression of utter repulsion, and Feyd Rautha raises his eyebrows in a pathetic mask of confusion, almost childlike giddiness lighting up his eyes as he looks down at you.

- Oh, don't give me that look, my Lady. - he cooes, and you've never felt a stronger urge to slap the daylights out of someone - I know for a fact there are brothels on your planet filled with hungry soldiers.

- Yes - you bark back at him - but the people there are working prostitutes, not slaves!

He shrugs, looking somewhere to the side of your face.

- A waste of money, if you'd ask me.

- Good thing no one has - there's venom in your voice, and your betrothed sucks a breath through his teeth.

You curse yourself for leaving your dagger, for not concealing it somewhere in this ridiculous dress, because the way the Harkonnen's expression shifts freezes blood right in your veins. 

He looks at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, while something much darker lurks in his eyes. His bloodied hand comes up, finger making contact with the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can feel the thick liquid stick to your flesh, as he drags his hand down, painting you, marking you.

- You're quite the little viper, my Lady.

Watching him silently, you don't respond. Don't know how to, when he closes the distance between your bodies enough to make you feel the heat radiating off of his chest, while the smell of blood and sweat completely assaults your senses. It's sickening, the way he looks at you, like you're a new toy, just waiting to be unpacked and destroyed by too eager hands. 

- My Uncle, the Baron, has instructed me, to be the utmost gentleman to you. To woo you completely - his voice is low, barely above a whisper, as he grins down at you - But I just can't lie to my future wife like that, can I?

He leans closer and finally, you take a step back, sliding out of his space, assessing a cautious stance. His hand almost follows you, the skin of your shoulder feels conflictingly cold without him.

- Once we're wed, I will possess you completely - this time you stand your ground, as he approaches, circling you like a lion stalking it's prey - And then...

He leans down beside you, shoulder to your shoulder, close enough for you to feel his hot breath graze your ear.

- Like the bull that took your grandfather's life, I shall pierce you.

The violent innuendo doesn't slip past you, and with hatred brewing behind your eyes, you look straight at him, forcing your fear to lay dormant. 

- You're disgusting.

- And you're blushing like a lovely, virgin bride should - he concludes, sending an awful wink your way, before withdrawing from you completely. 

Your veins burn hot, as you watch him leave, a selfish confidence painting his steps, and you beg every God in existence to grant you a sword in your hand. Or a dagger. A kitchen knife would do as well. Anything, that would help you cut this unbeatable, patronizing, infuriatingly handsome smirk from Feyd Rauthas face.

Alas, you're left with nothing, only a small glimmer of hope dangling in front of you, after your damned betrothed's words fully register in your brain.

A bride you might be, but certainly not a virgin one. Duncan Idaho made sure of that many years ago. The thought makes you smile, despite nerves wreaking havoc in your body. At least that's the one thing Feyd Rautha won't be able to take from you.

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (III)

summary: your limits are pushed until something snaps

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, blood, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 2k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

Feyd-Rautha is in your dreams again. Black teeth, barking laugh. But it’s not the same. Eyes alight with something you don’t understand. Dress heavy and clinging. Nails dragging down your wet skin. Dagger in your hand pressing against his throat. Poisoned words on his lips. “You wear blood well, my darling.” His image fades as hands cup your cheeks.

The day that follows is endless. Finalizing preparations for the coming days of events. Fielding requests from the minor houses for a moment of your time. A meeting over concerns of recent tectonic activity that your absent father is supposed to attend. Two more run throughs of the dance. The swordmaster demands two more after dinner.

Irulan is entangled in conversation with Duke Leto throughout the meal. Nauseously you wonder when an engagement will be announced. It was the destiny the Atreides had stolen. Paul would be Emperor and you would be nothing but a disappointment. Your father toasts to how proud he is of the woman you’ve grown into. There’s no truth in it. You can only blink at the lemon tart that’s served for dessert as he promises he’s prepared a fun few days ahead. 

When the meal is over you do not seek Fandral. You do the opposite and duck out of his sight at the first opportunity. He knows you’re supposed to return to the Small Hall and practice again. As comforting as his presence has been, you don’t want comfort or encouragement or protection. You want to stab something. Repeatedly.

The training yard is empty. The weapons are locked away, but you have the dagger Feyd-Rautha had gifted. You’d carried it with you throughout the day. Tucked away into the deep pockets of the borrowed gowns. You aren’t sure why today you felt the need to have it and not any other. Maybe you knew you’d need it. Or maybe you made the need for it because you had it. Either way, it serves your purpose.

The mannequin takes the blade with little resistance. It was natural in your hand. No matter how much or little pressure you use, it doesn’t slip and slice your palm like others do. A well made dagger.

You flick on the mannequin’s shield to test how well it handles the added strain.

“I am glad to see you enjoying my gift.”

There’s little resistance as you sink it into the stomach of the mannequin. “I am sick of pleasantries and pandering, na-Baron. Leave me be.”

Feyd-Rautha is predictable. You knew he would follow. You know he’ll take the chance to attack.

There’s the slightest whoosh of air that warns you. You evade the blade in his hands by millimeters, dodging to the right. You push the mannequin towards him. It knocks into him, unbalancing him for a moment long enough to twist your own shield on. His black grin is wide again as he recovers and stands tall. The dagger he carries isn’t much different from his gifted one. The handle thicker and longer, a few teeth in the blade, but from what you can glimpse it’s clear they had been made by the same hands. 

He lunges, expecting your evasion and slices at where your throat goes. He’s too fast and it bounces off. You counter with a jab to his arm, slow enough that it strains his shield. He doesn’t give it the time to penetrate as his blade comes back again.

The dance continues. Both of you manage to knick the other occasionally. You feel blood seeping from a slash across your chest and more from one along your back. He has two along his arms and one on his hip. You’ve held well, but he is taller and stronger and you feel yourself begin to falter.

“Growing tired, my lady?” he teases as you barely dodge another attack. 

“As would you under the weight of this dress.”

“I have no objection to you removing it.” He’s quick even after the extended duel. He strikes, and in your attempt to get away, he catches your hand and turns your shield off. The humming of his shield silences as you're pulled and turned until your back meets his chest. His blade is against your neck with a familiar chill and fingers digging into your hip. “Though it may tempt me into distraction.”

An unfamiliar fire blooms with the confession. “Careful what you share, na-Baron. I might use that sort of information against you one day.” Something twitches against your lower back.

“Let her go.”

The hand gripping your hip, the blade at your throat, and the warmth on your back are gone in an instant. You’ve never heard The Voice before, but it’s unmistakable. It’s not even directed at you, but your mind blurs and your body is pliant, as if waiting for its own command to follow. Fandral’s face blocks your view. He’s questioning if you’re alright, if you feel faint or dizzy. You can’t answer. It’s as if you're treading through the water again. 

You’re turned and pulled again, but now you’re separated from Feyd-Rautha by your guard and Paul Atreides. The heirs point their blades at each other. Paul accuses him of taking and hurting you. As if you were some helpless damsel.

“Stop,” you say. It’s too quiet, your mouth numb. Fandral shushes you and tries to lead you away. You try again, louder, “Stop!”

Neither heir moves.

“I asked him to spar.” It’s only a half lie. Paul’s tense pose eases as he finally breaks his gaze off Feyd-Rautha. “I wasn’t taken. He didn’t hurt me.” Paul's eyes dip to your chest. “Not anymore than I did him, anyways.”

Fandral questions, “In an evening dress? Alone?”

“It is when she is most vulnerable.” Feyd-Rautha has lost his smile. “Given her security leaves much to be desired at the best of times.”

You can feel the loathing radiating from Fandral. But there is no denial.

You nod at your former opponent “Thank you for your time, na-Baron. It was very enlightening.”

“It was a pleasure, my lady. You fight like a Harkoneen.”

The fire he lit burns brightly on your cheeks.

“What was the point in asking for a personal guard?” Fandral huffs when you’ve returned to the palace. His jacket is around your shoulders to cover the slice in the back of your dress. He’d wanted you to see the doctor, worried again about poison, but you refused. “If you wanted to train, you should have asked me.”

“Or me,” Paul says on your other side. “He could have hurt you.” He doesn’t recognize the condescension of his concern.

“That was the point.” You have to stop yourself from touching the wound on your chest. “How am I supposed to know training has been effective if I’ve never faced real consequences?”

Fandral scolds, “If you stay with your guard, you’ll never be in a situation where you have to find out if it’s effective.” He shakes his head, pushing the door to the Small Hall open. It was the compromise he relented to. No doctor visit if you came here. 

“You’re late,” the swordmaster calls out from where he stands in the middle of the room with a guard you recognize as one the Atreides’. His eyes travel across your mussed form. “I hope the other person looks worse than you.” 

“He doesn’t.” 

You glare at Fandral as the swordmaster decides that is a personal offense against his training and decides that practice will be doubled for it. It’s only as you look for the woman who always carries your swords that you realize she’s not there. None of the others are. But Paul still is.

“I shall see you tomorrow?” You hope he understands it’s a dismissal.

The question amuses him. “I intended to practice with you tonight.”

“With me?”

He smiles as if you’re missing something obvious.

The dance isn’t silly anymore. Fandral had been right. It does tell a story. One of submission. 

There are no troubadours, only the sole Atrides guard who plucks at the strings of a Baliset. Your feet move in the familiar pattern, hilts of the swords bouncing against your hips.

Even without the additional instruments you recognize the melody. The blades gnash against their sheaths in protest as you pull them free. They shriek in the air, spinning easily between your fingers. Faster and faster they spin until the music nearly dies.

Once, twice you clink the blades’ together before you stab one into the plush stool. Fandral claps to the beat the drums usually play as you turn your back to it. The sword that remains drags its tip against the stone floor. Sparks follow when you twist quickly.

Paul stands there now, sword pulled free. He brings it in front of him as he drops into a defensive stance. The Baliset begins again now you fight. Thrust, retreat, parrie, circle, advance, lunge, parrie, retreat, parrie, parrie. On and on it goes until he flicks the sword out of your hand. You take the hand he offers and spin into him as the music reaches a subdued crescendo. Chest heaving, you stay there and stare into the eyes of the person who has taken everything from you until the music and the last of your dignity finally dies.

Three more times you are subjected to the humiliation. It will be once more tomorrow.

When Paul and his guard are gone, jolly at the surprise they’d sprung on you, you round on the swordmaster. He answers your unspoken question. “Your father did not want you to know until the last possible moment.”

