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januaryembrs · 8 months ago

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YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted.

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck.

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin.

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again.

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest.

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him.

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene.

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been.

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men.

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to.

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions.

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,”

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently.

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face.

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet.

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry.

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.”

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage.

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,”

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him.

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them.

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob.

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand.

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter.

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights.

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible.

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was.

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed.

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands.

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,”

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip.

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in.

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years.

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe.

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe.

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second.

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing.

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late.

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them.

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed.

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new.

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them.

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them.

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently.

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands.

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt.

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building.

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him.

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use.

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard.

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign.

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?”

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,”

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes.

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested.

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again.

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible.

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything).

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright.

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet.

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance.

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,”

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,”

“I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing.

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin.

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down.

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?”

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised.

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point.

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

“Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,”

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion.

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise.

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off.

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him.

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,”

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again.

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his.

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,”

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all.

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him.

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #Post Prison!Spencer Reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #matthew grey gubler x reader

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foreverdolly · 10 months ago

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ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good-

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed.

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things.

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics.

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered.

“Do all women take this long to get ready?”

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf.

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring.

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous.

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms.

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited.

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have.

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction.

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away.

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth.

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm.

You waited. And waited. And waited.

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand.

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far.

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket.

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack.

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm.

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce.

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement.

“No.”

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.”

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest.

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . . spineless.”

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he.

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him.

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you.

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred.

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice.

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together.

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . .

Aimed at his throat.

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him.

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. . . the natural musk of his skin.

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin.

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it.

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own.

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in.

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you.

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole.

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with.

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain.

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it.

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft.

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair.

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire.

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood.

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now.

“I wanted to.” You conceded.

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused.

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone.

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably.

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land.

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now.

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you.

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you.

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now.

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating.

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped.

“Atreides.”

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized.

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . .

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger.

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier.

He had been trying to warn you.

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ೃ࿔ savage bonds taglist:

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the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune part 2 #dune #austin butler #austin butler x reader #smut #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune x reader #dune x you #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha fic #austin butler fic

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prokopetz · 9 months ago

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On the one hand, it's true that the way Dungeons & Dragons defines terms like "sorcerer" and "warlock" and "wizard" is really only relevant to Dungeons & Dragons and its associated media – indeed, how these terms are used isn't even consistent between editions of D&D! – and trying to apply them in other contexts is rarely productive.

On the other hand, it's not true that these sorts of fine-grained taxonomies of types of magic are strictly a D&D-ism and never occur elsewhere. That folks make this argument is typically a symptom of being unfamiliar with Dungeons & Dragons' source material. D&D's main inspirations are American literary sword and sorcery fantasy spanning roughly the 1930s through the early 1980s, and fine-grained taxonomies of magic users absolutely do appear in these sources; they just aren't anything like as consistent as the folks who try to cram everything into the sorcerer/warlock/wizard model would prefer.

For example, in Lyndon Hardy's "Five Magics" series, the five types of magical practitioners are:

Alchemists: Drawing forth the hidden virtues of common materials to craft magic potions; limited by the fact that the outcomes of their formulas are partially random.

Magicians: Crafting enchanted items through complex manufacturing procedures; limited by the fact that each step in the procedure must be performed perfectly with no margin for error.

Sorcerers: Speaking verbal formulas to basically hack other people's minds, permitting illusion-craft and mind control; limited by the fact that the exercise of their art eventually kills them.

Thaumaturges: Shaping matter by manipulating miniature models; limited by the need to draw on outside sources like fires or flywheels to make up the resulting kinetic energy deficit.

Wizards: Summoning and binding demons from other dimensions; limited by the fact that the binding ritual exposes them to mental domination by the summoned demon if their will is weak.

"Warlock", meanwhile, isn't a type of practitioner, but does appear as pejorative term for a wizard who's lost a contest of wills with one of their own summoned demons.

Conversely, Lawrence Watt-Evans' "Legends of Ethshar" series includes such types of magic-users as:

Sorcerers: Channelling power through metal talismans to produce fixed effects; in the time of the novels, talisman-craft is largely a lost art, and most sorcerers use found or inherited talismans.

Theurges: Summoning gods; the setting's gods have no interest in human worship, but are bound not to interfere in the mortal world unless summoned, and are thus amenable to cutting deals.

Warlocks: Wielding X-Men style psychokinesis by virtue of their attunement to the telepathic whispers emanating from the wreckage of a crashed alien starship. (They're the edgy ones!)

Witches: Producing improvisational effects mostly related to healing, telepathy, precognition, and minor telekinesis by drawing on their own internal energy.

Wizards: Drawing down the infinite power of Chaos and shaping it with complex rituals. Basically D&D wizards, albeit with a much greater propensity for exploding.

You'll note that both taxonomies include something called a "sorcerer", something called a "warlock", and something called a "wizard", but what those terms mean in their respective contexts agrees neither with the Dungeons & Dragons definitions, nor with each other.

(Admittedly, these examples are from the 1980s, and are thus not free of D&D's influence; I picked them because they both happened to use all three of the terms in question in ways that are at odds with how D&D uses them. You can find similar taxonomies of magic use in earlier works, but I would have had to use many more examples to offer multiple competing definitions of each of "sorcerer", "warlock" and "wizard", and this post is already long enough!)

So basically what I'm saying is giving people a hard time about using these terms "wrong" – particularly if your objection is that they're not using them in a way that's congruent with however D&D's flavour of the week uses them – makes you a dick, but simply having this sort of taxonomy has a rich history within the genre. Wizard phylogeny is a time-honoured tradition!

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #dungeons & dragons #d&d #worldbuilding #taxonomy #phylogeny #media #literature #history #literary history #death mention

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gffa · 8 months ago

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One thing that caught my attention while watching The Phantom Menace in the theater, a movie I didn't expect to find anything new with after how many times I've seen it and analyzed it, was that Sidious mentions multiple times that he has to change his plans to fit the new circumstances. It got me to thinking about how Palpatine gets credit for his carefully crafted plans, but often times not for how flexible he is in changing them on the fly, especially in time travel fics where someone destroys one of his plans and that's the end of it. Which, I'm not advocating against, I love a good Take That Wrinkled Walnut The Fuck Down However You Gotta Do It fic and I don't want them to change! But in canon Palpatine makes note of things he's not expecting, like:

When Valorum sends the Jedi as ambassadors, it's not part of Sidious' plan: DAULTAY DOFINE: This scheme of yours has failed, Lord Sidious. The blockade is finished. We dare not go against the Jedi. DARTH SIDIOUS: Viceroy, I don't want this stunted slime in my sight again! This turn of events is unfortunate. We must accelerate our plans. Begin landing your troops. NUTE GUNRAY: My lord, is that… legal? DARTH SIDIOUS: I will make it legal. NUTE GUNRAY: And the Jedi? DARTH SIDIOUS: The Chancellor should never have brought them into this. Kill them immediately!

On the Trade Federation ship, after Queen Amidala has disappeared from Naboo, Palpatine originally planned that she would be forced to sign the treaty, and then brings in Maul to deal with this. DARTH SIDIOUS: And Queen Amidala, has she signed the treaty? NUTE GUNRAY: She has disappeared, My Lord. One Naboo cruiser got pat the blockade. DARTH SIDIOUS: I want that treaty signed. NUTE GUNRAY: My Lord, it's impossible to locate the ship. It's out of our range. DARTH SIDIOUS: Not for a Sith. This is my apprentice. Darth Maul. He will find your lost ship.

On Naboo, after Padme allies with the Gungans: NUTE GUNRAY: We've sent out patrols. We've already located their starship in the swamp....It won't be long, My Lord. DARTH SIDIOUS: This is an unexpected move for her. It's too aggressive. Lord Maul, be mindful. MAUL: Yes, my Master. DARTH SIDIOUS: Be patient... Let them make the first move.

Palpatine's plans aren't static, they adapt and change with the events that happen, just as the other characters react to new information and head in new directions for it, so too does Palpatine and I think it's interesting to note that part of what makes him such a good villain is that he has an outline for what he wants to do, he sets up the dominoes of what he needs, but even when they don't fall precisely into place, he generally gets what he wants. He originally intended that Padme would sign the treaty, the Jedi wouldn't be involved, and that would lead to a vote of No Confidence to oust Valorum, using the sympathy for Naboo as a way to boost himself into the position. But he didn't really need her to sign it and still managed to use the sympathy for Naboo to get elected, it ultimately didn't matter what happened to the planet, so long as it was in danger while he needed it to be, he could use it either way. Nor, honestly, do I think he ever planned for Anakin Skywalker's existence, he had no idea they would find such a boy on Tatooine or how useful he was going to be, that was another way he changed his plans once the opportunity arose. Or a lot of his plots in TCW--he has Cad Bane steal the list of Force-sensitive children and kidnap them, bringing them to Mustafar for some sort of program to use them probably not too unlike how he uses the Inquisitors later. That plan is foiled by the Jedi, the babies are returned to their families, and Sidious' plans fall through, but that doesn't really change the outcome. tl:dr: I don't think Palpatine gets enough credit as a villain whose plans shift and change along with the new events that happen, just as much as the heroes' plans shift and change when new things happen. Yeah, he's a great villain because he creates an impossible trap for people, but also because the thing about him is that he's incredibly charming and charismatic and he knows an opportunity when he sees one, that any one given plan might fall through, but it's not necessary to his overall plot.

#lumi.txt #star wars #sheev palpatine #meta

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wolvesandshine · 8 months ago

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Sirius hadn’t thought it would be a problem. He didn’t think it was something he even had to be worried about.

Really, he should have expected it.

James had a specific type after all - in other words anyone who would insult him.

And listen Sirius knew. In an abstract sort of way.

Regulus was known for his sharp tongue. But he never really made the connection. After all, Sirius was there when Regulus was still young, still unaware of everything and was the sweetest boy with the biggest heart.

And well, Sirius knew no matter what he said Regulus was still that boy inside.

So it might have slipped his mind that Regulus was, well -

“If you’re planning on killing me with that hairdo, consider it a valiant attempt.”

Sirius is about to save James’s honour when -

“If it gets you looking at me I’d say it’s doing a great job.” James said, already breathless, eyes wide as he stared at Regulus.

Regulus simply raises an eyebrow, quirking his lips.

Sirius feels a mounting sense of horror as he glances at both of them - who were fully ignoring him at the moment.

Fuck.

He had gone through all the possible outcome of their first meet up - from a duel to cold indifference.

Clearly, he’d forgotten another option.

#sirius is suffering #starchaser enjoys tormenting him btw #regulus black #jegulus #marauders era #marauders era funny #marauders era textpost #harry potter #marauders #james potter #starchaser #sunseeker #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #jegulus fanfic #jegulus microfic #marauders fic #dead gay wizards

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ancnymcnzjy · 15 days ago

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Dating or Not Dating?

