#i just want to inject them all in my veins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkmatilda · 2 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer had heard rumors that a few female students secretly had a crush on him, but he always dismissed it as a joke and never intended to engage in any kind of relationship with them. that is, until a certain bright and quiet one caught his attention.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: professor reid x student!female reader, spence's pov only, uni looks like a f1ucking hogwart just for the vibe, reader having some daddy issues and revealing some past experiences, father's death anniversary, trauma dumping actually but it's not a self-insert story i just really got into it lol, age gap, fingering, insane sexual tension during their convos, kinda socially awkward reader who's also an irony queen from time to time, talking, lots of talking blah blah

𝐚/𝐧: a special dedication to my beloved girlies who feel that if they ever crossed paths with spencer reid they’d be too stupid to talk to him. it's also a request i got from one of you <3 hope you'll enjoy it

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.9k

Dr. Reid didn’t notice her right away.

Alright, fine. Dr. Reid did notice her. His analytical mind placed great importance on everything happening around him. He observed the faces of his students, instantly committing their names to memory—he wanted to know who attended his lectures. A more accurate statement would be that, at first, he didn’t pay her any special attention.

She struck him as quiet. And she was quiet. Silent and observant—that was the impression he had of her. When he formed that opinion, he wasn’t thinking about her yet. While reading, he didn’t wonder whether the book he had chosen would appeal to her, nor did he consider which aspects of it might draw her into the depths of discussion, making her usually tightly pressed lips come alive with unceasing words. Arriving at the university with a briefcase in hand, his coat tightly wrapped around him, he didn’t fixate on the ever-thickening layer of snow or brush its delicate flakes from his hair. His mind was entirely absorbed by thoughts of whether her clothing was suited to the weather and if she might be cold. Most importantly, when he formed that opinion, his gaze, upon entering the lecture hall, didn’t immediately begin searching for her face—unassuming and half-hidden among the others—before he’d even greeted the rest of the students.

Because when he formed that opinion, she was just a student, like all the others.

His lectures with her group were held twice a week, at a time when everything outside the window slowly began to gray, and they usually ended with a sense of relief for all the students, as another day of study came to a close. Reid always stayed a moment longer in the room, ready to answer any lingering questions or offer help with any issues. These questions often repeated. Sometimes, when he felt particularly tired, he didn’t have to exert much effort in his responses. That didn’t mean, of course, that he was ignorant. It was simply that his lips seemed to know the right words; he didn’t need to fully wake up or concentrate.

It was the same that late November afternoon. She approached slowly, almost shyly, to his desk, waiting for the moment when everyone else would finally disappear through the door. As if she were embarrassed that her question might reach unwanted ears. He lifted his gaze to her, immediately noticing her retreat and uncertainty, and smiled gently, encouragingly, to embolden her. And the question she asked had the effect of caffeine injected directly into his veins.

His brain immediately sprang into action, so absorbed and genuinely intrigued. Surprised, even. He answered her question, of course, but when he felt the penetrating, eager gaze of her eyes on him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything he said was inadequate and couldn’t satisfy her curiosity. He even became somewhat stressed and lost his train of thought. A slight hint of amusement stretched her lips, but, luckily for him, she ignored it, sparing him any embarrassment. They discussed a topic unusually connected to the lecture, and he hadn’t felt so intellectually engaged in a long time, though it lasted only a quarter of an hour. Afterward, she disappeared through the door like everyone else, thanking him for the answer before she left.

He didn’t hide the fact that his thoughts returned to that conversation. And when, after another lecture, she approached him again in that same characteristic manner, he hoped she would pick up where they left off. That they would continue their discussion exactly at that interrupted point. But her question was about something else, something equally fascinating, and at that moment, in that instant, he completely erased everything from his mind that had come before, fully absorbed in what they were now discussing.

Slowly, it all stopped being solely about criminology lectures and started touching on every possible tangent, from literature to more mundane matters, like current events at the university. But no matter what they were talking about, he approached it with the same level of engagement. He was pleased that it had become their little ritual.

Being, let’s not shy away from the word, a genius, meant that it was hard for him to find someone on the same intellectual level. And he didn’t say this with disdain for others, absolutely not. Spencer always enjoyed those little chats with others, truly cherished the time spent with his close ones. He just sometimes needed that kind of intellectual stimulation.

With the second week of December, something changed.

It was probably something about her general mood. Well, this month was often exceptionally depressing for a large portion of the population, but it didn’t seem like that was the issue. She had once mentioned to him that she really valued winter.

“Really?” he asked then, resting one hand on the desk. Usually, their conversations followed the typical, unspoken arrangement of their bodies in relation to each other. He, more relaxed, often prone to gestures, and she, much less expressive. Her hip didn’t tilt to either side, she maintained a straight posture, and liked to hold something in her hands—like a notebook. When she had nothing, her fingers gently brushed the edge of the desk. Spencer couldn’t help but constantly lower his gaze to her hands and analyze their subtle movements. When he spoke, they remained still, frozen in focus. When she spoke, they would move in fluid, wave-like motions to the sides. He tried not to stare too much, as he was sure that if she caught him, she’d stop. But he liked those moments of uncontrolled naturalness in her. “What do you like about it so much?”

Her facial expressions were fascinating. Complex, like the world depicted in some novel. At the same time, difficult to decipher; sometimes, he had to guess what some small gestures meant. She blinked rarely, and when she did it more often than usual, it seemed to substitute for a shrug or uncertainty.

“I think it’s mostly how short the days are. When one of them turns out to be a failure, you don’t have to wait long until the new one begins.”

“When a day feels like a failure, you don’t have to write it off completely. Maybe sometimes it’s worth trying to fix it, at any moment you find yourself in.”

“That’s very wise advice, professor. But not for me,” she scoffed. “When something goes wrong, I’d rather start over right away than linger in that bad streak. Even when I make a mistake while taking notes, I...”

“You tear the page out and start writing on a clean one,” he blurted out the end of the sentence, his back straightening slightly when he realized he had said it out loud.

He had noticed how she did that, not once or twice. However, he was slightly embarrassed by the fact that he had admitted to staring at her during lectures. And he didn’t do it on purpose! Most of all, not obsessively. It just happened that the longer they knew each other, the more their private conversations continued, the more often his gaze drifted toward her. Sometimes, while analyzing a topic, he was so curious about what she thought, specifically what she thought, that he simply couldn’t stop himself… although usually, he still couldn’t read much from her face.

At his observation, her hand resting on the edge of the desk froze.

“Exactly,” she admitted, giving him a gentle smile. He looked at her more closely then, noticing the slight radiance on her face. That expression suited her. It wasn’t as if she always wore a completely serious or sad face. More often, though, she hid her emotions instead of eagerly presenting every little feeling she had. She cleared her throat, and Spencer immediately dropped his gaze. “I hope the sound of tearing paper doesn’t throw you off rhythm.”

“Of course not,” he reassured her quickly. “Don’t even worry about it. The only thing that throws me off rhythm is conversations.”

“That doesn’t happen often, though,” she replied. “I mean, others don’t talk to each other when you’re speaking. It’s completely different in other classes.”

This comment surprised him immensely; he frowned and asked what she meant by it.

"Maybe it's just my observation," she noted at the start. "Maybe it's about the way you speak—you’re... you're very engaged in the topic, and listening to you is so pleasant that others don't feel the need to make silly remarks or interrupt. Or maybe..." She suddenly stopped, a tension flickered across her face, as if she desperately wanted to pull back from what she was about to say.

"Or maybe...?" He couldn't stop himself, so curious to hear the end of the sentence. Then he noticed her discomfort, her gaze fixed on the desk, embarrassment washing over her. His curiosity wasn’t worth making her feel that way, and he quickly scolded himself. "It's fine, you don't have to continue..."

"Or maybe I just think that others are quieter because of how focused I am," she blurted out in one breath, pressing her lips together in embarrassment. Spencer felt an unidentified shift in the rhythm of his heart, beating against his chest. "On you. On the lecture, of course."

"On the lecture," he repeated, his voice strangely husky. He swallowed, trying to clear it, struggling to find the right words. "I'm... I'm really glad that you find everything I say so interesting."

"Of course I do," she replied carefully. "Criminology is my passion, and it's the field I want to explore as deeply as I can. And you're a huge authority to me. Like, I’m sure, to all the other students too," she added hastily.

As December progressed, their conversations became a bit less lively and shorter. Or maybe it was just some mistaken impression of his? Maybe he had grown to like them so much and looked forward to them so eagerly that no matter how long they lasted, it would never be enough for him? He felt strange with such a thought and immediately reprimanded himself. He shouldn't be placing so much importance on his meetings with his student.

She shouldn’t occupy his thoughts as much as she did.

Brilliant, now he was starting to pin all the blame on her.

Pathetic.

Looking back, that day was exceptionally bright. Snowflakes fell relentlessly from the sky, twirling in a dance-like motion and tracing delicate patterns in the air. A thick layer of snow on the windowsills cast a white glow across the room and seemed to shield the interior from the intrusion of any potential darkness.

Spencer had promised himself he wouldn’t look at her the moment he walked into the room. And yet, he did. Though she might have seemed like a loner, she had a small circle of friends—three, to be precise. A quiet girl, a guy, and, finally, another girl who was their complete opposite, always seeming to voice the thoughts of their entire group aloud.

Before his arrival, they seemed to be discussing something. She was only half-listening, her eyes fixed on the book she was reading. When she did respond, which was rare, her lips barely parted. Meanwhile, as she turned the pages, her hands gripped them so tightly it looked as if she might tear them apart.

He mentally noted the detail, curious about what kind of book could evoke such emotions in her. He desperately needed to know the title. Or maybe it wasn’t about the book at all? It didn’t matter. He had to find out anyway.

Reid couldn’t make out the writing on the cover—simple and black, like some kind of journal. Throughout the entire lecture, it lay closed right under her nose. Craning his neck and trying to identify it he probably looked like a total idiot. It was only after some time that he reminded himself, sobered by the thought that, based on what she had once told him—and assuming it had been a sincere admission—he was, in some way, an authority figure to these students. He ought to focus on passing on as much of his knowledge to them as possible in return.

When the class finally came to an end, everyone began heading for the exit. She usually packed her things at a very slow pace, making sure to be the last one in the room, apart from him. She wasn’t doing anything wrong; she had the right to stay and talk to her professor, but she still approached it with some caution. Maybe she didn’t want to raise the curiosity of her friends? In any case, that day she didn’t slow down as she made her way to his desk. She followed the other figures toward the exit, arm in arm with a friend who was saying something to her. Spencer was surprised to notice that she didn’t turn toward him even once.

Before he could understand what she was doing, he called her name. Loudly.

She wasn’t the only one who turned around, but she was the only one who stayed. He tried hard to read the expression on her face. She seemed a little distracted, her gaze moving from the door to him, and he began to suspect that maybe she had simply forgotten about their brief conversations. He deeply hoped that was the case. Not that she had any problems, or that he had said something she didn’t like…

“Yeah?” she asked, tightly holding a thick book against her chest. He still hadn’t figured out which one, and it still intrigued him. “Do you want to talk about something, professor?”