“Perhaps you should wait until morning,” Fandral attempts to persuade you as he shadows you down the empty corridors. “Or at least remove your swords?” You don’t bother with a response. 

The guards stationed outside his door attempt to stop you, but you’re quick to dip under their arms and push into the room. You're unsurprised to find a courtesan in his bed. There’s a scandalized shout from her and curses from him as they scramble to cover themselves.

“Get out,” you tell her. 

Your father objects, but she is quick to comply. She pulls her dress from the floor and slips into it with practiced ease. She’s gone within a minute. The door closes behind her.

“You’ve gotten bold,” he growls.

“Why didn’t you want me to know?”

With a huff he says, “Because you wouldn’t have done it if you did. I told the Atridies you’d be too shy to do it if you knew and the boy thought it was enduring.”

“Why have me dance with him at all?”

He shrugs. “It was their suggestion.”

You stare at him. He’s pathetic. “You were wrong,” you tell him, bile on your tongue. “I would have done it if you asked. I would’ve done anything for you.” You leave before he sees the tears slide down your cheeks.

Feyd-Rautha doesn’t have a chance to visit you that night. Sleep never comes. Anger too potent to allow any rest.

When morning comes the maids work on making you presentable. There’s comments on the bags under your eyes and the new scar across your chest. You let them cover the former, but insist on keeping the latter. “Your father won’t like it,” one cautions. You're not inclined to care what he likes anymore. It’s something they soon realize.

They’re hesitant to style your hair in the way you instruct, but relent. Then the dress they offer, another of his choosing, is refused. You see their realization when you tell them what you’ll wear instead. Their efforts to sway you are in vain as you threaten to leave the room as bare as the day you were born.

Fandral stops in the doorway after the maids leave. “You look…”

You're still standing in front of the mirror. The dress is lilac, frilly and feminine in a way you’ve never been allowed. Your hair is braided, save for the pieces that frame your face. You look soft. Delicate. Like a painting that had been tucked away when you asked too many questions.

“Like my mother.” 

There’s only one thing missing. The rogue lies abandoned on the vanity. It’s vivid enough that a single dab of the brush colors both your cheeks.

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[anika-ann]

Thirst for Life (As It Is) - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, next-to-zero plot

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 3,7k

Summary: You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

A slice of life kind of fic, a moment of love life of Steve Rogers and his beloved.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, fingering, oral (F rec), allusions to penetrative sex, brief mention of canon typical injuries, briefest allusions to angst, FLUFF, dorks in love

A/N: Super belated entry for Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge hosted by @steviebbboi. Thank you for hosting and congrats again💕 I got inspired by the prompt Aw, does it feel good right here?🤭

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @saradika-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love? Does it feel good right there?"

A blatant, wicked tease, rewarded by a breathless curse spilling from parted lips, a soundless complaint.

Unable to help yourself, you giggled, kissing the spot again, earning a grunt – a sound of protest and approval alike.

“Just you wait…” Steve muttered, annoyed and somewhat fond at once, groaning when you pressed with your fingers this time, feeling the tight knot right under his right shoulder blade as if growing thicker to rebel against your care. “And this isn’t funny.”

You licked your lips, biting back to fight another laugh and losing anyway.

“Come on, Steve… it’s a little funny.”

It was a little funny.

Steve Rogers, a mighty supersoldier, all muscle and broadness, filling the space of the large bed. A paragon of strength and justice, shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world, his heart a shield for those who needed protection, his shield the heart of the Avengers. A seemingly fearless leader, a strategic mastermind, an excellent fighter; the embodiment of masculinity and power and righteousness and love.

All that and more – brought to its knees by a pulled muscle.

Of course, if it were up to Steve only, he would not even let this slow him down, not in the slightest, let alone bring him down his knees. Oh no.

It was your gentle offer; a soft touch of a hand, a sweet promise, a confession and a plea on your lips.  

“Let me help, love.”

A gaze of mutual affection exchanged; a kiss to his lips to seal the deal with tenderness you knew your might have to abandon if you wanted to help set his body right.

It was a little funny.

The huge hunk of supersoldier muscle, turned into a puddle of a man under your touch. You treated him with as much skill as you would any other client or a patient of yours, if perhaps with a little softer care and with considerably less professionalism.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; Steve Rogers was infinitely much more to you. The love radiating from the depth of your heart turned tangible in his proximity; undeniably present in your touch, be it your hands or your lips trying to sooth the pain, be it you straddling his hips which seemed almost absurdly narrow in comparison of the enormity of his shoulders, be it your words of affection or gentle teasing.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; most of those who came in specifically with a pulled muscle were there because they had been helping a friend moving furniture, overestimated themselves in a gym, or snapped their head to the side too fast.

Your boyfriend of almost one year, on the other hand, had pulled a muscle when lifting a goddamn car off of someone to whose rescue he had rushed to.

Pressing against the knot, gently but firmly enough to make Steve groan – a sound of complaint bleeding into one of gratitude as you gradually released the pressure – you allowed the piece of information about him having practically lifted a car wash over you again, the astonishment at absurdity and curiosity of life fresh as if it was something entirely new to you.

But it wasn’t. It most definitely wasn’t the first time you had been confronted with this part of who Steve was. It wasn’t the first time you were confronted with how much the serum had enhanced his strength and possibly stubbornness, with what he did for living and how, or with the insistent calling in his very soul to help and serve and be nothing but a profoundly good man. It was hardly the first time and yet you guessed it would never cease to amaze you.

His good heart and his kind soul. His brilliant mind and his incredible body. A man all strong and resilient, but not invincible, not unbreakable.

And perhaps that was where the laugh was coming from – the reason why you couldn’t quite help yourself but tease him, why you couldn’t quite stop giggling.

The relief.

Because Steve Rogers – one of the greatest heroes of your time and the past alike – coming back home with only a pulled muscle was nothing short of a miracle, and this was how your strained body and mind expressed the utter, overwhelming relief coursing your veins.

Because Steve came home. Home to you.

Another day, another save.

Another day he could have caught a knife to his gut or to his neck. Another day he could have caught a bullet an inch from his heart or straight through. Another day he could have been taken and tortured for information or for the twisted fun of hurting Captain America.

None of that had happened.

Instead, it was another day Steve came home to you in one piece. Even if tired and with a pulled muscle.

You’d count your blessings, over and over, more so since you knew how and why he had pulled that muscle; gold of heart and dumb of ass, he couldn’t have waited for someone to come help him, not when the man who had been pinned under a damn car was so clearly and understandably in pain.

Steve’s mind was a brilliant thing, coming up with impenetrable strategies, with a plan B for the plan B and with a plan C and D just in case, carefully predicting outcomes and calculating risks; sometimes he just got bad at math when calculating risks for himself when he couldn’t bear seeing others suffer.

You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

And he’d let you, even if the first time you had met had certainly not been the case. Not with him having been dragged in, after having his knee busted in a fight, arguing that he did not need anyone’s help, because he was enhanced by the supersoldier serum and his body had always healed on its own. You wouldn’t have it; you had met all the unwilling patients and sceptics. So you took one glance at the man who had literally dragged him in – his best friend, Bucky Barnes, seemingly more exhausted by his attitude than by the fact he had been carrying a significant weight of the huge pile of muscle Steve Rogers was – and then took another look at the man behind the shield himself, before you listed all the muscles, tendons and bones that would have begged him to differ in reaction to such claim.

To this day, you were not quite sure whether it had been your knowledge or your ability to simply not have his attitude that had impressed him more, but later you would find out his attitude was more about him feeling like others needed your help more than him and less about him questioning your field or expertise. That had mattered to you; what mattered also was that Bucky was never going to let you or Steve live your so-called meet-cute down, claiming he knew right away Steve had fallen in love the very second.

So you’d count your blessing and you’d let yourself feel whatever came, and you’d let yourself be consumed by the love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

You let yourself laugh again even as Steve grumbled under you, muttering something about maybe deserving it. You appreciated the self-awareness. You appreciated him.

You smiled as you let your hands roam with purpose, warm touch mapping out his pains and still taking moments to caress and indulge in exploring his body, cherishing the beautiful view of the expanse of his back and the feel of his strength yielding to your care with endless trust.

“I feel a little less treated and little more objectified at this point,” he muttered, a smile evident in his voice even before your gaze flickered to his face, now turned to side as he rested his cheek on the back of his hand.

One corner of your lips rose higher, barely a flicker of shame in your chest. You’d never violate a patient or a client like that; but you’d also never miss a chance to feel closer to Steve, miss a chance to touch him, to cherish the contact and to make him feel loved.

“Is there a complaint you’d like to submit, sir?” you questioned, a wide smile setting on your lips as he hummed in disapproval.

Still, you finished the treatment with a last few strokes that were indeed more of a gentle closing than anything else, climbed off of him and pulled the blanket over his naked back to keep the muscles warm.    

He blinked his eyes open as you sat by his side on the bed, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

The second he reached out his hand to hold you, you clicked your tongue disapprovingly, making him huff but obediently stop his progress.

“You know the rules, Steve. Stay still for a bit, let the body process. I’ll bring you some fluids.”

He sighed, squinting at you with adorable defiance. “I do know… I don’t have like it. Maybe just a minor complaint then.”

You grinned, leaning closer to him on the pillow, feeling your heart tremble in thorough warmth as he observed you with sleepy intent and a look closest to adoration you had ever seen.

“What’s that, Captain Rogers?” you whispered conspiratorially.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

You relaxed into the mattress, shoulders slumping, heart a second from melting as the lightest and most delightful feeling spread through your veins, a rush so powerful it almost chased tears into your eyes.

To care and be cared for; to love and be loved, so utterly you had never believed it possible until you met Steve Rogers, most certainly the love of your life.

Reaching out, your fingertips lightly caressed his cheek, his eyelids slipping shut; you brushed over the arches of his brows, over the slope of his nose, over his lips – instantly pursing for a light kiss to your fingers – and caressed his scalp, only to meet his gaze again, so tender you felt something inside your soul shift and shudder in pure happiness.

“I know you will when I need it,” you assured him, bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the idea. That we’re supposed to be taking care of each other, love.”

A sparkle lit up his tired eyes, his smile turning positively goofy.

“I like that,” he whispered.

“Good,” you said, pressing another kiss to his forehead and climbing to your feet. “Now be a good patient and stay still for a bit, just like everyone else… no matter how special you are to me.”