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x f. reader

Genre: Fake dating, best friends to lovers, fluff, subtle angst, romance

Warning: Explicit language, smut

Synopsis: You don’t answer your friend’s call because you’re hanging out with Lee Heeseung, your guy best friend, whom you haven’t seen since you were nine.

Too occupied with the video game you're playing and since your guy best friend is using your phone anyway, you ask him to text your friend for you.

He sends a message saying, "She can’t talk right now. What’s up?" which makes her freak out and ask lots of questions.

Your lack of response leads her to interrogate your other friends—now they think you're dating someone.

Taking advantage of your friends’ confusion, you wonder: What’s the worst that could happen if you randomly soft-launch your guy best friend to get a reaction out of them?

Word Count: 2,545

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You suddenly became the topic of discussion among your friends in the days following you posted a picture of Heeseung on your Instagram story.

They didn’t necessarily believe that you suddenly had a boyfriend, since you’re always open with them about what's going on in your life.

It also seemed unlikely that you would start dating someone without first telling your friends how much you like them.

However, your friends bought it, using your recent absence due to illness as an excuse and a canvas for their imagination.

You kept quiet, hiding your amusement as they speculated and came up with absurd conclusions for your recent absence.

They also started examining the picture you posted, trying to figure out who it was.

Suddenly, you were glad Heeseung turned away just as you took the picture. Although his side profile was visible, your friends wouldn’t have a clue who he was since you became friends with them a year after he already moved away.

As school ended, your friends began leaving the campus.

They asked if you'd like to come to the mall, but you declined, saying you had somewhere else to be.

On any normal occasion, you’d head straight to your car.

Today, however, you stayed at the entrance of your university, leaving your friends puzzled.

Soon, it dawns upon them that you’re getting picked up.

You wave goodbye to them as you head over to Heeseung’s car that’s just pulling up.

You couldn’t help but laugh at their shocked expressions as you get in Heeseung’s car.

Wanting to get more reactions out of them, you give Heeseung a peck on the cheek before buckling yourself in.

As Heeseung drives off, you glance back at your friends, who are now exchanging looks and trying to make sense of what they’d just witnessed.

•••

Back at your place, you and Heeseung spend the rest of the day hanging out in your bedroom.

While Heeseung plays video games on your PC, you're contemplating how this whole fake dating idea will play out.

"Hee, do you think our idea will work?" you ask, beginning to doubt your spontaneous plan of soft-launching him on your socials before revealing to your friends who your boyfriend is.

"I don't see why not. Your friends already believe you have a boyfriend—especially now that they saw a glimpse of us together earlier in my car.

The worst-case scenario is we stop, and you tell them the truth, saying it was a joke all along."

With truth in his words, you remain quiet, choosing to silently ponder the outcome of this whole thing.

Not liking your state of overthinking, you distract yourself by watching him get his third kill in his game.

Your eyes wander to his wide eyes, twinkling with concentration. His bottom lip is tucked beneath his teeth, and his hands skillfully click the keys on your keyboard.

The way the computer screen illuminates his figure stirs something in you.

On any other occasion, his matching pajama pants with you and the random shirt he's wearing would have you laughing and teasing him about how silly he looks. But the way they perfectly fit his body has you hitching your breath and swallowing your nervousness.

As if sensing your stare, Heeseung looks at you when his game ends.

He removes the headphones from his head and makes his way to you.

Before you can move to make space for him on your bed, he quickly shifts and hovers above you, holding himself just above your lying figure with his arms.

Him playfully trapping you beneath his arms is common, yet the way he cages you in this time feels different.

You look up at Heeseung, who stares down at you with adoration.

"What's wrong, Hee?" you ask, curiosity etched into your furrowed brows.

He's quiet as he observes every delicate detail on your face.

You stare up at him as his eyes trail from your eyes and down to your lips.

You let out a surprise gasp when he suddenly kisses you, and let out more similar noises when you feel him press his body against yours.

You feel the bulge in his pants become more prominent, and you subconsciously start moving your hips to meet his light thrusts against your core.

While your hand is tangled up in his hair, his own hand is against your cheek keeping it steady so he can slide his tongue into your mouth.

As you let him explore your mouth, a little voice in your head reminds you that friends don't kiss. Friends don’t shove their tongue down each other’s throats, and friends especially don’t have their hands exploring one another’s body as if their life depended on it.

So ever since you and Heeseung agreed to fake date, have you been able to call one another just friends?

Heeseung pulls away from the kiss first.

His eyes mirror your lustful gaze as his eyes trail down to your chest.

At the sight of your erect nipples poking through your shirt, his eyes darken and a smug smile is plastered across his lips.

He makes direct eye contact with you while lowering his head down to kiss each of your breasts, savouring the soft feeling he’s met with.

He eyes the hem of your shirt and bunches it up in his hand.

“Sit up for me quickly, angel,” Heeseung asks you while kissing your cheek.

You do as he says, lifting your arms up as well to let him take your shirt off.

Not liking how you’re the only one exposed, you ask him to take his own shirt off as well.

Catching Heeseung by surprise, you latch your legs around his waist and flip the both of you around so he's laying down and you’re straddling him from the top.

You peck his lips before showering his neck and collar bone with feather light kisses.

Your hand gets busy exploring every inch of his exposed skin.

When you reach his chest and abdomen, you drag your fringes across them teasingly.

Heeseung shudders at your touch, instantly gripping your wrists in warning of the game you’re playing.

Growing up together, you’ve come to learn all his sensitive spots. When you were younger, you exploited that knowledge to tickle him when he wasn’t expecting it; now, you use it to get the reactions you so badly want from him.

You smile teasingly at him while your fingers move lower until they reach the band of his sweatpants.

Slowly, you pull it down along with his boxers, making his hardened dick spring out onto his stomach.

With your fingertip, you trace the prominent veins along his length and swipe over his red, sensitive tip that’s already spilling precum.

You smile to yourself, knowing you're the cause of his uneven breathing and trembling body—both the result of anticipation.

While kissing up his body once more, you notice the silver necklace dangling around his neck.

You pull on the angel charm that’s attached to bring his lips to yours. At the same time, you wrap your fingers around his length.

He’s already wet from precum, but he’s not as slick as you want him to be.

You pull your lips away from Heeseung, a string of saliva following you as you hover your face above his.

“Sit up and spit on your dick for me, baby.” You ask Heeseung sweetly while stopping your strokes along his length.

He does what you ask, though biting his lip and leaning his head back in amusement immediately afterward, since it's not quite registering in his brain that you, his best friend, could ever say such words.

You’ve been shy since you were young—you spoke shyly, too. But now that you're both older, it’s clear that some things have changed.

Heeseung watches how his precum and spit smear all over his length as you move your hand up and down.

He lets out a subtle groan when you lower your head, kissing his tip teasingly before licking down his length to reach the base of his dick.

You take him in your mouth, bobbing your head slowly while using your hand to jerk off the rest of his length that couldn’t fit in your mouth.

He fits your mouth perfectly. Each thrust has his dick hitting the back of your throat, where Heeseung praises you with compliments that have you moaning around his dick as a result of making him feel good.

You look up to see his chest heaving desperately. Wanting to make him feel even better, you go to pick up your pace when Heeseung suddenly stops you.

“Come up here, pretty,” he says out of breath.

He watches as you release him from your mouth, then holds out his hand to help you move up to his lap.

You lift yourself up so Heeseung can remove your shorts and underwear.

You place one hand on his shoulder for stability, and the other around his length to line it up with your entrance.

You glide his tip along your pussy, grinding your hips simultaneously to cover his dick in your arousal.

Slowly you slip his tip inside and move yourself down until his dick is halfway in. His thickness and length has you stopping abruptly to get used to his size.

While you tilt your head back in pleasure, Heeseung’s breath hitches as he gets accustomed to your tightness.

You bring your other hand to his shoulder just as Heeseung squeezes your plush thighs to stop him himself from cuming too quickly.

Once you’ve lowered yourself completely on his length, Heeseung’s hand moves up to feel the prominent bulge on your stomach.

He looks into your eyes and asks smugly, “Am I too big for you, angel?”

You nod, closing your eyes and biting your lip to contain the lustful moans daring to spill from your lips.

He laughs softly at your reaction before kissing down your neck to the swell of your breasts.

His tongue circles around one of your nipples while his hand fumbles with the other.

Heeseung picks up on your approaching release, moving his hand from your breast to your clit.

You let out a surprised moan at the same time that your thighs jerk from his sudden movements.

“I’m close, baby,” you tell Heeseung.

Your eyes roll back when you feel him thrust his hips up to meet your bounces.

“Me too, angel,” Heeseung replies before kissing you on the lips.

He grips your hips tightly, keeping you steady as he thrusts faster to reach your desired orgasms.

His grip on your thighs leave red pleasurable marks that have you biting your lip and digging your nails into his skin.

At the sounds of your headboard banging against the wall and your skin slapping together, you’re brought over the edge simultaneously.

You let out an obscene moan as Heeseung fills your pussy to the hilt with his cum.

After bouncing on his dick one last time, you lie your body against his.

You and Heeseung lie in silence, both catching your breath and coming down from your high.

Heeseung gently massages the skin he marked while also pressing soft kisses on your shoulder and neck.

“Wait here for a second," Heeseung whispers softly in your ear, lifting you off him and onto the bed so he can stand.

He walks over to your ensuite bathroom and turns on the faucet in your bathtub. You watch as he waits for the tub to fill up with water before adding your favourite bath products.

Heeseung walks over to you and lifts you into his arms. He carries you to the bathroom and gently places you in the bathtub. Afterward, he climbs in with you.

You sit still, allowing him to smother soap all over you–letting his original plan of cleaning you both up work for a bit.

Once he feels your ass grinding against him and your hand slowly trailing down to his length, all of his previous plans vanish as he responds to your smutty motions just beneath the water’s surface.

•••

You wake up the next morning on top of Heeseung’s sleeping figure.

Your arms are loosely wrapped around his shoulders, his hands gripping your waist, and your legs are intertwined with his.

Looking up slightly to see Heeseung’s face, you can’t help but trace the outlines of his features.

You drag your finger from his soft, wavy black hair to the outline of his ear, then down his jaw and chin. Your eyes shift to his lips, and you can’t help but touch them softly, too.

Heeseung stirs awake from your movements, and his eyes slowly flutter open.

He tenses, his brows furrowing for a second, wondering who is touching him. He only relaxes when he sees that it’s you.

“Morning, pretty,” Heeseung says, his voice raspy. He smiles at you before grasping your hand and pulling it from his face to place it on the pillow beside him.

With the same hand, he gently holds your face and gives you a soft kiss on your lips.

You return it, but with urgency, propping yourself to sit upright afterward.

“What's wrong?” Heeseung asks, concern filling his voice at your sudden change in mood.

Your back straightens, and your eyes wander around the room—a nervous habit you have that Heeseung knows all too well about.

He brings his hand to your exposed leg, running his thumb back and forth on your thigh encouragingly.

“About last night...that was a mistake. Friends don’t have sex—hell, best friends don’t either! We also can't blame it on the fact that we're dating because our relationship is fake.” You explain to him.

Silence meets you, and you keep your head down, staring at his hand, too nervous to look up at him.