Reid suddenly realized in panic that he hadn’t prepared any topic. He had called her over spontaneously, not even really knowing why. Usually, it was her who approached him with a question, and the conversation would flow on its own… but the weight of her gaze left him no time to think.

"Well..." he began, nervously swallowing and feeling like a small, pathetic boy. "Actually, no... actually, I just wanted to know... if you had any questions. About the lecture, I mean."

He leaned one hand on the desk, hoping he didn’t look as deeply embarrassed as he felt. What the hell was happening to him?

"I don't have any," she replied. Spencer almost sighed in disappointment, barely managing to stop himself. She had been standing very close to the closed door, turning toward it as if making sure no one was behind it. Then, suddenly, she timidly stepped closer to him. "To be honest, I wasn't really focused today. I guess... it’s just not my day."

His brows furrowed in brief concern.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you need me to explain something in more detail? It's... really no trouble for me, and I don’t want you to fall behind."

"Please don't worry about it, professor," she assured him. Her fingers tightened around the book she was holding, and the sigh that escaped her lips carried with it a small... smile? "Thank you for that, but I'll just take notes from someone and catch up on my own. I don't want to take up your time..."

"It's really no trouble..."

"...And by the way... I don't feel too well. My focus is nonexistent so it wouldn’t make much sense."

"Alright," he gave in, and for a moment, they both fell silent. Looking at her face, he tried to find any signs of illness, a developing cold, or maybe the flu. She did look a bit pale. She shifted from foot to foot, and he realized he had been staring at her and quickly shook his head. "Sorry for holding you up. You should go and try to rest. Have…have something warm to drink. It will do you good."

She wasn’t gazing longingly at the door, impatient with his words and eager to leave, as he had thought she would. In fact... she seemed to be looking at him with a hint of hesitation.

"It’s not that... I can’t focus at all," she began. "It’s just that more complicated topics can’t settle in my mind. Related to studying, mostly. But that doesn’t mean I want to shut myself off completely. Honestly, I think I could use a bit of conversation..." A sudden laugh escaped her lips. "Sorry, really. I didn’t mean to bother you with... nonsense. I should probably talk to a friend, not a professor, if I just wanted to chat..."

She flinched, as if about to turn and leave—almost run away. Spencer straightened abruptly, wanting to stop her.

“No, wait—don’t go. You can talk to me. What is it? Is something bothering you?”

Her gaze wandered aimlessly around the room for a moment before she finally shook her head.

"Nothing specific. Stress, the end of the semester, you know. Everyone’s only talking about that, and I just want to think about something else for a moment. Anything."

"I completely understand," Reid admitted. Leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, he studied her more intently. A flicker of doubt sparked within him—was it really just that? Something inside him tugged, eager to uncover everything weighing on her mind and causing such a somber mood. But he knew her well enough by now to realize that a direct question would only make her retreat.

He paused, considering what he would want to talk about if he needed to distract himself from a troubling thought.

"Does... does literature fall under those complicated topics you can’t quite settle in your mind?"

She dropped her head with a sudden laugh. A fleeting sense of satisfaction washed over him, as if he’d just achieved some long-term goal. Odd, but pleasant.

“No,” she replied. “Literature is actually a topic I could talk about even in the middle of the night, freshly woken from sleep. In theory, at least. In practice, I’d probably start mixing up names so much you wouldn’t even know which work I was referring to. I mean, they wouldn’t. The person who woke me up wouldn’t know—I didn’t mean you specifically…”

This time, it was him who started laughing as she, embarrassed, tried to untangle herself from her own words.

"I got the general message."

"Thank God. You know, I've been thinking lately that if I just kept my mouth shut every time I said something stupid, I’d save myself from a ton—no, an enormous amount of incredibly awkward social situations."

It amused him that she had pointed out a problem he himself often dealt with. He opened his mouth to say something, but almost immediately had to close it again. He nearly blurted out that he found all her moments of embarrassment genuinely endearing and didn’t want her to hold back from speaking around him just out of fear of self-embarrassment.

Before he could even decide if it was the appropriate thing to say, she spoke again.

“So… why did you ask about literature?”

He was so lost in thought that for a brief moment, he almost forgot that he had even brought up the topic. It wasn’t until his gaze once again landed on the book she was holding that he snapped back to reality.

“I spent most of the lecture wondering what you were reading,” he admitted, still standing with his back to the desk, leaning on it with his hands, trying to hide their brief, slight tremor. Maybe he had said it too directly… or perhaps it was just his usual tendency to overanalyze every word he said to her. Quickly, he added, “Because I’m sure I’ve never seen that book before. I don’t recognize the cover at all, although I know there can be different editions. What’s the author’s name?”

She gave him the name with a strange expression. Spencer furrowed his brows, but she beat him to it, speaking before he could say anything.

“That’s right, it’s my father’s book.”

Honestly intrigued, he tilted his head to the side.

"I didn’t know he was a writer. And... to be completely honest, I’ve never heard of him..."

To his surprise, she laughed. Not shyly and genuinely as before, but with a bitterness that lingered in her voice.

"It’s not that he was a writer. He just really, really wanted to be one. But no publisher was really interested in what came out of his office. Which doesn’t surprise me much. Anyway, in the end, he gave up and printed that one copy just to have something to proudly put on the shelf."

He felt that they had stepped onto some unstable ground, one that required him to tread carefully. Or perhaps even retreat if it might cause her any pain. And it seemed that it did. However, Spencer felt too concerned to pull back.

“Why are you reading his book, anyway?” he asked cautiously. Her face remained expressionless, and he wondered if she even caught the gist of his question. Most likely, she did—without a problem—but he felt an inner need to add something more, to keep the conversation flowing smoothly instead of making it feel like an interrogation. “Maybe… maybe it’s just my completely wrong assumption—correct me if I’m off—but you didn’t exactly look… like you were enjoying it much.”

She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She forced herself to stay calm, forced herself to appear at ease. But it was too late—the enigmatic shield that had protected her from all sides had been cracked, and her expression turned transparent, everything behind it

"He's gone. Two years ago, in December," she admitted, her voice lacking overt despair, though tinged with the unmistakable weight of layered pain. She seemed uncomfortable sharing it—not with him as a person, but with him as her professor. "A few days before Christmas. Last year... I don’t know why, maybe just to torture myself, I started reading it. And this year, the same thing. The month started, and somehow, subconsciously... I just woke up with the book in my hands at one point. That’s... for context. Forgive me if this doesn’t interest you at all. I probably said too much…”

“No, you didn’t. Don’t think that,” he assured her, instinctively taking a step forward, closer to her, though he couldn’t quite explain why. The conversation had drifted into an unexpected territory, but this was exactly what he had wanted—to know what had been weighing on her. “At least… at least now I understand what’s been making you feel the way you do lately. I won’t keep catching myself trying to guess what’s behind it anymore. And I won’t worry so much, now that I know.”

“Worry,” she repeated immediately after him, before the echo of his previous words had a chance to dissolve into the void. Her tone was the kind used to point out someone’s grammatical slip-ups—sharp, quick, decisive. As if she simply couldn’t help herself.

Spencer froze in place, just one step away from her. Now that he was finally this close, he could have taken a proper look at the cover of the book she was holding, but suddenly, it didn’t matter at all. His focus was entirely on her—her words, her face, and the quiet weight of the troubles she carried.

He didn’t know what he should do, his hands falling limply at his sides. He imagined what it would feel like to gently touch her cheek—he could do it, all it would take was moving his hand forward. That was all that separated them. Just that small distance and some ingrained barrier in his mind, shaking its head in disapproval and conjuring painfully vivid images of her pulling away before his fingers even grazed her skin, leaving him as quickly as she could.

“It’s not that… reading this book is such a complete torment,” she began with a sigh, relaxing her posture slightly as his shadow loomed just above her. She held the book out toward him, so close that she didn’t even have to extend her elbow. She had clearly changed the subject. “You can… check for yourself. It’s decently written. At times, good. It has some insightful points. Page 814, for example. Verse 6.”

Surprised not only by the request but also by her precise instructions, Reid took the book from her without hesitation. It was incredibly thick and heavy, with no interesting illustrations on the cover, only the author’s name written in fancy font. Though his reading speed was impressive, instead of absorbing the information on the following pages, he focused on reaching the one she had pointed out.

The mentioned quote was underlined with a black line, as if drawn with a ruler.

"It is impossible to prove your loyalty under favorable conditions. For it to happen, something must shake your world, the walls of your home must begin to crumble, and challenges must materialize outside. Only then, in that most difficult moment for both of you, can you finally prove to the other person that you will never leave them, and that your love will never reach their back."

"I love this quote," she said before he could formulate any thought. Surprisingly, there was no trace of irony in her voice. "Honestly. It's accurate and aligns with my personal worldview. But at the same time, it amuses me incredibly..." She scoffed bitterly. "...That it came from the pen of a guy who, after sixteen years of marriage, got another woman pregnant. Oopsie. A bit of hypocrisy, don't you think?"

Completely shaken by the confession, Spencer placed his hand on her shoulder. He didn't care that she had said it all in a tone dripping with sarcasm, not in the form of a broken lament. He still felt that he had to, felt that he needed to offer her some form of support, even if it was as weak as touching her hand.

She seemed to be in shock. Those earlier words had almost escaped from her lips on their own, and she kept them slightly parted, as if hoping they would return. And when they didn't, she must not have expected his reaction. Or maybe she was counting on a response just as sharp as her tone, a snicker or a biting retort. Not a touch, not a tender furrowing of his brow.

Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks flushed with a delicate redness.

“Sorry, really. Can I... can I open the window? I think I need some fresh air…”

Instead of responding, he guided her toward the window, his hand resting on her back, hovering just at the edge of touch. She closed her eyes, feeling the winter chill against her face, and sighed. Spencer, though reluctantly, stepped back a couple of paces, giving her space. But he couldn't stop himself from studying her face. He hadn't noticed it before, too focused on her mind, but now he saw that her face, her presence, was just as beautiful.

Was it just a simple statement of fact, or a thought that had emerged from the unpredictable corners of his inner self?

They spent a moment, maybe even a few minutes, in silence. After that, she hesitantly turned to him over her shoulder.

"Oh no, don't you dare apologize again," he warned, extending his hand in a firm gesture.

"But I should," she said. "You're my professor, and I just came to you and started unloading about my life. It's not even just inappropriate anymore, it's simply pathetic."

"As long as I don't consider it inappropriate or pathetic, then it isn't. And you place too much importance on the fact that I'm your professor. Maybe... it would help you if you stopped seeing me only in that context, and started... seeing me as, say, a friend. And if that's too much, then at least as a genuinely interested conversational partner?"

The corners of her lips suddenly trembled.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Well, I think we could argue about the definition if we wanted to."