“Mmm, if you say so… I love you.”

You fought the urge to lie next to him, reminding yourself that if you got him fluids now, you could lie with him and bask in his warmth later and with no interruptions.

“I love you too, Steve.”

By the time you got back, hands clean of the essential oil and full with a mug of tea and a tall glass of water, you found him fast asleep, still on his front, arms hugging his pillow.

Not bothering to fight off your smile this time, you set the mug on the nightstand, tucked the blanket higher to his chin and climbed up to the bed to sit and prop up on the headboard.

You reached for the engagement ring you had taken off for the massage first and put it back where it belonged, and only then for your half-read book, gaze once more flickering to man who had stolen your heart and would never give it back.

Attention divided, you read; but mainly you kept your future husband company, watching over his peaceful and more than deserved sleep.

Because that was what you were supposed to do; watch over each other, look out for one another, and take care of each other.

And in a few months, you’d promise to continue doing that with love for the rest of your lives, swearing so in front of your friends and families.

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love?” he teased, every syllable dripping off his lips rich and heady like honey, and even with your eyes fluttered shut, you could see his beautifully wicked smile, the spark in his eyes that shone dark, lit alive in a way that was reserved for you; and only for you. “Does it feel good right there?"

You recognized the echo of your own words, Steve’s voice coloured with sweet vindication. He knew exactly what he was doing and he revelled in it; you would protest and complained again if your lips remembered how to speak beyond Steve’s name and breathless pleas. You would protest if you truly wanted to and he would stop in an instant. You would protest if your hands were not literally tied.

Again, unlike your other patients, all Steve had needed was your skilled touch and a good rest. A few hours of sleep, Erskine’s serum working its magic and he had been good to go; perhaps not for another mission, not for a training session, but for repaying your service with love and adoration and desire.

Hugging your middle after waking up, resting his head over your thigh, he had sent a single glance up at you and you had very well forgotten what you had been reading.

He had kissed your palms in thank you, one and then the other, lingering with his gaze and his lips, and you had already been forgetting your own name.

He had pressed a kiss to your wrists, wrapping them in satin like a precious gift, smiling as he had to ruck up the sleeves of his very shirt you had chosen to wear to bed to do so.

He had ghosted his lips over your fingertips as he tied your wrists to the headboard, making sure you rested your hands, the most important asset for your work; conveniently putting your engagement ring on display for him to see at all times while doing so.

He had met your lips in a kiss so sultry you barely caught your breath, before they strayed over every inch of newly revealed skin as he unbuttoned the shirt, lingering in all his and your favourite places, hands roaming, caressing, holding, owning.

You arched against his mouth when he reached his prize, forearm draping over your middle, keeping you grounded as he lifted you towards the stars once, almost for the second time, until his fingers joined to show off his own talented touch and to bring you to the brink of madness.

“Did not quite catch that, sweetheart,” he muttered to the burning skin of your inner thigh, rendering you speechless with his tongue before you could catch your wits and answer. “I suppose I should try again…”

“Steve-“

“Right here, love… give me one more. Let me take care of you… you said you knew I would take care of you when you’d need it, didn’t you? Do you need it now, love?”

Steven Grant Rogers, you little shit- was the thought that flew through your head so fast you couldn’t hope to catch it let alone verbalize it. Not with how your head was beginning to spin when his lips, his hands, his wicked tongue and seemingly innocent filthy talk carried by his deep voice overwhelmed your senses and chased you higher and closer to your peak with every passing torturous second.

“Yes-“ was what actually spilled from your lips breathily, followed by a keen of please.

“Then be good and stay still.”

Steve’s dark mischievous gaze met yours, the erotic sight of him between your legs, wide shoulders barely fitting, with his palm sprawled to your belly and seemingly enjoying himself thoroughly was your undoing, along with things he did and you could not hope to put into words; not when your vision whited out with a cry of his name and wave of numbing bliss washing over you and pulling you under.

You were trying to catch your breath as he let you ride out your high, firm, wet languid kisses pressed to your thighs, your stomach, your breasts with just a graze of teeth to both increase your pleasure and to satisfy the man who loved to get lost in exploring your body and consuming you whole.

When his lips finally met yours again, you did not care you still hadn’t quite earned enough oxygen, whimpering against the demanding kiss as Steve’s fingers curled just to press at the spot again, while he casually rested his weight on his elbow, left hand interlacing his fingers with yours to feel the ring he had slipped on your finger just a few weeks ago.

“Love you so much, sweetheart. Love seeing you like this, so beautiful, so blissed out and so, so mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse as if he had been the one to crying out in ecstasy.

“I love you too, Steve.”

Instinctively moving to touch him, to keep him closer, you tugged at the soft fabric around your wrists, huffing in frustration when all you could do was squeeze Steve’s hand tighter.

“Hands, love?” you pleaded, arching your body against his, hovering too high for your taste even when your bare chest brushed his, your body drinking hungrily the heat which his own was radiating. “Want to touch you.”

“Anything for you, love.”

As thoroughly distracting as his lips were, pressing back to yours as he blindly loosened the knots, your hands sprang the moment you were free, sighing as the utter delight at holding onto your lover flooded every cell of your body, fingers raking through his hair, digging into his back to pull his closer to your embrace.

His lips eased the pressure, nose bumping yours, fingertips brushing your cheek tenderly, his smile as sweet as sinful, and when you blinked your eyes open, you couldn’t but bask in the blinding light of adoration shining in Steve’s blown pupils.

“You alright, sweetheart? Can you take more?”

The question nor the concern were new; yet they tasted as lovely as Steve’s smile when he leaned in to kiss you again.

You ran your hand down the lovely expanse of his back, pressing to meet his hardness, a wordless agreement.

“Yes, just… be careful.”

Steve’s lips parted from yours with a wet pop, genuine worry instantly overtaking his features, his weight easing from your body – almost making you regret what you were about to say when he’d inevitably ask-

“Are you hurting? Did I do anything-“

“I’m fine, Stevie…” you assured him, brushing a lose strand away from his forehead, smoothening the crease that formed there, your wildly pounding heart shivering from his tender care for you, his consideration, his willingness to walk away from chasing his own pleasure and just hold you should you wish so for whatever reason.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, his frown only deepening with disapproval as he probably thought you were about to downplay whatever it was that bothered you, what he had done to hurt you or was causing you pain – like Mr. Hypocrite, your softest, biggest love.

“No need to worry, Steve. I just want you to be careful, you know… you might pull a muscle and need medical and fluids after.”

A beat of silence, bated breaths.

And then you were bursting out with laughter at Steve’s scandalized expression, the sound blending into a yelp as he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you to the air. He stood up in a whirlwind of a movement, spinning you until your back hit the wall, blow softened by his palm while his other moved under your bottom, fingers digging to your flesh, pinning you to the hard surface by his hips, his chest, and mainly by his lips crashing against yours, stealing the laughter from you very lungs, drinking your love from the very bottom of your heart.

He nipped at your bottom lip, hips bucking against yours, his voice a sultry promise you couldn’t wait for him to make good on; for all the teasing, you knew that indeed, your Steve would have caring for you at the forefront of his mind. You could feel his love undeniably present in his touch, be it his hands or his lips, be it his words of affection or the gentle, exhilarating threats:

“Oh just you wait, love… we’ll see who’ll need what after I’m done with you… I was so well-taken care of by my future wife, I think I want to start training for our wedding night. And sweetheart,” he whispered, warm breath brushing your ear, “I think it’s time we try to push our record to double digits.”

As a shudder ran down your spine like a livewire, your heart jumping to your throat with how your blissed-out mind scrambled to try to imagine that, you let your body sink into his, counted your blessing, and let yourself feel whatever was about to come.

You let yourself be consumed by love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving feedback.

May November be kind to you💕

[untitledmemes]

Dune: Part One Prompts

Part I An assortment of prompts taken from the movie Dune: Part One (2021). Adjust as necessary to fit pronoun and/or descriptor. In case of Multimuse, don't forget to specify which one/s. Reblog, please do not repost or add.

“ Dreams are messages from the deep. ”

“ Their cruelty to my people is all I've known. ”

“ Who will our next oppressors be? ”

“ It's good you're up early. ”

“ Why do we have to go through all of this when it's already decided? ”

“ If you want it, make me give it to you. ”

“ There is no call we do not answer, there is no faith we betray. ”

“ I'd like you to take me with you. ”

“ Can I trust you with something? ”

“ It felt like if I had been there, you'd be alive. ”

“ You're not taking me seriously. ”

“ Dreams make good stories, but everything important happens when you're awake because that's when we make everything happen. ”

“ I've been training my whole life. What is the point if I can't face an actual risk? ”

“ I need you by my side. ”

“ I told my father I didn't want this either. ”

“ A great man doesn't seek to lead. He's called to it, and he answers. ”

“ I found my own way to it. Maybe you'll find yours. ”

“ Don't stand with your back to the door. ”

“ The slow blade penetrates the shield. ”

“ You fight when the necessity arises, no matter the mood. ”

“ I see you found the mood. ”

“ You don't understand the grave nature of what's happening to us. ”

“ Don't be too sure it's an act of love. ”

“ When if a gift not a gift? ”

“ Defiance in the eyes. Like his father. ”

“ An animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to escape. What will you do? ”

“ I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. I'll face my fear and I'll permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn to the inner eye and see its path. And where the fear is gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain. ”

“ If you had been unable to control your impulses, like an animal, we could not let you live. ”

“ You inherit too much power. ”

“ Do you often dream things that happen just as you dreamed them? ”

“ Did you have to go that far? ”

“ Do you see so little hope? ”

“ How does it feel to walk on a new world? ”

“ Don't be fooled by the welcome. ”

“ Let's get you out of the sun. The heat can kill in this place. ”

“ They see what they've been told to see. ”

“ If you mean to harm me, I must warn you that whatever you're hiding, it won't be enough. ”

“ When you have lived with a prophecy this long, the moment of revelation is a shock. ”

“ Sire, I failed you today. There's no excuse. ”

“ It must never be known. ”

“ Thanks for the humiliation, old man. ”

“ I have never come so close to dying. ”

“ I respect the personal dignity of anyone that respects mine. ”

“ I believe your people and mine have much to offer one another. ”

“ Name what you want. If it's in my power to grant, I'll give it and ask for nothing. ”

“ Honor requires that I be elsewhere. ”

“ You have good eyes. ”

“ If we take one step out there, we're as good as dead. ”

“ I recognize your footsteps, old man. ”

“ Everything they left us is in shambles. We've been set up to fail. ”

“ I had a vision. My eyes were wide open. ”

“ You can't know that. I barely know that. ”

“ I trusted you completely. Even when you walked in shadows. ”

“ Why are you having these thoughts? This is not you. ”

“ I thought we'd have more time. ”

“ Why don't we just cut their throats? ”

“ Don't! You are not ready. ”

“ For hundreds of years, we've run blood for blood. But no more. ”

“ Here I am. Here I remain. ”

“ I am commanded to say nothing. To see nothing. ”

“ Tell me, please. What do you fear? ”

“ Somebody help me, please. ”

“ You know who you are. ”

[shotmrmiller]

Bathmaid! Reader and Knight!Simon dying from an ambush <3 then bathmaid!reader wakes up in 09 wife's body in the 09 universe then later she gets out into 22 where knight! Simon went

how cursed would that be, though?

knight!simon fought viciously, but he was only human. exhaustion began to slow his body down.

the beginning of the true end had begun when you took an arrow to your midsection— the chainmail vest that he'd haphazardly shoved you in, penetrated by an eleven-gram arrowhead.

how had it gotten past his shield?

it didn't matter; you bled out in seconds.

simon, the knight in bloodied, dented armor died when his maiden did.