While your mind races with the worst possible outcomes, Heeseung interrupts your train of thought by holding your chin and making you face him.

“Look at me, angel.”

Your eyes flicker to his, meeting his solemn stare.

"You're right, we took things a bit too far considering this is just a fake relationship.

But what if I don’t want it to be fake? I enjoyed our intimate moment, and surely, so did you." Your flushed cheeks give him an answer, making him smile fondly at you.

With his voice soft and his face much closer to yours, he admits,

"I’ve spent so long hiding the fact that I like you. You gave me the opportunity to be your boyfriend these past couple of weeks—even if it’s been fake—and I took it!

I cherished you, took you on dates, gave you gifts, and showed you off to my friends and family just like a real boyfriend would." He pauses, his eyes searching yours for a reaction.

"I want to call it quits on our little game. I no longer want to be your boyfriend just for the sake of our fake dating agreement, but rather your boyfriend in an actual relationship, so I can officially call you mine."

"So what do you say? Are you in?" Heeseung asks, staring intently at you.

When he sees a smile slowly grow on your lips, he lets out a smile of his own.

"I’m in."

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dunmesh · 11 months ago

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okay but did you think about the fact laios already feels responsible for taking her last breath... this story started with falin sacrificing her life for him, dying in front of his eyes- so that "worst case scenario" already happened. at the beginning he thought all he had to do to fix things is simply bring her back to life like they had done before, but then it was his decision that led her to a fate arguably even worse than death; a reality where the very reason he wanted to save her was erased from her mind, with her becoming a chimera puppet. a reality where he is forced to fight a monster in the form of his sister.

for that reason, his choice to kill falin on his own isn't about saving everyone else from the horror of this "possible" outcome as much as it is him finally facing his own guilt for all he had done: from abandoning her during their childhood to bringing her with him to the island and living a life of hunger and danger at the cost of the safe future she could've had without him, eventually resulting in her dying while being all alone. but unlike his choice to leave their village, this time she was the one forcing him to leave her behind- an act that was not only done out of pure love but was also the result of a lifetime of internalizing the notion that everyone she loves always takes priority over herself.

so when it came to that point in chapter 67, killing her was his way of not abandoning her anymore. taking her last breath to carry alone, so he can never let go of her again. even if they wouldn't have succeeded in resurrecting her, then at least he gave her one last precious memory, at least he didn't let her sleep starving again- which is in direct contrast with her death at the beginning of the series that was caused by their hunger and its effects. but more, or perhaps even most importantly, at least he didn't let her die alone this time- having her most beloved person experiencing the horrors of her death with her while her dear friends are witnessing her suffering that she was trying so hard to shield them from until now.

and in those moments, it was without a doubt falin struggling against him along with the dragon. because of her brother forcing her to make a choice once more, she finally revealed her most raw, selfish and intrinsic side by fighting him back, scratching and pushing and screaming and harming the person she always put first instead of quietly giving up her own life. dying by the hands of love instead of dying for love. in choosing herself this time, it might be what gave her soul the strength to choose living by the end of the series- living a life of her own. and for laios, this was just as essential to his personal growth as well as the first step in his atonement: redoing it "the right way".

#this chapter did something irreversible to my brain #the “sibling fight” we didnt want but needed #anyways this is me replying to my own post from 3 years ago. haha...#dungeon meshi #laios touden #falin touden

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bigification · 4 months ago

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Handlebars

Day 1:

My first day of college was a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. I finally made it to residence last night, which only gave me one night to get settled before classes started. I was nervous to meet my roommate because of all of the horror stories I had heard about them in the past, but it ended up being so much worse than I expected. In my mind, the worst outcome was some lazy douche who never cleaned up after himself. So you can imagine my shock when I knock on the door and a full grown 30 something year old man answers the door.

"Hey, buddy. The names Mike, come on in."

He looked and sounded like a jock in a college movie, but when the actor is actually 30. His voice was deep and buttery, it almost gave me butterflies. I just smiled awkwardly and walked past him through the door.

"I'm Oscar by the way." I introduced myself.

"Cool, I'll just call you Handlebars." He said, without a care in the world.

He sat down on his bed, and that was the extent of our interactions for the day.

Day 7:

It's been a week and all my other worries about roommates came true. Not only is he 15 years older than me, he's a slob. He gets home from the gym drenched in sweat and throws his gym clothes wherever without cleaning them. He doesn't do his dishes, or any chore for that matter. In fact it seems like he intentionally keeps the place dirty after I try to clean it. And whatever musky cologne he wears attacks my nose every time I open the door, it feels like the smell seeps into everything, including my clothes.

The few times that he actually wants a chore to be done, he just asks me to do it, or rather he just tells me to do it. Normally I would be happy to tell him to go fuck himself, but I always find myself doing whatever he asks. I hate it.

"Yo Handlebars, be a doll and clean the dishes for me."

"Yo Handlebars, I ran out of clean gym clothes, mind running em down to the laundry for me."

It's like he's casting a spell whenever he talks.

Day 15:

I've started to settle into routine. The things that used to bother me about Mike seem a bit more trivial now. We've even started to become pretty close. I get enthralled by his conversations about business. He goes on and on about his father's enterprises, and how they'll be his soon.

I even started going to the gym with him lately. He lent me some of his gym clothes, even if they're way too big. It just made me appreciate him more. I never really clocked how jacked he was, sometimes he goes to the gym shirtless and it shows off his massive pecs and thick biceps.

Since joining him, I've noticed my body has improved quite significantly. I used to be skinny and lanky, but there is definition starting to show throughout my body.

Day 30:

Just a month into school and I was already on my way to failing out. I just don't care about it anymore, but Mike gave me a solution. He said I could just switch programs and do business with him, and his dad would even pay for it. How could I pass that up.

Now that I've switched, it's like all stress in my life has disappeared. Business is so easy, and now I have more time with Mike. We usually have a routine of going to the gym after our last class of the day.

"Yo Handlebars, you're lookin strong man. I'd kill to grow as fast as you."

He shouted at me from across the gym, when he caught me staring at myself in the mirror. Butterflies flew through my stomach when he said that. And he wasn't wrong, I've been noticing a lot of changes in my body. My face has matured, my eyebrows are thicker, my nose is bigger, and my jawline is more square. I even have to shave now, when I never had to before college. A five o'clock shadow engulfs my face by the end of the day, especially above my lip. The rest of my body has gotten hairier too, especially around my pecs, arms, and legs. And that's not even mentioning my progress at the gym. I actually look like I belong there, my biceps have a nice roundness to them and my chest actually sticks out from my body. Those gym clothes that Mike gave me look smaller and smaller every day.

Life in the dorms has also been a dream. I've been wearing that cologne that Mike loves, and it's like I unlocked a whole new level of confidence. People seem to love listening to me talk, and people seem to respect me more.

Day 60:

This past month has been the best month of my life. Now that I'm in my mid twenties, I can drink whenever I want. Mike and I go out raves and frat parties basically every night, my body is basically used to every drug at this point. And with Mike's dad paying for college, I literally don't need to show up to lectures and I get straight A's.

"Fuck, bro. I think you're bigger than me Handlebars."

Mike said with a shocked face when we were snapping pics at the gym. We flexed beside each other, and it was obvious. My biceps dwarfed his, and his gym clothes had become really tight on me lately. The shirt was skin tight against my upper body, showing off my juicy pecs and my growing six pack. And the shorts looked like they were about to burst under the pressure of my ass cheeks and thighs, to the point that the outline of my dick was constantly visible.

"Here bro, take this."

Mike handed me a package. It was filled with gym clothes and jocks.

"Just for you Handlebars."

I yanked him in for a bro hug, I could feel myself blushing.

"You got this all for me bro?"

"Fuck yeah, man. You've been grinding it out in the gym, don't think I haven't noticed my clothes straining against those muscles. And you need something to contain that snake in your pants before we get campus security called on us."

Mike chuckled, his laugh was infectious.

Day 100:

I started in the mirror. Sometimes I barely recognize myself. The confident and cocky mask goes away when I'm alone, just leaving the caring gym bro that's on the true inside.

Damn, I think to myself, Mike is making me too sappy. I give myself a cocky smile after shaving my face, leaving me with a thick moustache. I flex, admiring my guns and bouncing my pecs. Man I look good for a man pushing his thirties.

"Fuck, handlebars. Since when were you so hairy?" Mike asked me when I left the bathroom.

"What? Are you jealous I'm manlier than you bro?" I taunted him by opening my button up wider, revealing the thick pelt of hair that covered my body.

"Nah, it's got me feelin something tho." He smirked at me.

"Hah, I fuckin knew it. You want a piece of this." I bounced my pecs.

"Don't make it gay bro, it's not like that. Just a dude admiring another dude." He blushed.

The tension between us had been building for weeks. He would stand too close when spotting me at the gym, and I'd catch him staring at me in the mirror. Not like I haven't been doin it too. We also wear less clothes around the dorm. I still got that jock strap Mike gave me a while back, I'd be lying to myself if I said it fit but I don't care, and it seems like Mike doesn't mind either. And sometimes I wear an open button up just cuz it makes my pecs pop.

Day 120:

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this." Mike whispered in my ear. His breath was heavy as he threw me against the wall. His dick was bouncing with excitement against my ass.

For context, a few hours ago we were at the gym like normal. At this point, we didn't even go to class, it was just gym and parties now. The tension had been growing at the gym forever, sometimes we'd release by foolin around in the showers, but it never went further a quick handjob when no one was lookin. It was different this time, he couldn't keep his hands off me. Broad daylight in a busy gym, his hands would be far down my shorts, teasing.

At first I was dismissive. We already got caught multiple times by campus security, so close to getting kicked out of school. If it wasn't for Mike's dad being a rich alumni, I think both of us would be long gone by now. But he knew how to push my buttons, he always has. I gave in, but had the decency to drag him by the collar to the showers. At least there we could be naked.

Ok, back to the point. I grunted as his thick arms held me in place. Mike had been working extra hard to catch up to me, and it was showin. It turned me on, feelin his muscled forearms against my shoulders. But I wasn't gonna let him win that easily. What Mike seemed to forget was the near decade I spent in the Navy before comin to college.

I whipped around, using the hot water against our skin to slip out from his pin. I pushed his shoulder, sending him tripping over my foot, which I had conveniently placed behind his. I caught him like a damsel in distress, so there was no doubt in his mind who was on top.

Within seconds, it's like my training kicked in and I had him pinned down on his stomach. The bristles of my thick mustache rubbed against the back of his ear as I whispered, "You really thought you could top me?" I asked with a chuckle.

He moaned like a twink when I stuck my cock up his ass. It took a moment for his ass to adjust to takin a beatin rather than dishin one out, but he'll get used to it. The wet fur on my forearm slid across his back as I rode him like a bull. I could almost feel his organs rearrangin to fit my 10 inch rod.

I groaned as I felt months of sexual tension release in seconds, shooting my seed all through Mike's body. He was mine. And by the looks of it, he enjoyed the ride too. A trail of his cum ran from under his pinned body, to the drain in the middle of the showers.

