#This dream still haunts me btw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 8 months ago

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HAUNTED BY YOU──FATHER MAYHEW

part two!!!!!!!!

─ summary | father mayhew is being tormented by dreams of a worshiper at the church, who appears both angelic and temptingly sinful in his visions. as the dreams grow more intense, he begins to wonder if they’re a sign from above or a test of his faith. when you confront him, father mayhew must choose between maintaining his distance or giving in to the passion that’s been haunting him

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x fem!reader

─ warnings | nsfw under the cut! mdni! wet dreams (strong start! i know!), description of self-pleasuring, oral (m!receiving), heavy degradation,hair-pulling, just overall rough sex, orgasm denial

─ ev's notes | like everyone and their damn mom, i've fell under nicholas's damn curse and i just had to come back to tumblr for this very self-indulgent fic. this is just porn with a lot plot LMAOOO. BUTTTTT my requests are open if you wanna send anything in! (please do btw i'm obsessed w nicholas LMAO)

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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Father Charlie had always believed in the purity of dreams.

They were, in his mind, the unfiltered whispers of God—or at least, they had been. Lately, those whispers had been replaced by something far more sinful, and the dreams that used to bring him peace now left him gasping for air, tangled in sheets soaked with guilt and lust.

It started a few weeks ago, innocently enough.

You—a devout presence in the church, never missing a Sunday mass—had always caught his eye, but only in the way a shepherd might glance over his flock. He admired the way they knelt at the altar, the reverence in your bowed head, the delicate movements as you lit a candle in prayer. He told himself it was only admiration. But then the dreams began.

At first, they were fleeting images: your hands, fingers brushing over rosary beads, your doe eyes glancing up at him, lingering just a moment too long. He could dismiss them as nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him, the remnants of a long day.

But the dreams grew more vivid, more demanding. He saw you standing in the chapel late at night, a halo of moonlight casting a soft glow over your features, and when you turned to him, your gaze held something more than devotion. Something in between desperation and lust, something that was pure filth.

Charlie would wake in the dead of night, his chest tight with guilt and desire. He’d slip out of bed and kneel before the small wooden cross in his room, praying for guidance, praying for strength. But no matter how many Hail Marys he whispered into the darkness, the dreams persisted.

And now, they were getting worse.

Tonight, the dream came again, but this time, it was sharper—too real. You stood before him, just as you did every Sunday, but there was no congregation. Just the two of you, alone in the quiet sanctity of the church. He could hear your breathing, could feel the weight of your presence as they stepped closer, your fingers grazing over his. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as they looked up at him with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of eternity.

"Father," you whispered, your voice soft but filled with something dangerous, something that made the blood in his veins run hot.

He wanted to look away, wanted to pull his hand back, but he couldn’t. Instead, he stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest as you moved closer, so close now that he could feel the warmth of your breath on his skin. You reached up, their fingers brushing lightly across his cheek, and he felt a shudder pass through him—half desire, half longing.

"Why do you run from this?" you asked, your voice a low murmur that echoed in the stillness of the church. "Why do you run from me?"

He swallowed thickly, words catching in his throat as he tried to speak. "This isn’t… I can’t…"

But before he could finish, you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a touch so gentle it felt like a caress. "You don’t have to speak," you whispered. "You already know the answer."

With that, you kissed him—soft at first, almost testing, as if waiting for him to push you away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he felt himself melting into the kiss, his resolve crumbling as you deepened it, your hands sliding over his chest, pushing aside the fabric of his cassock. The feel of their touch was electric, every nerve in his body alive with sensation as they explored his skin, your fingers leaving trails of fire wherever they roamed.

"Please..." he heard himself whisper, though he wasn’t sure if he was begging them to stop or to continue. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as desire overwhelmed him

Your lips traveled down his neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and Charlie groaned despite himself, his hands moving of their own accord to grasp your hips, pulling them closer. You pressed against him, and he could feel the softness of your body against his, the intoxicating scent of your familiar perfume filling his senses.

He knew this was wrong. He knew he should stop, should pull away and regain control of himself, but he couldn’t. His mind was clouded with lust, his body betraying him completely as your hands continued their exploration, your touch driving him to the brink of madness.

"Let go," you whispered, your breath hot against his skin as you slid a hand lower, your touch eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. The pleasure was overwhelming, surging through him like a wave as you stroked him, you movements slow and deliberate, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.

Charlie’s grip on the altar tightened as he felt himself losing control, his body trembling with the force of his desire. He wanted more, needed more, and you seemed all too willing to give it to him, your lips pressing against his once again as your hand moved faster, pushing him closer and closer to release.

When it came, it was like an explosion of heat and pleasure, washing over him in waves that left him gasping for breath. He clung to you, his body shuddering with the intensity of it all, his mind spinning in a haze of ecstasy and guilt.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Charlie woke with a start, gasping for breath, his body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. His heart raced, pounding violently in his chest as the remnants of the dream clung to him, vivid and inescapable. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to shake the images from his mind, but they lingered—soft touches, whispered words, the sensation of heat curling through him in ways it shouldn’t.

It had been more than a dream. It was more sinful, more explicit, and far too real. His skin still burned from where you had touched him, your hands roaming over his body with an intimacy that made his chest tighten with guilt. His throat was dry, aching, but not with thirst—no, with something far deeper and darker.

"God," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Please..."

He shifted under the blankets, feeling the undeniable evidence of his arousal—a sickening reminder of what had transpired in the dream. Shame washed over him like a cold tide, dousing the warmth that had gripped him so fiercely only moments ago. He didn’t dare move, his entire being consumed by regret and disgust.

He couldn't believe he came from the mere thought of you. It was sickening—he felt like a teenager all over again. How could he have let this happen? How could his mind, his very body, betray him like this?

Your face flickered in his mind again—those eyes, filled with longing and desire, the way you had smiled at him, that wicked, knowing grin. It hadn’t been innocent, not in the least. You had touched him in ways he had never been touched in a while, ways he wasn’t supposed to experience again.

He threw back the covers, the cool air in the room hitting his overheated skin as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, he simply sat there, head in his hands, struggling to regain some semblance of control.

A priest wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to be consumed by desire, least of all for someone so... unattainable. Someone who had come to him for guidance, for spiritual comfort, not for whatever this had been.

He stood, shaking, the cold of the room biting into him. He needed to calm himself, to pray, to wash away the evidence of his sin.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the dream. Couldn’t forget the way it had felt—the warmth, the pleasure, the ache of it all.

Father Charlie whispered a desperate prayer under his breath as he padded to the bathroom. As the water ran cold over his skin, he prayed again for strength—for a release from this burden that had taken hold of him.

But deep down, the fear gnawed at him: what if this wasn’t the last time? What if he wasn't strong enough to resist?

He shivered at the thought.

──

Father Charlie stood by the doorway of the church hall, his gaze sweeping over the room. The sounds of children’s laughter and the murmur of conversations filled the air as parents and volunteers mingled. It was a typical event—one that should’ve had his attention focused on the joyful chaos before him

But his focus was elsewhere.

You sat at a table on the far side of the room, your attention seemingly on the children around you, but there was an unmistakable shift in the air between the two of you. His eyes kept being drawn back to you, despite his efforts to look elsewhere, to find something—anything—that might distract him from the growing heat in his chest and the tightness in his pants.

Then, you slipped the bright red lollipop between your lips, the movement slow, deliberate, and utterly intoxicating. It was a seemingly innocent gesture, one that any onlooker might dismiss, but Charlie saw it for what it was—a silent taunt, a temptation that you knew he couldn’t tear his gaze from.

His throat tightened as he watched you, your eyes flicking up to meet his, a playful glint dancing behind them. You held his gaze as you swirled the candy in your mouth, the exaggerated motion sending a jolt of excitement and heat straight through him. It was subtle enough to avoid drawing attention from anyone else, but the intent behind it was clear.

You were tempting him. And he knew it.

Charlie clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of a nearby chair. He felt torn between his duty—his responsibility to maintain control, to be the figure of moral guidance he was supposed to be—and the way his body reacted to you, the way desire simmered just beneath his skin.

You smirked around the lollipop, letting it slip slowly from your mouth before you spoke to the child beside you, your voice light and innocent. But your eyes remained locked on his for a beat longer, the unspoken tension hanging in the air.

Father Charlie turned away quickly, trying to suppress the fire burning through him. He felt as though he were in a battle with himself—a war between the man he was and the desires that he struggled to keep buried. His mind raced with guilt, knowing that this tension—this attraction—was something he should never indulge.

But when he glanced back at you, and saw the way your plump lips wrapped around the candy once more, his breath caught in his throat. The world around him—the event, the children, the laughter—seemed to blur into the background as you continued to play this dangerous game.

Every gesture, every glance, felt like a carefully orchestrated tease, one that made it impossible for him to look away, even though he knew he should.

Charlie’s heart pounded in his chest, the temptation pulling at him stronger than it had ever been before. He couldn’t let this go on, he told himself. He needed to leave, to step away before he lost control entirely.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to walk away, the sight of you sitting there, sucking on that lollipop with a mischievous glint in your eye, held him captive.

He let out a sigh, feeling his pants tighten once more. He glanced down, there was a noticeable bulge poking out.

With a sharp inhale, he tore his gaze away from you and pushed himself toward the nearest exit, keeping his movements as natural as he could manage. His skin burned with shame as he walked, the feeling of his pants tightening only making his predicament worse. He kept his head low, praying no one would stop him on his way out.

Or worse, see the issue at hand.

The corridor leading to the church bathrooms was mercifully empty, the laughter and conversations fading behind him as he moved quickly toward the door marked Men. His steps were hurried, and by the time he reached the bathroom, his breath was ragged.

Charlie shoved the door open and stepped inside, locking it behind him. He leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as he tried to collect himself. His reflection in the mirror showed a man torn between the roles he was meant to fulfill and the raw human desire threatening to break through.

The bulge in his pants hadn’t lessened, and the sight of it brought another wave of heat crashing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would block out the image of you, teasing and playful, with that lollipop in your mouth.

The temptation was too much, and he hated himself for it.

He couldn't think about you. He couldn't allow himself to dwell on the way your lips had moved, or the sly glint in your eyes, or the overwhelming desire that had burned in the pit of his stomach. He needed to focus. To rid himself of this unbearable need before it consumed him entirely.

With shaking hands, Charlie fumbled at his belt, a silent prayer escaping his lips, though he doubted any words of faith could cleanse the guilt twisting inside him now. He fought to keep his mind blank, but the image of you kept resurfacing—your teasing smile, your suggestive glances, the way your mouth had played with that lollipop as if you knew exactly what it was doing to him.

His breath hitched as he unzipped his pants, his mind waging a losing battle against his body's demands. This wasn’t what he wanted—not really—but the heat, the tension, the pressure… it was all too much. He felt helpless, lost in a battle he had no hope of winning.

He cursed under his breath as his hand moved over the fabric, the friction both a release and a deepening source of guilt. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep silent, though the shame only made his body more desperate for relief. It wasn’t just physical; it was emotional, a chaotic mix of guilt, desire, and the thrill of crossing a line he had vowed never to approach.

His thoughts flickered back to the church hall, imagining you sitting there, your eyes still locked on his, your lips still playing that dangerous game. But instead of the lollipop, it was his cock instead. You were looking up at him with those doe eyes, the ones he could never get enough of.

This was wrong—so terribly wrong—but in this moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

A strangled sigh escaped him as the tension inside built toward its inevitable conclusion. His movements became more frantic, his mind clouded with both desire and self-loathing. He fought to suppress the groan rising in his throat, his body betraying him as he sought the release he knew would come all too quickly.

But before he could cum, he heard a knock. His eyes snapped open, his body shaking. But his movements didn't falter.

"Taken!" He groaned out, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"Father, it's me."

Charlie froze, his entire body going rigid at the sound of your voice. The very voice that had been the cause of his torment—the one that filled his thoughts during long, sleepless nights, and echoed in his mind during moments of prayer. Hearing it now, so close, made his stomach lurch with guilt and panic.

His hands were still trembling, his sticky arousal refusing to dissipate even as the cold wave of reality crashed down on him. He bit down on his lip, heart racing, his mind screaming at him to pull himself together. But the fact that you were standing just beyond the door, oblivious to the storm you'd stirred within him, made it impossible for him to think straight.

"Father?" your voice called again, this time with a soft, almost innocent lilt that twisted the knife deeper.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to steady, though the heat in his chest hadn’t faded. His hand hovered over his zipper, shaking with the shame of what he had been doing just moments before. His body still ached with unresolved tension, but he pushed it down, trying to ignore the unbearable need that still pulsed through him.

"Yes?" His voice cracked as he finally spoke, hoarse and raw. He cleared his throat, trying to sound composed. "I... I’m a little busy at the moment."

There was a brief pause from the other side of the door, and he could almost imagine the look on your face—the innocent expression you always wore, one that belied the way you had been teasing him, testing him for weeks. You had to know what you were doing. There was no other explanation for it.

"Sorry, Father," you replied, your voice apologetic, but with that familiar hint of playfulness that made his pulse quicken. "I just... I wanted to talk to you. Is everything alright? You sounded a bit... off. You just ran off, and I was worried."

Worried? You knew damn well what you were doing.

His heart hammered in his chest. He wasn’t sure how to respond, especially when he could still feel the tightness in his pants, the shameful evidence of his struggle with temptation. He couldn’t let you see him like this. Not after what he had almost done. No, not almost—what he had done.

"I’m fine," he replied, the words rushing out too quickly. "Just—just give me a moment, please."

There was silence on the other side, and Father Charlie closed his eyes, cursing himself under his breath. He knew he needed to calm down, to suppress the lingering arousal that still throbbed through him, but it was nearly impossible with you standing just beyond the door, your voice echoing in his mind, a constant reminder of the desires he could no longer ignore.

"Okay, Father," you said after a long pause, your tone gentle, yet still laced with that underlying tease. "I’ll wait for you outside."

As soon as you spoke, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, his body slumping against the sink in a mixture of frustration and shame. He could still feel the tension coiled tightly in his core, but he had to ignore it now—had to push it down and find some semblance of control before he faced you.

Charlie adjusted his clothes quickly, forcing himself to focus on anything but the ache that still pulsed through him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, straightened his collar, and took a long, deep breath.

The door was still locked, but knowing you were just outside filled him with dread and anticipation in equal measure. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could withstand the temptation you had placed in front of him, but for now, he had to pretend. He had to keep up the façade of control, even as the cracks in his resolve grew deeper by the day

With one final glance in the mirror, Father Charlie steeled himself and turned the lock, pulling the door open to face the very source of his downfall.

And there you were, standing just a few feet away, your eyes wide and innocent—though he knew better than to believe it was all innocence. You were a temptation he could barely resist, and every interaction only pulled him further into the darkness he'd been desperately trying to avoid.

"Is everything alright, Father?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, that sweet, familiar smile on your lips. But your eyes—those teasing eyes—held a glimmer that set his heart racing once more.

"Y-yes," he stammered, his throat tight, doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. "Everything’s fine."

But as you looked up at him, your gaze lingering just a moment too long, Father Charlie knew this battle was far from over.

Your eyes glanced down at his pants, his bulge evident. Your eyebrows rose as you blinked up at him, the same teasing smile on your plump lips. "You don't look fine, Father."

The way you said his title almost made his knees buckle. He couldn't handle it, not anymore. "What do you think?" He snapped.

Your teasing smile widened, clearly pleased by the crack in Father Charlie's composure. His words, harsh and unsteady, only seemed to encourage you. You took a small step closer, the space between you shrinking as the tension in the air thickened, palpable and dangerous.

"What do I think?" you repeated, your voice soft and sweet, but laced with a knowing edge that sent another jolt through him. "I think you’ve been struggling, Father. I can see it in your eyes… feel it in the way you look at me."

He clenched his jaw, fists balling at his sides. Every instinct screamed for him to shut this down, to end the conversation and walk away before he did something he could never take back. But the heat burning in his chest, the tightness in his pants, and the way you gazed up at him with those teasing, taunting eyes made it impossible for him to think clearly.

His breath hitched, his throat tightening as he tried to keep his voice level, to maintain the last threads of control he still had. "You... need to leave," he muttered through gritted teeth, though the command sounded more like a plea. He took a step back, trying to put distance between you, but his back hit the wall, trapping him in a corner.

You didn’t follow him, but your eyes stayed locked on his, your lips parting ever so slightly as you spoke again. "Do you want me to leave, Father?" you asked, your voice dripping with temptation, your tone making it clear you knew the answer before he could even speak.

He opened his mouth to respond, to say yes, to do what he knew was right, but the words wouldn’t come. His body betrayed him, still trembling with the aftermath of the temptation he had barely controlled just moments ago. The guilt twisted deeper in his chest, but with you standing there, so close, so dangerous, he couldn’t bring himself to push you away.

You took another small step forward, your eyes flicking down once more to the bulge straining against his pants. "You don’t look like you want me to go," you murmured, your voice low and intimate.

The way you said it, so confidently, so calmly, broke something inside him. His breathing quickened, the shame mixing with desire in a way that left him dizzy and unable to think straight. His hands itched to reach out, to grab you, to pull you closer, but he forced them to stay at his sides, his knuckles white from the effort of holding back.