“There’s no need for that,” she said, turning fully away from the window and leaning on the windowsill with her elbows. A few traces of a blush still lingered on her face, adding so much charm that Spencer’s thoughts began to wander in such a dangerous direction that he had to look away. “But… I need to know. Is that… what you really think of me? A conversation companion? A slash, a friend?”

“I’m not sure… if I understand,”

One of her nails bent as she nervously tapped it on the windowsill.

“I just want to know if you think of me as someone more than an annoying student who bothers you after every lecture.”

Reid was momentarily taken aback.

“You thought I thought of you like that?”

Unfazed, she blinked.

“You tell me.”

"He didn’t know how to put it into words without it sounding inappropriate. In the end, he decided to stop worrying about propriety and just be honest.

"Not once, since you started coming to see me, have I thought you were irritating. But more than once, I’ve thought that you’re truly fascinating, and I even... I even found myself eagerly awaiting what you’d want to talk about next."

Her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened to him. The old, familiar impenetrability returned to her expression—her eyes slightly narrowed, her lips... perhaps on the verge of an uncertain smile?

He never got the chance to find out. Immediately after his words, someone interrupted them, completely shattering the atmosphere inside.

"Are there any more classes here?" asked the man responsible for cleaning, peeking inside. "I thought they were over..."

"Because they are," Reid quickly replied, only now noticing that, indeed, darkness had fallen outside. Their classes had taken place in the afternoon, and the conversation had stretched so long that early winter evening had already begun. "We were just... just leaving."

"Well then, I guess goodbye," she said once they were outside. "It really got late, and I need to rewrite my notes..."

For some reason, he felt incredibly disappointed.

The last lecture before the Christmas break took place in a dreamy atmosphere. Everyone's spirit was already outside the classroom, far from criminology-related topics, surrounded by family and loved ones.

As usual, he couldn't stop glancing in her direction. He was incredibly pleased that nothing had changed since their memorable conversation, and their routine of chatting after every class remained untouched. Or perhaps something had changed? Their mutual ease with one another had grown, as had the range of topics they navigated. His impatience for their conversations had grown as well...

That day, he waited for her to approach his desk with her characteristic, slow, perfectly controlled step. He watched, almost hypnotized, as she did, adjusting her bag on her shoulder before standing up from her seat. But when she was right in front of him, one of her friends, the loud one, suddenly grabbed her hand.

"Don't tell me you're planning to bother him again," she scoffed. "We were supposed to go out and eat together before I head home, remember?"

"Oh," her friend hesitated, casting an apologetic glance at Spencer. They were too close for him not to overhear their conversation. He felt a selfish frustration rising within him. "Actually, sorry, I forgot. But...Can you give me a minute?"

Her friend rolled her eyes but nodded, and after a moment, they were left alone in the room.

"You're not staying to chat, or has my deduction skills gotten worse?"

"Unfortunately. I mean, unfortunately, I'm not staying. For long. I just wanted to... wish you a Merry Christmas."

Sometimes, when he talked to her, he forgot there was a world outside of their conversation, and that such a thing as months existed, and one of them was December. Christmas, right.

"Merry Christmas, to you too. I hope... I hope you'll have a really nice time."

He didn't know what else to add. Everything he said could lead to a long discussion, and outside the door, her friend was probably waiting for her to join her. So he stayed silent, a little awkwardly. She gave him an equally awkward smile. Awkward, but sincere.

Her feet shuffled in place, as if they wanted to stay in the room, not leave.

She waved goodbye once more to break the tension and disappeared through the door.

Spencer let out a heavy sigh. Maybe he should've said something. Suddenly, so many possible topics came to his mind. For example, the holiday party, the ball, organized by her department. Was she planning to go? What about Christmas itself? Was she going to spend it with her family? How was she feeling? How had her day gone? Did she enjoy the lecture? They were short questions, ones she'd probably answer just as briefly. He could have asked any of them.

But it was too late. They won't see each other until the beginning of the new semester.

He overanalyzed the interaction for a few more hours, later that evening, on his way to the university library. The corridors were almost empty; the students had either left or were attending the Christmas ball that had just begun. It might have sounded a bit serious and pompous, but such an event was indeed organized every year by a different department. It shouldn’t be confused with a student party, as formal attire was required, and the music was usually classical or instrumental versions of traditional carols. It was a way to thank the students, faculty, and university management for completing another semester.

Initially, Reid had planned to stop by briefly, but after feeling strange for a few hours and sensing a migraine coming on, he decided to skip it. He definitely preferred to spend the evening among the shelves and books. He rarely admitted it to others, but the reason he chose this particular university was not the salary offered, but the richness of their library’s resources.

He had hoped that spending time there would help distract him from a certain student, who had progressively been occupying his thoughts more and more. In fact, she already had a room in his mind. A room. A damn palace with seven bedrooms, each dedicated to a different day of the week. What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see her almost immediately after stepping into the library. Fast asleep in one of the corners, her face resting on a small table with four seats around it, only one of which was occupied—hers.

Reid couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of it.

Before he had a chance to think about it, before the thought even crossed his mind that perhaps she didn’t want anyone disturbing her in the middle of her late-night solo study session, he moved closer, carefully stepping so as not to wake her. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he could probably jump up and down, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Both of her ears were plugged with headphones, effectively shutting her off from the sounds of the outside world.

Despite this fact, he carefully sat down on the edge of the table to her left, so close that her limp hand, resting on it, ended up parallel and very close to his leg. First, he glanced at the textbooks spread out before her, then at the thick book by her father, the one she still read every day. Finally, his gaze fell on her—on that face, deeply asleep. Unable to resist, he lifted his trembling hand and gently tucked the strands of hair that had fallen onto her face behind her ear.

The moment his fingers brushed her skin, she jolted awake with a startled flinch. Spencer blushed, realizing only then what he had done. To avoid embarrassing himself, he quickly cleared his throat and spoke up.

“Sorry to wake you. But this probably isn’t the most comfortable place to nap.”

She straightened up, blinking in confusion.

“Did I fall asleep…?” Her gaze locked on him, and she shook her head, now fully awake. “Oh, I definitely fell asleep. I didn’t even notice you coming up.”

“Maybe I was sneaking around too much. Anyway, what were you working on before you passed out? Studying, reading?”

Still rubbing her tired face, she looked at her things.

“I guess a bit of both. I had some catch-up work I wanted to do. Then I decided I had enough, and my brain just couldn’t absorb any more new facts or information. So, I started reading.” She nodded toward the book.

Reid stared at her for a moment longer.

“You know… I’ve been thinking about it lately,” he began. It was a little hard for him to focus on speaking when she rested her chin on her hand, looking at him from beneath her lifted lashes. Her eyes were puffy, mascara slightly smudged under her eyelids, but she still looked… well, it was hard to put it into a single word. “About your dad’s book, I mean.” Actually, he'd mostly been thinking about her, but that topic had popped into his mind for a moment. “And that quote you read to me once. It seemed pretty good, and I’m surprised no publisher wanted to release it. What’s it actually about?”

He felt confused by the sudden amusement that appeared on her face.

“What’s going on?” He furrowed his brows.

She shook her head, trying to suppress her laughter.

“Just so you know, I’m not laughing at you,” she quickly reassured him. “It’s just when I imagined your reaction… okay, just listen. My dad’s novel is about a young student, a poor one, who, in a moment of desperation, decides to murder a woman from whom he borrowed money. And then for the next thousand pages, he alternates between hating himself and trying to justify his actions in his own eyes.”

Spencer was silent, his brows lowering more and more.

“Sorry… I really don’t want to accuse your dad of plagiarism, but this sounds like…”

“Crime and Punishment, I know. And it is plagiarism. Well, he preferred to call it inspiration, and, to be fair, not everything is the same. The story takes place in New York instead of Petersburg, the main character’s name is different, but everything else… it’s the same, only longer. Every chapter stretched to its limits, with reflections on every possible subject. It’s almost twice the length of the original.”

Not knowing how exactly to respond, he did what felt most natural. He laughed, and she followed with a quick chuckle.

“Sorry, this is so absurd. Why... why did he actually do it?”

“I ask myself that question every day, believe me. He was kind of a Dostoyevsky wannabe. On his desk, he kept a photo of me and a collector’s edition of The Brothers Karamazov. He even... he even tried to force me to study Russian philology instead of criminology, but, well… you can see how that turned out. And if this sounds absurd to you, guess what the main character’s name is?”

“You mentioned it’s different. But I have no idea, probably something more in line with American standards…”

“Oh, very much. Rodney Rozzleknock. Now I bet you’re not surprised nobody wanted to publish it?”

For a moment, they sat in silence, he alternately shook his head in disbelief and hid his face in his hands. This was probably the most absurdly funny thing he had heard in a long time, and if it weren’t for the actual version of the book they were talking about being right in front of him, he wouldn’t believe it existed.

"So that's why you know so much about Russian literature," he said. They had once had a brief conversation on the topic, and he had actually been impressed.

"It wasn’t knowledge I willingly acquired. And by the way, what are you doing here, Professor?"

He shrugged. She hadn’t used that title for him in a while, but hadn’t yet started using his first name either, and he wasn’t sure how to suggest it.

"I was planning to drop by the ball for a bit, but I decided I’d rather spend some time among books. Speaking of which, the ball. Didn’t you want to go?"

He assumed that she might be similar to him in that regard and didn’t really care for events like that. But, to his surprise, a certain, not so obvious expression crossed her face.

"Actually, I would have gone if I had gotten an invitation."

"I don’t understand," he furrowed his brows. "You don’t need an invitation. Your department organized it, you were all invited just by the fact of it.”

Her lips parted in shock, and a short Oh escaped.

"In that case... I guess it doesn't matter anymore. It's too late. My friend won't be there, the rest of my friends have probably already gone, and I won’t be able to find them in the crowd, and..." She sighed, a bit embarrassed. "And I guess I'm just kind of too shy to show up there alone."

Reid watched her in silence for a moment. A foolish thought crossed his mind. Foolish, but... was it really? He had no idea how she might interpret it, whether she’d even want to, or what she’d think of him.

“I’d be happy to... go with you,” he blurted out, nervously swallowing the lump in his throat as soon as the words left his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on her, searching for her reaction.

And she... burst into laughter, probably assuming he was joking.

“Wait... seriously?” she asked, straightening her shoulders, her tone suddenly more incredulous. “But... how do you even imagine that? It’s already started, I’m completely unprepared, and it’s formal attire only…”

"I’ll need to change too. But it won’t take long, and the ball goes on late. We’ll only be a little late," he reasoned logically, realizing he was actively trying to convince her. He hated these kinds of events, but this was a chance to spend time together... Besides, he was doing it for her. Why should she miss out on something she clearly wanted to attend just because of a misunderstanding and a bit of shyness?

"Yeah... but I’ll still have to deal with everything else. I look—"

Before she could finish, he leaned in and gently wiped the smudged mascara from under her eye with his thumb.