"You're mine."

I whispered in his ear with a shit eatin grin.

"Now clean this mess up before you dare come back to my dorm."

I pushed off his back to get to my feet. I continued rubbing my cock as I walked away, making ropes of cum cover the showers. I walked right out of the showers and into the locker room, making sure to wink at campus security on the way out. Someone always calls them, and we always get away with it Scott free, so I think they gave up. It just feels good to make people know they're beneath you, and to do it while rubbin one out.

I cleaned up and walked alone to my dorm, sat on my couch, and waited for Mike to come back. After a few minutes, he walked in without a word. He walked over to me and laid in my lap as I turned on football. I smelled his hair, making sure he actually cleaned up like I ordered.

"Good boy." I reassured him while massaging his pecs.

Day 150:

I finally moved our stuff out of my shitty dorm. Mikey's father just decided to pay for our diplomas outright, instead of trying to turn all of our F's into A's.

We moved to L.A. and I fuckin love it here. I just walk around in nothin but a jock, and people love me for it. And there are so many entrepreneurs like me, so much money to be made.

Everyone just calls me handlebars, I can't remember the last time anyone called me my name. Now that I think about it, I don't even remember what it was, but who the fuck cares. I'm handlebars, the life of the party and the best fuck in this city.

#male tf #masculine #reality change #hairy #male transformation #muscle tf #age progression #moustache

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lazycats-stuff · 10 months ago

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Please write Damian x friend reader who's really shy, and they have to make a school project together, and they do so at the manor, but because the reader is shy he doesn't want to meet the family. The family (to annoy damian) want to meet this friends, but Damian actually likes the reader and tries to protect him from his brother's

Hell yes. Oh I love this. The fam would do this. Alfred would be stopping them. I don't know why, but this gif is really adorable to me.

Summary: Damian has a crush and the boys decide to annoy them

Warnings: fluff, angst?, Damian comes out to Bruce and Alfred, shy reader... Mostly fluff though.

Damian Wayne, the son of Batman has a crush on his classmate. Yes, you read it correctly. Damian has a crush on (Y/N) (L/N), a shy boy in his class. Damian thought he was adorable and his shyness made him even more cute to Damian, but Damian knew for a fact that he didn't have a chance with (Y/N).

Anyone who dates a Wayne, will be in the spotlight. And being in high school doesn't make it any better. The pressures and the fact that the girls and some guys were throwing themselves at him and for that, he only got his reputation as cold, not interested in anyone.

That made it much more difficult to even think about approaching (Y/N).

And the fact he was suffering alone made it painful. He didn't tell his family, knowing that they would push him to talk to him, but they wouldn't understand the situation that Damian is in. For Damian, (Y/N) is something that is both within his reach and yet so far, far away.

Damian has come to terms with the fact that he will never be able to be with (Y/N). If only he knew about (Y/N)'s feelings...

But fate has some other plans. During a biology class, the teacher announced that he will pair the kids to make a project. Damian dreaded it because there are two bad outcomes that could come out of it.

One is that he ends up with a person who wouldn't do anything and would just use it for bragging rights and would annoy him to no end. It would be awful and Damian would have to control himself to not kill someone and not to cause a scene.

And the second one is the fact that there is a chance that he will be paired up with (Y/N). That wasn't bad per say, not at all, not by any means. But... The mere fact that he would be paired with his crush wouldn't be easy, not even for Damian. He may have a lot self control, but with (Y/N)...

Damian remained calm when he was paired with (Y/N). Only externally. Internally? He was screaming. How does he even approach him? How in the hell? Okay... Try to be nice...

Damian rubbed his lips, trying to remain calm and devise a plan. Approach him when everyone leaves the classroom. Then tell him and give him phone number so they can contact one another... Okay... That's the first two steps.

Wait... What about his family? Oh no... Well, that's a thing to worry about later.

Damian took a deep breath as he approached (Y/N). (Y/N) blushed already and look at Damian with an uneasy smile. " Hi Damian. "

" Hey (Y/N). Can you give me your number so that I can text you the time and we can contact each other. " Damian said as he took his phone out, allowing (Y/N) to put his phone number in. (Y/N) did just that, ever so nervously.

Damian watched in silence, waiting patiently. After that, (Y/N) quietly mumbled see you later and left. Damian followed him, but in a much slower pace. He walked to his own locker, getting his stuff and leaving the school quickly, going to the car to let Alfred drive him away.

During the drive, Alfred noticed that Damian was bothered by something, but he knew that asking was going to be like pulling teeth. Painful and no one would even bother to do it, but Damian wasn't an average person nor a child.

So all in all, it will be a painful conversation, no matter how they turn it.

" Damian, can we talk? " Bruce asked as he sat down next to him on the couch, Alfred setting down the tea for the three of them.

" About what? " Damian asked as he put a book down on the coffee table. Bruce and Alfred got ready for this. Alfred sat down next to Damian, but not too close, just keeping some space in between the two.

" Something is bothering you and we want to know what's going on. " Bruce has started gently and Damian's internal guard went up quickly. They clearly don't know what, but... How will his father react about hearing that he is gay? Oh God...

" Nothing is bothering me. " Damian lied quickly, but Bruce saw right through it.

" You can always talk to us Damian.. You can always come to me, I will never judge you. " Bruce said softly and Damian had to take a very deep breath to stay calm...

Is he really going to come out now?

" It's... " Damian started, clearly out of his comfort zone. " I have a crush... "

Bruce and Alfred smiled. Damian is in love. " And what's her name? " Alfred asked.

And here it is.

" It's his. It's (Y/N). " Damian said quietly, getting ready for rejection.

There was silence for a couple of moments before Bruce hugged Damian tightly. Damian was shocked at that, more so when Alfred hugged him too, but he didn't question it by any means. He hugged Bruce back tightly.

" Please don't tell me that you think we were going to reject you master Damian. " Alfred said from behind, still hugging his grandson.

" Oh Damian... " Bruce said quietly, making sure to squeeze Damian tightly. " I would never judge you for being gay. You are my son and I won't love you any less. " Bruce says softly, rocking his son a bit to calm him down.

Damian nodded, hiding his face, not wanting these tears to fall down. He didn't want them to be seen.

And the time has finally come. (Y/N) has arrived into the manor and Bruce made sure to tell his other sons to stay clear and away from the library today. He said a few warnings and the other three seemed to listen.

Again, seemed.

The project was going well. Damian has been calmer and (Y/N) has been quiet, but was working hard to make it the best project ever. Damian was impressed by that and more impressed that his brother's weren't bothering him or (Y/N). But there was a bad feeling in the back of Damian's mind.

Something was going to happen.

And Damian isn't liking this at all.

And he was right. After an hour, Jason popped his head in. Damian whipped his head around so quickly that (Y/N) thought he got whiplash. (Y/N) blushed slightly at the sight of Jason who had a smirk on his face.

Damian got up quickly. No. This is not going to happen.

" Out Todd. " Damian said as he walked up to him and started pushing him out.

" Oh come on, I just want to meet you frie-" Jason was cut off with the door slamming in his face. He smirked at the sight of the barely controlled anger from Damian.

Oh he loves to push those buttons.

Damian took a deep breath and turned to (Y/N) with a small smile. " My apologies (Y/N), Todd is annoying and he loves to push my buttons. " Damian said as he sat back down and (Y/N) nodded with a small smile.

" It's okay, siblings are annoying. " (Y/N) said quietly.

" Do you have one? " Damian asked as he moved a notebook out of the way.

" A single child, I'm afraid. " (Y/N) said and Damian nodded.

And everything was fine. Until one hour later.

Now Tim popped his head in and Damian was going to kill him.

" Out Drake. " Damian said as he quickly stood up and started pushing him out, still calm, trying to not scare (Y/N), who just watched in silence and wonder.

" Oh Damian, " Tim started, but Damian just threw him out and slammed the door. (Y/N) raised his brow, curious, but to hesitant to ask.

" Again, my apologies, they are just annoying. " Damian said yet again and sat back down, getting focused to continue working on the project.

The silence was nice and comfortable and the library was just peaceful.

That was until the doors opened for the 3rd time and Damian stood up quickly, pushing out Dick into the hallway, closing the door.

" What the hell is wrong with you three?! " Damian whispered yelled and Dick sheepishly smiled.

" I just wanted to check on you two, to see if you need any help. " Dick said quietly.

" Sure. Make sure that these two don't come by again. " Damian said coldly and went back inside, clearly annoyed, trying to calm himself. But the moment he set his eyes on (Y/N), he was calmer and less annoyed.

" Sorry, another brother is annoying today. " Damian said, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm down.

" Are they always like this? " (Y/N) asked softly and Damian nodded.

" I'm afraid so. " Damian said, glaring at the door for a second before he focused back onto the project.

After some times, they have actually managed to finish it. Damian was happy, but then this means that hanging out with (Y/N) is over. After this, they probably won't ever talk.

But Damian just couldn't let it go. He had to confess.

He had to.

But is he brave enough? Maybe.

" (Y/N)? Before you go, I need to tell you something. " Damian said once they were outside.

(Y/N) nodded and waited for Damian to speak.

" I... I like you. A lot... And... You are allow to say no, but do you want to go out with me? " Damian asked softly.

(Y/N) was outright speechless. Damian felt the same way? This had to be a dream...

" I would love to. " (Y/N) said, blushing like mad and rubbing the back of his neck.

" I'll text you the plans later. We can go tomorrow. " Damian said and Alfred got the car ready to drive (Y/N) back to his home. After (Y/N) and Alfred left, Damian slowly turned to his brothers who were eaves dropping.

" You 3 have 5 seconds to run before I get you. " Damian said coldly and the three quickly ran. Damian chased after Jason.

Bruce simply sipped his coffee. It's not worth his nerves. Or annoyance. Or even the agitation.

Bruce sigh. Just let it be.

#dc comics #dc x male reader #x male reader #batfamily #bruce wayne x male reader #batman x male reader #jason todd x male reader #red hood x male reader #dick grayson x male reader #nightwing x male reader #tim drake x male reader #red robin x male reader #damian wayne x male reader #robin x male reader

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rennalaqotfm · 4 months ago

Text

𖤓 DRAGONSPEAR | J.V (PART III)

Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader

Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.

Content Warning: Violence, blood and injury, mentions of death, alcohol consumption, angst, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).

Dialogue in italics is High Valyrian.

WC: 5.4k

Series Masterlist

(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had always prided himself on being a capable fighter. Although Jacaerys' strength primarily lay in politics, he never let his swordsmanship fall behind. In fact, Ser Harwin Strong, the captain of the City Watch, and as many whispered, his real father, had taught him everything about the art of yielding a sword. From the correct way of unsheathing the blade to keeping his knees slightly bent so he wouldn't stagger as easily. He still recalled how at the tender age of six, Ser Harwin kneeled to his level as he placed his heavy arm on his shoulder.

'A sword is but a tool. Its true power lies within the one who yields it. Visualise your desired outcome, and your blade will follow.'