"Fuck," he got out before he finally grabbed your wrist. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

You didn't respond, just stared back at him with a smirk. "What you mean—"

"Shh, shut up. Just shut up," Father Charlie got out as his grip on your wrist tighten. He looked around the empty corridors and pulled you into the bathroom, practically pushing you into it. He slammed the door behind him, locking it.

The slam of the door echoed through the small bathroom, the sound sharp and final. Father Charlie stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep a grip on himself. The small, dimly lit space felt suffocating, the walls closing in as the tension between you thickened, charged with unspoken desire.

You leaned back against the sink, your expression still playful, teasing, as if you held all the power in this twisted game. And maybe you did. You watched him, your smirk never fading, as his eyes darkened with lust, the lines between what was right and what he wanted blurring faster than he could stop them.

"Father," you whispered, your voice lilting, almost mocking as it dripped with the weight of temptation. "We really shouldn't—"

"I told you to shut up," he growled, cutting you off. His voice was rough, raw with the conflict tearing him apart. But his body betrayed him, his hands trembling as he reached out, fingers wrapping around your arm with a grip that was both desperate and unsteady.

For weeks, he had tried to deny it—to push down the thoughts, the fantasies, the overwhelming pull of desire you had stirred within him. But now, standing here with you, the air thick with temptation, he felt like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering between control and the abyss.

"Do you think this is a game?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, though you could hear the tremor beneath it. He stepped closer, towering over you, his body radiating heat. "Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? The looks, the way you talk to me, the way you… tease me?"

You met his gaze, unflinching, your smile widening. "Maybe it is a game," you said softly, tilting your head, eyes dancing with mischief. "But you’re the one who's playing along."

His grip tightened, his breath hitching as your words sank in. He hated how true they were. Every time he had looked at you, every moment his mind had wandered to the things he shouldn't have been thinking—he had been playing into this. And now, he was standing on the edge of a line he couldn’t afford to cross.

But he had already crossed it, hadn't he?

"Shut up," he whispered again, though this time his voice was weaker, the command laced with more desperation than authority. His free hand pressed against the wall beside you, his body leaning in closer, so close he could feel the heat radiating from your skin.

You tilted your chin up, eyes gleaming as you watched him struggle, as if you were daring him to let go of the last shreds of control he clung to. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to push him over the edge.

"Or what?" you whispered back, the challenge clear in your tone.

Father Charlie’s jaw clenched, his entire body tense as he wrestled with himself, his grip on you tightening. His breath was hot and ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared down at you. For a moment, it seemed like he might pull back, that he might step away, regain the control that had been slipping through his fingers.

But then he kissed you.

It was sudden, rough, and filled with the weeks of pent-up desire he had been fighting so hard to contain. His lips crashed against yours, his hands pulling you closer, as if giving in to the temptation that had been haunting him was the only way to make the ache go away.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, and you could feel the conflict in every movement—how he both wanted this and hated himself for wanting it.

You moaned into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. His hands slid up and down your back before suddenly finding your hair, pulling it back from the kiss.

"You're a whore," he gritted out as he gripped your hair impossibly rougher. "A whore in disguise, aren't you? You feign innocence but you're the most sinful in this Church."

Father Charlie's words were harsh, laced with anger and lust, but the grip in your hair sent a different message—desire and desperation. His brown eyes, dark and conflicted, bore into yours as he pulled you even closer, his breath hot against your skin. His control was slipping, unraveling faster with every second, and he knew it.

You smiled up at him, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. "If I'm sinful, Father, then what does that make you?" you asked softly, your voice teasing, daring him to continue.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing at your words, a low growl escaping his throat as he yanked your head back, exposing your neck. "It makes me weak," he muttered, his lips ghosting over your skin. "Weak because of you. Because of the way you tempt me."

His mouth hovered just inches from your neck, his breath warm, his body pressed against yours, every movement charged with the weight of the forbidden. His hands, still tangled in your hair, trembled with a mixture of restraint and hunger.

"You're what’s wrong with me," he whispered, his voice hoarse, as if he were trying to convince himself of the words as much as he was trying to convince you. "You’ve dragged me down to your level. Made me forget everything I stand for. Everything I’m supposed to be."

But even as he spoke, his lips brushed your neck, leaving a trail of heated, fleeting kisses along your skin. His body moved on instinct, driven by the desire he could no longer deny.

Father Charlie's lips pressed harder against your neck, his breath ragged as his restraint dissolved. His words, filled with self-loathing, contradicted the urgency of his touch. Each kiss grew more desperate, more reckless, as if he were trying to bury the shame and guilt in the taste of your skin. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling you closer, and the tension between you ignited into something explosive, something neither of you could stop now.

His free hand roamed down your body, fingertips pressing into your waist, his touch both rough and reverent, like he was grappling with the weight of his own desire. Every brush of his hand, every kiss, was a betrayal of the man he had once been. But the way your body responded, the way you leaned into him, only fueled the fire burning inside him.

"God help me," he whispered against your collarbone, the words barely audible, as if he were speaking them to himself more than to you. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

You let out a soft moan, your hands tangling in his hair, encouraging him to continue, to give in completely. His resolve crumbled further with every sound you made, every movement of your body against his. The line between right and wrong, between control and surrender, had long since vanished.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes wild, filled with a mix of anger, lust, and confusion. His chest heaved as he looked at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

"I hate you for this," he rasped, though the heat in his eyes betrayed the truth. "But I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting you."

You smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile, as your hand slid down his chest. "Then don’t stop," you whispered, your voice dripping with seduction, coaxing him deeper into the darkness.

That was all it took. With a frustrated growl, he crashed his lips against yours again, harder this time, as if punishing both of you for the sinful desire you had ignited. His hands roamed freely now, no longer held back by hesitation or fear. There was only the raw, uncontrollable need consuming him.

Whatever consequences lay ahead, whatever guilt or shame waited for him on the other side of this moment, Father Charlie couldn’t bring himself to care. Not anymore.

Charlie yanked your hair back again, then stared into your eyes. Without warning, he pushed you to your knees roughly. "How about you do something useful for once, huh?" He muttered breathlessly.

You blinked back up at him, your hands finding their place on his hips. You moved slow and deliberate, which angered Charlie more. Charlie’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling at your scalp just enough to make you gasp. The frustration in his gaze was palpable—fueled by your deliberate slowness, by the way you reveled in the power you had over him.

“You think this is funny?” he growled, his breath ragged as he watched you, his fingers digging into your scalp. His frustration was obvious, but beneath that anger was a raw, unquenchable desire. He hated how much control you had over him, how easily you made him lose himself.

You smiled up at him, slow and teasing, your fingers trailing over his hips, letting him feel the barest touch of your hands. “Maybe it is,” you whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief, enjoying every second of his torment. "At least, to me it is."

You could feel the tension radiating from him, the barely contained hunger in his every movement. Slowly, teasingly, you ran your hands lower, grazing over the bulge straining against his pants, earning a sharp intake of breath from him.

Charlie’s hand tightened in your hair as a low growl escaped his throat. “You think you’re so fucking clever,” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous, his grip on you firm as he stared down with a mix of lust and anger. “But you’re going to regret this.”

Your smirk widened, and without breaking eye contact, you undid his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a soft clink. His breath hitched as you slowly unzipped his pants, the anticipation thick between you, hanging in the air like a loaded weapon.

“Prove it,” you challenged, your voice a soft murmur as you looked up at him, daring him to follow through on his words.

For a moment, Charlie stood there, his chest heaving, torn between the overwhelming desire that had consumed him and the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind. But the pull of temptation was too strong—too powerful to resist any longer.

With a grunt of frustration, he grabbed the back of your neck, forcing you forward as he freed himself. “I don’t care what happens after this,” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with lust and anger. “Right now, you’re mine. And you're gonna do what I fucking tell you.”

You barely had time to respond before he pushed your mouth onto his cock, rough and demanding, his hand guiding you with a forceful grip. The suddenness of it made your breath catch, but you quickly adjusted, falling into a rhythm as he set the pace, his body trembling with the intensity of his need.

You wrapped your lips around him, moaning. His cock was dripping with pre-cum, and your saliva made it messier—but neither of you cared. The bathroom was filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing, punctuated by the occasional low moan as you worked him with sloppy, measured motions. His hips thrust forward, pushing deeper, his control rapidly slipping away as he surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure.

Your mouth was so warm and inviting, he couldn't stop. This was what heaven felt like, he swore—there was nothing better than this feeling, the feeling of your sinful mouth.

Charlie’s hand tightened in your hair, pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your scalp as he lost himself in the moment, all thoughts of guilt or consequences forgotten. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a growl as his head fell back, eyes fluttering shut. “You… you’re such a fucking tease.”

He pushed you until you were gagging around his cock, much to his dismay. "Take it, whore. This is what you wanted, right? For me to use you?"

Your eyes were watering and your jaw felt like it was going to break, but his mean words egged you on. You hummed around him, a wicked smile curling at the edges of your lips as you kept gliding up and down his cock.

But just as he was on the edge, just as the tension in his body built to an unbearable peak, he suddenly yanked you off him, breathless and furious, eyes blazing as he stared down at you.

“Get up,” he commanded, his voice low and guttural, barely holding onto the last threads of control. “Turn around, whore.”

You barely had any time to react before he turned you around to face the mirror. He bent you over the sink as you let out a whimper, before his hands found your hair again and yanked it up.

"Look at you," he murmured as he forced you to look at yourself.

Your hair was a mess, your mascara running down your doe eyes and your sticky cheeks and chin. You caught your breath as you glanced back to meet his eyes through the mirror.

He bent you completely over the sink and landed a sharp slap on your behind. You let out a yelp, shutting your eyes at the stinging feeling. "Fuck,"

"What? Is it too much now, baby?" Charlie spoke, his voice dripping with mockery. His lips were curved into a smirk as he tutted. "This is what you wanted, right?"

He didn't give you time to respond before leading the tip of cock to your folds. You felt his heavy tip on your sloppy entrance, practically begging to get fucked. He hadn't even gotten the chance to touch you properly and you were already soaked.

He hummed at the warm feeling before pushing inside. He let out a huff of air, his head falling back in pure ecstasy. "Oh, yeah," was all he could get out. Your hands found the edge of the sink, gripping it tightly as you let out a desperate moan.

Charlie pushed himself all the way in, bottoming you out within a few quick seconds. He didn't even let you adjust to his size before he began slamming you into roughly, the edge of the sink burying into your stomach.

His thrusts were sharp and relentless, he wasn't letting up anytime soon. You felt like you were on a different planet, the feeling of his cock was dizzying as your eyes rolled back into your head.

"O-oh, fuck!" You cried out as your head fell forward.

Charlie gripped your hips even tighter as he groaned with each slam of his own hips, his head falling back. Your cunt tighten around his cock, and he felt your release coming. One of his hands reached up to grip your head roughly.

"Don't you dare cum, not yet," He got out breathlessly as you tried your best to nod. "Do not cum."

You squeezed, holding off your orgasm as you were told. You didn't know if you could—but you knew the consequences would be dire, Charlie wasn't playing around anymore.

A few harsh slams and he was cumming deep inside you, his moans echoing in the small bathroom. He rode out his high, his grip in your hair not easing one bit. "Fucking take it,"

You whimpered as you tried to hold off your orgasm, tears falling from your eyes as you gripped the sink. Without warning, he slipped out of you.

Your eyes opened and you turned around to face him. "Charlie—"

He cut you off swiftly as he pulled his pants up. "You don't deserve it,"

"Deserve it?" You practically cried out. "I just let you fuck me and you're not gonna let me cum?"

Father Charlie just shrugged. "Whores don't get to cum."

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#charlie mayhew #grotesquerie #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #father charlie mayhew #charlie mayhew x reader #nicholas chavez #father charlie x reader #father charlie smut #smut #nicholas chavez smut #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez fanfic

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fromdove · 2 days ago

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ㅤㅤㅤTEXTS I THINK GOTHAMITES HAVE SENT ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ DURING A CRISIS

emma: guys is it normal for my ceiling to be dripping green again or is this like a joker thing or a plumbing thing idk how to tell anymore

kevin : if it smells like fear toxin it’s the first one if it smells like mold it’s still the first one tbh

selena: tell the landlord. and then figure out batmans number. then call batman. and then call your mom.

emma: i already texted the landlord and he replied with “😬” which like. valid. but not helpful. it smells like copper btw

kevin: girl that man has one wrench and a dream he’s not surviving another clown-based incident

selena: ok but is the green drip glowing?? like are we talking nickelodeon slime or eldritch warning sign

emma: it’s glowing a little??? but not like aggressively like “i’m cursed” not “i’m immediately dying”

kevin: mmm light radioactive. like a zesty haunt. got it.

selena: did you taste it

emma: NO???? why would i i touched it tho

kevin: girl you’re gonna grow a second tongue or something this is how metahumans happen. you’re gonna start glowing in the dark and join a vigilante gang

selena: honestly. real. call me when your origin story starts i wanna be in the flashback montage

emma: i’ll make sure you’re played by zendaya in the dramatized retelling

kevin: i want to be the friend who says “she was never the same after that leak” and then sips dramatically

selena: anyway i googled it and apparently if it’s slightly glowing green and smells like copper), it’s probably leftover from the scarecrow thing last week. the city

emma: so like. green vintage gas. cute.

kevin: limited edition trauma drip

selena: gotham-core

emma: ok but real talk do i open a window or call 911 or just go back to bed and let fate decide

kevin: depends. do u want powers or not

emma: u guys r so unserious...i’ll take a nap with the window cracked. compromise.

selena: classic gotham response. proud of you

kevin: text us if u start levitating or if a raccoon starts talking to u just so we know

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heartsforkatsuki · 27 days ago

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pining. ｡°✩ k.bakugo

pov; you've been inlove with your now ex-bestfriend for 15 years

pairing: bakugo katsuki x gn!reader warnings: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, unrequited (then requited) love, emotional confrontation, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, YEARNING KATSUKI!!! word count: ~1.2k - this is my first time writing angst btw ahah

i want someone badly

maybe it was the way you stopped paying attention to him. the way you stopped orbiting around katsuki bakugo like he was the sun and you were just some helpless, burning thing.

maybe it was the way you grew into yourself. someone with their own dreams now. someone who no longer waited for him to notice them.

it didn’t matter though. not really. because the result was the same.

after years of you trailing behind katsuki — always there, always his constant — now the roles were reversed.

you’d been in each other’s lives since you were five. your moms were best friends. you grew up side by side like a pair of badly stitched twins, bickering and inseparable.

you always lit up when you saw him. always hugged him tight like it mattered. told him you loved him like it was easy, like it wasn’t killing you slowly every time he didn’t say it back.

and god, did you love him.

you thought he knew. maybe a part of you hoped if you said it enough, did enough, he’d start to love you too.

but then came senior year. and izuku — your best friend since forever — sat you down one day, looked at you with tired eyes, and said:

“we’re about to graduate, y/n. you can’t chase him forever.”

and you knew he was right.

you started remembering things that used to slide off your back. like how katsuki never hugged you unless you were crying. how he never said “i love you” — not even in a joking way. how he’d call you annoying in front of people like it was funny. like you were a bit much.

you used to think it was just how he was. now, you weren’t so sure.

so you pulled away. slowly. quietly.

no more dropping by his dorm after class. no more late-night game sessions. no more laughing until you couldn’t breathe.

you made excuses. “my mom needed help.” “i’m not feeling well.” “sorry, i forgot.”

he didn’t buy any of it. but he didn’t stop you either.

and now it’s been two years. two whole fucking years.

katsuki hates every second of it.

he can’t sleep without thinking about what he could’ve done differently. what he should’ve said. should’ve noticed. he misses you in a way that’s physical, in a way that haunts him.

he misses your voice. your laughter. the way you used to throw your arms around him without warning. the way you’d look at him like he mattered more than anything.

you don’t do any of that anymore.

and it’s killing him.

so when he hears there’s a class reunion in some half-lit bar in osaka, he shows up early. waits. watches the door like a fucking lunatic.

and then you walk in. with izuku, of course.

you’re laughing. smiling. katsuki hasn’t seen you smile like that in two years and it splits something open inside his chest.

twenty minutes in, kirishima calls you over. katsuki hears your name and suddenly he’s sweating. your eyes meet his, and he knows that look. you’re nervous.

“hi, eiji,” you say softly. “bakugo.”

bakugo.

not katsuki. not suki. not anything that means he still matters to you.

he wants to punch a wall.

“y/n,” he says back, like it doesn’t gut him.

you talk to kirishima. a little small talk. fake smiles.

and then katsuki’s standing. grabbing your wrist.

“what the hell are you doing?” you ask, eyes wide.

he drags you outside. it’s raining. cold. your coat’s too thin. you’re shivering.

“it’s katsuki to you,” he growls. “or kats. or suki. i don’t give a fuck which nickname you use, just stop calling me bakugo like i’m a stranger.”

“this is inappropriate,” you snap, yanking your hand free. “let me go.”

he ignores you. stares at the ground like it might tell him what to say.

“what happened?” he asks. his voice is low. raw.

“what are you talking about?” you blink at him like he’s gone insane.

“don’t do that,” he snaps. “you know what i mean. you disappeared. one day you were just... gone. after fifteen years. what the fuck, y/n?”

you exhale shakily. look up at him through wet lashes.