"You look perfect. Just right for the ball. So?"

Her eyes widened at the gesture, and a sharp exhale escaped her lips.

“Okay. Okay. I think... I think we can do this... Why not? Just give me fifteen minutes. Thirty. Thirty minutes...”

As she spoke, she hastily gathered all her belongings into her bag, glanced at him for a brief moment, then disappeared in a rush, not even looking back over her shoulder.

Spencer, on the other hand, felt as though he had been glued to the table he was perched on. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest.

Did he just... ask the girl he liked to a ball?

And she said yes?

He still couldn’t quite believe it, even when, exactly thirty minutes later—almost as though she’d measured the time with a stopwatch—they met again at the entrance to the gymnasium, now transformed for the occasion.

The floor had been covered in polished wooden panels, and the walls were draped with light-colored fabrics, adorned with strings of glowing garlands shaped like snowflakes. In the corner of the room, a small stage, decorated with sprigs of evergreen, hosted a modest orchestra of students and members of the college choir, playing gentle holiday tunes live.

The scene was beautiful, almost magical, but Spencer only took it in once as they entered. For the rest of the evening, his attention was solely on her—because, once again, he couldn’t find the words to describe what he was seeing.

And that didn’t happen very often.

"Do you think... do you think any of the other professors might disapprove of you being here with me?" she asked hesitantly as they made their way along the edge of the gym, skirting the buffet and staying far from the crowd dancing in the center.

For a moment, Spencer didn’t process her question. He was too focused on the way her lips moved as she spoke, too focused on her. Shaking himself out of it, he replayed her words in his mind.

"I… uh… no, I don’t think so," he replied, stumbling over his words. "Why would they? We’re both adults."

She still didn’t look convinced. Her brow furrowed, her gaze darting between the dance floor and him. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, keeping them connected in the growing crowd, though she kept adjusting her grip as if unsure about the contact.

When Spencer tried to pull away, thinking she might be uncomfortable, she surprised him by grabbing his arm again, more firmly this time. Her insistence sent a strange, electrifying warmth through him.

He sighed softly, acutely aware of how close they were now—so close that their hips nearly brushed with every step. "Besides," he added, trying to sound reassuring, "this is a ball. Everyone’s here to have fun. No one’s going to pay any attention to us."

She nodded, as if trying to convince herself of the same thing, though her gaze drifted once more to the couples twirling around the dance floor. He felt a pang of apprehension, hoping she didn’t want to join them. That would be a disaster—he’d only manage to humiliate himself in front of her.

"I’m not much of a dancer," he blurted out quickly. "Okay, that’s an understatement. I’m a terrible dancer. You’d… you’d really rather not see me try, trust me."

For a moment, she stayed silent, her expression unreadable. Then, a small smile tugged at her lips.

"I, on the other hand, am a pretty good dancer," she admitted, attempting to sound modest. But after a beat, she rolled her eyes at herself and added with a wry laugh, "Okay, fine—I’m very good. My dad was a Dostoyevsky fanatic, but my mom? She was obsessed with dance. She practically dragged me to lessons for years. She thought it was a terrible shame not to know how to dance—especially for a man. No offense, of course."

Spencer ducked his head with a soft laugh.

"None taken. Listen, I believe you're a fantastic teacher... but I also believe I'm a lost cause. I might accidentally step on your feet..."

"You should pray that I don't step on your feet," she retorted with a laugh, extending her foot and tapping the heel of her shoe for emphasis. "But I think you should at least give it a try. After all, it’s a ball."

Spencer looked at her for a moment, caught between amusement and mild dread, before finally shrugging with a resigned grin.

Earlier in life, he hadn’t had many opportunities to dance, so he was relieved that the piece being played by the school orchestra turned out to be incredibly slow. He could only cautiously mimic her movements, trying not to hurt her. However, focus came with difficulty as his nostrils were constantly filled with the sweet, distracting scent of her perfume and her body itself.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered softly, briefly lifting her gaze to him. He stared at her face for a moment, so close to his, cursing in his mind when she lowered her gaze again…

All evening, he had to fight with himself to avoid doing anything foolish.

But when, at midnight, they found themselves in his office, it became incredibly difficult.

Especially when she was slightly leaning against his desk, just in front of him, and the blush of dance-induced fatigue covered most of her neck. He wanted to touch that particular spot on her skin, expecting the blood to be pulsing there very quickly.

Her breath seemed quickened too, and every sound that escaped her lips drew him closer and closer to her. To the point where he thought he might lose his mind.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, hoping that if he focused on the words, on speaking them, it might somehow sober him from this state. “I really... didn’t expect to have such a great time at the ball.”

Speaking wasn’t helping; the way her gaze wandered over him certainly wasn’t helping. The way the dress fit her body... none of it was helping.

"I'm glad," she said softly, the redness now covering not just her neck but most of her cheeks as well. She took a deep breath, as if calming herself. "You know, I felt a little guilty because I had the impression that you went there just for me."

"Well, I considered going alone... earlier," he confessed. "But in the end, I changed my mind, and I'm glad I did, because otherwise, I wouldn't have run into you, and I wouldn't remember any of this so clearly. Thank you," he repeated, and before he knew it, he was standing even closer to her, closer than propriety would dictate. Unable to fight it any longer, he reached for her hip, hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. She sharply inhaled, seeming embarrassed by her own reaction. He started to pull back, but then she lightly perched herself on the edge of the desk... and his hand slid down her body, gently grazing her knee. “"Really, I would like to thank you..."

His throat went dry, a nervous sweat rose on his neck. He felt her knee, then her thigh under his finger, his whole hand under the fabric of her dress, heading higher and higher…but suddenly stopped, when her trembling hands began to untie his tie.

"Probably... probably you're uncomfortable," she explained, swallowing. She looked at the collar of his shirt, at the place where his hands were, but couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. "It's a bit... stuffy in here."

He could feel the moisture on his fingers even though his fingers didn’t even get inside. He hesitated right there, glancing uncertainly at her face. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, exhales escaping her lips with a quiet hiss.

"Are you okay?" he asked, making sure. He didn't like the fact that her eyes were closed; he couldn't read many emotions from her face, and he needed to be certain that this was what she wanted. Her face didn't even twitch at his question. "I won't do anything more if you don't answer me."

She swallowed, their faces were inches apart, and he could see and hear it.

"What... what would you like me to answer?"

"Just that you want this," he whispered.

"I want this...Spencer."

It was probably the first time she addressed him by his name, but the state he was in didn’t allow him to trust his memory too much. He hadn’t expected himself to ever think like that. In any case, it acted like a catalyst for him. Barely had the last syllable left her lips, his finger sank into her.

One, and soon after, another.

His name escaped her lips again, but this time, halfway through, it turned into a sweet, pleading moan. For a while, no sound other than their restless breaths could be heard in the office. Her moan tore through the surroundings, pierced the air, and lodged itself there forever. Just as it became lodged in his ears, tickling them from within. He wanted to hear it again...He quickly found the rhythm that most often caused it.

She spread her legs wider which allowed him to get closer, to gain better access. At first, both of her hands were gripping the edge of the desk, her knuckles almost white. With each of his movements, stronger and gradually faster, they began to loosen slowly, until they finally released completely. Surprised, she sighed, not knowing where to place them, and threw them around his neck.

“Is… is this how you’re thanking me for today?’ she asked, her voice high, he could barely understand her through the chaotic breaths. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice she had opened her eyes.

Her beautiful eyes. So pleading, begging him not to stop.

"Are you taking this as a form of thanks?"

She nodded, and at the same moment, she closed her eyes again, tilting her head back. Spencer groaned at the sight of her exposed neck, the blush covering it. He leaned to taste her warm skin, pressing his lips against it, then sighed directly into her, as a shiver ran through her entire body.

He had a feeling that if one more sound escaped her lips, he would simply lose his mind. Barely managed to speak again, his voice completely out of place with the words he intended to say, so high, almost crying.

"That's... that's not enough to thank you, don't you think?"

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @kakamixoxo @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony @heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @aristeia29 @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @nightfullofparadox

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #doctor spencer reid #spence reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid smut #dr reid #criminal minds smut #professor reid #criminal mind

1K notes · View notes

buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger · 9 months ago

Text

Bucky and Touch Headcanons

Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: Just some Headcanons about Bucky and learning to trust human contact again

Warnings: fluff, a little angst, Bucky’s trauma, abuse at the hands of HYDRA, insecurities, self conscious Bucky, pet names, no y/n used, no pronouns used beyond "you"

A/N: if you haven't noticed I definitely have a type when it comes to fic and that fic is hurt/comfort with Bucky. I kinda feel like everything I've written is like the same thing in different fonts, but oh well 😅 anyways, Bucky re-learning that hands on his body doesn’t inherently mean pain and becoming super cuddly and touchy with someone he loves is my SHIT inject that into my VEINS man

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

It takes Bucky a really long time to get accustomed to human contact again, after you two got together it took him a while to even do something so innocent as hold your hand.

It’s not that Bucky hates it

He loves being close to you, he wants it so badly

And he’s touch-starved

He’s so touch-starved

But he went so long without positive human contact, and now that he’s free he wanted it so badly he could feel his chest aching for it

But it made him so nervous to want to try

After one night where you mindlessly reached up to casually touch his face and he flinched away hard, after all open hand coming towards his face had meant pain for so long, you two had a long conversation about his comfort levels

You two took things slow initially

You would sit on the couch together, watching a movie and talking with your fingers intertwined, your thumb stroking his knuckles.

Sometimes you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder, something he’s slowly started to accept

At the very least he’s stopped freezing when he feels your head droop to his arm

But now that he’s grown used to it and learned to love it? He wants to be touching you all the time

Bucky almost always has his arm around you, or a hand on your back, holding your hand, etc.

He would never admit it to anyone but you, but he’s SUCH a little spoon.

Bucky loves when you hold him, resting his head on your chest while you rub his back brings him a level of calm that he’s never felt before

Or when you hold him from behind and he curls into your body

You slip your hand under his shirt and run your hands along his tummy, gently stroking your fingers along his skin

You know he’s a lot larger than you, being a wall of muscle that has at least a head of height on you

But seeing him sleeping peacefully, wrapped in your arms with a little smile on his face he looks so small

He loves when you play with his hair.

It took him a long time to be okay with it (too many memories of handlers grabbing and/or dragging him by the hair), but now?

If he had it his way your hands would never leave it

Whenever you two are holding each other your hands always seem to find their way to his dark locks, brushing them out of his eyes or carding your fingers through it

You learned that the quickest way to get him to fall asleep is to stroke his hair, and put him to sleep like that every night

When it was long, Bucky loved when you combed it for him after a shower, or braided and unbraided it while he laid in your lap during a movie

Now that it’s cut short (thanks to you, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it) you’re pretty much always playing with it in some way

As much as you loved his long hair, his shorter cut is nice because it’s a bit more manageable and still just as soft

Bucky loves when you massage his scalp, feeling your nails gently scratching against his head makes him melt every time

He also loves when you bathe him or bathe with him

Bucky had a lot of anxiety around being naked in front of you, too many bad memories of being stripped and hosed down after missions or beaten within an inch of his life

But with lots of time and comfort and assurances he eventually opened up and got more comfortable

Long baths with you are his favorite thing.