Ser Criston Cole, however, had no patience for his idealised notions of battle. While Ser Harwin had taught Jacaerys the foundations of swordsmanship, it was Ser Criston who introduced him to the unforgiving truth of a real battle, proving that sparring with a straw dummy wasn't useful beyond the training grounds.

'When steel is drawn, a fair fight isn't something anyone should expect.'

He still bitterly remembered how Ser Criston had him spar against his uncle Aegon. Anyone who watched that scene would've thought it wasn't a fair battle. Aegon was already four-and-ten, much taller and stronger than he was. Jacaerys still remembered how Aegon's strikes had come faster and harder than anything he had faced before, especially the kick to his stomach that sent him flying to the ground with a thud, and yet, Aegon didn't cease delivering blow after blow with brute force.

'Is this what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?'

The sting of defeat, the bruises that lingered for days, and the humiliation of being bested in front of others, particularly his grandsire Viserys, were all part of Ser Criston's lesson. And in that moment, Jacaerys came to realise that cruelty might be something he didn't possess.

Now there was no excuse. It wasn't going to be an unfair battle since Prince Elyas Martell was but a year older than him, and couldn't have trained any differently. However, Jacaerys had never killed a man with his own hands. Yes, he had led men into battle, but taking someone's life with his sword was something he had yet to experience. There was no doubt that killing was nothing more than just a mundane task for Elyas. Those Dornishmen seemed to take pleasure in the most outlandish ways, which made him question how strong of a warrior Prince Elyas was to defeat such great lords.

Then he recalled the story Addam of Hull had told them in Dragonstone, how the reason why Princess Y/n remained unwed was because his suitors had met the common fate of death. As much as he didn't want to believe those rumours, he had bitterly grown to accept that all those tales about the Dornishmen were nothing but true.

The young prince frowned as he took in the arid, unforgiving weather. It would've been foolish to wear his full armour for the trial; the extreme heat would likely cause him to collapse before he even reached the arena. He sported nothing more than a Targaryen breastplate on top of a linen tunic, and his breeches. He considered sporting his gauntlets, but the sweat of his hands would affect the grip on his sword. Even with just the breastplate, he already felt how beads of sweat rolled down his back.

Jacaerys had been so fixated on winning the trial that he barely had any time to process his betrothal with Princess Y/n. He wondered if all of her suitors even wished for power, or mayhaps they were simply entranced by her beauty. Despite her attitude, there was something enticing about the Princess he couldn't bring himself to deny. But what was he going to do if behind that beauty lay nothing but different ideals and hostility? What would the rest of the houses think upon finding out about their alliance with House Martell? How would the two of them rule the whole realm if the Princess put Dorne's interests before the rest of Westeros?

Not to mention, even if he emerged victorious from the trial, he doubted Princess Y/n would be too pleased if her brother's life was the price. The thought gnawed at him as he fastened his boots. But what if he were the one to fall? He couldn't even begin to imagine the devastation it would bring to his mother, and the mere thought of her grief twisted his stomach. Daemon had offered to fight in his place, a suggestion his mother had eagerly supported. Yet, Jacaerys had refused, knowing that the Princess would never consider his proposal if he didn't prove his own worth in the arena. To win her hand without facing the trial himself would be dishonourable.

No matter what he did, all odds were against him.

"It's time," one of the guards spoke behind the door.

One guard led the way, as the other trailed behind him, with his spear in hand, ready to attack if the Prince even attempted to do anything. They walked through the labyrinthine halls of the Old Palace, adorned with pillars and chandeliers, lighting up the place as the blinding rays of sunshine met with the golden decorations.

They stepped into the flourishing gardens leading to the arena, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited his arrival. He could hear his mother's voice as they spoke in High Valyrian, unaware of his presence.

"I have lost too many children, Daemon. The thought of losing Jace—" Rhaenyra's voice faltered, her lip quivering as she fought to swallow the rising lump in her throat.

"Elyas would be a fool to slay the Crown Prince," Daemon mumbled.

"You, above all, should know what these people are capable of."

"But killing the future king of the realm is a line they would not dare cross."

"And yet, must the price we pay for this war be our children?" Rhaenyra's voice broke.

"I was not aware how my death would be such an interesting thing to discuss," Jacaerys muttered bitterly.

"Jace," Rhaenyra turned to face her son, cupping his cheek. "For the last time, you do not have to do this—"

Jacaerys swatted his mother's hand off, his eyes full of contempt.

"You have no right to act concerned, Mother. You pushed forward with this, knowing the risks, knowing that I might pay with my life. Whatever fate awaits me in this trial... if I die, my blood is in your hands. But at least I will have done my duty."

Before Rhaenyra could say anything else to her son, the guards urged him to move forward.

With a heavy heart, Jacaerys turned to face her mother one last time, but she was nowhere to be seen as they most likely had been taken to the gallery. Before the guards pushed the double doors they exchanged a look of pity, clearing a path for him. That didn't go unnoticed by the Prince, and it only added to the river of negative emotions he had been drowning in since they arrived.

As Jacaerys stepped through the double doors, the world around him was suddenly swallowed by darkness, with only a narrow beam of light from the distant end of the tunnel. The corridor stretched before him, its walls echoing with the muffled sounds of the world above. He could hear the creak of wooden beams straining under the weight of footsteps, making him wonder how many eyes might be waiting for him outside. The air was cool and heavy, carrying with it the scent of the arena's sands, yet the usual roar of a crowd was eerily absent.

Jacaerys took a deep breath before stepping into the arena. The sun was almost blinding, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Feeling like a caged animal, he scanned his surroundings, shielding his eyes with his hand. To his surprise, there weren't many spectators; he could only make out the members of the Martell council. Then, his eyes quickly found his mother, whose face was etched with deep concern and regret. Nearby, Daemon, unable to sit still, attempted to calm his nerves with a cup of wine. Not very far from where the council sat, there were three empty seats in the royal box, where Prince Qoren took his seat, with Farien on his lap. Jacaerys grew confused as he saw Prince Elyas take a seat next to his father, leaving one empty. Was he not going to fight for his sister? Mayhaps the Princess' champion was her sworn protector.

A few moments had passed, yet the Princess was nowhere to be seen. Jacaerys' mind raced with doubts. Was she not going to attend the trial she herself had proposed?

Suddenly, the double doors opposite him began to open and the Martells began to cheer. Prince Qoren wrapped his arm around Farien, who couldn't stop clapping as he bounced on his father's lap. Elyas signalled one of the servants to bring him a cup of wine, as he leaned back on his seat and looked at Jacaerys with a sneer.

His eyes widened in shock as the figure emerging from the other side of the arena wasn't one of the twins either.

It was Princess Y/n herself.

The Princess strode toward the centre of the arena, the sun-kissed amber fabric of her dress flowing like a whisper with each step. The high slits on either side of the skirt fluttered and snapped, revealing glimpses of her legs as she moved. With a fluid motion, Princess Y/n unsheathed the two golden daggers holstered on her thighs, playfully twirling them around her fingers.

"Princess Y/n Martell, the Dancing Serpent of Dorne, and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the Crown Prince. Let the trial commence," Ser Domeric Uller announced, earning another wave of applause from the Martells.

Dancing Serpent of Dorne?

Jacaerys took an instinctive step back, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Two guards blocked the door with their spears, leaving no chance of escape. In the glaring sunlight, Princess Y/n appeared like an oasis amid the dunes, her bronze skin glowing with an ethereal radiance, akin to that of a deity. She moved with the lethal agility of a serpent, her eyes locked onto him, calculating, and ready to strike. A storm of doubts began to cloud Jacaerys. What was he supposed to do? Kill her? Maim her?

He suddenly heard Ser Criston Cole's voice echoing in the back of his mind.

'Blades up. Engage.'

As if guided by pure instinct, the Prince unsheathed his sword, the sharp silver catching and reflecting a ray of sunlight. He quickly assumed a defensive stance, his eyes fixed onto the Princess. If he kept his distance, he should have the advantage over her. He lunged, aiming not for a lethal blow, but to knock the Princess off her feet, hard enough to force her to yield.

He was not there to shed blood.

The Princess easily dodged his attack as his blade slashed the air, and he quickly withdrew to his defensive stance. They began circling each other, eyes locked, neither daring to look away.

A bead of sweat trickled down Jacaerys' temple, his heart pounding as he watched Y/n assume a low, unfamiliar stance. She held both of her daggers up, poised like a serpent's fangs as she moved with languid grace, inching closer to him, almost hypnotically.

Before he could fully register the movement, a sharp pain sliced through his arm. Jacaerys hissed as Y/n's blade carved a deep gash, warm blood seeping through his white tunic and dripping onto the sand. He clenched his jaw, forcing the searing pain to the back of his mind, determined to ignore the Martells' cheers echoing around the arena. At least the arm wielding his sword was still intact.

The dance between the dragon and the serpent continued. Y/n darted forward, her twin daggers a blur as she unleashed a relentless flurry of slashes. Jacaerys struggled to block, each clash of steel sending vibrations up his injured arm. As she pressed her assault, he caught a glimpse of something feral in her eyes, a familiar look he knew all too well: bloodlust.

Growing weary of her relentless attacks, he sidestepped one of her strikes and delivered a swift, powerful kick to her side. The sheer force sent the Princess onto the sand with a grunt, one of her daggers slipping from her grasp.

Seizing the moment, Jacaerys lifted his blade to force her to surrender. But before he could strike, the Princess rolled to the side and kicked his shin, sending him stumbling backwards. In a heartbeat, Y/n was on him, knocking the sword from his grasp. She straddled him, raising her dagger high, ready to plunge it into his throat. Jacaerys reacted just in time, catching her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Y/n cried out, the pain weakening her hold, and Jacaerys seized the opportunity. With a desperate reach, he grabbed the dagger she had previously dropped, which was just at arm's reach, and drove it straight into her side.

"Sister!" Elyas stood from his seat, ready to drive a spear into Jacaerys' heart.

The Princess wailed in agony, her body retracting as she recoiled from the blow. Jacaerys quickly rolled free and scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword and pointing it at her, his chest heaving as he tried to keep her pinned under the threat of his blade.

"Princess, please, I do not wish to hurt you—"

Jacaerys' eyes widened in horror as he watched Y/n yank the dagger from her side with a wicked grin. Without hesitation, she drove it into his calf. He groaned in pain, nearly collapsing, and used his sword to regain balance, the blade trembling under his weight.

Princess Y/n stood up from the ground, twirling the dagger as she watched the Prince struggle to get back to a defensive stance. Blood trickled down her side, soaking into her dress and staining the sand beneath her a deep crimson colour.

Jacaerys clenched his jaw in humiliation, feeling how pathetic he must have appeared to his mother, Daemon, the Martells, and most of all, to Y/n herself.

Before he could fully recover, Y/n moved like a shadow, slipping behind him. He grunted as she wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him close. The cold edge of her dagger was pressed firmly against his throat, and he dared not move.

He caught a glimpse of his mother, restrained by Daemon and the guards, her blood-curdling screams piercing through the air. It was the last sound he wanted to hear in his final moments. Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the chaos and focus on memories that brought him comfort: the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone, the rhythmic beat of Vermax's wings cutting through the clouds, and Lucerys' carefree laughter.