-

and then you stir awake, in a warm bed with simon(?) next to you.

but where's the jagged scar that stretched from his temple down to his chin?

what're the strange clothes he's wearing?

where's his armor? his horse?

where are you?

-

whoever this is that wears simon's face. you scream at him— ragged, furious— that whatever this witchcraft of his is, he'll burn at the stake for it.

his face contorts with his confusion, and then he opens his mouth to speak.

your english is not his.

this simon is not yours.

but there is nowhere for you to go, in a time you weren't born in.

so you continue to be his 'wife' and pretend to love him, until you wake up one day and realize that you're no longer pretending.

until he's the one that leaves you behind, this time.

you go to sleep in mourning, and wake with a knife to your throat in a different setting altogether.

not again.

you lock eyes with your captor and your archaic language falls from your lips unbidden.

my knight.

his eyes widen with recognition and removes the blade from your neck.

my maiden.

your hands instantly cradle his face and pull him down to brush your lips against his.

this...this is your simon.

this made my head hurt. terrible things happen to those that meddle with time, they say. so who tf doin' all this?

[muffinsin]

hiii! can you do a cassandra reaction to her attempting to explore a kink that reader is not comfortable with, and reader yells out the safe word, which is stop? you can choose which kink. it starts out normal smut then slight angst before turning into fluff + aftercare.

— asian anon (could i get a tag?)

Heck yeah! More Cassandra-loving!🙇‍♀️

Let’s get into it! :)

Regarding the tag- as there’s a tag limit at the blog, I’ve found the solution:

Creating a post with all specific anons as tags :) by selecting the tag, all works of this anon can be found

The post can be found here

Masterlists

Frankly, she’s very surprised when you at first agree to indulge her as it comes to her sadism

She knows, you can take light pain

Little spanks here and there, light bites

Nails dragged across your skin, ticklish rather than painful

Never does she quite penetrate your skin, save for when she drinks from you

Even then, it’s always so careful. She is

It’s no surprise nor secret that Cassandra can be very rough, sadistic and murderous

Yet, she keeps you shielded from such dark tendencies

She finds herself flabbergasted when you ask her about her darker kinks one day. It’s very obvious she’s holding back during sex, after all

At first, she’s very reluctant to tell you

Still, with encouragement and some prodding, she opens up about a few

One of them catches your attention in particular

A knife kink? Cutting? You?

She senses your uncertainty, and immediately ensures you know; she doesn’t expect such a thing from you

You’re her sensitive, tiny human. Her little lamb. Her precious morsel

She doesn’t want to hurt you, she assures

Oh, but she does, in only in best way. She wants to see you shake below her, bloodied and broken in all the best ways

She wants to smell your fear

And while she denies this, you know it

Really- between the many kinks she’s mentioned, a knife one doesn’t seem so bad

How bad can it hurt, after all?

She practically beams when you tell her, you’d like to try this kink with her

Of course, she prepares you properly for it all

You’re told to let her know the second you begin to feel even slightly at unease

She will slow down, or stop immediately depending on what you’d like of her

Despite the more sinister nature of this kink- even more so with her- she promises she will be gentle

No deep cuts, none that are vertical and hurt more

Merely stinging pain, she assures

No scars, no everlasting damage, she promises

Wet rags, food and water, even a bucket of ice stands in the room for when your activities come to an end

She ensures you have eaten, and massages your arm gently as she guides you to lay down on the bed

You’re beautifully naked below her, her smooth, bare thighs on either side of you

She’s as bare as you, pale skin revealed, soft fingertips tracing your skin

Gently, she binds your arms above your head and restrains you

She doesn’t want you to jerk away and accidentally hurt yourself

Still, she ensures you know you can stop this whenever

Your mouth is uncovered, allowing you to yell “Stop” at any point

You gulp when you see the knife at last- a large blade, clean and neither too sharp, nor too dull

Your cheeks flush and your heartbeat immediately picks up. She smiles, wide and eager

Cassandra nearly moans at the fear she smells on you

She can’t help but grind down on you a little bit

At last, you gasp when she flips you and lifts tilts head back by your hair

Her grip is tight, but not painful

She’s careful with you, even as her eyes glisten with sadistic pleasure and her chest heaves with each pant

Never have you seen her this riled up

This…hungry

She looks as though she can’t wait to pounce and take you

When the edge of the knife is pressed against your throat, you squeak

It merely presses against you, and her grip on your hair tightens to ensure your head doesn’t accidentally push forwards

You feel your own fear, the sweat and the shaky breaths leaving you

By her dark chuckle, you can tell she knows of it too

“Beg for more, morsel”

Only another shaky squeak comes from your lips

Your brows furrow when the knife pressed against you a little harder

Not pushing in, not breaking skin. Merely reminding you of its presence

You blink, feeling your eyes burn slightly

Stubbornly, you force yourself not to cry yet. Nothing’s even happened yet

The knife trails alongside your skin as the hums, as though waiting

Yet, when you part your lips to plead like asked, no words come out

She laughs, and you practically hear the satisfaction in her voice

“Mhmm, not up to talking, are you?”

Even without being able to see her, you know those stunning, golden eyes are shining bright

The cool blade runs up your neck, to its side until it disappears behind you

For a moment, you wait, anticipating the pain that is sure to come

She enjoys watching you squirm, and crackles when she lets go of your hair and you gasp in surprise

Still, your head stays raised, and she smirks as you attempt to turn

But you can’t see her. Aren’t granted to

Perhaps, she hums, she will allow you to see her if you behave

You gasp when the blade is set to your back, and can’t help but cry out when, at last, pain is inflicted on you

It’s sharp, stinging, as she slices down

And, immediately, it brings tears to your eyes

She merely moans as the scent of your blood hits her

The cut isn’t deep, placed on your left shoulder blade

You grit your teeth when you feel her tongue against it, dragging lightly across it

It stings, but soothes your skin a little all the same

You attempt to look behind you, but can’t see her, nor the blade

Another cut

You feel tears run down your cheeks and fall on the pillow below you

Again, she soothes it

She doesn’t squeeze out more blood, or sucks on the wound. Merely tastes your blood

You feel her moan against your skin

Then, a third one comes

You can’t help it

You scream, loud and clear

A loud “Stop!”

Immediately, the knife drops to the sheets, and sharp nails cut through the rope binding your arms

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry”, you cry out when she pulls you to her, gently

She makes sure to avoid the area around your cuts

You barely hear her hushed reassurances over the thoughts occupying your mind

You know, this is what she likes. Immediately, doubts start to take over

Are you right for her?

Can you be right for her?

When you cannot even grant her this…?

You know, she is sadistic. You know, this is reflected in her personality, and the sex with her

Yet, you’re sensitive

And it just- hurts

You feel your back ache and cry more

Her hand around your waist barely does anything to calm you

Do you deserve the comfort she offers you?

Cassandra, too, thinks similarly

Is she right for you?

Was she too rough?

She tried so hard to hold back

Has she still pushed too far?

Should she not have allowed herself this? Should she not have allowed you to offer such a thing to her?

Are you lost now? Will you be gone?

Will you leave her?

Are you hurt?

Was she unable to control her strength and hurt you too much?

Is she a monster?

You’re sobbing in her arms, yet cling to her

Does she deserve your touch?

She fights to urge to swarm away

“I’m sorry..”, she whispers, a tear slipping from her golden eye

A single moment of vulnerability

You look up at her, puzzled

Does she blame herself?

And she notices your expression, too

Do you blame yourself?

Words clash against one another as both of you attempt to reassure, it’s not the other one’s fault

It brings a small giggle from your lips, which makes her smile softly

It’s as though your giggle is enough to pull her from the darkness of her mind that insists, she is a monster

You reassure her, you aren’t hurt

You reassure, you aren’t leaving her, and you don’t hate her

You reassure her, she is no monster

She reassures you, she isn’t angry

She reassures you, isn’t disappointed

She reassures you, she loves you

With a gentle, caring smile and a concentrated frown on her face, she works on covering the small cuts on you up

You appreciate it, and hum at her surprisingly gentle hands and fingertips ghosting over your skin

While she would have normally proposed a bath, this time you find yourself laying with her

Cuddled underneath the blankets, her arms around you and lips- no longer bloodied- pressed to your head

Giggling as she feeds you some of the snacks she’s prepared, she watches you fondly

You truly are her sweet, little lamb

[arrancxr]

I know shinigami bad, and I share the feeling, BUT. What if a *really* messed up one ended up capturing Ulquiorra? Just for the pride of having a powerful arrancar at their disposal, so... 73 with Ulquiorra getting railed with all the intention to break him?

73. “God, you love it like this, don’t you?”

The Arrancar’s body is deathly pale, almost laughably fitting for a creature that’s never known the warmth of sunlight on its skin. It looks far more human than you expected, however— more man than beast. 

He’s small, slender-boned, with enormous, unblinking, emerald-green eyes that bore into you like blades even when your back is turned. The Fourth Espada is surprisingly unprotesting now that he’s thoroughly restrained, you note; he doesn’t bother to struggle against the spiritual pressure-draining cuffs, nor does he spit threats, or demand to be freed.