Whether you get in with him or not, he loves how gentle you are with washing his body, massaging sore muscles and peppering his chest and back with little kisses

He especially loves when you wash his hair (I know, shocking).

Usually when you’re done washing him you’ll guide his head to lay in your lap while you stroke his hair.

When it’s time for him to get out you usually have to wake him up, it makes you smile

Peace looks so good on him, you just want to let him bask in it forever

And oh GOD he loves skin-on-skin contact so much

It took so long for Bucky to learn that he was allowed to want things

When he first started opening up with touch, he would wait until the aching in his chest got unbearable before asking if you would do some skin-on-skin with him

You never wanted to push him, but you tried to teach him that he was allowed to ask for things he didn't need immediately.

He didn't have to wait until he absolutely needed something to ask for it.

He was allowed to just want things.

Once he finally gets used to asking for things he wants skin-on-skin all the time.

Most every night you end up cuddled up in bed, sans clothing, Bucky pretty much on top of you, his head on your chest while you play with his hair.

He'll press little kisses to your chest, making you smile when his stubble tickles against your skin

“I love you,” he whispers into your neck, “how did I get so lucky, hm?”

You smile softly and kiss his forehead

“Believe me Buck, I'm the lucky one.”

#bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #buckybarnes #hurt/comfort

1K notes · View notes

luxcuriousao3 · 2 months ago

Text

Fevered Mistakes

Summary: Ghost, a formidable Alpha, is captured and dosed with rut inducers. You are the omega he's tossed into a cell with. WC: 3429 Warnings: a/b/o, graphic nonconsensual sex, nonconsensual drugging, unprotected PIV sex, referenced torture/experimentation, blood, vomit, death, hurt no comfort, background ghoap, POV switches denoted by triple asterisks (***) Notes: Based off the first half of this post that I made a bit ago. Ngl, I don't really like how this one turned out, but y'all were begging for it so, so I feel bad just letting it rot in my google docs lol. There are two scrapped versions of a second chapter that would make this fic farrrrr less angsty, but idk if I'm ever gonna continue this, so I'm treating this like it's a one-shot with the warnings. If I ever do post a continuation, it will be linked on my masterlist, so you can check for it there. And hey, maybe if y'all share your thoughts about this in my inbox or whatever, it might entice the brainworms again lol. Taglist: @captainsherlockwinchester110283

There was a girl in the cell.

She was small and soft in the way that almost all omegas were, though it was her scent that really gave her status away. Sweet and alluring but soured by fear, it invaded his nostrils and made him all the more dazed. The blow to his head, the one that had landed him in this situation, would have been hard enough to kill him, had he not been an Alpha.

He’d been sloppy. Let his feelings for Johnny get in the way of procedure. But seeing his beta, laid out on the floor, bleeding from his head, still as a corpse… he couldn’t have controlled himself if he tried. And at that point, he hadn’t wanted to try.

He’d gotten distracted, and he’d paid the price.

It had been three days since he'd been captured, by his best estimate. It was hard to measure, between the head injury and being kept in a room with no windows. All he had to go off of was how often someone came in to torture him for information. He never gave any up, of course. Even compromised, he never would. He'd been trained far better than that.

Still, he wasn’t in very good shape. Beaten to hell and back, his head scrambled… his feet dragged uselessly as he was pressed up against the bars, one of his captors unlocking the cuffs on his wrists while the other two kept him restrained. The fourth jammed a syringe into his neck, injecting him with some unknown substance. Ghost tried to break free, to throw a punch or a kick, anything, but his reflexes were sluggish, his thoughts painfully slow. All he succeeded in doing was annoying them, and he got an elbow to the back of his neck for the trouble.

He was no omega, couldn’t be immobilized by a simple scruffing, but fuck if that shit didn’t still hurt like a bitch. He collapsed to the concrete floor of the cell with an animalistic howl, and the sourness in the omega’s scent spiked, her heart rate speeding up. Ghost couldn’t find it in himself to care—the very last of rational thought was beginning to abandon him as the pain spread from the back of his neck throughout his entire body, growing unbearable as it reached his groin. He felt like there was fire raging just beneath his skin, and his senses sharpened as his dark gaze locked onto the wide-eyed omega curled up in the corner, neck cracking unsettlingly with the speed at which he turned. He had time for only one more thought before instincts took over, his heart dropping out his arse as dread turned the blood in his veins to ice before it began to boil all over again.

Rut inducers.

***

When you woke up, you were escorted to the cell in which you spend your heats. That confused you, since your next heat wasn’t supposed to be for another month at least.

It also terrified you.

Though you didn’t remember much of what happened during your heats, you did remember the pain. The desperate, burning need for an Alpha’s knot, and the aching, gaping emptiness when you were denied it, the only thing that could bring you any relief. This cell held nothing but bad memories, and you didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

But you had no choice. For as long as you could remember, you did as you were told, the way a good omega should. In your sleep, you thought maybe you saw glimpses of a time when things were different, when there were no scientists in white coats and men and women in military uniforms controlling your life. But you knew those were just dreams. None of it was real.

You sat on the thin mattress in the cold, dank cell for hours before something finally happened that could explain why you were there. A man was brought in—massive and with a terrifying skull mask on his face—and you barely had to take a whiff of him as he was shoved into your cell with you to know that he was an Alpha. There was that familiar smell of damp, scorched earth after a lightning strike, and you knew from the intensity of it that he was angry. No, not just angry. Furious. The very air reeked of electricity and burning plastic, overwhelming any hint of his natural scent. This was an Alpha that was ready to rip, rend, tear, kill. And you were stuck alone in a cell with him.

“Не сопротивляйтесь,” one of the uniformed men told you, expression entirely unsympathetic. It was almost worse than the look of sadistic, scientific glee on the face of the white coat next to him. “Ты сделаешь только хуже.”

Don’t fight back. You’ll only make it worse.

Your eyes widened, and you barely had a chance to shake your head before the unfamiliar Alpha was on you, grabbing your ankle in a brutal grip and dragging you away from the corner you’d curled up in. You screamed in pain as you felt the bone snap like a twig under his large palm, instinctively hitting your hands against his broad chest as you tried to fight him off. If you had been in heat, you wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have even felt the pain from him breaking you, would have spread your legs and begged him to knot you. But you weren’t, and so your survival instincts overtook those of your omega. You knew you would be punished later for disobeying, but at the moment, you didn’t care. Anything was better than being knotted by the feral Alpha on top of you. He would maul you to death while he fucked you, you just knew it.

The Alpha grabbed your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. The other ripped your shirt off, causing your back to arch and your tits to spill out of your bra. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply and letting out a satisfied growl. You tried to headbutt him, and he snarled in your face, wrapping a hand around your throat and squeezing tight enough to make your vision go black around the edges in less than ten seconds. By the time you caught your breath and were able to think again, his hands were busy yanking down your pants and underwear in one harsh tug. You let out a hoarse shriek of fear, flipping onto your belly to try and crawl away, ignoring the searing pain in your shattered ankle. But that was your fatal mistake. His beefy palm met the back of your neck, fingers digging in as he lifted you slightly by it, his other hand coming around to roughly grope your breasts.

And you stopped.

You stopped moving, stopped screaming, you nearly stopped breathing. You were limp as a ragdoll as he scruffed you, utterly and completely paralyzed. You could do nothing but take it as he shoved your face into the dirty concrete, pried your legs apart, and forced himself inside you. You could feel the agonizing pain as his cock practically tore you in half, could feel the ice cold fear freezing every cell of your body, could feel his blunt nails digging into the ultra-sensitive skin of your nape. You could feel everything. But you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

It seemed to go on forever, and yet take no time at all. One second, you were pliant and supine beneath the Alpha as he pounded into you, his weight constricting your lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The next, the restrictive grip on your neck was gone, replaced by a sharp pain at the junction of it and your shoulder as his teeth sunk into your flesh. Into your mating gland. Your own screams were echoing in the tiny cell, now, no longer confined to your head.

“M’sorry, M’sorry, M’sorry,” a rough, wet voice chanted in your ear. It was the Alpha, speaking to you in English. You could understand it, even if you couldn't speak it. He was still on top of you, still inside you, his knot stretching you far beyond your limits. And yet he was… apologizing? You stopped screaming in your confusion, the terrified screeching replaced by the sound of your heaving sobs.

“M’sorry, M’so sorry, they dosed me, M’sorry,” the Alpha continued, voice slurred. You struggled to focus on his words, distracted by the liquid you could feel dripping down your thighs. It was probably blood, you realized distantly. His knot wouldn’t have let any of his seed escape. That’s what it was there for.

That, and to keep you from running.

The Alpha’s voice grew more and more gravelly as his knot began to deflate, his apologies interrupted by grunts as he began to move his hips again, thrusting in and out of you shallowly. You whined, clawing at the floor, trying to wriggle free, but he just settled nearly his entire weight on top of you.

“Don’ fight,” he growled, and you could tell from the strain in his voice that he was at least trying to resist his instincts. It didn’t make you feel any better, especially not when his fingers inched closer and closer to your nape again. “Don’t, or m’gonna have to— fuck, I don’t— fuckin’ be a good omega an’ take it— m’sorry, fuck— don’t fuckin’ fight me—”

You were still sobbing, shrieking like a dying thing with every quick, brutal snap of his hips against yours. Too out of it from being scruffed, you missed the warning in his jumbled plea threat, continuing to struggle underneath him. You felt your ribs crack as he pressed the rest of his considerable weight onto you, and the strangled, stuttering gasp that left your throat was the kind of sound that belonged in a horror film.

The Alpha seemed to think so too, as he moaned in a horrid mixture of pleasure and abject misery before he scruffed you again. You went still, once more trapped in your own body. It was the worst sensation you’d ever felt, worse than the experiments the white coats ran on you, worse than your punishments, worse than your heats spent alone. Worse than the shattered ankle or broken ribs, worse even than the feeling of him ripping you apart from the inside. You were always helpless and vulnerable, being an omega, but this… when you were scruffed, you were no longer a person. You were just an object, to be used as your Alpha saw fit.

Your Alpha.

The man on top of you—who was knotting you for the second time now—was your Alpha. He’d claimed you, the pain in your shoulder was proof of that. You would wear his mark forever, now. You would belong to him for the rest of your life.

You prayed that it was short.

Your Alpha released his painful grip on your nape again, but you didn’t try to get away this time. You were far too disoriented. Being scruffed once was bad enough, but twice in as many minutes? You could easily go into shock from that. You probably were in shock, but you didn't panic, feeling too distant and floaty. The ice in your veins was numbing you from the inside. That was nice… you leaned into it, letting your blankly staring eyes flutter shut—

“Omega!”