As he opened his eyes and looked up at the sky, he smiled bitterly. The absurdity of it all nearly made him laugh. From the moment he had stepped into the arena, he knew he was doomed to fail. Yet, some foolish part of him had clung to the hope that he could make the Princess surrender.

He felt the Princess' laboured breaths in his ear, sending a chill down his spine. He waited, and waited, and waited for the dagger to slash his neck, but the excruciating pain he had anticipated never came.

Instead, a simple command reached his ears. One that, under any other circumstances, he would have defied without a second thought. But at that moment, his life was in the hands of Princess Y/n, and he dared not disobey her.

"Kneel before me," she whispered, making his blood run cold.

Jacaerys felt the Princess's grip loosen, allowing him to stumble forward. He turned back to face her, dropping to one knee, his gaze locked on hers. But in her eyes, he found no trace of mercy, nor cruelty. The bloodlust had drained away, replaced by a storm of emotions she herself couldn't fully comprehend.

That was the first time he had looked closely at the Princess. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, beads of sweat rolling down her temple as a few droplets of his own blood stained her face. There was something undeniably bewitching about her, a pull he couldn't fathom. As he gazed up at the woman before him, a creeping sense of fear began to coil in his chest as he came to realise the power she wielded over him. She was the kind of woman who could either plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos or unite them under her command.

"I choose Prince Jacaerys Velaryon as my betrothed," she declared, her voice echoing through the arena as her eyes locked onto Rhaenyra. "House Martell will stand with Queen Rhaenyra in the Targaryen Civil War. In return, we demand control of the Stepstones, the unwavering protection and loyalty of House Targaryen whenever called upon, and the unchallenged independence of Dorne once the war is won. And most importantly," she looked at her father, giving him a firm nod, "I expect an official acknowledgement of Dorne's sovereignty. Let this moment be written in history, for the generations to come."

The dining hall of the Old Palace was in full swing. Delicacies were served in abundance, and the servants scurried about, refilling cups left and right. The Princess was deep into her fifth cup, trying to numb the burning pain of her wound, which had been sewn and bandaged by Maester Kyce, and although her wrist was badly bruised, it wasn't dislocated.

Her gaze shifted to the erotic performance happening before them as they ate. A pair of men and women explored their bodies, trying the most peculiar positions that she never thought were possible. She could only chuckle, the wine painting the scene as the most amusing thing she had ever witnessed. She finished what she had left in her cup, before ushering the servant for more.

It was the only thing that could help her escape the suffocating atmosphere at the round table. Her father wasn't particularly pleased to be sharing the table with the Targaryens, and the feeling was mutual with the Martells. She couldn't bring herself to look at Elyas, whose eyes burned with the desire to start a war. Rhaenyra appeared torn between wanting to have her publicly executed for hurting her son and embracing her for sparing his life—yet even then, Y/n wasn't sure if what she had done was truly an act of mercy. Daemon leaned back, indulging in the finest Dornish wines, smirking as he silently celebrated the small victory of his successful plan. The only person who could have made the ordeal more bearable was Farien, but he was already fast asleep in his chambers.

Then there was Jacaerys. He sat stiffly, trying to focus on anything but her. Yet, there was something about her presence that commanded his attention, and his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward her against his will. Mayhaps her eyes lingered on him longer than she had realised, as their gazes suddenly met. He looked away, as though her eyes just scarred his soul.

"Well, isn't that pathetic..." she muttered under her breath.

That was the man who was to be her future betrothed, a prince who couldn't even meet her gaze without flinching. The thought of marrying someone like him left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Have you got something to say, Princess?" Jacaerys suddenly spat.

"Oh, I most certainly do," Y/n retorted, her lips curling in a mocking grin as she tried her best not to slur her words. Casymir helped her stand up. She took her cup and slowly raised it. "I wish to propose a toast," she began, trailing her eyes at Daemon and Rhaenyra before resting her gaze on Jacaerys. "After all, it's not every day that we witness such a... historic moment. The mighty Dragon, so fierce and proud, finally finds its place... on the ground, with one bent knee before the Serpent. To the ever-lasting and prosperous alliance of House Martell and House Targaryen."

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Prince Qoren hummed in approval, raising his cup with a satisfied smile, while Rhaenyra and Daemon's expressions tightened in shock and disbelief at the blatant disrespect. Daemon's eyes narrowed dangerously, lingering on the knife beside the roast piglet, his fingers inching towards it. But before he could act, Rhaenyra's sharp glare stopped him. Jacaerys, however, had enough of her insolent attitude.

"I wish to propose a toast as well," Jacaerys stood up, wincing at the pain in his leg. "I wish to thank House Martell for their... overwhelming hospitality in receiving the Crown," he paused, taking his time to look at the Martells and each guard. "Not only have we been looked after with the utmost care, every single moment accompanied by the comforting presence of a spear at our backs, but you have also shown us that the great tales they speak of the Dornishmen are nothing but the truth. Fighting against the Princess herself has truly been an honour, and I am forever grateful for the mercy she has shown me. Mayhaps the Princess has a soft spot after all."

"Oh, my Prince," her eyes narrowed, knowing all too well that the mercy Jacaerys had referred to was cowardice. "I would love to have another duel, but I'd much prefer you alive for our wedding."

Jacaerys' face twisted with fury, his anger momentarily blinding him. In a swift motion, he drew his sword. Y/n didn't flinch. Instead, she unsheathed her dagger instinctively, pointing it directly at his forehead.

"We should take this to the arena if the Prince dares, that is," Princess Y/n smirked. "Well?" She taunted, looking down on him.

Jacaerys' nostrils flared with rage, knuckles turning white as he tightly held the grip of his sword. His mother's comforting touch slowly calmed his inner storm, and with a sour look on his face, he put his sword away.

"That's what I thought," she muttered loud enough as she sat back down.

"Aren't they lovely, both of them? Already bickering like an old, married couple," Prince Qoren laughed. "Speaking of, they should marry as soon as possible. The wedding of my beloved daughter should be an event to remember," he turned to the Targaryens. "What do you want, Y/n, dear? We should get a pair of fine Braavosi tigers and make the prisoners fight them in the arena—"

"We are at war, Prince Qoren, we have no time for celebrations," Daemon interrupted him.

"It is only a matter of weeks before Ser Tyland reaches the Free Cities if the winds are in their favour," Rhaenyra echoed Lady Mysaria's words, not able to hide her concern. "Rest assured, once the war has been won, the celebrations will be held in the Red Keep."

"But who can assure me the Prince will not die during this war?" Prince Qoren asked, shrugging his shoulders. "When do you suppose we have the wedding? Once the Prince is dead?"

The Queen's face hardened, her eyes narrowing at him.

"I could have your tongue for that, Prince Qoren," she said coldly.

"I'm glad the formalities are off the table," he muttered bitterly. "Your war can wait. My daughter is of sun and sand and will be married here, in our lands, with our people."

Rhaenyra could barely contain her anger, too tired of hearing the Martells' unreasonable demands. The idea of postponing the war for a wedding felt like a mockery, a distraction from the battle that could determine the fate of her house.

Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes, too exhausted by the entire ordeal, the weight of her choices, and the tangled mess she now found herself in. With a deep sigh, she drained her cup, forcing herself to adopt a more civil tone.

"As much as I'm enjoying everybody's lovely company, I'm not faring well with my wound. I shall go back to my chambers to rest," the Princess excused herself as Casymir helped her stand up, wrapping his arm around her for support.

By now, the once lavish feast had lost its appeal. The delicacies had grown cold, and the appetite of those present had long since vanished.

"I'll see to it that my sister returns to her chambers safely," Elyas excused himself, rising from his seat and trailing after the Princess.

"Elyas isn't happy about your decision," Casymir said softly as he cradled the Princess in his arms.

Casymir chose to take the long path through the gardens back to her chambers, where the light of the full moon bathed everything in a silvery glow, and the warm evening breeze carried the scent of blooming magnolias. The flickering torches along the way cast dancing shadows, soothing the Princess' spirits.

"I figured as much," she scoffed. "He'll come to understand in due time."

"I'm afraid he won't, Princess," Casymir teased, making her laugh.

"Not even if I explain?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He'd understand even less," Casymir replied with a grin, his words drawing another burst of laughter from her.

At that moment, it was clear that Casymir was the only one who could truly reach her heart. She looked up at her half-brother, noting the familiar wild curls and thick brows they shared. Yet, unlike the brown eyes she and her other brothers had, his were a deep shade of blue, like the glittering Dornish waters on a sunny day.

"You should've been a jester instead, Cas," she murmured, her voice growing softer as the effects of the wine finally began to lull her into sleep. She nestled closer to his chest, allowing herself to relax completely in his arms.

"I'd rather be your shadow, Princess," his eyes softened, watching her doze off.

By the time they had arrived at her chambers, Y/n was already snoring lightly. Casymir raised his brow upon seeing his twin waiting outside.

"Leoran?" Casymir asked. "What are you doing here? Where's Elyas?"

"Inside. I'd hurry if I were you," Leoran said, opening the door for them.

Casymir stepped inside, only to find Elyas sitting on one of the seats. By the look on his face and the empty cup on the table, it seemed that he had been waiting for a while.

"What took you both so long?" He asked, looking at his half-brother in disdain.

"We were in the gardens, Y/n wanted to—"

"Leave us," he commanded.

"Very well," Casymir lowered his gaze and nodded.

He laid the Princess on her bed carefully, brushing a strand of hair off her face, but she already seemed to have been awoken by Elyas' voice. Y/n sat up, rubbing her eyes, only to be greeted by a pounding headache and a sharp pain on her side. Once she spotted her brother with his arms crossed, sitting down across from her, she groaned.

"Well?" He asked, expectantly.

"Not now, Elyas," she sighed.

"Then when?" He stood up and kicked the chair aside. "When? When were you going to tell me what you and Father were planning?"

Y/n rolled her eyes, feeling her headache worsen as Elyas' voice boomed in her ears.

"Planning?" She scoffed. "Father didn't have a say in my decision. He gave me two choices, and I merely chose the one that wouldn't lead to bloodshed."

"Oh, really? What were these two grand choices?" He pressed.

"Side with the Blacks and keep our independence, or refuse, and face the Triarchy and the Greens once this war is over," she paused, gathering all of the patience she had left to keep going. "Do you understand what that would mean, Elyas? It means another war, right on our doorstep. For us. For Dorne. For our people. And tell me, what should I have chosen? More bloodshed? More meaningless deaths? You think that's what Father would've wanted?"

"If you had told me, then I could've helped you decide!" Elyas' voice cracked with frustration, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Help me decide?" She retorted. "And by that, do you mean killing the Velaryon boy?"

"Why not?" Elyas shot back. "You had the chance! You could've slit his throat and ended it all, yet you chose to spare that bastard's life."

"And what would that have accomplished?" She shouted. "Had I killed him, you'd be nothing but a pile of ashes right now. Rhaenyra would've burned us all to the ground before I could even take his head."