In fact, the first words he says to you only come when you start to cut away the cloth of his chalk-white uniform— “What are you intending to accomplish?”, is what he asks, voice toneless and utterly dispassionate. 

“Do you know what sex is?” you question in return, as you peel back the layers of white to reveal the matching hue of skin underneath. 

“Reproduction, as done by living beings.” A hint of confusion, this time.

You smirk. “That’s right. But us dead things can do it too— even Hollows, sometimes. The evolved ones have the parts for it, at least.”

By the time the Fourth Espada is bare, you’ve confirmed your guess to be correct; there’s a small-ish, yet normal-looking dick right where it’d be on a person, just as pale as the rest of him, save for the blush-colored tip peeking out from its shield of skin. The Arrancar twitches, flinch-like, when you push his knees up to his chest. He’s cold to the touch under your hands, but the little shiver that runs through him at the contact holds your interest.

“This is pointless,” he hisses as your fingers find his hole. “Hollows aren’t capable of reproduction. You have nothing to gain.”

“There’s more to fucking than just reproduction, baby. You’ll see.”

It’s a slow process, not helped by how tense he is, or the lack of proper lubricant to slick the way. Still, it’s not like you need to worry about hurting this creature, so you pay his initial discomfort little mind. Hollows are used to pain, after all... and what you’re doing will feel good soon enough.

By the time the Arrancar is loose enough to take more than your fingers, his body is starting to respond. His hole clenches when your touch retreats, and you laugh. “See, what did I say? You like it, don’t you?”

The Arrancar doesn’t answer you. There’s a small, almost pout-ish scowl tugging at his lips, but his gaze is far too unfocused for the supposed displeasure to be too convincing. He’s kept quiet so far, no gasps or whines escaping his clenched-shut jaw, but the slow, merciless stretch of penetration is what does him in— he yelps as his body spasms in protest, knees snapping together like that could hold you away. 

Though he’s inhumanly cold inside, and too nervously tight for it to quite be pleasant, the look of stunned, helpless pleasure on the Arrancar’s face is everything you’d hoped, and more. Delightfully entertaining, really.

[helluvasweetheart]

“I have never known peace”

-in a week, Hozier

TW: mentions of death, mentions of blood drinking(mc is a vampire, so), some Spanish dialogue, historical inaccuracies?

MDNI

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I could feel the relentless heat of the Texas sun even through the thick woolen blanket draped over me. Its stifling warmth pressed down like a heavy weight, making it impossible to rest despite the steady rocking of the chuck wagon. Every jolt seemed to drive the heat deeper into my bones, leaving me restless and exhausted.

A comforting hand came to rest on my shoulder blades, its gentle touch managing to penetrate the layers of fabric shielding me from the burning sunlight.

“¿Estás bien, mija?” my mother’s soft, melodic voice floated through the sweltering air, wrapping me in a different kind of warmth. Even without seeing her, I could picture the concern etched into her expression.

“Estoy bien, mamá,” I murmured, my voice muffled by the blanket covering me. It felt like a barrier against not just the sun, but the world itself—as if I could almost disappear beneath its heavy folds.

“It’s almost night; we stop soon,” she reassured me, her hands moving in slow, soothing circles over my shoulders. Under her touch, the fabric felt less suffocating, though I could still sense the waning sun’s angry glare beyond it. I nodded, the gesture hidden from view, knowing that dusk would soon bring relief from the oppressive heat and from the constant fear of being exposed to the light.

As the wagon creaked along the uneven trail, I heard my father’s voice from up front, low and steady as he spoke to the oxen. He always talked to them like they were old friends, his deep voice carrying a hint of reassurance meant for both them and us. It was the same tone he used when he promised my mother that we’d find a safe place to rest soon—somewhere we could finally breathe.

But safety was a fleeting thing. Even the night brought its own set of dangers. The coven would still be looking for me, no matter how far we ran or how many towns we passed through. To them, my escape was a crime as unforgivable as the murder itself, regardless of what that man had tried to do. My hands curled into fists under the blanket as the memory of his cold, crazed eyes surfaced unbidden. I squeezed them shut and forced my breathing to steady.

The wagon began to slow, and my father’s voice faded as he climbed down to unhitch the oxen. My mother’s hand lingered on my shoulder for a moment longer before she stood, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath her. I heard her call my name softly, coaxing me to emerge now that the sun had dipped below the horizon. The light outside was softer, a dim orange glow painting the sky and brushing the tops of the surrounding hills. It wasn’t completely dark yet, but it was safe enough.

I pulled the blanket off, my skin prickling as the cooler air hit me. Sitting up, I saw my mother smiling gently, her face lined with weariness but still radiant with that quiet strength I’d always admired. She reached for me, helping me down from the wagon. The ground beneath my boots felt solid and familiar, the dust kicking up around my feet as I landed.

“Are you alright?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair from my face. Her touch was tender, but there was a question in her eyes that went beyond the simple words. It was the unspoken worry that had lingered ever since we fled in the dead of night, abandoning everything familiar.

“We won’t stay long,” my father said, glancing around the camp as he reached for a bucket of water for the animals. “Just enough to rest the oxen and have a quick meal.”

“Better keep the fire low,” my mother added, her voice soft but firm. “We don’t want to draw any attention.”

The night pressed in around us, and I felt the familiar itch in the back of my throat—the burning thirst reminding me I’d gone too long without feeding. I had to hunt, even if the risks were high. My parents had already taken enough chances for me; the least I could do was take care of my needs away from their camp.

“I’m going to… take care of something,” I said, the unspoken meaning clear in my voice. They nodded, understanding without needing an explanation. My father’s eyes met mine, a flicker of concern in them before he turned away to finish tending to the oxen.

“Be careful,” my mother whispered, her hand squeezing mine for a moment. I squeezed back, my fingers lingering before I pulled away and melted into the shadows.

The hunt was quick. I found a deer near the creek, its heartbeat a steady rhythm in the stillness. As I drank, the life coursing through me brought back a fleeting sense of strength. But something felt wrong, a nagging dread at the back of my mind.

I lifted my head, wiping the blood from my lips, and strained to listen. A faint sound reached me, carried by the breeze—shouting, distant but unmistakable. I froze, panic rising in my chest. I knew that voice. My mother’s.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I raced back toward the camp, my feet flying over the forest floor. The trees blurred past as I pushed myself to move faster, a desperate urgency fueling every stride. But even with my speed, I could tell I was too far away. The shouting cut off suddenly, leaving a dreadful silence in its wake.

When I burst out of the woods into the clearing, the sight that greeted me brought me to a halt. The wagon had been overturned, supplies scattered across the ground. My father lay unconscious a few paces away, a dark bruise forming on his forehead. And then there was my mother, crumpled on the dirt, blood seeping from her chest, her eyes staring blankly up at the night sky.

“No… no, no, no!” The words tore from my throat as I stumbled forward, collapsing beside her. I shook her, my hands trembling as they touched her face, trying to find some spark of life. “Mamá, please…” Her skin was already growing cold, her chest still. I felt like the world had dropped out from under me, and I was falling into an endless void.

I looked around wildly, searching for the bandits who had done this, but there was no one left. They had taken what they wanted and vanished into the night, leaving only death and ruin. My sharpened senses picked up the faint scent of horse sweat and gunpowder drifting on the wind, but it was already fading, the trails too cold to follow. I’d been too late. I hadn’t even seen their faces.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut—I hadn’t been there when she needed me most. I’d failed to protect the one person who had always protected me.

My father stirred, groaning as he struggled to sit up. When he saw my mother’s lifeless form, the color drained from his face. “No… Dios, no,” he whispered, crawling over to her. His hands gripped hers as if he could somehow bring her back through sheer will.

I could do nothing but watch as he wept, the grief raw and all-consuming. There were no words of comfort I could offer, no solace to be found in my embrace. I felt numb, the rage that had surged within me moments ago drained away, leaving only an unbearable emptiness.

We couldn’t stay here; I knew that much. The bandits could return, or worse, soldiers from the war. But the thought of leaving her behind, of walking away from this place, felt impossible. It was like tearing out a piece of my own soul.

Yet there was no choice. We had to move, to keep going, or her death would be just the beginning of our losses. I rose shakily to my feet, casting one last glance at her still form before turning to my father.

“We need to go,” I said, my voice hoarse and unsteady. “We can’t stay here.”

He didn’t respond at first, his gaze locked on my mother’s face as if hoping she would blink or breathe or give any sign that this wasn’t real. Eventually, he nodded, his shoulders sagging under the weight of grief as he stood.

We worked in silence to gather what little remained of our supplies, our movements slow and mechanical. As we left the camp behind, the night seemed darker than ever, the path ahead stretching out like an unending shadow. I glanced back once, a futile gesture, as if there were some chance that my mother would be standing there, smiling at us with that reassuring look she always wore.

But there was only darkness. And I carried it with me, as I always would.

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The darkness of the night enveloped us as we continued our trek on the chuck wagon, each jolt of the wooden wheels against the uneven terrain echoing the heaviness in my heart. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fading memories, and the shadows of the trees loomed like specters, reminders of the past we could never return to.

My father sat across from me, his face pale and drawn, illuminated only by the faint glow of the stars above. I could see the toll that the evening’s events had taken on him; grief had settled into the lines of his face, etching new marks of weariness and despair. The pain was palpable, and I could feel it wrapping around us like a shroud.

“We’ll find a place to rest soon,” he said, though his voice was flat, lacking the conviction it once held. The promise felt hollow, just another comforting lie to mask the reality of our situation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were merely moving toward another darkness.

After what felt like hours of traveling, the chuck wagon creaked to a stop. I glanced ahead, and through the thick veil of night, I caught sight of flickering lights in the distance—an outline of a town beginning to take shape. Hope sparked within me, and I quickened my pace, my heart pounding at the prospect of finding safety—if only for a moment.

“Look,” I said, pointing toward the town. “We can stop there. It might have a place we can stay, somewhere we can regroup.”

My father hesitated, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Athena… we need to talk,” he said, his tone serious.

The change in his voice made my heart drop. “What is it?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“We can’t go into town together,” he finally said, his gaze flickering toward the flickering lights. “I can’t support you, not financially, and certainly not like I used to. I’m a burden to you now.”

“Stop it,” I replied, frustration bubbling up inside me. “You’re not a burden! You’re my father. We’ll figure it out together.” I took a step closer, desperately trying to close the gap between us, as if my presence could reassure him.