“you know why i stopped talking to you.”

“no,” he says, voice cracking. “i don’t. tell me.”

you hesitate. because this hurts. it always hurts.

“you knew i loved you. i spent fifteen years loving you, katsuki. and it meant nothing. not once did you look at me like i meant something to you.”

he’s staring at you like you’ve punched him.

“what the hell are you talking about?” he breathes.

“you never hugged me unless i was crying. you never said you loved me back. and every time someone brought up how close we were, you called me annoying. like i was some bug you couldn’t shake.”

“i hugged you,” he insists. “i did.”

“a pat on the back isn’t a hug, katsuki.”

you’re crying now. not loud. just quiet tears running down your cheeks.

he steps forward. wraps his arms around you. tight. too tight. like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice shaking. “i’ll fix it. i’ll do anything. these last two years... i can’t breathe without thinking about you. i can’t sleep. i can’t do anything. i’m so fucking angry all the time because you’re not here, and it’s my fault, and i hate myself for it.”

you’re sobbing. shoulders shaking. rain soaking through your clothes.

“don’t,” you whisper. “don’t say this now. i’ve spent years making peace with the fact you didn’t love me. i’ve moved on.”

“shut up,” he says, desperate. “just shut up and listen.”

you do. because you always do when it comes to him.

“you’re everything to me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “you always have been. even when i was too stupid to see it. i didn’t know how to show it. i didn’t know how to say it. but i do now.”

you’re frozen. staring up at him through rain and tears and years of ache.

“i love you,” he says.

and the world stops.

the rain, the noise, the pain in your chest — it all goes still.

you stare at him like the words didn’t make sense. like your brain needs to reboot just to process them.

you step back from his arms. look him in the eye.

he’s crying too. shaking. like he’s finally broken open.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, trying to wipe your tears with his thumb. “i’m so fucking sorry. don’t cry. please.”

you smile. small. sad.

and then you kiss him.

soft. slow. like you’re afraid it’ll disappear if you’re not careful.

he doesn’t pull away. for once, he pulls you closer.

the bar door opens behind you. someone gasps. but neither of you move.

because right now, the only thing that matters is that he said it back.

and this time, he means it.

“i love you,” you whisper.

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“i love you too, idiot.”

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gothicfied · 5 months ago

Note

a fic where Dae-Ho (or anyone) comforts a reader to bed because she/he is haunted by seeing people getting shot, blood and etc. Pretty please?🥺 He also is on watch during lights out and comforts them again while noticing them having reoccurring nightmares and mumbling in their sleep. You could also turn this the other way around because my boy Dae-Ho needs some comfort too! 😖

love your fics and past work btw!! ^^

Sleepless Nights - Kang Dae-ho / Player 388

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 x Reader

Summary: After past trauma from being a marine, Dae-ho isn't handling the circumstances of the games well. Thankfully, you're there when he needed you the most.

Warnings: Mentions of death/dying, gunshots, PTSD (typical squid game stuff), other than that it's fluff/comfort, not proof read (english isn't my first language)

Word count: 812 Words

A/N: hii and thank you sm! I loved this idea actually🙏🙏

Your eyes hurt from staying up so long, counting down the seconds until it was Dae-ho's turn to be on watch. The night was grueling and long — all you could do was stare ahead and think about all the past decisions that led you here. I shouldn't have done this, I could've done that.. you were just breaking your mind like that. After you almost nodded to sleep *again*, you decided this was the best time to wake your friend up and get some well deserved rest.

Quietly, you shuffled to the mattresses Gi-hun had your group set up, searching for Dae-ho in the dark. When you spotted his jacket from behind, the number '388' still readable with little to no light, you went to tap him on the shoulder. That was before you noticed him jolting and breathing quite heavily in his sleep, his face contorted with something like fear. Oh, he was having a nightmare. What are you supposed to do now? Wake him up to free him from his dream? Or should you just leave him be? Would that be bad?

While you were slightly panicking, Dae-ho woke up himself from feeling someone looming over him. His eyes immediately darted to you and he quickly sat up, like he was ready to fight you. "Hey.. hey, it's okay! It's me." you whispered, backing up a bit to give him some space. Dae-ho blinked a couple of times, his mind still reeling with the thoughts of his nightmare. The one that was reoccurring ever since he got here. The man took a deep breath and dropped his head down for a moment, just staring at his lap. "Are.. you okay? Did you have a nightmare?"

Dae-ho simply nodded and smiled, trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah, don't worry about me. This happens.. all the time." The shakiness of his voice suggested otherwise. "Is it my time to be on watch?" With a confused, and slightly concerned, look you slowly nodded shifting a bit. Dae-ho slowly stood up, as not to disturb Jun-hee who was sleeping right beside him, and took another deep breath. "Are you actually okay? You seem really shaken up. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Dae-ho smiled again, this time genuinely, silently appreciating your concern. "No.. no, I don't want to bother you. You need to sleep, come on." He pointed down at the mattress, signaling for you to just lay down and let him handle his own business. That's how he always did it anyway, he didn't like to feel like his problems were burdening others, especially in here. "No, don't be ridiculous. I'll sit down with you for a second." So, you just took Dae-ho's hand and led him to the designated spot a bit further away from your sleeping space. The blue 'O' and the red 'X' on the floor illuminated the whole area, the light of both reflecting on his face.

"I've had this nightmare since I got here." Dae-ho started the conversation again, his eyes glued to the big metal door, where the pink guards would always emerge from. "This whole thing.. people getting shot, people dying all because they're in debt," his voice was barely above a whisper, "it's so messed up. I'm a marine.. I should be- Oh, I don't know. It reminds me of all the things I had to facd while serving this country." You nodded along, letting out a 'mhm' to show him you were listening. You didn't really think about it that way at all — Of course this would affect him so much, he probably had PTSD.

"I can't say that I know what that feels like, but I definitely understand." you whispered back, slowly turning your head to look at him. You felt really bad, but you also didn't know how to better the situation. All you could do is wish that this nightmare would soon end with everyone finally coming to their senses and voting 'X'. Dae-ho scrunched his nose, now burying his face in his hands. You couldn't tell if he was crying or was still shaken up, but you put your arm around him nonetheless. Like he always did with you when you were scared or stressed.

Feeling your arm around him, Dae-ho took this as an invitation and immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. "Thank you for being here with me." he mumbled into your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. Your expression softened, hugging him back after a few moments. His skin felt hot against yours and it kind of felt like he was suffocating you with his arms, but you couldn't be happier when Dae-ho expressed his gratitude.

"Of course. I'll stay up with you for a little bit longer, okay?"

#squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game fanfic #squid games #squid games x reader #kang dae ho x reader #kang dae ho #player 388 x reader #player 388 #dae ho x reader

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eloquentlytired · 16 days ago

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haunting snow; tommy miller x fem! reader

summary: this is just a very random n totally fake version of what happens to tommy after he parts from joel and before he finds maria xx idk but I've been cooking this idea for a while so here it is!

tags: strangers to momentary lovers, reckless and younger tommy, fluff to smut, nipple play, tommy likes tits hell yeah, he is also a lil bastard, some dirty talk, wholesome caring reader who's doing her best! , not proof read btw

likes and reposts r appreciated 🫶🏻 ( +++ to the ppl who requested tommy I'm almost done w ur reqs hehe )

Tommy never tells the entire truth of how he met his current wife and the others. It's not like Joel needs to know, nor Maria. Especially Maria.

He remembers getting lost in the snow and, without being properly dressed, how much he'd been freezing then. Tommy recalls passing out somewhere— the location was unclear because of how much snow had piled up all around him. And then on top of him.

That's not all Tommy remembers.

Every time he closes his eyes, he dreams of that night's events.

Freezing, hungering, shouting for help before losing his senses in every way known.

When he wakes up, everything is different and so warm that it feels like a dream. He blinks and his eyes adjust to the dancing light of a fire burning before him.

He tries to move somehow yet he can't.

There's motion in his hair — something scratches. Then it caresses him so soothingly that Tommy wants to say thank you.

He isn't entirely conscious yet he manages to make out some things and sensations. The fire by his side, the hand in his hair and another heartbeat beneath his ear. His head rests on another's chest, he can tell this much.

“You’re okay.” The foreign voice tells him while the caresses never cease. If only Tommy could speak or move around to look, he already would have.

There's not much he can do or register before he sinks into a deep sleep again, feeling overly tired.

The second time he wakes up, he feels even more confused.

Tommy opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is a blurry image of you, naked from the waist high. He doesn't have the time to process it as you're already pulling up your shirt and buttoning it up.

“You’re awake.” You tell him and pull him out of his trance. When Tommy looks at you, his breath hitches.

Maybe it's the fact that he almost died from a frostbite, maybe not but he cannot help but admire you a little as you smile like that. To Tommy, you just might be a godsend gift.

He looks around now that he can, takes in the sight of a clearly abandoned cabin and three incredibly warm blankets engulfing him in a tight cocoon. Yes, he looks ridiculous but he's so warm.

“Forgive me for—” You signal between the two of you as you're still buttoning up your shirt. “Body heat is best in these situations and I really didn't want you to die.”

Tommy smiles and he can see your shoulders dropping a little.

“You saved my life back there.” He rasps, he's in clear need of water.

While he's not fond of warm water, he downs the cup you give him too fast.

“You check for bite marks? I could've been infected you know.” Tommy continues and his sudden sternness catches you off guard. Your silence tells him more than he needs to know.

“You’re either too kind or too stupid, sweetheart.” He says between coughs and as much as you'd like to get offended, you were too worried to do that.

Your first instinct is to sit by his side and place the back of your hand against his forehead.

“The sudden change of temperature has upset your body. I'll need to give you more fluids too.” You muttered mainly to yourself as you walked towards your bag.

Tommy watched you tiredly, with intrigue, and he couldn't help but find it all amusing.

“Wasting your supplies for strangers? Heck, even my brother would insult you if he was here.” His mind wandered off to Joel for a moment, hoping that he's alright.

“It is important to save whoever...normal is left.” Is all you tell him as you return with your hands full.

You push a different cup into his hands with a strange dark liquid inside that Tommy doesn't really want to trust.

A mere glare from you is enough to change his mind though. “It is for your fever. Drink it now.”

Tommy frowns at your words. “It ain’t good to get this stuff with your stomach empty, right?”

You want to laugh because of how unbelievable this guy is, making jokes after nearly dying. All poor you can do is grin.

“I already fed you a while back.” Tommy looks so shocked when he realizes he didn't remember a single second of that moment. “It is okay. You were too feverish and kept calling for a Joel guy.”

He relaxes at that information, and confirmation he isn't just going crazy, and drinks the medicine. It's bitter and he wishes he could just spit it out.

The rest of the hour passes by... familiarly.

Tommy doesn't know you, you don't know him. But by the way things are escalating, it is almost like you're old friends.

He watches you cook something over the fire and his tummy rumbles — what had you fed him exactly before? Fucking leaves?

You look over at his side while you cook, laughing every time because of how desperate he appears.

“Control your appetite, mister. I'll give you some.” You have never seen a man turn happy as fast as Tommy has.

Tommy talks to you while you share your food with him. It really feels like he's dealing with some divine powers here — you, the blankets, the food, the medicine.

“You heal well.” You tell him and you look absolutely relieved. Tommy can't remember the last time someone had looked that relieved for him; probably when Joel had to bail him out of jail or something.

“You looked so bruised and...dead.” His eyes follow your motions and the way your shaky hands grip your wooden cup. “A few more minutes and I would have been too late.”

He feels a pang of guilt in his chest at how worried he's made you.

Tommy clears his throat as he looks over at the weakening fire. “Thank you for saving me. I wouldn't have made it without you and jesus— that's fucking scary to realize.”

He jolts a little, not expecting the light weight of your hand on his shoulder. Tommy looks at you, you look back, and he leans in for many unknown reasons.

The blankets are beneath you as your back brushes against them with each motion of Tommy’s hips from above.

The sounds in the small cabin vary. Some floor creaking, fire cracking, your soft sounds and of course Tommy’s words that ignite the spark in your belly.

You're not that kind of girl, you swear, but it's been ages since you were last touched and it always seemed like a distant dream after the apocalypse happened.

You were human, Tommy was too and you two had needs like everybody else.

“There—” You almost thank him for following your lead, for pushing his cock right at the spot that has you tightening and panting.

You gush around him while your pussy swallows him deeper. It's like you're made to take him like this, to have Tommy between your legs as he whispers to you.

“Here?” The bastard grins as he plunges his cock deep inside you, hitting the same bulge of nerves.

Tommy’s hips move restlessly, his hands gripping your hips in a bruising manner and spreading your legs wider.

He considers himself a lucky man to enjoy this type of view. Your body jolting beneath him with each thrust, your bouncing breasts and one of your hands sneaking low to play with your clit.

Tommy leans down and suckles a nipple into his mouth, making you moan again. He rolls his tongue around and over it, licks it well, before sucking some more until the bud is sensitive enough. He moves to your other nipple to do the same while you tighten around him.

He shifts until his hands are cupping your breasts fully, fondling and groping them, while his mouth takes no break.

“I can't take it.”

You confess as you feel the desire burning you alive and your clit throbbing beneath your fingers.

Tommy thrusts messily, suckles your nipples and hums. The motions of his hips never stop as he fucks you and assaults that sweet spot repeatedly.

“Tastes so good.” He mumbles as he releases a swollen nipple to attack the other again. His hands are relentless and rough with your tits but you can barely mind when his thick cock is splitting you open and giving you what you need.

You feel your orgasm slowly building as your walls tighten around his cock and warn him. Tommy does the unspeakable of biting your nipple and pulling slightly, just enough. Good enough.

“Fuck—” It's hot and sensitive, you don't know why you're so sensitive, but your fingers pinch your clit at the same time and you come hard.

It takes all of Tommy’s willpower not to spill inside you as you squeeze and soak his cock with your wetness, making him lose his mind.

He pulls out before he makes a reckless decision and strokes his cock.

You reach for him mindlessly, angling his cock towards your pussy, and Tommy grinds his tip against your spent clit while getting himself off.

There's no complaint, especially when he gets to come all over your pussy while you're watching him with those eyes — eager to please. He shoots a final load just beneath your lower belly and drops to the spot beside you.

You don't talk as Tommy presses his chest against your back and holds you, replenishing the warmth that you'd been missing this whole time. A warmth that wasn't just the heat of the fire.

Tommy doesn't know why he still thinks about that day.

Maybe it haunts him a little because of the choice he'd made in walking away right after, leaving you alone in that cabin.

He had no real excuse except the fact he was Tommy Miller and he did not settle — right.

With a current wife and a baby on the way, of course it all seemed really ironic now.

“Tommy!” He hears Maria first before spotting her in the snowy distance, walking past a few others.

He couldn't distinguish her expressions until she was close enough, her comforting hands reaching for his roughened ones.

“We found a few survivors, they're pretty butchered.” It wasn't strange for Maria to fill him in but it certainly was unusual to be approached for that sort of task.

Tommy stares at her in confusion.

“One of them is asking for you? A girl.” Whether his wife noticed him getting incredibly tense, she doesn't comment on it.

Tommy wants to ask who but he realizes how hopeless it was. He hadn't even asked for your name.

His feet feel heavy as Maria leads the way to either what he expects or a true surprise.

Whatever it is, Tommy senses it's haunted him for a reason.

#tommy miller x you #tommy miller smut #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller tlou #tommy miller #tlou #tlou hbo #gabriel luna #gabriel luna x you #gabriel luna x reader #gabe luna #the last of us #the last of us x reader #tlou x reader

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qin-qin16 · 8 months ago

Text

cw.: Old dog coded Geno, he is a brat btw, but we love him exactly because of that!

note: Following this headcanon, I decided to post a little more about it! Here it is @vanglaggle

"Your teeth feel kind of smooth," you murmur as your thumb glides over Geno's mouth, lightly brushing against his once-sharp canines.

He doesn't move much — he even seems at ease with your fingers exploring his jaw, poking and sliding over his teeth; or perhaps Geno is just too tired to resist your curiosity and gentle touch.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to keep chewing on those toy bones— eew!" Your hand quickly pulls back as your fingers are coated in saliva, instantly stained with a faint red.

What was once an empty mouth, merely adorned with teeth, is now brightened by a red tongue — short and plump, yet wide enough to cover your hand in a single lick.

And not satisfied with your reaction alone, Geno wore a lazy smile, his mouth forming a line as that hazy dot in his eye socket remained fixed on you.

Wiping your hand on your shirt, you can’t help but let out a huff at his childish behavior. “You’re unbelievable, you know?” All you get in return is a weak chuckle, and before you can respond, Geno begins to move away — slowly, cautiously, one leg heavy without his cane, dragging lightly across the floor.

The frustration that danced on your tongue quickly turns into a bitter taste of concern.

“Where are you going?” You quickly move yourself beside him, matching his slow steps for support.

Geno, as usual, huffs at your question — as if the reason for his sudden walk were obvious. “I’m going to lie down for a bit before dinner.”

You don’t even try to suppress the genuine laugh that escapes your lips. “I guess I’ll keep you company then!”

“And annoy me while I try to sleep? No, thanks.” You might believe his rude words if it weren’t for the little tail wagging happily at the idea; pleased to know he’ll have your cozy presence beside him, soothing the troubled dreams that haunt his sleep.