Your eyes snapped back open and you whimpered, trying to curl in on yourself. That only caused pain to flare up all over your body, the burning between your legs as you tugged on his knot pulling another scream from you.

“Stay still,” the same harsh voice ordered, and your instincts forced you to obey. The command was a little more collected this time, a little more coherent, even if he was still groaning and slurring.

“Don' move,” your Alpha panted, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him. He started to fuck you once more. “Don’— don’ wanna scruff you ‘gain.”

You didn’t have it in you to be grateful. Didn’t have it in you to be sympathetic to his situation either, not while he was still rutting into you like an animal.

They dosed me, he’d said. You wished they’d dosed you. At least then you wouldn't feel the pain…

***

Simon had never hated being an Alpha more than in that moment.

Bollocks deep in a pretty little omega, one already stuffed full of his come and wearing his mark… he wished fervently that this was just another of his nightmares, the ones that stuck with him like a bad smell even after escaping Roba.

Between the disorientation from his forced rut and the nasty head injury, he almost let himself believe that it was. If it was a dream, he could give in, and he wouldn’t actually be hurting anyone. He could just ride it out, come in trousers wherever he was sleeping, and hopefully, it would end faster.

But her screams were far too real.

She wailed like she was being flayed alive as she struggled underneath him, and his Alpha—after being denied a partner for his ruts for over a decade—was brutal and swift in its response. Scruffing her like a scrappy mutt, growling in pleasure at the way she submitted to him—the way she was forced to submit to him.

It was nearly impossible to think around how fucked his head was—by instinct and injury both—but after he'd knotted her for the second time, he was able to act a little more like the trained soldier he was, and not like a panicked civvie.

He didn’t argue with himself any longer. He accepted the reality of the situation as it was. He was in rut. He was trapped with an omega. He had brutalized and claimed her. If he kept focusing on trying to stop himself altogether, he was going to kill her. He needed to give up on that and instead just try to minimize the damage.

Starting with stopping her from going into shock, and then stopping her from fighting back. It only made his Alpha all the more eager to dominate her—by any means necessary.

It sickened Simon that that part of him existed. Deep down, he feared that it always had. That Roba hadn’t created it, back in the desert. That he’d just unearthed it. All of Simon’s evilness, all his wicked desires…

It was why he’d never taken an omega before. Never even let himself date one, back when that was something he did.

Johnny was perfect, in that way. In many ways, really, but him being a beta—it soothed Simon’s fears. The fears that were being proved true.

He didn’t know how long passed before the rut inducers wore off. It had to have been hours. The omega—his omega—was still facedown on the ground when he pulled out of her for the last time. She was bleeding from where he’d bitten her, and where he’d bred her, his cock drenched in her blood, her own thighs stained with a mix of it and his come.

Simon threw up at the sight. He told himself it was just from the head injury.

He was naked, except for his mask, which was pushed up past his nose. He didn't remember taking off his trousers, though he recalled that his shirt had been cut to shreds the first day of his captivity by his torturer. He didn’t remember a lot of his mini-rut, as was common when it was induced. But the evidence of what he’d done was right in front of him. The omega—not mine, not my omega, not mine—was clad in nothing but the scraps of her clothes. Her side, hips, wrists, and the back of her neck were bruised. Her ankle was bent at a funny angle. A small patch of hair near her nape was missing, leaving her scalp red and raw. Simon looked at his hands, and found the strands woven between his fingers.

She didn’t move.

Simon pulled his mask into position and Ghost took over. He moved towards the girl, feeling for a pulse. She flinched violently when he touched her neck, and he felt relief—and guilt—reverberate through him. Ghost was good at ignoring his feelings, though.

“S’over,” he told her, voice gruff. “S’done now. Promise.”

The omega didn’t acknowledge his words, just kept her shoulders tucked up by her ears, guarding her neck. Ghost didn't protest, simply felt along her spine for any breaks. He didn’t find any, so he carefully rolled her over.

Her breasts were red and raw, nipples bleeding from being scraped back and forth across the floor. There was a hand shaped bruise around her throat, and petechiae in the whites of her glassy eyes. Ghost ignored his horror at the sight, and began to palpate her ribs. She inhaled sharply when he touched the eighth and ninth ones, a pitiful, pained whine escaping her.

The ribs were probably fractured, if not broken. The bruising above them was clue enough. There was another massive bruise low on her belly, and Ghost swore. Internal bleeding. He may have actually fucked this poor omega to death. There was no way she survived the night if she wasn't treated soon.

He got his pants and trousers on, hoping it would help her believe the worst was over, and then got to work doing what he could—wrapping her ribs with the dirty blanket in the corner, and holding the scraps of her shirt between her legs to try and stem the bleeding there. It wasn't enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. He didn’t even know if it was really worth the discomfort it caused her—but he couldn't bring himself to just let her die. She was his omega.

Not mine, not mine, not mine.

He talked to her as she faded. Tried to keep her awake with the sound of his voice, though he knew it was probably the last thing she wanted to hear. He told her stories from his childhood—the few good ones there were—told her the plot of the last film he and Johnny had watched, told her about Johnny. That was the topic he lingered on the longest. It was far easier to talk about his beta than himself. And by the time her eyes slipped closed and her shallow breathing stopped, it was Simon that was holding her, not Ghost, despite the mask on his face.

It was Simon that watched her die.

It was Simon that realized he didn't even know her name.

And it was Simon that howled with grief and rage, clutching the broken body of the omega—my omega, my omega, mine—against his chest.

Footsteps rapidly approached the cell, and Simon snarled like a rabid animal as he turned towards the bars. He barely had a second to pull his omega—dead, dead, dead, she was mine and I killed her, she was innocent and I killed her—behind him before a familiar voice rang out. The only voice that could have possibly reached him in this state, that could stop him from giving into his instincts completely and going feral.

“Simon?”

“Johnny,” Simon growled, sounding desperate and broken. He felt broken. This little omega had managed to do what Roba and a hundred others had failed at. And she hadn't even tried.

“Let us help her, Si,” Johnny coaxed, moving closer while Price and Gaz hung back. Wise, because Simon could barely keep himself from baring his teeth at his own beta. Johnny didn't back down. “Si. Let us help her.”

Simon hesitated for a long moment, fighting his overwhelming instincts, before moving away. Johnny rushed in, immediately checking the omega’s pulse and starting compressions when he couldn’t find it. Simon tried to struggle to his feet, but he nearly fell over, Gaz and Price catching him. He snarled, weakly pulling away from them, but they held fast.

“We got you, soldier,” Price’s deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Stand down.”

Simon slumped, unable to hold himself up anymore, all his injuries catching up to him.

“I killed her,” he whispered raggedly, eyelids falling shut. He felt Gaz shake him to try and keep him awake, but he simply didn't have the willpower, anymore. “She was mine and I killed her.”

The mantra rang in his head even as he lost consciousness, and her screams of pain and the look of fear on her face as she lay dying followed him into his dreams.

less angsty ending

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley angst #simon ghost angst #simon ghost x you #ghost angst #ghost x you #ghost x reader #alpha ghost #cod fanfic #cod fic #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic

523 notes · View notes

babydollisdead · 2 months ago

Text

AGAPE - JINX X READER

contains: fluff, g/n reader, really short, no proofread

warnings: none

summary: you help jinx fall asleep.

A/N: This is my first time ever writing one of these!! I hope you enjoy. Sorry if she seems a little out of character, I’ll write a better one soon lolz.

“Jinx..?” You called softly from the couch in her.. “room.” She had been sitting at her desk for hours now, and all you could hear was mumbled curses and what sounded like power tools every so often. And the occasional spray paint can, of course.

When you didn’t get an answer, you huffed and rolled your eyes. She had said she’d be done a while ago. You trot closer to her, rubbing your sleepy eyes. But as soon as you see her hunched over form, you know something’s wrong.

Her shoulders are tense, and the way her hair is frizzy around her braids shows she’s been tugging at it. She fiddles around with some odd thing she’s creating, her nimble fingers making it look effortless.

“God dammit..” She mumbled, a small groan leaving her lips. You step closer slowly, tapping her shoulder. She slowly glanced up, a tired look on her face.

“You know, you said you’d be done a while ago.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. She rolls her eyes and smirks a little. “Got carried away. Sorry, toots.”

She goes to look back down at her.. well, whatever the hell she was making, and you quickly stop her.

“C’mon, Jinx. It’s late.” You give her a bit of a look, which earns a small groan from her. “You always are bothering me..” She huffs out as she stands up from her chair. You know it came from a place of love.

You were really one of the only people she trusted these days. Where everyone else failed, you seemed to not. It was almost fascinating to her. Jinx had gone so long keeping everyone at a distance, safe for the few she was close with.

But something about you.. just made her love you. She did kinda hate it. She’d say it was because you turned her into a lame sap, but deep down it’s because she’s scared.

Loving something meant you now have something to lose. And that was never a good thing.

She stretched, a few bones cracking. You smiled a little at how sleepy she seemed. “Those energy drinks ain’t working anymore, huh?” You teased, tugging lightly on her arm towards the couch. “I need to inject it into my veins.” She whined and you chuckled lightly.

You plopped down against the couch and she followed, flopping down right on top of you. A small sigh left her lips, and you could feel the tension leave her body. As if on cue, you rested a hand in her hair, running it over the blue braids.

“You ever gonna cut all this hair?” You spoke softly, watching as she cuddled into you. She shrugged. “I dunno. I think it’s part of my whole.. persona now.” She grinned and you rolled your eyes playfully.

“If you ever want to, i’ll help. Make it look all nice and not choppy.” You suggested. Her chin was resting on your chest. She gazed into your eyes for a moment, and it was a bit intimidating.

The way her eyes gleamed pink, almost blowing. You’d seen those eyes hold all different kinds of emotions, and still the intensity of them never failed to make you shiver.

Jinx then suddenly pressed a bunch of kisses to your face, and you squeaked before giggling. “W-what are you doing?” You spoke through giggles. She pulled away, a smug look on her face before she settled back down onto you. You could only imagine how dazed you look, all goofy and smitten with a bunch of dark kiss marks on your face.

“Just wanted to kiss you.” She hummed out, closing her eyes as she buried her face in her arms. Something she always did when she slept. You’d know. You spent so many nights just watching her as she slept peacefully.

You snorted. “God, you’re such a sap.” You spoke, continuing to play with her blue locks. “Your fault.” She retorted. A small smile remained on your lips as you sighed and cuddled close to her.

“Goodnight, Jinx.” You whispered softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She didn’t say anything, but you did hear her huff softly, and she cuddled closer into you.

Actions always speak louder than words.

#arcane #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #fluff #fanfic #league of legends #gender neutral reader #arcane fanfic

427 notes · View notes

perlelune · 10 months ago

Text

Glory And Gore | Feyd-Rautha

The trip to Giedi Prime you take with your mother should have been a mere diplomatic gesture. Instead, you find yourself prey to the inevitability of fate as it sinks its claws into your flesh.