He shook his head, his eyes dark with regret. “You don’t understand. I can’t keep you safe. Not anymore. You need to stay here, in the town. It’s your best chance.”

My stomach twisted in knots. “What do you mean? We’re family! We can’t just split up!”

“Athena…” He sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to ease the weight of what he had to say. “This town might offer you opportunities. You’re strong; you can take care of yourself. I can’t promise you anything but pain and heartache if we stick together.”

I stared at him, my heart racing. The thought of him walking away, of us being separated, felt like another loss I couldn’t bear. “I don’t want to leave you,” I said, my voice trembling. “What if something happens to you?”

“Then you’ll know I’m free,” he replied softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Free of the burden of protecting me, free of the fear that follows us. I can’t let you live in my shadow. You deserve a chance at a real life.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I fought them back. I didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this hurt. “You’re my father. You’re not just going to disappear into the night. I won’t let you.”

He stepped forward, pulling me into a tight embrace, and I could feel his heart pounding against mine, a frantic rhythm that mirrored my own. “You’ll be alright, mija. I promise. Just stay strong and remember what I taught you.”

The warmth of his presence felt like a lifeline, but it was slipping away too fast. “What if you can’t find me? What if they come looking for us?”

“I’ll find a way. You have to trust me. And trust yourself,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re a survivor, and you always have been. You’ll be able to make it on your own.”

As he pulled back, I could see the pain etched on his face, but there was also a flicker of pride. I hated the idea of leaving him behind, of walking into the unknown alone. But deep down, I understood that his decision came from a place of love, a desperate attempt to keep me safe when he could no longer do so himself.

“Fine,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “But you better promise me that you’ll find a way back to me.”

He nodded, a small, sad smile breaking through the veil of sorrow. “I will. I’ll always find my way back to you.”

With a heavy heart, I turned toward the town, its flickering lights growing brighter as I stepped away from the chuck wagon. Each step felt like a betrayal, but I had to keep moving forward. I glanced back once, catching his gaze one last time, and in that moment, we both understood: our paths had diverged, but the bond between us would never truly break.

As I walked into the town, the chatter of voices and the clinking of glasses filled the air, a stark contrast to the silence I was leaving behind. I took a deep breath, pushing away the fear that threatened to consume me. I could find a place to belong, a new start amid the chaos. I had to. For both our sakes.

Hello! This is my first time posting one of my original works. With much encouragement from my friends, I have caved.

Enjoy part 1, where we meet the Vampire Athena

[sroop]

ineta (iii)

"Bring me to the Baron, and I will kill him myself if you let me," she snarls, sursprising even herself with the vehemence in her words.

Pairing: Duncan Idaho x OC

Warnings: violence, blood/gore

Summary: ineta is not a good liar, but she must be if she plans on getting duncan idaho and herself out of this war alive.

A/N: not a lot going on in terms of interactions between duncan and ineta. it's a lot of set up for everything else to come !

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There's a plan, she tells herself. And where there's plan, there will be a way. I have a plan, so I have a way. I have a plan, so I have a way. She says it as though it were a spell, as though it would slow her thundering heart or warm the cold chills seeping down her spine. Normally that mantra soothes her, but not tonight.

The reason comes to her suddenly. Her life depends almost entirely on the prisoner she'd just enlisted to help her. There is a plan, but is Duncan Idaho the right way?

Ineta bites down on her lip. He has to be. She had no better option and, even if there were one now, it is too late to turn back and find a way to ensure his silence. The Harkonnens would die, or they would.

"Deep breath, just take a deep breath," she whispers to her reflection. Her eyes look more steely than she feels and it strengthens her resolve. Haven't the Harkonnens had their time? Haven't they been monsters for long enough? She's dreamed of taking action like this for her entire life, of doing something more meaningful than slipping Renate a sleeping draught or playing on Rabban's weaknesses to spare a prisoner's life. There had to be more, and this was it. Ineta tightens her hands into fists and bites down her apprehension.

She has a plan, but one way or another and with or without Duncan Idaho, it would be the Harkonnens' last nights alive.

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Pounding.

It comes to her door, over her ceiling, in the corridor outside. The bestial thump, thump, thump of countless footfalls thundering through the fortress; and Ineta screams as her door crumples in on itself. 

There were so many men, some bleeding Harkonnens and some bloodied Atreides. They scream too, as she tears past them and flees their killing. 

He did it. Duncan Idaho actually, really did it.

Now, it's her turn. She gulps down her fear and runs for the stairwell, tumbling down steps stained dark and made slick with blood. She could hear the clash of blades further down. That and the thrumming of personal shields being invaded. Ineta remembers something that Rabban had told her once over the dinner table. It's the slow blade that penetrates. The slow blade that hurts most. She shakes her head, trying to forget that she had no shield to protect her from any blade, slow or fast.

A Harkonnen soldier gasps for his last breath by her feet and she sinks down by him, wiping his wet cheeks with her thumbs. She recognizes him, a nameless but familiar face on rotation by the Baron's office every night. He wheezes up at her, grabbing clumsily at her arms.

"It's ok, I'm going to get help," she whispers, glancing down at the gushing wound in his side. Liar, her thoughts echo back. There is no help for how quickly he was losing blood, and even if there were, it would not arrive in time. Ineta holds him until his wide eyes and gaping mouth drift closed. The guilt hurts so badly she doesn't notice that she's bitten a gash in her cheek. No time for it to matter. Not now, at least. Ineta steadies herself against the wall and moves on.

The soldiers below cling to each other, weapons and bodies alike bouncing off shields as she threads herself in and out of the fray. Ineta makes a wild lunge for a man wearing the Atreides hawk, dragging him into an empty nook.

"I am the daughter of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the heir of the Baron."

His eyes widen in confusion, flickering between her face and the fight behind them. Ineta grabs his collar. "Do you understand me?"

"Y-Yes," he sputters, though he makes no other move. Anger surges through her and Ineta yanks him down to eye level.

"Then why am I not hostage yet?!"

It takes a few minutes for the realization to down upon him, but the plan begins to progress. She is dragged through the fight to the breach in the fortress, where the Atreides were already setting up camp. Ineta shrinks from the soldier, whose hands sweated so much she could feel it through his gloves, as he thrusts her into the hands of another man. He was tall and thin and had such a stern face that Ineta guesses him to be their commander. He confirms it swiftly.

"My intelligence tells me that after tonight, you will be the sole heir to the house. It this true?"

Ineta stands to her full height and nods. Again, something sickly scrambles up her throat and she strains to suppress it. I'm not a good liar, she realizes, as the smell of blood grows in the background. Ineta fixes her eyes on this commander, determined not to let the death around them weaken her facade.

"I was told you gave yourself up. Why?"

"I have no love for the Harkonnens. Bring me to the Baron, and I will kill him myself if you let me," she snarls, surprising even herself with the vehemence in her words. She anticipates his next question. "Keep me alive and I will give your Duke the keys to their power, ones he cannot afford to turn down if he wishes to survive the onslaught the emperor will call down on him."

The man's eyes narrow, but the deliberation behind them comes to a quick resolution.

"Bring her to the Baron."

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Duncan could not see, but the smell of blood and smoke were enough to tell him what had happened here. The fellow they'd sent to bring him out from the dungeons had died somewhere along the way, and he'd half stumbled, half fought his way here himself. He imagined that the feat would seem more like a miracle by tomorrow. Right now, he mostly just felt very beat up.

"Idaho!"

His head jerks toward the sound of his name.

"Idaho, is that you?!"

He tries to yell back, but his voice had been lost a little while back. Probably the smoke, or maybe just general weakness. It doesn't matter. Whoever is calling him has grabbed him by the arm, was already dragging him towards some place with great determination.

He struggles, but Duncan manages a few hoarse words.

"Ineta? The girl, Ineta?"

"Who?!"

It's too loud, they can't hear. But he chokes down a few more breathes and the pouch of water offered to him. He's shoved onto a seat, or maybe a piece of rubble, something. Duncan reaches out blindly and finds the buttons of a uniform. He clenches around them and drags the body close.

"Where is Ineta?" he cries.

The body falls out of his grip, and at first he thinks that his partner must have been killed and that he was next. But a more familiar voice replaces it.

"You're alright, Idaho. Just take it easy."

Duncan shakes his head, squeezing his eyes open and shut in an attempt to regain sight. It doesn't work, but he knows who is before him well enough to imagine it. A stern, long face, the weathered hands and battle-scuffed uniform.

"Gurney, where's Ineta?"

"The heir? The girl?"

Duncan nods wildly.

Gurney sighs, and pats Duncan's shoulder.

"Just take it easy, Idaho. You did good already telling us about her. We took her as hostage to the Baron, like you'd suggested, but he didn't care. I wanted to bring her back live, but the last I heard of her was that she'd escaped during the fight with the Baron."

Duncan's shakes his head, clutching angrily at Gurney's arm. That wasn't an answer. What happened to her? He nearly tries to wring the answer out of his commander's sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. We'll do a sweep for her, but my best guess is that she's already dead. Probably collateral damage."

No. The word slips from him as a mangled grunt. Surely not. It was the one thing he'd managed to accomplish. When she'd come that next night to ask for his help, it was the one thing he'd been able to get her to promise, that she'd live. We'll protect you. You'll be safe with us. The Duke is kind. Did she not believe him? He'd told her so that she'd stay, and that he'd be able to properly meet and thank the girl who'd saved him. In fact, Duncan had lived the past few days of his life confident that between the two of them, he'd be the one to meet death first. 

"I'll let you know if we find her body. The Duke will want to know anyway." Gurney pauses. "It's funny, actually. I didn't know the Baron had declared a heir after Feyd-Rautha. I didn't even know that bastard had a kid, let alone one set to inherit this hellhole."

Duncan didn't really listen. Did that matter anymore?

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thanks for reading!

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Day 3 of @silmsmutweek

Pairing: Makar x Meássë | Location: House of Tulkas  

Themes: Smut (lemon)

Warnings: Sibling incest | Meássë fighting with Makar a wee bit | Explicit language | Kissing | The use of ósanwë to read thoughts | The use of ósanwë to engage in dream sex | Foreplay | Mild dirty talk | Some explicit language | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 3.4K words

Summary: The twins defy laws and accepted convention after finding a way that would allow them to be intimate with each other without the others finding out.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

A/n: I wrote this from before the twins left to make their own keep near the Halls of Mandos.