"She wouldn't have dared!" Elyas shouted back, his face inches from hers, as though she was the most foolish person to live. "The last thing she needs is another war on her hands, especially against us. Her own house is already tearing itself apart!"

"Very well. If you're so smart, what would you have done?" She scoffed, crossing her arms.

"Face the Triarchy and the Greens. We were victors in the First Dornish War, Y/n. We fought then, and we could fight again. We could win."

"You? Fight?" She sneered. "Tell me, when their dragons' flames rain upon our cities, our people, what would you do? Hide behind the walls of our palace? The same walls that would be turned into ashes? Listen to me. We are not made for wars like this, Elyas. We're not prepared to face something as devastating as another Dornish war."

"And that's why we have those people fighting for us!" Elyas retorted, pointing furiously out the window.

"Those people?" she asked in disbelief. "It should be us fighting for them under those circumstances! Do you not care about the lives beyond the confines of this palace?" She turned away, already feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. "No wonder Father doesn't trust you."

"You both have no clue what you're doing. You're putting our house to shame by trusting the enemy," without warning, he grabbed her injured wrist, yanking her close. She gasped, a sharp pain shooting up her arm, but he didn't relent. "Tell me, sister," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "When this war is over, how will you know they'll keep their word? All those demands you made... you sounded so righteous, so powerful like you had the Targaryens wrapped around your finger. But you know exactly what they think of us. To them, we're nothing but foolish, power-hungry savages," he tightened his grip slightly, causing her to wince again. "And do you know what you've done, dear sister? You just proved them right."

"I'll have your whole arm if you dare lay your hands on me again," she tried to pry her wrist off of him, her voice quivering as her composure began to waver. "You're starting to forget your place, Elyas."

"And you're starting to forget what it truly means to be a Martell," he tightened his grip even more, watching as the Princess sucked a breath in through her teeth.

Elyas let go of her with a push, making the Princess stumble back on her bed. Y/n massaged her wrist with her other hand as she buried her face in her bed, heaving, and squeezing her eyes shut. She flinched upon hearing Elyas' heavy footsteps leave, the door slamming once he left her chambers.

The Princess slowly got up to pick up the jug of wine lying on the table. Upon finding out it was empty, she flung the jug across the room with a frustrated yell. Her strength gave out, and she collapsed to the ground, burying her face in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her sobs filled her chambers. The soft knocks on her door went unanswered; she knew it was Casymir, the one person who could bring her comfort, yet she couldn't bear to let him see her that way.

Her father's words echoed in her mind. She was destined to be the Princess of Dorne, a role she had fully embraced for as long as she could remember. Yet there she was, crumbling under the pressure, feeling as though every decision she made was beyond her control, burying her deeper into a grave she herself had dug.

A/N: Hello my lovelies! Thank you for being so patient with me. This chapter was a lot longer than I had expected, but here it is. Let's just take a moment and give our Princess Y/n a big hug, she needs it. I don't know why, but i'm having waaay too much fun making these extremely dramatic dialogues. and I live for their drama, tbh.

I also mentioned this before, but I'm having trouble tagging everyone. Some @'s would tag, but for some reason, some of the usernames just appear like normal text. I've double-checked every username and typed them over and over, but i still can't tag you all. Would be great if you guys could tell me how to fix this!

Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a @yohanseyebrowmole @dracaryxzs @ladyofvelaryon @burningwitchobject @lovelyteenagebeard @radtragedyarcade @dragonrider-3000 @labellapeaky @wintersoldier-101 @hummusxx @vastseamind @miksxz @cornbreadwithcheese @boiolay @op-oppai-blog @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @nichmeddar @ilovemingandming @Mgurl @marr3adsyou @lotus-888 @icarusvshozier

#dragonspear #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon smut #jace x you #jace x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #house martell #oc x reader #oc x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader smut #jacaerys velaryon x you smut

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vorestarr · 1 year ago

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ascended astarion and vampire spouses

so I've been reading the dnd 2e manual "Van Richten's Guide to Vampires" for fic/game inspiration, and there's this really interesting chapter on vampire brides and grooms. after reading it, it's very clear to me that Astarion didn't turn Tav into a typical spawn, but into a vampire spouse, which are two very different rituals with very different outcomes.

the typical vampire spawn creation process is exactly what Astarion describes happening to him: a painful death, a painful rebirth into undeath, fighting his way out of his own coffin, and Cazador's complete control over him. this is described pretty clearly in the guide to vampires:

According to most related tales, a vampire can create another simply by killing a mortal either with its life-energy draining power (draining all the character's experience leveIs) or by exhausting the mortal of his or her blood supply. If the victim's body is not properly destroyed, it arises as a vampire, under the control of the creature who killed it, on the second night following the burial. [...] Most vampires remember the instant of their death and the nature of their killer, and understand immediately their new nature. Certainly their new hunger gives them a good idea of what they have become. They must immediately free themselves from their grave. either by breaking it open from within or by assuming gaseous form and diffusing out.

so that's definitely what happened to Astarion, but that's not what happens to Tav. after ascended Astarion turns Tav into a vampire, they can ask him what happened, and he describes the following:

Astarion: You are so beautiful... And you will be beautiful forever. Thank you for trusting me. Player: What exactly happened? Astarion: You were drained dry, and at the height of your delirium, I granted you one drop of my own blood. Things will be a touch different for you than they were for me when I was a spawn. I'm imbibed with unfathomable new talents. I am fairly certain I can extend Mephistopheles' blessings unto you. Player: Does that mean I need not fear the sun? Astarion: You need not fear anything. You will be stronger, swifter, sharper, but you won't be different. You were already perfect before. It's hard to improve.

for reference, this is how the guide to vampires describes the ritual for vampire spouses:

To actually create the bride, the vampire bestows what is known as the "Dark Kiss". lt samples the blood of its mortal paramour—once, twice, thrice—draining her almost to the point of death. This process causes the subject no pain; in fact, it has been described as the most euphoric, ecstatic experience, in comparison to which all ether pleasures fade into insignificance. Just as the subject is about to slip into the terminal coma from which there is no awakening, the vampire opens a gash in its own flesh—often in its throat—and holds the subject's mouth to the wound, As the burning draught that is the vampire’s blood gushes into the subject's mouth, the primitive feeding instinct is triggered, and she sucks hungrily at the wound, enraptured. With the first taste of the blood, the subject is possessed of great and frenzied strength (Str 18, if the character’s Str isn't already higher), and will use it to prevent the vampire from separating her from the fountain of wonder that is its bleeding wound. lt is at this point that the creator-vampire's strength is most sorely tested. He is weakened by his own blood loss, and also by his own rapture as the "victim" of a dark kiss. Overcoming the sudden loss of strength and the inclinations of lust, the vampire must pull her away from its own throat, hopefully without harming her, before she has overfed. Should the subject be allowed to feed for too long (more than 2 rounds), she is driven totally and incurably insane, and will die in agony within 24 hours. Once the subject has stopped feeding, she falls into a coma that lasts minutes or hours (2dl2 turns), at the end of which time she dies. Several (1 d3) hours later, she arises as a Fledgling vampire—and her creator's bride.

this to me sounds like what Astarion describes. he drains Tav almost dry, and at the very last moment, gives them a single drop of his blood. (also interesting reading this guide, the single drop avoids the problem of the vampire spouse being driven ravenous with hunger for the vampire creator's blood and attacking them. did Astarion know this and give them one drop on purpose to avoid that and Tav potentially being driven mad by it? or was he being selfish and this is just a nice but unanticipated outcome?)

i kept reading and there's a lot more interesting information about vampire spouses, but the most interesting thing I found related to the game was this:

Although there are some folk tales that describe the bride of a vampire as its slave, in much the same way that offspring are slaves, a bride is free-willed from the moment of her creation. The creator vampire does have great influence over the bride. however although this control is totally nonmagical. When a vampire is created in the traditional manner—that is, when a victim's life energy is completely drained away—the new fledgling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses* and needs. Not so the bride.

so basically, the vampire spouse is not tied to the vampire creator in the same way as a spawn (i.e., not able to be fully controlled) but is still extremely reliant on the vampire creator to teach them how to live as a vampire. the guide goes on to describe that some vampire creators may lie to their vampire spouse about the control or powers they have, in order to exert more control over them.

interestingly, if you ask Astarion if he can compel you the way Cazador compelled him, he doesn't give a straight answer, he just says this:

Player: Cazador could compel you - can you compel me? Astarion: Why would I need to? You're going to be wonderfully obedient.

to me, all of this says that Astarion was telling the truth when he told Tav that they would be different from him as a spawn, and also in emphasizing that they are not a spawn but a consort. he didn't create a spawn, he created a vampire spouse. he married Tav, and because of this Tav also retains their free will.

of course, Astarion doesn't say this. if he knows, he withholds this information in much the way that this guide describes, as a way for the creator to maintain more control over their spouse. but still, extremely interesting implications for the ascended Astarion romance, imo.

other interesting facts about vampire spouses from the guide to vampires:

the married couple has telepathic communication that can span miles -- so Tav and Astarion can potentially have a telepathic bond even after the tadpoles are gone. (another note, this communication has to be consensual both ways for it to work, so you can't just dig around someone's mind if they don't want it.)

the vampire creator is extremely jealous and possessive. (yeah lol)

their life forces are linked, so one suffering a great deal is felt by the other.

the bond can be broken, but the ritual to do so has to be initiated by the creator. to break it, they both spill their blood on the ground and allow it to mix. this dissolves all aspects of the bond (i.e., telepathy and linked life forces), but the spouse stays a vampire.

#forgive me if this is already posted somewhere #i went looking for a post like this but tumblr's search system is so abysmal i couldn't find anything #so i'm just posting for my own reference and then tagging it for others in case :)#astarion #ascended astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #for reference #meta #baldur's gate 3

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muzansfangs · 6 months ago

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Black Russian with muzan?

The scientist and his experiment.

Starring: Muzan Kibutsuji x f!reader;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, spanking, power imbalance, blood and gore, violence, mention to death and death threats, mention to cannibalism, body horror, abusive language, hair pulling, creampie, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, demon!reader, orgasm denial, language, degradation, sub!reader, dom!muzan, testing onto underlings;

Plot: Experimenting in his laboratory, Muzan had tried once again to come up with a way to finally withstand the sunlight. Not keen to test the potion on himself, he had summoned you, one of the new Upper Moons who had joined the higher ranks. Teasing him about the most likely negative outcome of his experiment, you ended up smashing the cruet containing the potion and you both inhaled the exhalation generated by the liquid. If you both were pissed off a minute before the accident, why were you now growling and tearing your clothes off of your bodies?

Drink chosen: BLACK RUSSIAN (spanking, hair pulling, orgasm denial, vaginal sex, creampie);

MASTERLIST FOR THE EVENT | RULES FOR THE EVENT

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Not a day can pass without you craving my presence, huh?” you sassily gloated, head dangling from the edge of the canopied bed of the infamous Kibutsuji Muzan to stare at his back, flexing underneath the silken fabric of his shirt with each movement he made. If you were a lower rank he would have most likely already killed you.