“Alright, alright, let’s get to bed, old man— ouch!” Geno bites your cheek, those same teeth you thought were harmless now nipping and tugging gently at your skin.

“Don’t call me old man!” he murmurs, irritated, his annoyance growing as your laughter fills the room.

Even though Geno often acted like an old dog, he still hated being called that — but from you? He could tolerate that annoying nickname if that means you never stop smiling at his weird little habits.

#geno sans #geno x reader #geno sans x reader #sans x reader #sans x you #sans x yn #qinqin stuff 💖#utmv #utmv x reader #old dog coded geno

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sonder-paradise · 2 years ago

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Hello, my dear friend. I was thinking… what if Chuuya, Akutagawa, Dazai, Atsushi are having a nightmare and their s/o comforts them?… btw, I really like your posts🖤 thank you for doing them, I really like them a lot💙💛

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 — 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

◊ characters. chuuya nakahara, osamu dazai, ryunosuke akutagawa, atsushi nakajima, gn!reader

◊ genre. slight angst, comfort

◊ note. thank you for the req i had fun :)

— 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

for a man that does not dream, the closest he gets is the vague feeling that he is not safe. when he awakes, his palms stick to the sheets. his chest pounds and he swears he doesn't know what's going on.

he remembers nothing but a vague memory that something is wrong. he blinks, breathing slowly. once, twice, and then finally turning his head to look down at your sleeping form.

you are safe. he is safe. but as you shift in your sleep, mumbling something softly to yourself before finally looking up at him with hazy eyes, he feels a horrid, painful ache in his chest.

"chuuya? what are you doing up?" you whisper. your voice soothes something inside him and he swallows thickly.

"nothing. just thinking," he says quickly.

your lips tug down for a moment before letting out a sigh. your hand wraps around his waist, pulling him back down to the bed to lay down. he lays in your embrace quietly, soaking in your whispered words and soothing touch.

"you know you can tell me if something's the matter."

"i know."

unspoken words drift into the silence and chuuya releases his grip on the sheets to hold you a little tigher.

— 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢

dazai says nothing. pulling himself out of bed and towards the kitchen. he's not sure what to do. his mind races and for a second he's scared. everything feels so unfamiliar, so unnatural.

'it was just a dream.'

that's what he tells himself as he paces the kitchen debating on heading down to the Lupin. then you appear in the doorway. he stills himself, eyes wide as his lips fall open in an attempt to explain himself.

but then, he doesn't have to.

"osamu... if you had a nightmare, it's okay to talk to me."

he pauses once more. for a brief second, he looks close to tearing up. but dazai knows better. it would be silly to find relief in you just because of some silly dream.

but when you stand a little straighter and open your arms like that... he can't help but find his way back into your embrace. you stroke his hair as he sinks into your touch.

"wanna talk about it?" you whisper, slowly but surely leading him back towards the bed.

"no," he murmurs, letting himself succumb to the way you just... take care of him. no extra narrative involved except your love.

— 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚

panic. that's the first thing atsushi feels upon waking back up. he's alert and scanning the room for potential areas of danger. but as he soaks in the atmosphere, he spots his familiar room, the scent of you and him intermingled comfortingly and most important, you.

he stills himself, trying to pull it together slowly. questions race through his mind. is it okay to wake you for this? would you be mad if he got closer? his anxiety warps his already panicked state of mind.

then you roll over, rubbing your eyes before realizing the sort of state your lover's currently in.

"atsushi..." you murmur, carefully holding your arms open. "what's wrong?"

he immediately latches on with no intention of letting go anytime soon. silence replaces his answer but eventually he mumbles the details of his dream to you.

you’re quiet, taking in the way be trembles under your touch and stiffens when he thinks you’re about to pull away.

“i’m here. i’m not going anywhere,” you whisper and he nods and accepts those words.

the silence becomes a little less terrifying.

— 𝐑𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐀𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐰𝐚

he wouldn’t admit he’s been startled awake by something haunting his mind. akutagawa turns away from you, unable to look at your peaceful form.

he traces back his memory; where he is, who he is, and his safety. he’s not wearing his coat…

akutagawa grabs the dark coat that sits patiently on a chair nearby. he wraps it around himself and questions if sleep is still a viable option for him.

then your voice hurries from the bed and he returns to your side.

“ryuu, are you going somewhere?” you ponder aloud, noticing the way he grips his coat a little tighter.

“no,” he grumbles.

you stare at him quizzically. he looks so frail and tired standing there so awkwardly. you soften your tone as you reach out to cup his cheek.

“you can keep the coat on. just lay down with me, is that okay?”

he thinks for a moment, then nods and sits back down. the coat is still wrapped around his frail shoulders. you pull your arms around him too.

akutagawa isn’t sure whether or not to love this affection or shun away from it. but it feels so warm, so unfamiliar yet right that he accepts it.

it’s a better alternative than the nightmarish comforts that await him when he shuts his eyes.

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#[✒️] writing #chuuya x y/n #chuuya x gn reader #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd dazai x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #atsushi nakajima x reader #atsushi x reader #atsushi x y/n #akutagawa ryunosuke x reader #akutagawa fluff #akutagawa x y/n #akutagawa x reader

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foodiegoogie · 2 months ago

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minumulto (haunted)

sirius black x fem!reader | 1.4k

"with nothing left to be seen, i still feel your touch in the dark." cw/tags: inspired by that one scene in one day (the series) so… angst, self-deprecation, implied depression, and themes of death note: 'minumulto' means 'being haunted' in filipino. meanwhile its root word, 'multo,' means ghost. this plot came to me while listening to multo by cup of joe on repeat btw :P

Sirius Black doesn’t like to be alone.

He prefers the company of his friends, the loud crowd of a party, and even the hustle and bustle of people passing him by on the streets over the peace that comes with being in solitude. Because at least around people, he could distract himself for a while. This way, Sirius wouldn’t think too hard about God knows what and send himself spiraling.

He loves the noise— thrives in it, even. Because while it does make him feel good, it also allows him to forget about the heartache for just a moment.

Additionally, Sirius Black doesn’t want to be left alone.

It’s been a year now since you left him, since he felt what it was like to bask in warmth and safety, since he felt care. Real, genuine care. A year since he felt love; not the kind that his friends give him, nor the kind that his family lacked, but the kind of love that always kept giving—that you always kept giving.

He doesn’t have that luxury now, not anymore.

Perched on the window sill of his bedroom, Sirius took another deep drag from the cigarette lit between his lips. It was as if he was trying to inhale as much smoke to fill every crevice of his body, to drown or numb himself.

He held it in for a while before letting it out with a heavy sigh, smoke curling out into the air like ribbons of velvet. Sirius watches it linger in the air in front of him before disappearing, takes a deep breath, then looks back at the cityscape before him as the cigarette returns to his lips.

It’s been like this for days now. Well, if you consider every weak moment of his in the past year, succumbing to his downfall every time, then it’s been more than days since this cycle of a pity party began.

He’s tried it—God knows that he’s tried getting over himself. Getting over the overwhelming and all-consuming presence of you in his mind and heart. Sirius has taken each and every effort to meeting new people, working on his lifestyle, and once, in a fleeting moment of hope and courage, find the same kind of love again.

But he knew deep down that the love you’d both shared? The love that you gave him? It only comes once in a lifetime.

Instead, he finds himself comparing every potential person to you. And in an instant, he’s already pulling back, unable to convince himself that he could move on and function normally again. But alas, Sirius hasn’t made friends with his grief yet.

He can’t help but see you everywhere—in the coffee shops he passes by on his way to work, in the books that he sees people read on the tram, in late night show reruns, in every bloody girl who even has a hint of some likeness to you. Hell, he even sees you in his friends. He sees you in James’ loud laughter, in Remus’ quiet smiles, in Peter’s naivety.

It’s… it’s too much. It’s all too much.

Sirius knows that for a fact, how the ghost of you still lingers around him, haunting him every day and night. Even then, he clings on to you stubbornly, unable to let go.

But it’s worse when he dreams about you.

Dreaming about you should be just that—a dream. But as of late, he’s not sure if he’s still dreaming or having nightmares. Either way, it always hurts to wake up.

You’re so vivid in his dreams. Sometimes, Sirius can’t tell if he’s gotten to the point of hallucinating you in his reality or not.

On one particular night however, you made yourself present again in his dreams, just like clockwork. The both of you were sitting in what should have been your shared flat. But it was already much too late before you even got to pack your things and move in.

“You’re here again,” Sirius hears himself speak, but his voice comes out hoarse and weathered, just barely above a whisper.

“So I am,” You respond, turning to look at him, taking in his current state.

He chuckles, recognizing your bantering response. You’d always reply the obvious to him, like answering the sky when he asks what’s up, just to mess with him. And he loved it. Now, he misses it.

Sirius hears the soft exhale released from your mouth. “You look terrible, by the way.”

He smiles knowingly, but it’s small. “Thank you, darling.”

He hasn’t looked you in the eye yet since you appeared beside him. Frankly, he doesn’t know if he could bring himself to do it. Not if he felt like crying right then and there. But Sirius does feel when you begin to shift beside him, scooting just a little bit closer. And for just a moment, it’s almost like he could feel your shoulder brushing against his again, your knees pressing together, but not quite at the same time.

“You haven’t cried yet, have you?” You ask him, half-teasing and half-concerned.

“No, darling. I haven’t,” Sirius answers honestly. “Knew you’d make fun of me for it.”

He expects to hear another snarky reply from you after that, maybe actually make him cry and then tease him for it. But instead, you’re quiet. Sirius doesn’t like that—not now, at least.

“You know it won’t always be like this, right?”

He scoffs bitterly. “Why wouldn’t it?”

You take a deep breath before you answer him. “Time.”

Time? That was funny. A year has already gone by, but Sirius feels like no time has passed at all.

“You’ll realize things,” You continue. “Mature. Grow old and grey.”

Sirius shakes his head, chuckling humorlessly but stopping when it starts to turn into a choked sob. He sniffles, letting out a shaky breath before replying.

“That was the plan with you. Our plan.”

“Yes, but it can still be the plan. You just have to do it on your own now– or with someone else. I don’t mind.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat before speaking in a broken whisper, “But I can’t.”

“You can. I know you can–”

“I can’t,” Sirius finally turns to look at you, grey eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I don’t know how to be without you.”

A knot forms between your brows, and then he sees you lift your hand to his face. He leans into your touch instantly. But it isn’t warm like he’s always known and felt. It isn’t real.

“You do,” Your thumb strokes gentle stripes on his cheek. “You just don’t let yourself.”

Sirius takes an unsteady breath, pressing your hand firmly against his skin, desperate for your warmth and touch.

“I don’t want to be without you.”

“You’re not without me,” You tell him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears of your own now. “You never were. I’m always with you.”

His breathing has turned ragged now, but you can see how he’s trying to get it together, so you help him for what might be the last time you ever will, and cradle his face in your two hands.

“I’ll always be with you,” You repeat to him, whispering but firm. “You just have to learn how to be with yourself, too.”

Sirius squeezes his eyes shut, trying to absorb as much of what he could feel from your barely-there touch. Then he swallows another lump down his throat, taking a deep breath—properly now, and nods his head.

But by the time he opens his eyes again, you’re gone, and he’s back in his bedroom.

His cheeks are wet with streaks of tears running down his face. Had he been crying in his sleep? If so, then that would be a first. He hasn’t given himself the time to properly grieve you.

But perhaps… that could happen today. If that dream of his meant anything, Sirius could imagine you waiting for him in the cemetery, standing by the headstone of your own grave, probably with fresh flowers by James and Lily or Remus.

And so, with the faintest flicker of hope in his chest—the first in a year, Sirius gets out of bed.

hey... im apologizing for this ~(>_<。)＼thanks for reading tho <3

#sirius black #sirius black fic #sirius black x self insert #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black fanfiction #sirius orion black #sirius x reader #sirius x y/n #sirius black angst #sirius black one shot #marauders fic #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #the marauders x reader #marauders fandom #sirius black x fem!reader #foodiegoogie writes

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malvoile · 2 months ago

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Me and the Devil ; iv

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴘᴀᴜʟ ɪꜱ ʀᴏᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 11.7k warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to serious injury, heavy descriptions of blood, family death, brief mention of dying during childbirth, plot (im looking at u rn. u know who u are), foreshadowing. v v v brief allusion to former feydxreader (finger sucking. blood. im sorry its over quick). besides that, fluff and light angst - and a fair amount of lore. btw. if you're russian and reading this i love you notes: hey cuties!! it has been so long and i apologize for that! i was in a cast for my hand for a few weeks, and then life got busy. things are still busy busy and rough but here's an update for u all for being so effing nice :) i rly hope you enjoy, fun things are coming i swear! love u all [header image is for aesthetic purposes only.] pls consider supporting authors with comments/reblogs :) previous series masterlist

Dearest Niece,

I hope this message finds you in good health, despite the trying times you have endured. I cannot begin to imagine the pain and sorrow you must have experienced in the wake of the tragedy that befell our family. To have been thrust into the midst of such turmoil and danger must have been unimaginably difficult.

Today I write to you also with heartfelt congratulations on your recent betrothal to Paul Atreides; While I understand that this union may have come at an inopportune time, I have every confidence that you will make for yourself a splendid future on Caladan. Duke Leto is a noble, honorable man, and I have no doubt that his son is the very same.

Please know that you are not alone in your sorrow, my dear niece. Know that our home is always open to you, and one day I would be honored to meet your new husband and welcome him to Ginaz.

In the meantime, I hope this message brings some small comfort to your troubled heart. I have every confidence that you will emerge from this darkness stronger than ever before.

With all my love,

Lady Ginaz

- Message sent to Lady Bourbon from the Lady Ginaz. 10191. Caladan.

For the second time in his life, Paul is roused by his mother in the dead of the night.

At her hushed instruction, Paul blinks blearily, staggering after his mother’s grave visage, padding barefoot across the wing; a hall, lit only by the lick of waxed moon looming in the sky and the curling tendrils of slumber pulling at his mind.

It is not until his mother opens the door that the sense of dread fully solidifies within his chest – a chamber at the end of the hall, an ornate chair placed in the center – and sat within it, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim.

Any remnants of tired sighs and heavy eyes cease immediately; Paul’s eyes snap forward, blood thrumming and alert.

Searing pain; a memory of years ago washed onto the shores of his mind – humanity, that nameless obscurism. The Gom Jabbar. A test.

A bitter reminder of the consequence of trust; Paul spares a glance to his mother, his posture rigid. A crack in granite, a splintered thorn on a plucked rose.

The reminder is acidic upon his tongue.

He is dropped within the choppy waters of silence and anticipation – a phantom memory of pain and disquiet alike; and with a square of his shoulders, Paul steps forward towards the shrouded woman. It is a test in of itself, his mind computes in a whirring, quick blink, steel yourself. Do not betray your mind.

“What’s this?” His voice drips in condescension; no effort at all to hide such disdain.

The voice comes; a low drawl, chrisomed in black. “Tell me of your dreams, Paul Atreides.”

It is the sharp, needle-like stare that sends that wave of dissent through him – and a sharp glare is then moved to level his mother. She merely nods towards the Reverend Mother, and Paul drowns in the waters.

So, Paul steps forward, and he speaks of the hauntings that come to him each night.

Lapsed by the less pertinent details of his dreams, Paul’s lips spill of eerie clearings, a shroud of ceremony white against the weeping earth; flakes of smoky snow raining from a clear sky, streaks of missiles cracking along the orange the horizon, splintering the world in two. A large pine, shivering and quaking as its limbs creak and bend, unfurling its burnt sap and smoldering barked skin.

“I’ve tried to make use of them,” he murmurs, brows furrowed with visions of soft skin, sharp gasps and ashy snow.

And they are a portent of doom – that crawling thing that clutches his chest and reminds him with a pang of fear about the very dream he’d been roused from not minutes ago; of the flash of silver, the sharp gasp, and metal, piercing soft flesh.

Pain, in any other name.

“They’re…elusive.”

His voice is small and cold in the wide yawning chamber, and the piercing sparrow eyes of the Reverend Mother do not blink. His shoulders are weak, despite the way he holds them back; a weary voice, the swallow of a shaky worry, some hidden fear that nestles into his ribcage.

“She’s always there.”

And there is a small flashing under the thickened veil – a horrifying breath in which Paul reconsiders if he’d truly just seen the woman smile.

His stomach churns. There is no part of him which yearns to continue speaking – though a sharp glance from his mother draws forth the recent memories of his dream this very morning, the one he’d just been roused from.

“And…the last dream, sh–” His jaw is increasingly tight, though his efforts to conceal emotion prove decent; a vision burnt bright in his mind, the sharp memory of tissue pierced and torn, a sharp gasp – a black hilted knife. An engraved blade. “Someone stabbed me.”

He does not say what he indeed feels – the flutter of fear, the boiling anger, and that lick of worry that curls around corners of his racing mind.

You stabbed him. It was you.

Paul braces himself for the far-reaching consequences, knowing he cannot afford to hide what plagues his mind as the Imperium stirs in the eve of war.

Not if what you said about Sabberon is true.

There is a small leak in the window in the far right corner – Paul can nearly see the small droplets as they fall from the wooden beams and kiss the stone floor, dripping slow and passing the time as a grandfather clock.