Warnings: NON-CON, Deception, Parental Neglect, Cannibalism, Mutilation, Bene Gesserit Reader, Knives, Murder, Forced Marriage, Primal Kink

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

“I don’t want to.”

“You must.”

“Mother-”

“Use it!”

The authority dripping from your mother’s voice has you shrinking in your chair. You lift your gaze. A shudder slithers through your frame. Your fingers squeeze around the armrests, gripping so tightly you can feel the iciness seeping into your veins.

You study your mother’s face.

An unsettling realization crashes over you.

You no longer are looking into your mother’s eyes…but at the Bene Gesserit. You steel your features and iron your resolve.

You swallow a deep, calming breath.

“Give me the blade,” you repeat, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. The exact count has evaporated amidst your heated nerves long ago. Your mother is unyielding today, pushing you further than she ever has before. While her purpose eludes you, the urgency etched in her manner from the moment she tore you from bed that day doesn’t. Today, your mother will not settle for surrender. She demands results.

Results for all the years she spent drilling the Bene Gesserit ways into you.

There is no hint of being swayed in your mother, her handle on the dagger unwavering. No twitching. No slackening of her grip. Your spirits dim.

“Again,” she barks.

Pearls of sweat gather on your brow as you strain your mind once more. The humming courses through your blood, the echo of power swelling in your mind. Fiery tendrils trickle through the veil of hesitation and nervousness.

You grasp at the threads, the fleeting wisps of control, pulling on them with all your might. Still, they slip through your fingers like sand. Frustration flares inside you with every attempt.

You persevere, enduring through the agony bleeding inside your mind. Through the liquid fire sweeping through your veins.

You meet your mother’s harsh stare.

“Give…me…the blade…” you articulate, injecting every bit of hazy conviction glowing inside you.

For a while, you and your mother hold each other’s gaze. A battle of wills. An ephemeral, pathetic one that ends as it always does…with your mother snickering at your failure.

She shoots up from the chair, exasperation evident in the drawn-out sigh she unleashes.

“No willpower. Just fear,” she says, pacing across the room.

“Apologies, mother,” you mutter, lowering your head in shame.

The Voice. The damned Voice. In eighteen years, you have never mastered it.

She approaches you, kneeling in front of your chair.

“Child, you must never fear, because fear…”

“...Is death,” you finish. The Bene Gesserit words are woven into the very fabric of your mind, for you have uttered them so many times since childhood.

She places her forehead against yours, cupping your cheeks.

The combination of your two voices echoes in the room.

“Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me…”

As you recite the familiar prayer, a wave of serenity swaddles you in its calming tide.

Your eyes flutter open.

Your mother’s fingers wrap around yours.

“Reverend Mother will see you tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“You are of age. It is time.”

“Time for what?”

A shadow flits across her eyes.

“For the Gom Jabbar.”

“Gom…Jabbar.” A crease appears on your forehead. “What is it?”

A tense smile spreads on her face, her grip on your hand growing tighter.

“You will learn soon enough,” she says.

Rest eludes you that night, your mother’s words weighing too heavy on your mind for it to float away in peaceful slumber. Tormented by nightmares, you toss and turn between your sheets.

A beast chasing you, its claws sharp and long…Like knives. Darkness creeping on your every step. Fire shooting through your veins.

The world in flames, while you burn alongside it.

You awake drenched in your own sweat.

Hugging your knees, you lean against the headboard. You stare ahead. Moonlight drizzles through your carved window, casting shapes of silvery light against your walls. The same granite walls you have known since childhood. Usually so familiar, comforting. Today the sight of them reminds you how utterly alone you are.

Your thoughts churn, the storm of doubt and gloom within you grazing its peak.

Per custom, you are a disappointment to both your mother and the Sisterhood. The Voice. The Weirding Way. No matter which skill your mother and the myriad of Bene Gesserit teachers you had over the years attempted to drill into you…you failed to master every single one.

It’s not for lack of trying on your part. You wish you knew why. Why your voice always cracks. Why your hand always falters. Your mother has never given hope to lure a steel-mindedness out of you that was simply…never there. No part of you wishes to bend others to your whim or cause harm. You don’t crave control or power. Only serenity and peace.

The next day springs forth in a haste, the blinding light of the sun arriving too quickly for your comfort. There is a deliberate languid nature to your motions as you get dressed, fussing with your hair and dress. A pointless attempt at delaying the inevitable.

Gom Jabbar. You mulled the words over and over in your non-sleep. Mighty oppressor or mighty enemy. The translations from Chaksobar to Galach are plentiful. While you don’t know what awaits you on the other side of the door, from your mother’s pinched expression the day before…unpleasantness is guaranteed.

You trudge inside the dark room, a chill shooting through your spine at the sight of the still figure of Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam sitting in the middle. Her pale, weathered features, wrinkled and creased like ancient parchment, stand out amidst the unsettling gloominess ahead. Even behind the black veil, the older woman radiates an aura of ancient, mystic power, her presence both fascinating and intimidating.

No word unfurls from her tongue at first, her keen, bird-like eyes assessing you. Despite the urge to cower, you hold your chin high and stiffen your spine.

“Your Reverence,” you greet, bowing so low your nose almost grazes the tiled floor.

“Come closer, child.”

Your feet move on their own before you even register the command. Shock pulses though you as you approach the Reverend Mother. The Voice…She used the Voice on you. No Bene Gesserit ever did that before. None would even dare. Not on a Count’s daughter.

You land in front of her, stunned and shivering.

She collects a viridian metal fox from beneath her robes, its eerie light glowing ominously in the darkness. Your heart stutters as you note the chasm inside the box, a lightless void reflecting nothing but complete blackness.

“Put your right hand in the box,” she orders.

Her tone is bereft of the thrall of the Voice now. Willing compliance... you realize this is what she wishes from you. You stare at the pitch blackness inside of the box, the sight alone stirring your unease. Hesitation limns your fingertips.

“I…”

The Reverend Mother’s firm voice booms across the air like thunder.

“Is this the respect you show to your elders?” she roars.

You flinch. Shameful heat lurks its way inside your cheeks. Mother would be embarrassed if she saw you now, denying the Reverend Mother herself, the Emperor’s Truthsayer.

You inhale a wide breath and place a tremulous hand inside the metal box. As the darkness engulfs your appendage, a cold wave creeps over it. The prick of a needle on your fingers follows closely. Sensations vanish from your hand, only an odd numbness remaining.

The old woman’s gaze sharpens. Her wrinkled hand shoots upward with a quickness that leaves you speechless, halting right beside your neck.

A glimpse of metal beckons you from the corner of your vision. Temptation to turn your head simmers within you but an instinct set deeply into your bones screeches at you not to move.

You yield to to the second hunch.

“I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar,” she informs. “The high-handed enemy.”

“Poisoned needle?” you absently wonder.

You catch the shadow of a smile through the black veil.

“Your mother did say you were a clever one.” She tilts her head slightly, reminding you of a vulture circling its prey, gauging the right moment to swoop down and sink its claws. “A soft heart with a sharp mind.” Dread coils around your heart. “The test is simple, girl. Your hand must remain in the box. Keep it in the box, you live. Withdraw it, you die.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Pain.”

Tingles begin to spread.

Your breath snags, needles starting to dig across the back of your hand. But unlike before, the sensation lingers this time. Growing and growing. Uncomfortable at first, then unbearable. Then, it turns blatantly hellish. Fire licks your flesh, the flames causing your entire body to break out in sweat and your breaths to come out labored and uneven.

Pain such as this cannot be of this world, you begin to think.

The kind that grows more vile and intense every second. You writhe, tears rushing to your eyes. Your free hand clutches your stomach, twisting the flesh in desperate need of an anchor amidst the unnatural agony. The room fogs around you, your quick, panicked breaths and the wild drumming of your heart filling your ears.

The longing for death comes and goes, the impulse to withdraw your hand teetering over a precipice. At least, death would bring release from the unfathomable pain.

Blessed freedom. You nearly surrender to that wayward instinct. Nearly.

In the end however, the acute, overwhelming awareness of the lethal needle less than an inch from your neck keeps your hand inside the box.

“An animal in pain would chew its own leg to escape a trap,” The Reverend mother says calmly, unfazed by your tears and sobs. “But a human would bide its time, suffer through the agony until he might remove the threat to his kind. This is a test of humanity. This is what us Bene Gesserit do. Set humans apart from animals.”

An eternity in the pits of hells seems to drag along before she gives you permission to withdraw your hand, her hand dropping from your neck.

“Enough,” she says.

You tear your hand out of the box with a trembling exhale, astonished when your gaze tumbles upon smooth, unharmed skin. You turn it upside down, flabbergasted. It looks the same. Yet the furnace within the box made the burning feel so real, so vividly, terrifyingly real, that you were convinced the flesh and bones were devoured by the flames. You expected a lump of bleeding, smoking flesh. In disbelief, you fold your fingers several times. You wince. Phantom pain still sits in your hand, your nerves alight with embers of ache.

Suppressing a fresh surge of tears, you lift your eyes to the Truthsayer.

“Your tolerance for pain is sufficient,” she states. “Congratulations, child. You are human enough to serve our purposes.” She hums in thought, a sliver of satisfaction seeping through her solemn inflection. “You may not be a complete waste of genetic material after all.”

“You almost failed the test, I hear.”

You shift in the bench opposite your mother, her imperious tone ripping the wound of your glaring incompetence open once more.

Your attention wanders above the closing gate of the starship. You commit the luxurious plains of your planet to memory. Your chest twinges with preemptive melancholy. From what you heard, Giedi Prime is a dry, depleted rock where trees are replaced by rows of factories and metal skyscrapers which only blot out the dusky skies even more. A nightmare from the sounds of it. Though your mother insisted you join her on the trip, arguing your presence is key to the success of the treaty.

So you swallowed your reluctance and agreed to come.

“I thought I would lose my hand,” you mumble, your fingers clenching. The awe over the flawless state of your limb hasn’t left you.

“Her Reverence would never maim a prospect,” your mother argues.

You nod, gaze colliding with hers.

“Just kill them if they fail to prove their humanity?”

You still recall the sharp, poison-dipped tip pointed at your neck. The oppressive weight of impending death nipping at your flesh.

The line between surrender and success had been thin. Too thin.

Your mother’s stern brow furrows.

“Pain is always a possibility…One you must embrace.”

“Why? Isn’t the Gom Jabbar a singular occurrence?”

Instead of answering you, your mother lifts a black, oblong chest from beside her. You noticed it before but forgot to inquire about its purpose.

The metal and dark accents of the object mimics the Harkonnen style. Your fingers sweep over the symbols engraved on the box.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Open it.”

You do as instructed. The inside of the chest reveals a set of knives, a long obsidian one and a short silvery one. The blades glimmer as you lift them, their sharp edges catching the artificial light of the cockpit.