He never truly enjoyed your presence, only restraining from getting rid of you for your loyalty and lethality. You were not the strongest Upper Moon at his service, yet you were the only one who solely searched for the Slayers and consumed them to the bone. Your diet was remarkably satisfying for him. Pillars, new recruits, you never paid attention to their rank. When they died, their flesh tasted the same.

“Silence” Muzan flatly muttered, pouring some greenish substance into a still empty cruet. Sadly, he had summoned you for testing his new experiment and had no interest in striking up a conversation with you. Let alone actually enjoying your company.

Then again, you could not actually believe he was completely unaffected by your charm. Brows knitting together in indignation, you scoffed and rolled off of the bed. Your kimono had slided down your shoulders, cleavage on full display for a wandering eye to admire, but still Muzan blatantly ignored you. He deemed you something between a slimy worm and pretty much an annoying fly, to be correct. A slave to his whims, at best, a pawn in his scheme to conquer the sun and expand his reign of terror to the daylight.

Walking up to him, you slammed your hands onto his desk, paying no attention to the papers you were creasing, as your head tilted to the side to scrutinize the way his hands flipped the pages of his diary, or how he carefully grasped a pipette to mix up multicolored substances “Shush me again and I won’t drink up your shitty potion. Or shall I refer to it as your new failed attempt to imitate the skills of that doctor you regrettably murdered, huh?” you asserted, fed up with his attitude.

This bastard should have been glad you worked so hard to purge Japan from his natural born enemies. You even went to the extent of setting fire to the wisteria you ran into through your journeys. However, it was not enough with him. It was never enough.

Muzan’s irritation grew exponentially at your words, jaw clenching in unbridled rage at the mention of his incapacity to find the blue spider lily and improve the medicine his doctor had given him so many centuries ago. You should have been grateful he had even bothered turning you into a demon, welcoming you in his kingdom, sharing his blood with you, donating incommensurable power and eternal beauty. Still, ungratefully, there you were, daring to mock him for his unsuccess in upgrading a stupid medication. He was a man of intellect, he only lacked a mere ingredient to perfect that effing brew.

“Useless brat, wash your mouth, when you talk about me. — he hissed through gritted teeth, the nails in his right hand sharpening under your now wary gaze — Will you ever understand how insignificant to me you are and how privileged you have been for having stumbled on my path?” he bitterly stated, snapping his diary close with a dull thud and tossing it across the room in sheer wrath.

His fangs had protruded from his gums, shiny, pointy and deadly. The veins rooting on his face and his pupils reduced to two slits were your last warning. You tried to dodge his attack, but the dark blood dripping down the floor from your face, as your skin slowly regenerated, were events happening in a fraction of time not even your demonic eye had registered. The pain though was there, the wince burning your throat the proof he had already struck you, before you could react.

A slash straight on your cheek, deep cuts left by his claws still bleeding up led you to clasp your hand pathetically over the wounds, as if you could stop the flow. You cussed, fury glinting in your eyes, your subservient nature leaving space to an unprecedented thirst for revenge nothing could quench. You knew beating him was impossible. Lacking the skills was the least of your problems. Why? Because how could you defeat someone who could read your mind?

You growled, fangs on full display, before your good eye darted from his face to the desk. Fetching a blow directly at him would have never worked, but not even Lord Kibutsuji could prevent glass from shattering, or ink to restore on the paper.

The moment he understood your aim was not directed at him, he did not hesitate to wrap his hand around your throat. The air was sucked out of your lungs, feet leaving the ground, kicking at the air, as you glared in defiance at him. Maybe he thought he could physically stop you, but your blood demon technique worked without you touching the elements you wanted to destroy.

“Don’t you dare” he snarled at your face, his nails digging onto your smooth flesh drawing crescent bloody moons, tinging your white kimono in a crimson shade of red.

“Respectfully, f-fuck you” you choked out, smiling like a mad woman as you snapped your fingers and the very potion he had just ultimated exploded into a million splinters under his incredulous eyes. The sound of the glass shattering was the sign of your victory. You were probably going to die, your immortal life coming to an end by the very hands of the man who had gifted you that second chance of living like a supernatural being.

But you smiled, you never stopped smiling, not even as your forehead was smashed down against the edge of the desk. You laughed instead, an hysterical but genuine laughter that made Muzan’s blood boil as he tangled his fingers through your hair and strained your neck back to meet your eyes. Pain was long forgotten in that very moment. Every fiber of your body screamed to you that you had reached a level of freedom from him no one had ever been able to reach.

“You are a degenerate worm not deserving of existing. The sight of you makes me vomit” he deadpanned, forcing you back on your feet roughly and tightening the grip on your hair, as he watched the puddle of the liquid spilled sizzling onto the carpet underneath his feet, liquifying it. He had failed then. He had wasted his time once again. Two weeks spent in mixing together ingredients, studying new a formula, only to be reminded of the thruth you had shouted at his face: he could not match the skill of that damned doctor.

He never lost his composure, not even when he punished his underlings. But you had truly amazed him with your stupid antics and a kink for self-destructing choices. He had made up his mind. You could not live another day. You had to die, now. It would have not been enough to calm him down but it was going to be extremely satisfying anyway. He wanted to be covered in your blood, only to forget your name when he would have washed himself.

But no, he needed you to suffer. What a way to go down it would have been, if he devoured you?

“I was right, you’re too dumb to comprehend chemistry” you spluttered out, your vision finally restored albeit you were still bleeding out on the parquet.

The moment he heard the sound of you voice again, he pinned your head down onto what remained of his potion, disgust in his gaze as he watched you whimper out in pain as the liquid burned your skin. It was corrosive, your flesh on fire as he forced you to practically wipe the carpet with your cheek. The sadism in his action dripped hatred, while tears brimmed up in your eyes. You clawed at the carpet, disperately attempting to set yourself free, but Muzan had other plans for you. Kneeling down next to your writhing frame, he grinned, lifting your head up to examine the resault of his assault. Your cheek was deeply damaged, but you would have surely been able to regenerate it.

“Tell me, Y/N, would you rather have me consume you to the bone, or reduce you to nothing by biting chunks off of your body? Tell me, you stupid bitch” he chimed, your mouth going dry as you inhaled sharply, eyelids closing to avoid looking him in the eye.

Muzan clicked his tongue, impressed by your sudden silence. He leaned even closer, taking a whiff of the disturbing smell of that potion that had scarred your face. His lips curled into a crooked smile, his eyes watching intently the way you sobbed and your skin gradually restored its former smoothness. Your head was spinning at this point, breath uneven, whilst Muzan pushed you down onto the carpet once again. He had all the intent of beginning to devour you, his mouth salivating as he leaned down closer to you.

He barely had the time to pierce your jugular, though, that he felt his pants tighten uncomfortably. A boner in the middle of a hunt. This was not exactly what he had anticipated, just like the sweat beading his forehead and his heart pumping the blood faster in his veins. This was primal arousal, a need setting his body on fire as he pulled his bloodied mouth away from your neck. Your whine, pained, was strained with something else. Muzan saw the way you were writhing underneath him, chest heaving, as you pressed your thighs together.

Your dilated pupils, the way droplets of sweat were running down the valley of your breasts causing his cock to twitch into his undergarments. You were just as aroused as he was, thrashing onto the carpet in agony. He could smell your hormones, he could see the way you were looking at him questioningly. You were on fire.

“What the Hell have you done to me?” you blurted out, gripping the collar of his shirt so harshly it ended up being torn.

Muzan refused to believe this was the effect caused by his potion, but it was the only valid explanation to this. He bristled, swatting your hand away and growling at your face like an animal “Oh, believe him, I wanted to kill you, not to fuck you. — he snarled, grasping your jaw roughly and leaning his face down to let his lips hover over yours hazardously — Now, however, I have no other choice but to rut into someone. The question is: do you want to be that someone and be satisfied, or do you wish for me to end your misery in a more brutal and permanent way?” he hissed, watching the way you stared daggers at him.

You had a choice, that much was true. You did not want to die, you still had plenty of things to do before dying. The possibility to be eradicated from the world was not alluring anymore. Your clit throbbing between your legs, craving attention, some kind of friction, made you agree with him. You gritted your teeth, legs spread to let him accomodate between them.

“So be it” you stated, watching him fidget with his hands to unbuckle the belt keeping his trousers up.

It was not something you two could control. The fire coiling on your lower abdomen matched the pulsing desire in Muzan’s briefs. Gentleness, care were far away from them. The moment he had gotten rid of his clothes, he was already disrobing you of yours.

You thought it was going to be a regular intercourse, something to look back at with a weird sense of disgust and the thrill of the rush, but it turned out to be much more than that. Flipping you over your stomach, Muzan gripped your hair with one hand to force you to arch your spine. The bulbous tip of his cock dragging up and down your slippery heat to collect your juices.

“If you think I am merciful enough to grant you the sight of my face, you’re even more of a goose than I deemed you to be” he rasped out, your scalp stinging, as he yanked you back against his chest.

You whined, mouth ajar, as you felt him enter you. The friction was surprisingly smooth and pleasurable, your spongy walls sucking him in perfectly, whilst he grunted from behind you “Honored! You should feel honored I’m f-fucking you” he mocked you, hips driving into yours quickly, smacking your skin with a ferocity you had never experienced before.

You moaned out, unable to look back at his face, but capable to speak up again “I should’ve let you fuck your fist. How would it have felt, huh? Instead— fuck, instead, there you are, nestled into me and moaning like a pig to the slaughter… H-How low the Demon King has fallen” you taunted him nack, regretting your impudent display of courage instantly.

The smack on your rear felt like incandescent iron on your flesh, his cock rubbing insistently through your walls causing you to babble out incoherent words you could not repeat. Muzan was furious, his desire to ruin you and humiliate you blinding him as he felt you clamping down onto his length tightly. No, you did not deserve to reach your orgasm, but he did.

The sudden feeling of emptiness within you felt like a cold shower, as you gasped and tried to whip your head around to meet his gaze “What—”.

The audacity, the direspect you continued to show him could not proceed any further. He could not bear the sight of you for any longer.

Your protests falling deaf to his ears, as he pumped his shaft with one hand, lolling his head back in ecstasy as he felt his orgasm wash over him as a violent wave. The feeling of his seed dripping down over the curve of ass, warm, sticky, was the last thing you felt before you heard the biwa’s melody echo through the room and you fell naked and alone into a black-pitch forest.

Underserving of an answer. Underserving of a goodbye. You were nothing for him.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi, there! Well, guys, what can I say? Muzan is a walking red flag. Let’s be real, albeit I love studying his character and personality, he would very much do all of the atrocities you’ve read in my fic. I do not condone any of this and I never will, therefore I will keep on depicting him more human in my modern au’s and pretend he is a good person. Stay the fuck away from people like him, hons❤️

Writing is fun, but he is a monster.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @mrskokushibo @doumadono

#kibutsuji muzan x reader #muzan x reader #muzan smut #demon slayer smut #kny smut #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #demon slayer fanfic #muzan x you #muzan x y/n #muzan kibutsuji

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