“Your dreams hold great significance, Paul Atreides.”

Unimpressed with her words of grandiose, Paul's jaw ticks in indignation; he could have guessed as much himself.

It is an effort to resist a snarl; confusion is an unwelcome addition to anger and it simmers low in his gut. Great significance, she says.

“I am the heir to House Atreides," Paul starts, jaw tights, "The Imperium might hang by the brink after the coming Referendum,” as he spits, his mother places a hand on his shoulder, her sharp inhale bristling the hair on Paul's neck. It does not quell his anger. “I won't entertain any manipulations in the name of my fate–”

“Silence.”

Words dissolve on his tongue; lips shut, eyes roll, light disappears from their sconces in the murky corners of the room.

And in that hazy, prickling way, he emerges from the momentary dreamstate with a wash of shame, of sheer wrath. She once again dares use the Voice?

But she has begun speaking, and Paul has no choice but to listen.

“You are the heir to a great legacy. But with that inheritance comes duty.”

He does not dignify her with any response.

To his defiance, she tilts her head – a crow of black and veiled, her beading eyes glint through the low light. “Tread carefully, Paul Atreides. The choices you make will shape the fate of many.”

A spoiled disdain of fanatic manipulations – the words are discomforting as they are incendiary in Paul’s brain.

The Reverend Mother continues. “You possess a strength within you, a strength born of both blood and spirit; but true strength lies not in the wielding of power, but in the mastery of oneself. Trust in your instincts, but do not let them blind you.”

His mother is fearful behind him. He feels it, radiating off of her; that pulsing worry that leaks from a wounded antelope in the twilight of a chase, the bleeding heart of a wounded animal.

It seems that the Reverend Mother grows tired of Paul's presence, for after a terse moment, she nods harshly. “You may go.”

Paul finds no better relief than turning heel and stalking briskly towards the door.

“–Not you, Jessica.”

It is with fury that he nearly turns around; but somewhere in his mind is a hazy insistence from his mother – urging to leave them; and so he does, lingering with an ear to the doors as a child would, straining to find the hushed words whipped into the chamber.

“The boy..." and then, "the girl, too,” The voice is a whistled wind in the ears of an unwelcome fate; The fragments of sentences are chopped and warbled, “–down the right path.”

He does not bother to stay and hear the rest of it.

The morning crawl of sunrise comes crisp as you cross the halls to the training rooms.

It is early - far earlier than your usual training hours, though you still cross into the room, stopping upon your toes at the sound of fighting.

In lieu of the common sight of Duncan perched in thought, cleaning blades and awaiting your presence, you’re met with the thud of skin meeting skin, exercised breaths and grunts of focus; the sharp slice of blades against shields.

You haunt the doorway, staring owlishly as Paul and Duncan spar.

It is an odd thing, you observe as the morning sun climbs higher into the cool sky; it is odd, the way that Paul Atreides fights; quite unlike the fluid but brutish style of your formerly betrothed, with his painted chest and curved blades.

These are slower; ones that awaken some dormant emotion low in your stomach. The patterned leaps and strikes, the circling toes; It is a dance – a rhythm that beats the same as the blood in your veins.

One, then the other – legs lunging, arms parrying, striking; hawks, in a circling prance.

You realize, with creeping horror: You know this song.

There is a melody in it, that old formulaic law of the vast universe, beyond the Imperium. Those whispers of the people who came before yours, who carved their faces into the mines within Sabberon’s tallest peaks. Their dance, their song.

The Zakon Roka. The martial art from your ancestors, who poured their song into the teachings of the Ginaz Swordmasters.

Your lips are wettened with your tongue as you watch the slide of thighs, a sharp spurt of strength emphasized with the glinting of rich curls; Paul has struck Duncan across the shoulder. The Law of Fate, as it were; a dance with blade in hand.

And in this waltz, you find that familiar beat, the quick jolts of Kozachok; A cautious precision. Soldiers with thick trousers and balanced on ice-bracketed boots; gliding between sword parries and swipes to the legs. Thick dresses and furs; whooshing in the passing air as pointed toes slice through cold, tapping upon ice with the kiss of a feather.

Paul’s movements are fluid, graceful, calculated; your worry doubles but is only quelled by the growing discomfort in your ribs.

So he is trained in the ways of your people.

Something about it twists an ancient melancholy in your gut.

Your mouth is bitter. He should, by principle, be little match for Duncan Idaho; A young man so clearly well-endowed in the areas of strategy, politics, governance, you’d hoped you could wheedle out some clear pitfall of the heir.

But instead you watch, a phantom of snow and evergreen in the doorway, as his watery movements outmaneuver his counterpart; the lapping of cerulean waves against a frigid shore, the laugh of a hawk in a frosted forest – a game of échecs, placed upon a checkered board – or, in this case, a sparring mat.

Nevertheless, the Atreides heir fights in a way all too familiar, and you’d strike yourself a liar if you said it did not coax some unwanted heat around your neck.

Your heart throbs painfully in your ribcage. The boyish laughter of your youngest sister, hair unruly as she leapt to your brother, rapier prodding the shield protecting his precious skin.

Snowflakes still fell in those last days before you left for Giedi Prime; and you still held on to those foolish dreams of springtime in an Imperium that would soon be frozen in winter.

A sunbeam streaks through the green of Paul’s eyes just for a moment, glittering just as that sea which lies beyond the horizon. Your skin has grown small gooseflesh; a shuddering breath from your lips, furrowing your brows as Paul leaps, avoiding a low swipe from the glinting blade of his counterpart.

He fights like them, yes – like the wolves of Sabberon – but he too mirrors those quicker movements, the ones that were taken from ancient cultures of other civilizations; an amalgamation of the sharpest fighters in the Imperium, honed into one pattern of dance steps.

A waltz of death.

You should have expected as much.

After all, he's grown up here on Caladan – a Duke's son, trained to become a ruler one day; and he has been tutored in this dance by the greatest fighter you’ve known, a man who shared the blade with your people for many years.

Paul matches him blow for blow; and his cheeks, glowing and dusted with pink – to your dismay, barely a glean of sweat across his furrowed brow.

A strike against Duncan hits unblocked once more; The older man, in turn, lets out a huff of laughter – pride leaks through that sound.

Your blood turns to acid; and your patience is rapidly expiring in the knowledge that your betrothed is once again quite talented – and Duncan watches Paul as if he were his own son, an observation that festers somewhere horribly sore in the bruised chasm of your emptied, wanting heart.

Anger bites at your heels, and though you know he had no control over your fate, the bitterness lingers. The bruises upon your soul, the clawing betrayal of abandonment those years ago. Of when you last saw him.

Harvest season came on Sabberon with gusts of spiced air and merry visitors – each revolution of orbit, with leaves of crimson and amber falling to the ground; the scent of roasts and cider blowing with the harvest wind with the first few flakes of wintertide.

Each year, Duncan Idaho would visit; and then, even when you were no taller than his elbow, it’d been a dance for you too – your body in step, giving and taking with his own. A Waltz of Death. The Zakon Roka.

You’re brought back when Duncan's blade presses to Paul's side; Grunting, Paul cannot seem to parry – your eyes flicker with the red flash of the shield’s warning.

A vision behind your lids once more – viscous liquid, gleaming in the sun – a curved blade, dripping carmine.

The blade is slow, and it penetrates Paul’s shield; Your veins thrum in excitement at the widening of viridescent eyes, the glance of a doe along the point of a hunter’s bow.

God forbid he hurts that precious porcelain skin. What color, you wonder absently, would his blood flow from such a blade?

Feyd-Rautha's blood was so dark it was nearly black.

A crimson color when it smeared across his skin, though reflective and glinting in daunting light; a tangy, sharp metallic taste when you’d brought his bloodied fingers to your own lips.

A gasp echoes in your mind, a sickening squelch; the expiring rattle of breath, eyes desperate beneath knitted brows. Fear floods your stomach, a horrible thing as the outline of the sun leaks a halo over Paul’s curls.

It seems your dream from this morning has not left you – the dread threaded into your muscles as you’d woken pulls at your lips, weighs upon your shoulders.

A phantom pain lingers in your stomach.

Paul has escaped the slow blade somehow as you stood daydreaming; and he now moves along the ring of sunlight from the window.

His lips, furled in concentration – those lips, pinked and bitten in the haze of your memory, a dream of sighs and of bites against warm flesh.

Heat creeps once more around your neck: And your haze snaps, any such grasp of patience you may have had is gone.

It takes only a shift upon your feet to catch the attention of the two.

At the sight of you, Duncan hesitates. Seizing the moment, Paul strikes and Duncan tumbles to the ground with a blade to his throat.

You do not hide the lift of your brows.

Paul releases his grasp, pulling Duncan up with himself. With a wipe of sweat from his brow, Duncan's eyes skirt to the clock and he huffs, “Sorry. Must’ve lost track of time.”

Humming, you slink onto the mat; a panther stalking along the limb of a tree.

In greeting you receive a nod from Paul; though his gaze is more a fleeting brush from your face to the blade at your hip. It is a split moment – though the green in his eyes snags like a hook, reeling you back — back to the dream you woke fresh from this very morning. Of blood, bright as a jewel; A breath, shuddering its last. The sharp sting of fear - the whisper of a hidden blade.

“I’m early,” you reason, slipping past Duncan’s startled stare as he takes in your uncovered visage. It is the same look you received from the Houseworkers all morning.

The fresh-faced Bourbon.

Paul’s frame glows. A bathe of soft golden, flickering as his hand wipes sweat from his brow, chest heaving. A stirring deep in your chest turns bitter when it rises, warm and wanting, to your neck. You shove it down, recalling the ebbing gaze of his stare last evening aside the small tide pools.

In the turn of only a few weeks, you will have to use this marriage as leverage; should the referendum reap rotten fruits — and if you ever want to make sure the Harkonnens stay off of Sabberon— you must build trust.

Paul might be your only bridge towards redemption if the arraignment crumbles.

And so it is with these thoughts that you slink next to him, toes gracing along the floor, an ancient beat in your pulse.

Paul’s gaze catches through the corner of his eyes before returning to the disinfectant in his hands, running it along the side of the knife. His offer held out in the glint of a blade is declined softly, with a shake of your head.

“No, thank you,” your hands find the hilt of your blade.

In a chilling instant, his visage turns and his gaze flickers lower; a green sea staring at the glint of your knife at your side. Lips, pressed tight into a polite smile. “Right.”

He wastes no time. In his leave, he brushes your shoulder, brow gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat.

You begin to stretch, ignoring Duncan Idaho’s watchful stare.

It's only a moment before you run your mouth. “He fights like you,” you observe; and if it's instigative, you let it be.

Duncan’s hum is amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The unsheathing of your blade conceals your eye roll as you begin to sharpen its edges — and in the creaking quiet, his stare burns into the side of your uncovered face.

Your patience wears thin after only a minute; and so in the sterile silence, you lift a brow.

“Did you expect me to be bald under the veil?” you snap, tired of the stare burning into your visage.

He hardly blinks before you turned to him, some resent nestling familiar in your chest. “I lived there long enough, didn't I?”

Duncan twists the blade in his grasp, eyes softening in that way that makes your heart race, an unknown urge to fight or to run. His voice comes out far too gentle. “You’ve grown up.”

Your eyes sting. You turn away frilly, fighting the rising tightness within your throat; though his words come soft and far too close to your heart.

“You just…” he sighs. “You look like your mother.”

Your stomach drops; you throw your knife onto the table, whirling to face him as the metal clangs. “Don’t.”

His stare is much too patient; your heart tremors in its cage, your vision swimming. A shaky inhale in the empty room. And then, the words spill.

“I was never prepared to be the last Bourbon alive.” Your step comes forward in some vague threat, though your mind is far beyond the sparring mat. “I’m barely a Bourbon at all anymore,” you laugh, a bitter thing that falls flat in the sterile room. Duncan has nothing to say to this, it seems.

“My betrothed had to inform me of my own culture’s traditions,” you spit, glaring sharp at the man standing before you, “Do you know how humiliating that was?”

Your anger is misdirected; This you are well aware, and yet you must resist the urge to strike him at the words ringing in your head. You look like your mother.

It is a bitter laugh once more as you look out to the coastline warbling far beyond Duncan’s shoulder, a jeweled sea tickled by stray rays of sunlight. “My mother ensured long ago that any chance of my house’s traditions being preserved would die alongside with my father,” your jaw clenches, fury quivering in your breast. “So it doesn't really matter, in the end.”

A gull flies far in the distance, circling the sea. “There’s nobody left to witness those traditions being broken but myself.”

Duncan remains; and with a small nod, his voice comes heavy with the burden of bodies hanging above your heads. His words bite when they hit you.

“You don't have to face it all alone.”

The disbelief must reflect on your visage as you let out a short bark of a laugh. “Then where were you?”

His face changes – a subtle shift, in the bright of his eyes, drawn in my a thick line of brow. The silence is suffocating.

Shadows crawl in your mind, a whisper of screams, of ears pressed against heavy locked doors; you suck in a heavy breath. “I was there with them – with him – for four years. Four years!” Your voice cracks through the room, a whip sharp as you lurch in your pain.

Your hand finds the weapons table as you snap. “Not one single fucking check-in, no visit, nothing. Nobody batted an eye when my messages stopped delivering?” Your voice, boiling and nearly splintering, warbles when you look back to Duncan, “When there was never a wedding?”

And, despite your rage, Duncan lets you continue.

It is a spill of the festering thoughts you’ve kept within for years – since that fated day, waving weakly from the window of a ship as your family, five strong, draped in green and swathed in furs, waved back.

“–They had to have known what kind of monsters they’d shipped me off to,” you whisper, “House Bourbon was allies with the Atreides for centuries,” you shake your head bitterly, “We've always known what the Harkonnens are.”

You lift your shoulder, shaking your head. “And yet, they sent me happily to marry the devil.” You glare at Duncan. “To become one.”

You press your hands to your cheeks to soothe the heat; Thankfully, no tears fall. “I don't blame you.” You snap, and the words feel weak even to yourself. "I don't. but..."

You break the stare, gaze dropping to the mat below you. “You’re the only person left to be angry towards.”

His voice is heavy when it comes, and you fight the small instinct clawing at you to pull him into embrace. “I'm sorry for everything you’ve lost. Everything that’s–” he clears his throat, then, and the floor swims with unshed emotion below you. “For everything that happened to you.”

You do not go to him – instead you stand, barren and alone, rooted evergreen in the middle of the floor.

“I should have been there for you.” He takes a step forward, “They should have, too.”

And how ugly is your heart, to force him to say such things when his grief mirrors your own?

His voice comes once more. “It’s okay to still be angry with them – what they did to you – even if you’re mourning them.”

Your throat tightens, exhaustion settles deep; a weariness, carved from years of fear, abandonment, festering anger. It has been far too long you’ve stood alone, always looking over your shoulder, twitching your fingers towards the blade that lives upon your hip.

His eyes are too warm for what you deserve.

“I shouldn't have treated you so coldly,” you admit with a sting of humility. “I…” your mind crawls to the message that sits in your chambers from the castle at Ginaz. Your throat tightens, your voice wavers weakly, and you curse yourself. “You're the closest family I have here.”

And Duncan remains patient as the Pine. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Little Bourbon.”

The name settles deep; your mind finds the melancholic memories of chilled cheeks, plumed breaths, flakes catching on blades. A youthful laugh bubbling through the buzzing anger in your heart – and despite yourself, your lips twitch. A ghost of a smile, from the ghost of a girl.

He knows better than to dwell; and so you catch the blade he tosses to you gratefully.

But just as you roll your shoulders, the sound of footsteps disrupts you. A soldier walks through the room; though to your shock, he addresses you and not your master.

“Lady Bourbon,” he nods, “the Lady Jessica wishes to speak with you over lunch in her quarters now, if you have a moment.”

Something within you deflates. A glance shot to Duncan, whose gaze is already set upon your visage with a mild interest that does very little to soothe your upticked nerves.

Whispers flood your mind as you blink numbly – a syrupy dizziness that finds you so often when you consider the Sisterhood, whenever you catch Lady Jessica's stark eyes. You cannot deny how unsettled you are by the thought of being alone in her presence right now.

But you know better than to refuse the lady of the house’s wishes.

“And spoil my fun here?” You muse, sharing a wry glance with Duncan.

You follow the soldier anyways.

If there is one thing you can certainly appreciate, it is that Lady Jessica burdens neither of you with the pretense of smalltalk.

In fact, lunch is hardly picked at before she brings it up.

“You were once on the path of the Bene Gesserit,” she starts over the soft clinking of silver and china. Your gaze remains steady, your spine uncurling as if awakened by an ancient memory.

You nod stiffly.

She continues – penetrating and warm, her eyes take in the curve of your shoulders, the pride of your spine. Her voice carries all the calm melody that your mother never possessed.

“Circumstances may have led you away, but your training has not been forgotten,” she sips the cup of tea before her. This change in subject comes as no surprise to you; in fact, since the very moment you stepped out into the rainy morning of Caladan that first day, you’ve been waiting for it to return, to curl in from the shadows. Somewhere in the murky ruminations of your mind, voices whisper. You blink them away.

“Yes, my lady,” you set your own fork down and offer her a tight-lipped attempt at a smile. “I studied the Ways when I was younger.”