Makar always knew he and his twin were not like the others.

From the moment their spirits formed, the ties that bound them to each other were strong. Makar understood this. His sister saw him in a way no one else would. She understood him in a way no one else would. She was the only being who willingly stood by him when he spoke in favor of Melko. No one besides Meássë herself had the power to shield her heart from his.

And that was how it all started. With that bond. Makar sensed it—a slow-burning desire creeping all over him—every time Meássë looked at him or talked to him, or, as he suspected, thought of him. She never revealed her true feelings for him, even when they were alone. Makar understood why. It was against the law and accepted custom to lay with close kin. Despite being gods, the Valar were expected to set an example for the Gnomes and lead the way, as they did in everything.

Makar often scoffed at the notion. Lead the way. Ha! The others can lead the way for the Gnomes. He would keep himself well away from all of it. And he was never one for patience. For the sake of his sister, however, Makar held his tongue. He wanted Meássë to come to him of her own free will. He wanted her to confess to him out of her own free will. Alas, Meássë neither came to him nor confessed to him. She let her feelings for him grow without end. When they grew to the point of always tugging him to her like an invisible rope that had wound itself around him, Makar knew he could no longer wait. He approached his sister after they were done sparring and were alone in the armory.

"I know of your desires," he admitted without judgment. "I feel them whenever you are near me or even think of me. Tell me, do you wish to act on them?"

Meássë turned towards a rack and blushed while she put away her weapon and shield. It was the first time since they had chosen earthly vessels to house their spirits. She sighed and looked away, conjuring a hundred tales. Makar refused to believe her. They were all lies. And his sister could never lie. Not to him, at least.

"Do not try to hide what is plain to my eyes," he insisted. "Tell me, sister, do you desire me or no?"

His twin blushed again, her pale cheeks turning the prettiest shade of pink.

"Tis wrong," she declared after a moment of reflection. "You are my twin. What I feel for you is unnatural. I will learn to curb my thoughts, lest they disturb you more. Forgive me, brother."

"Very well." It had wounded her deeply to say the words, as if a red-hot blade were piercing her heart. The same indescribable pain seared through Makar as well. Still, he accepted her decision, deciding to bide his time till an opportune moment presented itself and he could talk to her. "I will leave things as they are, for now. Now go. Others are coming to train."

Meássë fled into the shadows, silently chiding herself for not having closed her mind to her brother. Once, she deemed such an act unnecessary, thinking she was clever enough to guard her thoughts. She was wrong. Makar knew, and of course he would know. He was her twin, her other half. Their bond was strong. She now understood that it was too strong.

If only she had been more careful and curbed her thoughts! Meássë cursed herself again, this time for letting her feelings for her twin morph into something dark and forbidden. What was worse, she let it happen, knowing full well that if the truth came out, it would lead to her disgrace. It was wrong; she knew that, and yet she also knew no other would suit her. Oh, she could let the other Gods woo her and court her and shower her with a thousand sweet promises, and it would not be enough. None of them would be enough. None of them were him. They arose together and came into the world together. She loved Makar as much as he loved her. She admired him and worshiped him, and cared only for his happiness. Nothing and no one else mattered except for him.

He is lost to me now! And I have no one but myself to blame! Meássë bit her lip and ran down one lofty corridor after another, fighting a losing battle against the tears that welled and stung her eyes. She did not stop until she had reached the safety of her chambers, practically snarling at her attendants and demanding that they leave her be after they prepared her bath. A good hot bath and a cry were needed. Then she decided on her next course of action. She would close her heart and mind to her twin. It was the only way to protect them both, and him most of all.

Days bled into each other. Makar would watch his sister from afar, saddened by how she shielded herself from him. He had reflected on what she said and the implications of her true feelings for him. Perhaps she was right, and it was wrong. Still, the silence between them felt strange and unnatural, even more so than her desire for him. It made him feel alone and cold and empty. He yearned to be near her again and to feel that tug that pulled him to her. This icy distance had to end, he knew, before it drove him mad. So, during the next round of contests in Tulkas's great arena, Makar watched his sister, struck by how much she had changed. Her grief over having to keep away from him gave her a haunted, troubled look. It alarmed him. Makar lifted his cup and drank deep, draining the last of his wine before rising and approaching his twin. The others be damned, he decided. He was going to talk to her and was not going to wait any longer.

"We need to talk, you and me," he stated, and took her hand. "Come."

Meássë had no choice but to follow. Anything else meant rousing the suspicion of those who had gathered to watch athletes compete against each other. She let Makar lead her out of the noisy court and arena and into a darkened grove covered by ancient trees with thick trunks.

"You avoid me now," Makar had observed. "And you have shielded your thoughts from me."

"As I rightly should," Meássë retorted. "If not, suspicion will arise when I make the inevitable mistake and give my true feelings away."

"Suspicion would still arise when brother and sister are no longer seen speaking with each other. To tell you the truth, it feels wrong to be cut off from you," Makar lamented, reaching for her. "I miss you. Is there nothing I could do to change things back to what they were?"

Tears sprung unbidden when she gazed upon her brother's outstretched arms. She could not say how often she had dreamed of being held by those arms.

"You know it is impossible," Meássë sniffed, and walked away from him. It would not do to dwell on dreams that would never come true. She headed deeper into the little grove to get away from him. "Not after you made it plain that you knew. I will not invite shame and disgrace into your head. Now leave me be. I will return to the arena in a little while."

"Leave you be?" Makar refused to hear it. "Not while you are in this state."

He dogged her every step, refusing to leave her alone. He grabbed her hand once or twice, growling in frustration every time she pulled away. Meássë turned back and struck him on the arm when he reached for her a third time. It did not hurt, and he barely even felt it. Makar smirked, the sight of his lips tugging at the corners prickling his twin’s pride. She tried to strike again, and he deflected her blow with his hand. This time, his smirk turned into an amused chuckle. Frustrated, Meássë kicked him. Makar ducked and laughed merrily, rousing her anger. Furious, she lunged at him, knocking him onto the soft grass. Makar laughed still while she tried to overpower him.

"I hate you!" She cried.

"That…little sister… is a lie." Makar huffed and twisted and squirmed and rolled them around until he was on top of her, pinning her wrists to the ground. "You and I both know what you feel for me is far from hate."

The stars shone brightly, their light broken by the leaves. Meássë tried in vain to break free. Her brother was taller and stronger, and a far better fighter. She groaned in defeat, her body growing slack beneath his. 

"Finished?" Makar teased, grinning wickedly when she mumbled a soft yes.

More starlight seeped into the grove. This was when Makar truly saw his sister: the alabaster skin, the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks and upturned nose, the long auburn hair, how her eyes were the color of flawless emeralds glinting in the light. And she was perfect. His sister was utterly perfect—a glorious vision made flesh. Makar sat astride her hips, content to look all over for her for a moment. His gaze slowly returned to hers. His sister was looking right back at him, her eyes ablaze. It was not anger, he saw, but something else. He needed to see more and learn the truth, but for that to happen, his sister had to let him into her thoughts.

"Let me see," he commanded.

Meássë struggled again. "No!"

Makar tsk’d and shook his head. "Hush and let me see." He drew back one hand, bringing it to her cheek. "Let me. Go on."

His twin wanted to refuse, but the determined look in his eye gave her pause. She exhaled, surrendered, and opened her thoughts to his mind’s eye. Makar was exceedingly gentle, probing each memory with great care and sighing in relief when he found what he looked for. His search revealed a great deal: worry and reverence and admiration, and lust and longing, and even hints of something deeper than the love a sister ought to have for her brother. Makar was amazed. Heat bloomed and surged just beneath his skin when her heart called to his in an ancient song only he could recognize. His own began to stir and begged to answer.

Meássë closed her eyes when she felt the softness of her twin’s hand. It felt so good to feel his touch after so long. Dare she try for more? She pressed her cheek against his palm. It was warm. So warm. If her brother did not desire it, he did not utter a word. Makar still listened and watched and probed, sifting through all he could find, his hold on her wrists loosening. She heard his gasp and felt him tremble.

This was the end, thought Meássë. Her brother was surely disgusted by what he saw—what she struggled so hard to keep hidden. His silence certainly spoke volumes to her. She finally opened her eyes, fearful of what she might see. What happened instead was that Makar leaned down and kissed her.

His lips tasted of wine and honey and cloves when they sought hers. Meássë thought she had strayed into a beautiful dream. The tongue that slipped past her lips and flicked against her own convinced her she had not. She yielded easily, moaning when Makar kissed her deeply and softly, letting go of her hands so he could slip his arms around her waist and pull her up with him. He made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, now glad he had surrendered to the entreaties of his heart. Makar sighed wistfully. This kiss was more than what he thought it was going to be—all heat and fire and tenderness at the same time. It made him want more. They knelt beneath the trees and clung to each other while they kissed. A bird flew overhead, the sound of its fast-beating wings breaking the spell that wove itself between them. Realizing that they were too exposed, Makar finally drew back.

"The depths of your feelings for me," he pondered aloud. "No one else has ever..." Makar stopped and looked his sister in the eye. "I need more," he entreated, pressing his forehead against hers, his voice thick and hoarse. "More of what you are willing to give me. This kiss and what I felt in your thoughts were far from enough."

"Not here. And not at the House. Tulkas’s attendants are everywhere." Meássë looked up at him, fear and hope at war in her eyes. "And we are brother and sister. It is wrong. The law—"

"Fuck the law!" Makar growled hotly. "And fuck what the others think. I want you; I will not fight it. But if you are afraid, there may be a way still, at least until we can go off on our hunts, and I can build a keep just for us, away from the wagging tongues of others. For now, we must wait until we are in our chambers, and the others have gone to rest. Is this acceptable to you?"

Another way? Meássë was filled with ravenous curiosity. "I will wait," she decided.

It felt like hours had passed before the games ended and the rest departed for the comfort of their chambers. Makar bid his sister farewell and made his way to his own rooms, and Meássë left for her own. This time she spoke kindly to her attendants, letting them bathe and dress her for bed with nary a cross word. She would smile and let them fuss over her, waiting only until they left before latching the door and shielding herself from the outside world. Meássë padded over to her bed, slipping in between the silken sheets and closing her eyes.

She wandered the silent paths tread by only Gods and Gnomes, those that hovered between true sleep and deep dream. Meássë found herself now in the forests of the Great Lands, beneath starlit skies, a tent already pitched by an unlit fire pit. The world around her swirled and moved, as if she were surrounded by a strange mist.