She nods. “Have you considered continuing this path?” She tilts her head, and an icicle slides into the soft flesh of your stomach. “Honing your skills once more— to strengthen your voice, your intuition, your presence?”

To you, the Sisterhood is an unforgettable chasm; memories flooding the fur-floored halls of your mind. Your mother's stern visage, relentless training regimens; elixirs, smoking incense, warm spice behind heavy doors. Knives flicking from sleeves, robes wrapped around you and your sisters, swishing as your hands found the soft skin of each other’s weakest spots.

Women veiled, with eyes that slithered; boxes which screamed, needles which threatened, words which controlled. A heavy past.

And though it is skepticism that tugs at your mind at her words, there is still a part of you that can't help the twinge of curiosity; Such an ancient order – such power, the only kind possible to have as a woman in a cruel world such as your own. And then, there is that looming thing; for your mind trembles at the impending shadow of the upcoming arraignment. The thought of protection is a glamorous one.

But you know better.

You saw that very mistrust sewed in your own house; The crack between your father and his court, of the looming shadow of your mother and the sisterhood through the halls of Castle Bourbon, of the loss of thousands of years of tradition.

You have been struck with a bout of dread, and your throat has dried. “I’m…” you purse your lips, “I haven't, my lady.”

Her voice is earnest as she leans closer. “I understand your hesitations,” her eyes flicker to the empty doorway and back, “but given the current circumstances, it may be wise to strengthen all of your skills. Including those you learned with the Bene Gesserit.”

The dread swirls in like the tide, and you swallow thickly. “Circumstances?” You parrot, tilting your head. You know what she's implying; it doesn't ease the suspicion that rises, the feeling that the strings which tie themselves to Lady Jessica are being pulled from much higher above your head; somewhere unreachable, unattainable.

“It's imperative to ere on the side of caution,” she murmurs; though you feel no such assurance at her message. You are unsettled as she takes in your posture, at your fingers, curled in your palm.

“Tell me,” she starts then, stirring the tea in front of her, “Even after your time with the sisterhood, did you ever experience visions?” Her eyes penetrate, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up at her next words.

“Dreams that stayed with you long after you woke?”

Your throat dries so quick you almost choke. A chill finds you when your eyes lock with hers.

So it was a look she shared with Paul at the strategy council yesterday. It seems Lady Jessica has been keeping close tabs on you, after all.

Heat licks around your neck, creeping over your chest – you hope she cannot read your mind thoroughly, for she would likely not enjoy the more intimate parts of your dreams.

The dread has surfaced; your hair still prickled, you level your visage to hers, calm. Your voice is chill in the warm sunbeams of midday.

“You seem to already know my answer.”

Lady Jessica's lips press together. “Indeed,” she affirms; gentle, yet probing. She nods nearly imperceptively, “but I need to hear it from you.”

You pause, grappling with the memories that surge forth at Lady Jessica's inquiry; The dreams, the visions— they haunt you, asleep and awake – and despite your reluctance to acknowledge them, they have persisted; lingered, a shadow waning in the corners of your vision. There is a thin sheen of sweat growing across your breast, in the insistent thump of your heart.

And then your voice comes.

“Yes,” your voice, barely above a whisper.

She is a master in her own craft, and any attempt to analyze the twitch in her gaze would reap futile.

“I suspected as much,” her eyes swim, gleaming in the warm sunlight. A clink as you raise the tea to your lips, obscuring the tremor threatening to jolt your composure.

“I must advise you, my dear," she nods. "Dreams are often the key to understanding the path that lies before you.”

Cool dread rises to your lips, pressing wordless screams to your lips. You do not let them leak.

Her words hang, exasperatingly cryptic; And you are, in your silence, forced to acknowledge for the first time that these dreams, torturous and haunting as they are, are still a calling, a beckoning towards something that you cannot ignore. A whisper comes in the back of your mind, a forgotten mantra, though you do not know what it means: The Shortening of the Way.

Your jaw has begun to ache; you force yourself to release the tension, setting your saucer down gently. It clinks in the empty silence of the room.

Lady Jessica speaks your name once more. “I urge you to consider resuming your training with the Bene Gesserit,” she suggests, and your fingers twitch subtly. “Not out of obligation, but out of necessity. In times of uncertainty, it is essential to be prepared.”

Prepared.

You meet Lady Jessica's gaze; and despite your reservations, despite the ghosts of the past, you cannot deny that which you have always known. Power comes to those who seek it - and it is a dangerous thing to wield a blade when its other edge is hidden.

Your mother’s voice finds your mind, a haunting ghost of a life lost to time and pursuit of power: To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.

You are overcome with the overwhelming sense that you are far over your head – and with a squared shoulder, you nod curtly. You are not safe.

“I hope you will understand my wish to reflect, my lady," you respond, willing your heart to remain untampered by your unease. “And I thank you for your guidance."

Lady Jessica offers you a reassuring smile, though it does little to quell the raging in your stomach.

And then, at her final words, your stomach drops.

“Consider it, my dear,” she nods, gaze unceasing, penetrating. “To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.”

That night, Paul exits his mother’s quarters as the moon kisses the coast.

An exhausted drag of feet over the stoned flooring, Paul yawns against his palm, thinking quite fondly of his bed and pillow.

In the empty corridor, his stomach groans; a normally ravenous appetite eluded in the wake of the Reverend Mother’s early morning visit today has left Paul on the edge of shaking hands and a racing, unsettled heart.

An evening sparring his mother on knife skills would, on an average night, be nothing of consequence to Paul; though the last few hours were tense, laced in the budding and unusual mistrust that has sprouted in the dawn of the day. Any such attempts to pry the truth from behind closed doors this morning had resulted in gentle stern looks and tight words from his mother. This sentiment, naturally, only serves to worry him further; and lost in the puddle of unidentifiable dread, Paul quickens his pace.

Absent footfalls come and go as he passes towards his quarters; in the drooping tangle of his curled lashes, a shadow flickers.

Of course, he realizes much too late that the shadow comes with a body.

A careening impact, one that sends both you and Paul into a sharp inhale as you both rear back in shock; two does caught in the crosshairs of a hidden scope.

He meets your eyes, and in them there is that particular glint; a cold thing in nature, but warming in his gut as he takes in your startled figure.

You, draped in warmth and soft clothes, with gently parted lips and wide eyes; you, so unlike yourself in the daylight.

“I'm s-" he shakes his head faintly. "Apologies,” he stutters intelligently, inclining his head in a respectful effort to valiantly hide his suddenly warm cheeks.

Your lips twitch, and he watches the curve of gloss in the faint glow of moonlight. Your tormented stare follows his own almost reluctantly down the hall you both seemed to have been headed towards; and though the thought of accompanying you to your chambers when his mind is on the brink of exhaustion is less than favorable, it is highly outshined by the stroke of unease through Paul’s heart at the sight of the knife upon your hip.

Not unlike your blade, your hair glints in the light, sliding against the skin peeking from your collar. Paul feels a tickle upon his neck.

“No harm done, my lord,” you nod with that same guarded visage.

There is that unsettled, ashamed tug in his chest when your gleaming eyes find his own once again – and though it has been a day, he’s still starkly arrested by your bare countenance.

You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.

His cheeks are warm. With a quiet cough, he gestures down the hall. “I was just heading–”

“–So was I,” you interject with a surprisingly endearing lurch upon your toes.

Paul’s lips press together, plagued by visions of glinting blades and dribbling crimson; though still you fall into stride together, shadows slinking over the halls quietly.

It is odd; perhaps in an ordinary world, Paul might feel giddy to walk his prospective wife to her quarters after a long day. But this world is not ordinary, and neither are you.

There is a large casement on the eastern cast of the wing; the window kisses a silvery breath over your figure - so soft in the forgiving nature of evening - before hushing you back into the shadows again. An eclipse in his blinks, and he wonders vaguely what the moons are like on Sabberon.

If there is one forgiving thing about the misfortune you’ve both happened upon in this late hall, it is that neither of you seem keen to speak – and Paul is more than pleased with this, knowing not what to say nor how to respond should you say anything first.

But indeed, the twisting of your fingers, the sly glances up towards his visage, and the silence do not last; soon your lips part, and from them spill words that nearly stop him in his tracks.

“I had lunch with your mother today.”

Your eyes are sharp; and he does not hide his consternation. Your gaze is intense – and if he were any less wary, perhaps he’d find it in him to flush under the sheer weight of your attention.

“What did she tell you?” His accusatory tone is poorly concealed, and he once again chastises himself for letting you wheedle through the small cracks in his tenacity.

You, with sharpened teeth and a gaze hungry for the scent of fresh blood; a brow lifts over your blinking eyes and Paul slows his pace.

“Why do you assume she had things to tell?” You lilt.

And damn you.

A weary sigh from his worried lips must encourage the loosening of your own, for your jaw sets but still your voice floats, dreamy and melodic and wholly troubling all the same.

But you do not play this song and dance further – for that he is grateful – until you tell him. “She suggested I take up Bene Gesserit studies again.”

Your stare drinks in his tightened jaw, the hardly perceptible shift in his breathing; and though his unease has spread to each stretch of his being, he wills it not to show. Words flicker in his mind, images of women whispering in corridors, of windy planets, of trickling gardens and sharp needles.

Down the right path.

In a breath of unease, he has quickened his pace; and your footfalls stumble only once as your frame turns to keep up, tilting your head up to him.

His words are quiet in the hall, and his gaze is focused upon the doorway far on the left. Whispers curl around the dredges of his mind, a terrible tone that laughs at the thump of his heartbeat.

And though the dread has spread, he urges his heart rate to steady. Paul gives a valiant effort to appear less than affected by this revelation.

“She asked about your dreams?” It is not a true question, for he already knows the answer.

And now it is he who watches for a reaction: Green eyes study, analyze, explore the curve of your cheeks, the swallow of your smooth throat. And in his search lies the answer – a blink of bare and curling lashes, a stuttered inhale.

In that way you do, your spine stiffens; brows furrow over your jeweled gaze, tilting your head as a few stray tresses kiss along the fabric of your top gently. Your lips have parted in a flare of worry.

“My dreams?” Your hand is warm as you grasp his elbow – a sturdy thing, tugging him to stop fully. “How–”

But it seems you’ve wizened to the footsteps of houseworkers in the chamber just to the right of where you and Paul now stand before each other, transfixed in the harmony of stuttering heartbeats and the steady shake of uneasy breaths.

And as the houseworkers fade to the other side of the wing, there grows a horrible bout of silence.

His mother’s guarded visage flickers in his mind when his gaze casts once back towards the hall he came down; your breaths are much too schooled, far too even. Paul knows the flickers of Prana-Bindu, even when they are ingrained deep into veins and concealed within skin thick as stone.

Visions; some sunsoaked melody of Weirding Ways, sharpened blades – of you, standing opposite his mother, raising that very same blade that haunts his dreams.

His gaze returns to the hilt that peeks from the soft drape of your tunic. Along the corridors of his mind comes the harsh lilt of the Reverend Mother this morning: Down the right path.

There is danger there, something whispers to him – and memories of dreams, of lulling whispers, of sharp gasps of pain, soft sighs of ecstasy; the glint of sunset-streaked skies, rustling trees, the flashing of sharp metal – of hands that wander, that grasp, that plunge.

The breeze through the hallway is a sobering one – and soon enough, there comes another echo down the hall.

An inkling of fear creeps along Paul’s nape, and he shakes his head minutely. “We shouldn’t be speaking of this here.”

You blink, and he cannot help but stare – a truly beautiful creature, hardened with subsistence yet so softened in the trickery of night.

You merely nod.

It could be a treacherous thing, he knows. The Bene Gesserit are a force that machinates far above his head – far above his mother’s, for that matter.

And although Paul knows not what silky ties such whispering hands might weave across the Imperium these days, and though spiders might descend wrapped in the trickery of gowns and sharply beautiful smiles, it does not mean he is completely blind to the signs of a webbed trap.

“Come,” he requests; though in the starkly quiet hall, it finds his own ears as more of an order – and though he glances only sparingly at your neckline, his gaze hooks nearly regretfully upon the pendant clasped and catching the light just below your throat.

At the memory, he cannot bring himself to meet your eyes.

You do not try to catch his stare. Instead you merely follow, a silent tempest of resistance and obstination.

He opens the door to his quarters – and your sly glance around to survey for any witnesses brings a slight heat to his neck; still, your frame slips past where he holds the door ajar.

Paul knows how active you’ve been in your time on Caladan so far; And yet here is a place of which you are completely unfamiliar.

Paul’s chambers – where your spine stays rigid and your steps precise, where your eyes snake over each revealing aspect of his personality; tracing over books and figurines and the photo projector across the way.

You repose upon the chair across his room, but he finds himself restless, standing before your expectant gaze.

“Paul,” your voice brings his name in that crisp and yet breathy way, that accent that curls dense and throaty through the air.

It's a startle to his senses, for you to use his given name; and when he snaps his gaze once more to you, he finds you resting upon pointed elbows, a flicker of anxiety lurking beyond your limitless stare.

“If we are to do this together, we must build trust," you murmur.

And you’re right; This – marriage, ruling Caladan, representing the House Atreides – and whatever else is to come. He nods solemnly; your tongue smooths over your bitten lip.

“Why does your mother wish to know about my dreams?” You’re blunt – a thing he quite appreciates. “How did you know she’d ask me of them?”

Answers come to the tip of his tongue and dissolve just as he opens his lips; you watch him, lying in wait, and yet the truth lies in some thick plane of dust, of sand, and Paul cannot stop slipping through it.

“I don’t…” he swallows, shaking his head. Because he does know; and the truth sits heavy upon his shoulders.

His sigh is sharp. “The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam visited this morning.”

And if you are surprised, it only comes in the stiffening of your spine and the flat tone of your voice as it slips, a caress of silk in the low light of his quarters. “She visited Caladan? This morning?”

He blinks at you, nodding once more. “My mother woke me early,” Paul murmurs.

“And... she came for the Duke?” you ask slowly – though Paul is no fool for the pattern of lies upon your tongue, nor the schooling twitch of muscle upon the curve of your cheeks, “...or for Lady Jessica?”

His jaw ticks slowly, lifting his chin. Your own head mimics the motion.

He admits it slowly, watching your stare trace the pattern of the words from his lips.

“She came for me.”

You remain evergreen and cool in the shade of night, silhouetted by the warm glow of lamp shade.

“What did she want with you?”

And though instinct tells him to deflect, he cannot look away from your penetrating gaze. His tongue drips with verity.

“I’ve been having dreams.”

And he sees it in the sharp inhale, the way your gaze breaks from his eyes to somewhere near his stomach, just for a split moment. It is miniscule, a farce; but to so sharp a refined mind as his own, it is enough. You are scared.

“You’ve had dreams?” Your voice is sharp.

His own mimics yours. “About Sabberon.”

And he’s firm, ignoring the foreboding tendrils of apprehension that lurk within his heart. He continues. “In those dreams, I feel like…” a stray curl comes loose in his vision, though he does not tame it. “...Like I have to go there. Like I’m... meant to.”

Your skin has grown ghostly as you nod absently; and in the lapse of your words, Paul fills the silence with all he can admit.

The night turns slowly, minutes folding by in the cadence of his voice. Your expression melts more and more as Paul recounts the Reverend Mother’s words, to his encounter with her previously those years ago. This, it seems, sends you into a state; for your eyes snap to him, unblinking.

“The Gom Jabbar?” You ask suddenly. Paul nods, “Yes, it is a kind of test–”

Your head shakes, tresses ablaze with the licks of lamplight, falling in tendrils across the soft fabric of your tunic. “–I know of it,” you interject purposefully, voice melodic and syrupy in that way your people are, “I also received it,” you explain quickly before your brows furrow in that way they sometimes do; shaking your head minutely. “I just do not understand why she might administer it to you.”

In a nervous habit of childhood, Paul’s lip has grown raw from troubling it with his teeth. A pause sits heavy in the room, and the lull of his bed behind him calls quietly; Outside, the coast shines with ripples of lazy moonlight.

Paul debates in his mind, glancing over the sharp turn of nose, the hook of your jaw – the curve of your lips.

Knowledge – a weapon, a burden.

His breath falls short, and he whispers your name as calmly as he can. “My mother has trained me in the ways of the Bene Gesserit too.”

Your visage morphs; a momentary lapse in control, some flame burns bright in your gaze, a fury he knows not.

It is gone in a moment, though it is ingrained into his retinas.

It is only within a blink that you remain muzzled by this revelation – and after a breath, you return to his stare; it hits him at once, that shift. Your eyes are cold, sharp.

Perhaps the dread he feels is not unrequited.

Though there are larger beasts lurking in the depths of these waters; and you lean back upon palms, shoulders broad and head tilted to take in his standing frame.

“She warned me, at lunch.” You speak bluntly, “That resuming to practice the ways of the Bene Gesserit is not out of obligation, but necessity. She told me…” and then your eyes flicker to the very same spot upon his stomach as before. “She told me something odd. That dreams are keys. To understanding the path before you.”

Paul’s stomach drops.

Down the right path.

A crone, that Reverend Mother; playing you, his mother, and Paul; all of you, puppets strung high above the dark chasm of the Imperium, that shadowy something that lurks in the dark corners of each House’s history books.

And dredges of childhood memories, of harsh whispers and trials-in-twos and of ears pressed to closed doors: Paul swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest.

“My mother spoke to my father once of a tale,” he rushes, biting his lip. “A tale, or– a prophecy. I was young, eavesdropping through the closed doors,” Paul has to shake off the sudden flare of amusement, some odd hidden recognition in your gaze at this; heat creeps round his neck, though he continues. “I didn’t hear most of it, but I did hear… parts.”

The tale comes choppy, haphazard – a stream of uneasy consciousness spilled to the only person who might be of any help deciphering it.

“She said something about... dual contenders. About me being tested one day,” he mutters, hand swiping over the bridge of his nose. “And years later – the day the Reverend Mother administered the Gom Jabbar– she told my mother there would be two candidates for something.” Paul’s brow furrows, “Today…” his throat is tight, stomach pitted. “She spoke to me of my dreams. Said nearly the same thing my mother did to you.”

You do not speak, and a lurch of nerves urges Paul to mutter: “I just..." he shakes his head absently, mind far away, "I find it troubling.”

A heavy beat. Your lashes tangle when you blink up at him – and then comes a stark, shocking noise; a laugh, tumbling sharp from your lips. “You find it troubling,” you nod with a wry grin, “do you, Paul?”

And he realizes quickly how much of an understatement it'd been; and despite the tug of indignation in his chest, his lips press together, biting back a boyish grin of his own.

Your laugh bubbles away with his own breathy chuckle, and in an ungraceful surrender, Paul finds himself plopped upon the chaise lounge beside you.

Your fingers are adorned with bands; jeweled and draped with the bleeding hearts of your homeplanet’s jeweled mountain caverns, your fingers tap against the bland fabric of your trousers in an unwilling rhythm. They glint, jaded, emerald, even rubied; and in the night’s light, they seem to sing.

Your words come just when Paul feels the deep pull of exhaustion drag at his eyelids.

“I dream of it too.”

His stomach forms a pit of ice as he stares.

“Sabberon,” you supplement; though it is not needed, for he feels the pang of dizziness at the implications. It is never a good thing, no matter who you are, to share dreams.

You continue, your hair falling in loose strands over your haunting visage. The lamplight melts the cool stab of your stare and he finds himself lulled in by the gentle rhythm of your accent.

“My planet,” your brows furrow in that way Paul has come to recognize in your past day free of the veil, “we have a sacred Pine. It's symbolic of our Harvest.”

And though Paul knows this from the very book that lies across the room, he merely nods.

You bite your lip, “It has grown for thousands of years, upon a mountain beyond the Castle Bourbon. I’ve never actually been.” You shrug your shoulder, eyes glinting in veiled unease. “At least, not lucidly.”

And you start again, pressing your fingers to your palms. “When I dream of it, I’m…” your gaze snakes over his posture, following the lines of his shoulders, up his neck, tracing the warmth as it spreads to his cheeks. Paul wills it away with a quick breath.

You clear your own throat, a heat creeping along your cheeks that Paul staunchly ignores as his own memories of dreams come to mind. Your voice is sharp, though quiet. “I’m always there with you.”

There is a special sharpness to your stare; Fear, Paul’s mind whispers. A similar feeling slithers over his heart, clutching it in ice.

Despite himself, still he feels it: Another soul, trapped in this web of visions, and politics, and power; it is a dizzying thought in of itself, to sympathize so rawly with you – though he cannot deny that the gleam of worry in your stare is surely mimicked in his own.

His lips part easily. “You're there. In my dreams, too.”

Minutes pass after his admittance. It is punctuated by the harmony of rising breaths and schooled exhales, of tapping metal and restless knees.

Paul, slumped with consternation – and you, rigid with anxiety. He can feel it ebbing from you in waves, can feel the pulse of your heartbeat within his own. The silence has just grown comfortable with the resignation of fate when you speak once more.

“Do you trust her?”

Your voice is quiet, and it strikes fear deep in his chest: for it is a foolish thing to ask one of one’s mother – but it is just as telling that Paul hesitates, that he chooses his words with painstaking analysis.

That his words are not a true answer.

“The Sisterhood instructed her to have a daughter,” Paul starts, “and yet instead, for my father, she bore a son.”

He needs not explain to you how the Reverend Mother is still unhappy about his mother’s choice. It seems his words answer your question in a way; for your inhale is deep.

Paul tugs at a spare thread that pokes from the chaise lounge below him. “I was dismissed this morning,” he murmurs, “but I stayed outside. Pressed my ear to the door.” And this truth brings some flicker to your gaze – a quirk, again, of amusement – that familiarity glinting in your eyes as if remembering some long past memory.

“You seem to keep a habit of this,” you murmur dryly. Heat creeps along his cheeks at the curl of your voice.

His laugh is quiet, shy – hardly audible. He pushes on, ignoring the glossy tresses that fall over your shoulder and bring a soft scent of citrus and forest.

And the grin melts from his face as he recalls what he’d heard, the dread settling once more. “The Reverend Mother said something to my mother about–” he clears his throat, “the boy. And... the girl. Going down the right path.”

You peer at him from beneath evergreen lashes. “And then, your mother offered, quite abruptly, to tutor me in the ways of the Sisterhood once more,” you piece it together with pursed lips.

There is a small figurine of a bull that sits upon the table before you; Paul’s gaze traces over the carved horns, studying it with an absent worry budding in his stomach.

“It’s about us,” he murmurs, watching as your shoed toe drags along the pattern of his rug softly, brushing curves and pressing gently. “Whatever this is. But... it’s not about us.”

Two candidates.

You nod in his peripheral; a glinting of a pendant upon your chest, the tinkling of jewelry draped over your hands.

“Will it ever be?”

Paul solemnly shakes his head towards the bull, unable to look you in the eyes.

I shall wear it like a dog.

Your face is solemn – a permanent thing, one Paul has quickly grown used to. Admiring of, in a way, though it draws forth heavy visions, swirling fabrications of screams, of years spent in shackles – of families falling to the ground, of blood staining gowns.

You tilt your head to him, hair catching the light from behind his own frame. “It is a heavy burden to bear,” you say softly when it becomes apparent that Paul cannot speak. Your voice echoes the exact sentiments that roam in Paul’s mind; Heavy, yes. And Paul knows you are used to burdens.

He leans back in his seat, blowing away a strand curl from his vision in exhaustion; and though your eyes flick to him in his peripheral, he does not notice the way your eyes track the action and flick away almost shyly.

The quiet is cold.

“If only I’d had a sister,” Paul sighs.

You snort softly from your nose, and it is an endearing noise – his eyes rove over the quirk in your lips, the faraway gaze in your eyes.

“I had three,” you murmur quietly, “They were a handful.”

It is the first time you’ve spoken of your family to Paul; his interest piqued, he hums gently – for he can nearly picture it for a moment. You, ten years smaller, just a young teen – traipsing and wrestling in a snowy field with three sisters, a little boy stumbling after you. Screams from nearby onlookers as the youngest sister jumps into a half-frozen and emerald lake – the dampened silence of white fields and evergreens forests slumbering in the distance, broken by cracking ice and sharp gasps of frigid thrill.

Laughter – sharp and bubbling, smooth and melodic as you run and plunge, dress and furs, into the icy depths, pulling your sisters with you. Scolding nursemaids and soldiers in wolf armor running to fish you out. Attendants rushing to bundle and protect your young brother's frail, weak skin. Shivering, blistered cold – and then, hands cupping tea, toothy grins bit back, ruddy cheeks warmed before a grand hearth.

“What was it like?” Paul wonders.

You shift in your seat, your own gaze now tracing the curve of the bull’s horns before you. “Complicated,” you breathe out – Paul watches as your spine relaxes just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself. “We were close in many ways, though…distant in others.” You bite your lip, eyes hooked upon the wood carving. “There was competition. Always. Even when we were young, especially between me and my sisters. My mother was in the Sisterhood. Very strict.” Your voice has grown terse; he sees the flicker of fury in your gaze as you stare down the bull. “My elder sister died in childbirth after she married. She left Sabberon just before my twelfth nameday. I never saw her again.”

Your boots are foreign against the rug on his bed chamber floor as you drag the tip across its swirled pattern. “They were my only friends,” you murmur – a lilt in your tone that makes Paul uncomfortable – a rawness that you are trying hard not to let through. “They made me laugh like no other.”

And when you look back towards the bull figurine, your gaze is far away. “I loved them very much.”

It hits Paul with a rush of guilt: He's studied so much about Sabberon, learned about your House's old customs and traditions – but yet, he realizes how little he truly knows about you. And still, now - in the warm lit din of his room, you remain rooted in that chilly, resiliently ethereal way. The chill of your stare, the curl of your lips as frost bites the corners of windows in a winter morning. Your heart beats strong below your breast.

How foolish he’d been to think of you as any bit Harkonnen.

Paul’s chest is tight; a pang as he swallows thickly.

“I don’t have siblings.” He clears his throat, “But I’ve always wished to be a brother.”

And to this, you turn to him. Paul is shocked to see your kind smile; glacial, small – his neck heats. “You'd be a good one,” you murmur.

Paul has to look away – and in a glance to your hands once more, he notices the small blemish lying in your palm. With a small nod, he gestures to where there had been a large irritation just yesterday. “It looks better.”

You smile once more, a sheepish thing – and it brightens the room as you huff a small laugh, clearly relieved to be done with such heavy topics. “I thought you were trying to trick me,” you admit, “trying to make me look foolish.”

He hums at this, tilting his head with a small grin of his own, “I assumed you'd thought I was trying to poison you.”

Your voice is serious when you respond. “The possibility did cross my mind.”

Paul has to hide his grin in his shoulder; You seem unaware of his reaction, though there grows a faint flush across the apples of your cheeks.

Your eyes have wandered – and after a moment, you suddenly rise onto your feet.

Paul watches as you pad over towards his bedside, tilting your head to run your finger over the spine of the book that lies upon his bedside table. The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad: House Bourbon.

“Is this yours?” You wonder, hair splayed in the air as you lean. Paul’s cheeks are hot with embarrassment at your discovery, but he nods, soothing his palms along his thighs. “If you’d like to read it, help yourself.”

You crane your neck back to catch his gaze. “Is it interesting at all?”

For a moment, Paul flounders – but it dawns on him that you’re teasing; and with a small grin, he laughs, still quite unused to the privilege of your trust, no matter how small it might be now.

“I haven’t decided,” he quips back. Your lips twitch before turning back to the book, your eyes tracing its spine. “Maybe I’ll borrow it, then,” you hum, “I’ve been sleeping very poorly. Perhaps this will finally be the thing to put me to sleep.”

He cannot hide the huff of amusement that falls from his nose – nor the odd, melting sensation in his chest as he watches you. It is not until he sees your eyes blink rather slowly that he remembers himself and his manners. That despite the worry and the foreboding sense that has crawled into the back of your minds, you are still his guest – his betrothed.

When he stands to meet you, he is struck by how your neck cranes to meet his eyes. “You should get some rest then,” he murmurs, “we’ve got the Strategy Council in the morning.”

You blink, and soon your face is that cool slate once more. “Yes– apologies,” you clear your throat, “It’s been a long day.”

Paul escorts you quietly to the main hall – where you insist with quick words and a small nod that he need not walk you all the way to your quarters.

He watches the fabric of your tunic catch the corner of the hall as you walk away.

The warmth that had enveloped you at such a late hour wears off quite quick when you return to your chambers.

The shadows climb here; whispers, worries – promises of galactic war, of the haunting wraith of the Harkonnens – of the Bene Gesserit and their webs; of petroleum reserves and trade routes, of Sabberon and her insurgent factions. Of Castle Bourbon, standing alone and empty before the Pine.

And those dreams – Paul, sharing them? Your cheeks heat at the mere thought; though your mind strays, an attempt to ignore the fear twisting in your gut.

Paul's room had been very warm – and his eyes quite jeweled; he keeps his chambers neater than you’d thought, clustered only by books on planets, flora and fauna, biology, culture.

And you must admit; Though the subject left you on edge, it is terribly reassuring to have someone who not only you could speak freely with about your dreams and the Bene Gesserit, but who seems to hold similar consternations as you.

There remains upon your clothing a faint scent of his bedroom, and your neck heats as you catch yourself pulling your tunic tighter, biting back against the warm spread onto your cheeks.

You are exhausted; but as your eyes catch upon your bureau, upon the daunting metal that stares at you gleaming from across the room, you resign yourself.

The message remains on your desk, where it's been since being delivered a few days ago. You'd read it already, yes – read it, avoided it – but now, you suppose, it is time to respond.

And in due time, it's finished.

My Dearest Aunt Ginaz,

Your letter arrived at a very uncertain time for me and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I apologize for the delayed responses – my keepers on Giedi Prime preferred I did not receive or send messages.

For my betrothal to Paul Atreides, your kind words of congratulations reassure me; Truthfully, the prospect of marrying into such a noble family is daunting, yet they have been quick to ensure that I have felt welcomed.

The loss of my family continues to weigh heavily upon my heart, and there are days when the pain feels unbearable. But there are things here that help. I spend my days tutoring, training your old friend Duncan Idaho. I have begun to sit in on the Duke's Strategy Councils.

I believe I will live well here.

Though I am assisted by the Atreides', each day that the arraignment nears, I grow in my unease. I wonder, will you be in attendance?

I look forward to visiting you and the family. In the meantime, know that I am safe and well, and that I carry your love and affection with me always.

With all my gratitude,

Your loving Niece

There are lies trickled through the entire letter – though you feel no such need to burden your mother's bastarded sister, a woman you’ve admired your whole life, with petty things such as your betrothal.

Your Aunt Ginaz; who succeeded your mother's parents when they died, who inherited the noble last name as one of her father's dying wishes. They’d had several daughters – all married off to other houses, like your mother; and your aunt had been reared to run the Swordmaster School. She now rules over their house with her husband, who took the name Ginaz.

In an exhausted haze, your mind wanders too freely. Paul Bourbon.

Your huff is less of amusement and more of shock, shaking your head to wipe yourself of such odd, childish thoughts. For it is late, and the ghosts of your dreams wait impatiently at your windows.

You’ll have Hestia send the message out in the morning; you sink into the mattress, and your eyes are closed as soon as your head hits the pillow.

You know you’re dreaming this time.

Sounds are muted, blurred – and your head is heavy, numb. The hands that are on you are Paul’s – you know this. But you're not embracing, no – there is no pleasure.

No. His hands are slippery against your flesh; you're gasping in pain, gasping for breath. You are bleeding.

Or, is that his gasp – his blood?

The ground is a muddy landscape of slush and crimson; and the hilt of your nameday blade glints in the sun, blood dripping from the tip.

Horror courses through you, heavy as the confusion pulsing through your veins. Who wields it?

Paul leans against you, his weight heavy; the air is heavy with snow.

Your brows furrow as a flake lands upon your lashes – but no, it is not snow; ash.

Ash, that rains from the sky in flurries as the earth tremors below you, smoke gathering in thick clouds somewhere in the near distance. Your throat is thick with fear.

Another flash of your knife, this time in a grasp.

Gasping, your hand comes away from your own abdomen, tainted black – black as the sun you once lived under.

“Hello?”

A fuzzy voice, laced with pain; warbled in this state, though you could pick it out of millions.

You look into his eyes and see green; shining stones, glistening lakes, rustling needles, waving fields. Paul’s hands cup your cheeks, staining handprints over your trembling cheeks. An explosion somewhere in the distance–

“Paul,” you breathe, fear lacing every fiber of you.

But then, his face changes.

A sickeningly lucid recognition flickers over his features when you speak, and something shifts as his gaze pierces, brows furrowing. Your lashes flutter in some muted pain. There is something wrong.

And then Paul says your name as if he's surprised to see you; and it is wrong – as if you are in the wrong place.

Paul’s groan of pain draws your horror – a wound, bloodied and black with expiring life; right upon his stomach.

Your cry of his name is silent to the whipping winds.

He looks down, as if expecting to see something between the two of you; some memory of a bejeweled hand, draped with bands and jewels of green and gold, plunging a blade; but you gasp in horror.

Because with his head tilted down, you squint, just barely making out the glint of another figure across the clearing.

Glowing skin, sickeningly pale. A creeping, black smile.

There is someone behind him, and he is holding your nameday knife.

It has the blood of your husband on it.