How?

Makar appeared from the rippling shadows, thoroughly pleased with himself. There is a way, he said, his voice as soft as a kiss. Through bonds such as ours. And the ties that bind us are strong. Do you wish to continue?

In his own chamber, Makar writhed from the crippling pain that had caught him in its grip. He took one deep breath, and another, and another, not stopping until the throbbing ache that had been building slowly ebbed away and he could breathe more freely. He had heard of this act and that those amongst their kind made use of it, though the way was not spoken of to others. He was starting to see why.

Meássë, still in the dream world her twin weaved for them, considered his offer and said, Are you certain you wish to do this?

I am, Makar replied, and approached his sister. The question is, do you wish to continue?

Meássë paused, hesitated. If we do this, she cautioned, There will be no going back.

I know, Makar returned. And I will have it no other way. Now, I ask you again, sister. Is your answer yes, or no?

He was before her now, his molten gold eyes gilded in the light of the stars. Meássë looked around her. The field they stood in was empty of life. It was just her and him. They could do whatever they wished, and no one would be the wiser. Finally, her dreams were about to become reality.

Yes, she answered before long.

Makar scooped her into his arms and kissed her, molding himself to her when she moaned and returning his kiss with equal passion. Her lips were just as petal-soft in living dream as they were in the corporeal world. He paused, his lips just a grain above hers. Her breath mingling with his made him lightheaded and dizzy. He touched her cheek, her hair. Auburn locks slipped around his fingers like silk. Makar would bring each and every one to his lips.

Meássë shivered when Makar kissed her again, her face growing hot when his tongue slipped into the inviting heat of her mouth. His skilled hands were quick to find and undo the fastenings of her robe. Goosbumps prickled all over her when wisps of silk loosened and slipped past her arms to pool around her feet. Makar disrobed himself just as easily. Tunic and breeches and boots joined the robe to form a little pile on soft, fragrant grass. He then swept Meássë into his embrace, pulling her with him as he lay down.

They lay beneath the stars, content in each other’s arms. It was quiet, but the silence was a sweet and comfortable one. Makar brushed the hair out of Meássë’s eyes as the silence stretched between them. He watched her as she watched him. Then he leaned in.

Do you dream of me often? He lilted between kisses.

Yes, Meássë trembled when he kissed the expanse of her throat, her shoulders. Often and always.

Did I touch you like this? His soft, fleeting touch, ghosting over her belly, her breasts, ripped startled gasps out of her. And this? He uttered while his hand now glided over and inside her thighs. How about this?

All of it. And in many other ways.

Including this?

Her back arched even as she sucked in a deep breath. Makar touched her like an experienced lover, teasing her and unleashing a riot of desire with every stroke of the finger. He restrained himself, choosing a gentler approach, his kisses drowning out her mewls and whimpers.

On the next hunt, I want it to be just you and me, he insisted. I want to take you beneath the stars. Will you let me do that? Take you beneath the stars?

Meássë dragged in another deep breath, this time when he moved over her and parted her legs with his. She slid her arms around his shoulders, beneath the thick, auburn hair that often haunted her dreams.

Yes, she pleaded, raising her hips when he gripped her thigh and slowly pushed himself inside of her. That is what I have wanted for a long time.

Good, Makar propped himself on his free elbow and sank his length, inch by slow inch, into her warmth. That is good. I… Fuck…"

He could not bring himself to say anything else. He stole one last glance at her, one final glimpse, drowning in her eyes, before rolling his hips. Makar nearly came apart when Meássë wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his back, urging him to go deeper. He dipped his head, latching onto her throat without missing a beat. Meássë’s cries spilled free when he sucked down hard with each thrust, her nails leaving little bruises on his skin whenever his teeth scraped briefly over her flesh.  

Makar somehow kept his attention on her, his hips rocking at a frantic, erratic pace. Even in dream, he relished the softness of her insides, the heady scent wafting off her skin, and the otherworldly green eyes that were now clouded and darkened with lust. He dissolved into pleasure of the acutest kind, shockwaves gripping his entire being when her walls clenched and pulsed around his cock. He fell apart, crying out her name while he convulsed and emptied his seed. Makar let out another transported whine, this time when Meássë’s orgasm ripped through her and she choked out a sob. He sought her lips again, but with tenderness instead of passion.

Like all good things, their coupling had to come to an end, even in dream. Makar drew away, moving to his side and propping himself on his elbow.

We must part now, he said, albeit very reluctantly. Lest someone comes in search of either of us and finds us in this state. But we can meet like this again, until our next hunt.

As much as she loathed to part from him, Meássë thought his course of action was the safest for them both. Until the next hunt, she agreed. Beneath the stars.

Tags: @cilil

[mtnlei]

CALE "the slow blade penetrates the shield" MAKAR

[kindnessinsilver]

Mayfair Witches Thoughts

so ya boy is watching the Mayfair Witches (2023) tv series. I've read The Witching Hour probably 4 or 5 times, the most recent was after college but I can't remember how long after college. I have a generally shaky memory of the story from the last time I read it, but I remember some of the vibes and a lot of the characters.

ep 1: love love love the Deirdre set up. The house, the doctor, the questions, the spooky eyes, I love how they have it set up.

Rowan is... not quite right. Immediately just a little bit too human (read: not quite autistic enough). Rowan Mayfair is the kind of autistic who would think she was a sociopath until she learned about autism, okay? Alexandria Daddario is beautiful, but I think they went a little too Grey's Anatomy with the portrayal.

I also think she knows too early about her powers, even if she doesn't really believe in them or whatever. But I love how they're showing them, that's cool.

The situation with her adoptive mother is interesting.

The boat is good, but I don't think she ever actually lived on the boat?? I thought she was just on the boat a lot, but I might be misremembering.

"and remember, the slow blade penetrates the shield" "wait, what does that even mean?" "I don't know. Some guy said it to me at a bar :D"

I watched this one Thursday night and saw Dune 2 on Saturday and when they showed one of the moments with the knife and the shield, I cackled and smacked my boyfriend and had to type out why I was laughing. I knew I recognized it when she said it, but couldn't remember where until the movie.

Lasher issssss... interesting. I like that he's hot, I think that's important. I think he's talking earlier than he should be talking? But I can't remember that super clearly either. I'm going to have to read the book again once I'm done with this.

Uncle Cortland's party is SUPERB. The man was a lush and a fag and a dandy and they're doing really good with that.

Also also love the first glimpse of the Talamasca in this one. Crunchyyy give me more.

Anyway, after ep 1, it feels very very promising, which is nice because the Mayfairs are one of my favorite parts of Rice's works.

[kelo-loconte]

"The slow blade penetrates the shield"

[harpy-of-the-storm]

Disorganized Thoughts - The Importance of Despair

For this post, I'd like to talk about despair as a powerful tool in storytelling, and one of the ways in which I've seen it effectively utilized.

Previously, I have discussed Phantasy Star Online and its usage of lyrical themes, so I think I'll take a step back in time from that point.

I want to talk about Phantasy Star IV: The End of the Millennium

Phantasy Star IV has a fairly standard high stakes JRPG story - if you don't win, the ancient darkness from before remembering will break free and kill everything. Profound Darkness hates all life, and will see it brought to ruin.

...But before that, you have some trials to overcome.

You are given a two-character party at first; Chaz Ashley, a rookie mercenary under the wing of Alys Brangwin, his bladed boomerang wielding mentor, world famous for her efficiency and ruthlessness.

As the game progresses, Chaz will catch up to Alys, and you'll pick up and drop a variety of other party members; not all of whom will get to meet Alys.

A turning point for seriousness in the game's plot comes when the main antagonist appears. Though you try to fight back, he is protected by a barrier you can't seem to penetrate.

This is a scripted sequence. Simply survive for a few turns, and he will cast Black Wave, calling the fight to an end.

Alys will leap in front of the attack, shielding the party and collapsing. She will come down with an incurable ailment that slowly drains her life away.

Your healing spells are useless. All you can do is think of a way to beat the man who did this - to defeat Zio, and his unbeatable barrier.

Of course, it's a JRPG. It turns out there's a wand you can grab which can nullify his omnipotent divine barrier of ultra power - patent pending the cessation of all life - and take him out like any other mid-grade baddie.

...It won't matter.

As soon as you lay hands on the artifact in question, you're met with a cutscene and hurry to Alys' bedside. You witness her last breath.

You bury her in the early morning light. Some of your party goes its separate ways to handle their own affairs.

There are three aspects that I think are important to this. Giving & Taking You were given true and honest hope that you could save Alys. It's very standard JRPG speak - find the important magic relic, kill the bad guy, save the party member at the last minute. This is not what happens. She dies before you can even attempt the rematch. You are given hope, and then it is unceremoniously ripped from your hands. Gameplay & Story Integration If you are gaining levels at a relatively average pace, the last piece of advice Alys gives to Chaz before the confrontation with Zio is that his swing is still too slow, and he's leaving himself wide open. The next ability Chaz will learn is Air Slash at level 13, which is a skill performed by slashing so fast that the air behind your blade is what is cutting the enemy forces. Remember the Growth Much later in the game, Chaz can obtain the ultimate magic attack, Megid. This is an ability used otherwise only the final boss - the emotional output of the user generates explosive force. However, to earn it, Chaz must prove his strength. But...not physically. He has to face an illusion of Alys in battle, and strike her down himself. As he despairs, he has to master his emotions and be willing to make the right choice. He has to say no to unlimited power. He has to know and believe he is strong enough to avenge her.

Chaz is someone who threw away fighting for the world. He doesn't think it's fair to ask him to raise his blade to save everyone and selflessly accept the loss of the people he cares for.

He's right. And he has given in to despair, as anyone of normal means would.

If you take this path - because obtaining Megid is optional - then it changes a bit of the meaning of Chaz rejoining the party. He's not here after having broken down, cried, and then decide to suck it up and not let the world fall because he walked out.

He's fighting for that one life that was so precious to him, he's willing to follow her last words to the end.

Carve out your own destiny.

And by making the player despair. By allowing us to see Chaz despair. By having him seem to train the speed of his swings just because that's the last thing Alys chastised him about.

By taking that grief and mastering it, if only for the time being.

...He becomes someone who walks towards the promising future.

He becomes the person, Alys always thought he could be, even if she isn't here to see him anymore. That single death became his daring hope.

Despair can be a weapon, too, if it's forged right.