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xozombiee · 2 years ago

Text

“AFTER HOURS!” | W. BONNEY

✫| synopsis: bartending in the west gets boring at times, especially when the same old cowboys and outlaws come through those saloon doors everyday. you’d thought this was it..that’s the end of your story. then a certain outlaw, who’s name was getting around, walked through the doors.

warnings: porn with little plot, mentions of death, riding, little praise..it’s always gonna be there, female bodied reader, lowk psy rubbing??, hair pulling me thinks, idk what else

note: am i doing this instead of my homework?…yes. also do i know wtf women wore in the 1800s? err no. i tried tho! this is not proofread btw

In a dusty, sun-kissed town nestled amidst the rugged landscape of the west, there stood a saloon that echoed with tales of grit and resilience. behind the polished mahogany bar, you stood tall with a fiery spirit that matched the flickering glow of the oil lamps that illuminated the room.

you weren’t any ordinary bartender; you were a force to be reckoned with. with glimmering eyes that held mystery, and a rough demeanor that you used to command respect from every patron who dared to enter the establishment. your hands, calloused from years of hard work, moved with grace and precision as you served up drinks that could raise spirits or drown sorrows.

though the town was dominated by rough cowboys and outlaws, you had carved out your own place in their rugged hearts. they sought solace in your presence, and you became a confidante, offering a sympathetic ear to the broken souls who stumbled through the doors.

as the sun began its descent, casting an orange hue over the town, your saloon transformed into a sanctuary of camaraderie and laughter. the clinking of glasses and the lively banter of patrons mixed with the soulful melodies of a lone pianist, creating a symphony that echoed through the wooden walls.

but behind the facade of joviality, you carried your own secrets and dreams. you arrived in this town not long ago, escaping a past that haunted your every step. determined to leave a mark on the world, you had chosen the life of a bartending, finding comfort in the stories and journeys of those who crossed paths with you.

with swift movements back and forth behind your bar, you served drinks to the men celebrating..whatever it was this time. they sang along with others, their words jumbled and lazy, but undoubtedly filled with passion. you laughed as one of them sung to you, his eyes droopy and a crooked smile at his lips.

cleaning a few glasses, you watch as they all chat amongst themselves, if they weren’t still singing that is. a part of you yearned to have a life like theirs. to be free to do whatever you please, and not be told otherwise. you’d liked the idea of running from place to place and meeting new people. though, that’d never happen for you.

your back turns as you gather the clean glasses together, putting them neatly side by side. the sound of the saloon doors open, a sound you were used to by now. with your back still turned, you notice how most of the attendees in the saloon had gone quiet, watching as the person and their footsteps approached the bar.

turning back around, you come face to face with a taller man. he wore a shabby black hat, a maroon corduroy jacket that sat along his shoulders, and a gun at his waist. two actually, you noted as the jacket moved when he sat at the bar.

with a polite smile, you come closer, holding his gaze with yours. “evening, sir. what can i get you?”

he gives you a tight lipped smile, “whiskey, please.”

you hold his gaze for a second longer before glancing back at the people in the saloon. they stared with either fear, or curiosity in their faces. a scowl grows on your lips, muttering a small ‘drunkards’ under your breath.

the man watches as you place a clean glass onto the bar, and grab a bottle filled with brown liquid. his gaze moves to the drink as it pours into the cup, almost filling to the brim.

“you look familiar,” your voice chimes in again. “have i seen you in here before?”

he shakes his head, gaze falling back to yours. “nah.” he replies. “just passing through.”

with a sigh falling from your nose, you try to read his expression; he looked tired. you weren’t an idiot, it was obvious he was on the run. you’d seen his face on the posters, but didn’t know what his name was or what he was wanted for.

your fingernail taps against the glossy wood of the bar. trying to hide your sympathetic expression, you glance around the room. “if you need anything else, let me know, yeah?”

he nods, watching as you walk away to tend to the other customers. the way you moved was calm despite working in such an intense environment. his eyes trailed up and down your figure before taking a sip from his glass.

it seemed like hours passed as you worked. going back and forth behind the counter was time consuming as it passed so quickly. more and more people were leaving the bar as the early hours of the next day were coming.

as you went to grab some glasses from tables, you notice as the man before was still at the bar. his head was hung low, eyes trained on his glass. he’d had about three glasses of whiskey by now, only taking sips from time to time.

you’d noticed through the night how people tried to approach him. he’d usually brush them off, or making small talk that ended in peaceful silence. he wasn’t someone that was easily approachable to the blind eye. he held a strong, cold demeanor.

after gathering all the dirty glasses, and kicking the last passed out drunkard, you slide back behind the bar. you take the bucket of dirty glasses to the small sink, placing it inside before turning the water on. as it fills, you stare at it as your mind falls else where.

before it overflows, you turn the faucet off. you pour a little soap into the mix before drying your hands off to let the glasses soak. with echoing footsteps, you turn back to the bar and are face to face with the man of the night.

“want another, or is three enough?” you ask, a slight smile at your lips.

he glances up at you, studying your expression for a moment. his eyes drop back to the wooden bar, fingers tapping his halfway-empty-glass.

“this is fine.” he answers.

your elbows come to rest at the cool wood, chin in your palm as you watch him. you’d debated for most of the night to ask him what exactly he was running from. it would probably sound stupid considering how everyone and their second cousin knew about it. all except for you, as you didn’t look much into news and such.

he stares back at you, giving you the same energy within his gaze. his blue eyes analyze every bit of you, and you almost shudder at the sight of it.

“so, how long you been on the run now?” you ask, voice interrupting each of your own thoughts.

he brings the glass to his lips, downing the rest before replying. “months.” he mutters, not even phased by your abrupt question.

you hum in reply, “alone?”

“mhm.”

with his short and simple response, you laugh. it wasn’t out of humor, but rather more of irritation. you’d think someone as well known as him would talk more. most outlaws never shut up about flaunting their reputations. it’s different.

“you’re not a man of many words.” you say, not really caring about how he’d take your tone.

he shrugs, sucking his teeth a bit. “i’ve got nothing to say.”

you raise a brow, “tell me a story or something. i hear the same shit every night from my regulars. give me something new.” you request.

pouring a little more whiskey into his glass, you watch as his eyes dart to yours. “it’s on me.” you assure, giving him a smile.

the man sighs, tilting his head a little at the thought. what could he tell you? that he killed a man? that he fought a man in a saloon just like yours right before shooting him in the stomach out of defense? no..you’d probably already heard it anyways.

“what do you already know about me?” he questions, taking another sip.

your eyes squint at him, “i know you’re an outlaw on the run, obviously..and that’s about it. i don’t even know what the hell they call you.” you reply.

he chuckles, a small smile at his lips. “you’re probably one of the first.” he says. “just call me billy.”

with another hum, you nod slowly and give him your name. “billy..yeah, i think i did hear that once or twice.”

“well, either way, i don’t have many stories to tell.”

your eyes roll, a huff coming from your nose. “tell me why you’re an outlaw. i’ve heard like three different stories, and it can’t be all of them.”

billy smiles again, eyes falling from yours and to your lips for a split second. you watch him debate in his head before taking his hat off. he sets it on the empty stool next to him, running his fingers through his hair. he had brown shaggy hair that was sprawled all over his head.

“i killed a man. it was self defense.” he says, almost as if he was pleading his case.

you deadpan at him, “that’s all i get? not even a backstory?”

“there’s not much to it. he was making accusations at me..which weren’t entirely false, then he came at me. we fought over my gun, and i shot.” he elaborates, glancing at you with disinterest as if it was a meaningless story.

you fall quiet for a moment, brows raised while processing his words. that story was heard, but you didn’t know if it was the truth until now. the other stories were about robbing a bank and killing a bunch of people. hearing the actual story now..you couldn’t understand all the fuss.

a laugh falls from your lips, hand moving to pinch the bridge of your nose. “so, all this talk is because you killed a man that was attacking you?”

“yes, ma’am.”

your smile remains for a bit, eyes watching billy. “so, what now? you just gonna keep running?”

he shrugs once more, eyes kept on his glass. “probably.”

“have you at least slept?”

billy shakes his head. you chew on the inside of your cheek, contemplating multiple things in your head. if you offered him a place to sleep in the loft above your saloon, he’d probably laugh in your face. but, a part of you didn’t want him out on the street sleeping defenseless.

as a other sigh falls from you, you move away from the bar and stand straight. “i’ve got an extra room where i stay. wanna take it for the night?”

his eyes find yours, expression vague, “are you sure? i mean, i don’t wanna—”

“it’s fine. i’d feel guilty if i opened up tomorrow and my regulars are telling me you got killed in your sleep.”

billy focuses on you for awhile before taking one last sip. he lightly places the glass on the counter before moving to grab some money from his pocket.

your hand finds his wrist as he places it on the counter. “keep it. just take your ass upstairs while i finish up.”

he grins a little, grabbing his hat and standing from the stool. billy slowly moves to the door at the back of the saloon, opening it and disappearing from sight. you roll up your sleeves as you move back to the sink, dipping your hands into the soapy water to clean the glasses.

after about ten minutes, you make way up to your loft in the building. your footsteps slightly echo as you move toward the light in the living room. when you reach the floor, you watch as billy sits on the couch with his head thrown back on the edge while his hat covered up his face.

slowly approaching in front of him, you lightly kick his shin. he snaps his head up, eyes wide as his hat falls to his lap. he lets out a small breath in relief, making you smile. you watch as he sits up on the couch.

“scared the shit out of me.” he mumbles, putting that ragged hat on again.

you move to sit next to him, bouncing lightly on the cushions. “must’ve been too tired to hear me coming up the steps.”

he leans into the couch once more, eyes trained on the ceiling. you watched his expression and how he studied the whiteness of the panels above.

“penny for your thoughts?” you whisper, watching his eyes shift over to you.

billy shakes his head, scoffing a little to himself. “it’s nothing. just thinking.”

“about?”

“everything.”

you let your gaze falter, moving to the floor. “everything that’s happened?” you ask.

he nods, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. billy wants nothing more than to go back and stop everything that’s happened. to change what got him to this point.

but if he did that, he would’ve never met you. you were one of the kindest people to him since the incident. the way you carried yourself, much like him, was with confidence. he respected you, and that aspect of your personality.

“i understand what it’s like..kind of.” you say, patting down the wrinkles in your outfit. “i was never wanted, but i’ve done things. things i wish i could take back.”

billy watches as you speak, the way your lips move and the expression you hold shifts with each emotion running through you. he almost doesn’t understand what you’re saying. the only thing keeping him to reality was the fact you sounded serious.

he adjusts himself on the furniture, “what have you done?” he asks, a part of him afraid to know the answer.

“i’ve killed.” you reply, the tone of your voice dropping lowly. “it was in defense, like you.”

billy watches the way you bounce your knee against the flooring of the loft. the dress you wear moves along with it, and your shoe lightly taps.

“when did it happen?” he asks as his pure curiosity gets the best of him.

you look up at him, smiling a little. “i was fourteen.”

billy looks at you, empathizing with your situation. though he wasn’t that young when it happened, he still felt some sort of connection with your experience.

“i don’t regret killing him honestly, but i regret hurting my family and his. they didn’t deserve to go through that. it wasn’t any of their faults.” you say as you breathe out slowly.

in an small moment, his hand is on yours. it’s a light touch, like he’s afraid to hurt you. billy moves his other hand to the space beneath your chin, and shifts your head to look at him in the eyes.

his voice is light, “you were defending yourself. it wasn’t your fault either.” billy whispers.

the words make your heart swell. after everything, hearing those words made it all feel better. almost all the guilt left your veins. he was right after all. it wasn’t your fault. what that man did..you just did what you had to.

as he holds your gaze, you slowly inch toward him. his blue irises bore into yours, watching as you shift them to his lips. they were slightly chapped and held a small frown on them.

billy leaned closer to you and your breaths mingled, like two lights finding each other in the darkness. he could feel your heart beating against your ribcage, as all of his senses were focused on you and you alone.

he closed the distance, and his lips met yours. billy felt himself melt into you like a magnet. everything muted itself, and his hands made way to your waist. he pulled you onto him, your knees caging around his thighs.

your hands found their way to his jaw, pulling him even closer. he tasted your soft lips and felt your warm skin against his. the room seemed to dissolve around you as the only thing in existence was this. this perfect union.

time stood still, and you both wanted more, but neither wanting it to initiate it. then, with what restraint he had left, he pulled away, his lips still grazing yours.

he looks up at you, his eyes filled with worry. “im sorry, i didn’t mean—”

“shut up.”

pressing your lips back to his, he lets out a grunt in reply before melting into you once more. the warmth of you, your lips, your being that sat in his lap—he felt lightheaded. billy moved his hands to your waist again, slowly trailing them up your back.

you feel the buttons of your dress being undone. he stops right before taking the sleeves off, prying himself away from you. billy’s eyes look into yours for confirmation, and you give him a quick, impatient nod in reply.

with that, he pulls the dress off slowly. your lips trail from his own to his neck, putting the flesh between your teeth. he groaned, trying to focus on untying your corset.

as he removed it, he wasted no time to discard it to the floor, hands making way to take off the chemise you wore.

“all those months on the run got you impatient now, cowboy?” you mutter, laughing as he would struggle from time to time.

billy looks up at you, his gaze slightly hidden by his hat, “no, just none of the women i’ve been with wore this much underneath. i’m also not a cowboy, sweetheart.”

rolling your eyes, you grab at his wrists to stop him. he looks up at you, big eyes and all, causing the built up pressure in your lower stomach to worsen. “just leave it. i’m not wearing anything under, so don’t fuss.”

you watch him nod slowly as he started to stare, making no move to take off his clothes. “do i have to do it for you?” you whisper, hands undoing the brown suspenders on his shoulders.

he shakes his head, moving to unbutton his pants he wore. you watch the way he fumbles with them, sliding them midway down his thighs. billy’s hands eventually move back to your waist, bunching up your chemise to your hips.

billy’s eyes watch as your pretty pussy comes into view, sitting in his lap with such a prepossessing aura. he has to restrain himself from taking you right then.

his dick was hard and twitching, the length had an angry tip with its slit profusely leaking pre-cum. it looked painful and it was because of you. you. you wondered if you had power over him now for a brief second but you shake your head clear of these thoughts.

instead, you catch his lips again, the kiss slower this time. you raise yourself a bit so he can align himself to your entrance. the cool touch of his hand meets your cunt, sliding a finger through the folds and collecting the juices flowing from you.

he uses your slick and spreads it across your sensitive pussy. you took a deep breath of air into your lungs. this feeling was new, since no man you’d been with ever did this, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

a small groan falls from billy’s lips as he uses it to prep himself, guiding his hand along his cock and pumping it slowly. he was on the girthy side with veins on the underside of his cock.

you knew you would stretch around him, that your walls would be a perfect fit around his length. you were too impatient for any sort of foreplay; you wanted the stretch. you wanted him to make you dizzy with his cock splitting you apart.

billy grabs your hips with his unoccupied hand, bringing you closer to him. you let out a whimper as you began to sink onto him, eyes flicking to his. those blue ones he held were zeroed down to the place you both were connected now.

his hands are on either side of your hip, guiding you down on his length. it was after his cock was fully stuffed in you, that his self-control allowed him to almost whine at the feeling of you.

your hands are on his shoulders to support yourself. your fingers weakly fist his shirt as you begin to ride him, raising yourself a few inches before slamming down on his cock with a loud moan escaping your lips. he reached the deepest spot inside of you somehow. no one had ever done that. not like this.

his cockhead grazes your spongy spot as you fuck yourself on him. arousal and his pre-cum are smeared all over your thighs. this sight made billy’s breath hitch, something you didn't notice as you were too busy with your eyes closed and taking him. you looked completely dissoluted like this.

your hair was a mess now, your lips glossy and swollen, hands digging into his shoulder. billy felt himself become enraptured by you and this sight. it was something he could get used to..if he wasn’t an outlaw that is.

he pulls you closer to him. one of his hands is on your back, pressing you to him. his hips raise upwards to fuck you as he now lets out more vocal sounds of enjoyment.

watching him with a hazy gaze, you remove the hat from his head. you place it onto your own, grinning at how he stares up at you like you were the creator of all living beings and creatures on this earth.

moving one of your hands from his shoulder, you bring it to his hair and give some strands a tug. he groans, the vibrations of his chest transferring to his dick, which transferred to you.

each thrust of his was made for his selfishness in your velvet walls. the drag of his cock was perfect, his speed was unbelievable. it was like heaven itself, but without the pearly gates and clouds.

while stuck in your own brain, the feeling of teeth bring you back to reality. you let a shuddered sigh fall as billy digs into the collarbone that peaked from your square-necked chemise. he slowly kisses up your neck, bringing a hand to the back of your head.

“fuck..’s too good,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice even.

you laugh, making him groan a little. he looks up, watching as you bounce with one hand held on his hat to keep it on. “too good? were all your other girls shit?”

he lets out short breaths, his blue eyes studying the way you moved as if he was in a trance. billy would answer if he wasn’t on another planet right now. a planet where you were taking him so deliciously, almost to the point where he could pass out.

“fuck,” he says under his breath as your pussy clenches around him. “where do you want it?” his voice was strained from trying to keep his composure.

you pant, “inside.”

billy doesn’t waste a second before obliging and quickening his pace, making the hat on your head fall lopsided. you could feel the pressure in you tightening, almost about to burst like a pipe.

he moves his thumb to rub at your clit, and the tip of his cock repeatedly nudges against that one spot that has you falling apart on top of him with a loud cry. your orgasm hits you hard and billy can’t hold it in any longer. he fucks into you for another minute, eyes squeezed shut as he groans out your name.

billy groans when you flutter around him as you cum. he’s thrusting his hips up into you with his newfound force. it requires you to tighten your grip on his shoulders to stay put as he empties his load deep inside you, his sweet moans echoing in the living room.

your cunt milks him dry, and he fills you up to the brim—to the point where you could feel him leak out of you. the both of you pause, your hands resting on his chest as you catch your breath.

he slowly eases his cock out of you. the both of you were breathing heavily as he pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. you wrap you arms around his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“wanna share my bed?” you whisper.

tags: @m0rphys

#xozombiee #YESS I FINISHED #tom blyth #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid #save a horse ride a cowboy #coriolanus snow #RAHHHHHH #guys pls like #and subscribe #william h bonney

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