“They were forged from the finest steel on Alderan,” your mother says. You give a puzzled stare. Your mother elaborates, “You must gift them to the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen upon arrival. For his coming of age.”

Right. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s birthday celebration. You were told there would be a grand spectacle in the arena, that he was a great warrior, revered and admired by his people…perhaps even more than his uncle the Baron Vladimir. Day after day before the trip, your mother has impressed upon you the importance of attendance, of embracing the Harkonnen customs as if born into them. Every single one, however uncanny, crude or brutal.

So, much as the concept of spilling blood for entertainment repulses you…you shelf your disgust for now. Personal feelings must capitulate to diplomacy.

Your critical eye sweeps over the knives. These must have cost a fortune. Sinister beauty and artful skill fused in ominous synergy inside a finely made instrument of death.

“It’s fine craftsmanship,” you say. Your fingertip drags across the curved edge. A crease appears on your forehead. “But the edges…they could be sharper.” Your eyes light up. “I could finish before we land.”

You sift through one the heaps of precious stones and minerals lining the walls of the cockpit.

Victory floods your being as you find what you sought. A flat whetstone that shall serve your purpose well. You find a spot on the floor and begin your task. The knives shine brighter with every swift glide of your hand.

The frown on your face deepens.

“I hope the Baron’s nephew is pleased with our gift.”

You know next to nothing of him. Though you surmise if your families are to start trading with each other, getting along would be wiser.

Your mother smiles at you though it fails to reach her eyes.

“I have no doubt he will be very pleased with all the gifts you bring him, daughter.”

The frosty, pollution-heavy winds of the lifeless planet whip your face as you set foot outside the car. Your eyes roam over the large building housing the Harkonnen arena. The imposing structure casts an intimidating shadow against the nebulous, gray sky above it. Dormant volcanoes peek through the horizon in the distance, the only remnants of natural landscapes.

Hopelessness surges through you.

Despite having landed less than an hour ago, a fierce longing for Alderan’s endless green fields and snowy mountain peaks roars inside you. Every cell in your body screams to go back inside the ship and return home.

But you can’t. Such a display of rudeness would be a disaster for diplomatic relations. So you plaster on a smile and ignore the potent stench wafting around you.

You exert meticulous sovereignty over your expression when the Baron floats toward you and your mother. Nothing could have prepared you for this. The sight of the bald, massive man hovering towards you and your mother in his suspensor chair.

The floating figure of the baron stops in front of you and your mother. A circle of servants, clad in black clothing, follows behind him. You note their bowed heads, the way their eyes never rise high enough to look directly at you or your mother. A brand marks their necks, one you recognize as the sigil of House Harkonnen. You’re reminded how ubiquitous the slave trade is on Giedi Prime. Your mother mentioned it but the harsh reality of it didn’t strike you until now.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime,” Baron Vladimir greets. His gristly tone surprises you, eliciting a chill across your spine you swiftly suppress.

“My Lord,” your mother says, sinking into a graceful bow.

You mimic her. The baron leers at you.

“She is even more exquisite in person.”

You recoil, the glint in his calculating stare stirring your unease.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps across her surroundings.

“The na-Baron isn’t in attendance?”

“My dear nephew is preparing himself in the gladiator pit. There are rituals we Harkonnen observe upon one’s coming of age.” Your mother nods.

The baron smirks, his focus swinging to you. “Perhaps you could pay him a visit, little one?”

You clutch the small chest in your hands.

“I…”

“Go on,” your mother urges, shoving you forward.

You gasp, almost tripping in your shock. The baron’s commanding voice rises.

“Slave!”

One the cowering servants leaps from the circle.

“Yes, sire?” the boy mumbles.

“Escort the girl to my nephew at once.”

The servant approaches you. His gaze briefly lifts before finding the floor again. A pang of empathy twists in your chest as you note the fear etched in the servant’s eye. You find yourself wondering what these eyes have witnessed, what horrors lurk on the wretched rock.

“Follow me, my Lady,” he says.

As you’re led away from the welcoming party, you toss a glance at your mother above your shoulder. The message written in her eyes and stern expression is clear as lake water.

Do not cast a veil of shame upon our house. Remember your duty.

Sucking a deep breath, you turn away.

You and your retinue of two guards and an attending maid are taken to the bowels of the arena. A horrid stench clings to the walls as you trudge through the dim walls. It grows more potent the closer you get to the pit. Your chest heaves. The urge to empty the meager contents of your stomach in the sand tickles your dry throat. You quell your disdain with a shake of your head.

You are here to present your house in a positive light, help Father’s treaty with House Harkonnen be a success.

As you enter the room, you get your first look at Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Warmth finds your cheeks. He’s almost bare, his rippling, pale muscles on full display. Two servant girls paint broad, black strokes over his carved back. The dark color stands out against his alabaster skin. Not a stray hair covers him and you suppose he’s as smooth-skinned and hairless as the rest of his kind.

When his dark gaze settles on you, you take tremulous steps forward.

You open the chest and present the knives to him.

“This is a gift for you, Lord na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” you say, your voice cracking at the end.

Silence hangs for what seems eons, Feyd-Rautha cocking his head as he gauges you. It takes every ounce of bravery inside you not to flinch. His presence alone has every hair on your body stand at attention.

There’s a cold intensity in his glare, a tautness on his slender features.

You feel as prey being assessed. The urge to run itches your flesh. Your mother’s quiet warning echoes in your head. Remember your duty. You dig your feet into the ground, willing your roaring pulse to steady.

You hear him speak for the first time. His voice is hoarse and deep. Like the scratching of a stone over a sharp object.

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings? Lungs, a liver, perhaps?” he offers, smirking at three women sitting in a corner of the room. Their inky, whiteless orbs and ravenous grins send a chill through your spine.

His eyes fall on the knives inside the chest. His hand sweeps over the blades, an odd gesture almost reminiscent of a lover’s caress. He places the silver knife against his tongue, as if to taste the sharpness of the weapon. You shudder as you watch him, a foreboding feeling spreading across your flesh.

For a brief span of time, the well of your buried childhood memories tugs you to its depths. You recall a day when you were little. Your father took you hunting in the forests of Alderan. You chased a butterfly and got lost. You fell across a field. When you rose, you were nose to nose with a fierce predator. It stared at you a while, so still as its slanted, yellow gaze pinned you to your spot that you thought you were safe. You didn’t notice the calculated way it was prowling towards you, its maw opening slowly in anticipation of its next meal. The gift of tender, unsuspecting flesh. It’s not until your father speared the creature with his sword that you realized the jaws of death almost closed in on you. As it sprawled across the field, it unleashed an ear-piercing dying howl.

You were struck with shock that day.

A similar shock rocks you to your core when Feyd-Rautha slices the throat of one of the servant girls at his side and stabs the other repetitively. Time freezes as the lifeless bodies of the slave girls hit the sand with a loud thud.

Speckles of dark blood stain the bottom of your light tunic.

Your wide gaze lands on the other slave girl, tucked in a corner of the room. You watch her shrink in fear, the quaking in her hands so intense she nearly drops the tray she’s holding.

Horror fills you. She isn’t wondering if she’ll be next…but when.

Feyd-Rautha’s attention swings back to you. Dread coils around your heart.

“Hm, these are shockingly adequate,” he purrs appreciatively, grabbing the other knife from the chest.

It’s hard focusing on his words. Behind him, the three bald-headed women are swooping down on the poor servant girls’ corpses like vultures ripping a carcass to shreds. One of them pulls out a knife and slices the girl open from neck to gut. They bury their hands inside the girl’s body and grab fistfuls of her soft insides that they greedily shove into their mouths. Pieces of guts and dripping flesh jut from their pale lips, trickling down their chins and necks.

One of the women catches you staring and flashes you a blood-drenched, black grin.

You shudder. The maid at your side chokes on a sob, her hand flying across her mouth. Even your guards are appalled by the display, one of them averting his eyes.

A whispery croak slips through your lips.

“I s-sharpened them myself this morning,” you say, your fingers tightening around the chest.

A crooked smile unfurls on the na-Baron’s lips.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, pet.”

His smile expands. “How rude of me,” he says, tossing a casual glance at the ghoulish spectacle behind him. The women are still gleefully feasting on the slain slave girls. “Would you like a bite as well?” His mirthful gaze flicks over your heaving chest. “Fresh heart, perhaps?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing a placid smile onto your face.

“I-I’m quite alright, my Lord. I already ate.” The chomping noises of the cannibalistic women rises, one of them tearing into the slave girl’s side with her sharp nails.

Sickness spreads through your being. You avert your gaze.

“I shall leave you to get ready for your entrance, my Lord,” you stammer as you give a quick bow.

“I look forward to our next meeting, my Lady,” Feyd-Rautha says, the amusement never leaving his face as you scurry out of the room.

A tremor still lingers in your hands as you join your mother in the golden box above the triangular arena. The moment you sit at her side, she questions you.

“So, what did you think of him?”

“Who?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

She sighs. “Feyd-Rautha.”

You press your lips. The crowd chants his name as he steps into the arena, clutching the blades you gifted him at his sides. He walks slowly, with purpose. Yet there’s a hint of tedium in his haughty gait. As if today was no different than any other day for him, and the taking of more lives were nothing more than a mere footnote in his long list of tasks for the evening.

Sadist. Psychopath. Deranged.

These are some of the few choice words that surge inside your mind in response to your mother’s inquiry.

You utter none of them.

“Why does it matter? Our stay on Giedi Prime will be short, will it not?”

You peer through the binoculars your mother hands you. There’s a gut-wrenching brutality to the na-Baron’s practiced motions.

You watch him cut down two Atreides gladiator-slaves with ease. It’s clear something has been done to the men, their wobbly, confused steps through the arena a painful scene to witness.

Your chest seizes every time his blade tears into the poor mens’ flesh. He snarls after a series of successful strikes, seeming more beast than human when he bares a row of black teeth.

A shiver ripples through your spine.

“You must keep an open mind,” your mother heeds.

The last gladiator-slave is different. You note it right away. There’s a lethal precision in his movements that was amiss in the other Atreides soldiers. Panic swarms the golden box. Baron Vladimir’s advisor begs him to cancel the fight.

“This one isn’t drugged,” he says, fear lacing his tone.

“This will spoil my nephew’s birthday,” the baron rumbles, dismissing the man with a withering glare. He remains disturbingly calm. “Show me who you are, dear nephew.”

You take a deep breath. The rest of the fight veers to an unusual route. Feyd-Rautha removes his body shield, welcoming the challenge the Atreides soldier offers with open arms.

A psychotic smile decorates his lips as he fights for his life. For the first time since the fight began, he comes alive in the arena.

The vicious trading of blow after blow has bile rising to your throat. Unable to stomach it any longer, you bolt to your feet and mumble a rushed apology to the Baron.

“I shall retire to my chambers,” you say.

As you exit the golden box, the excited clamor of the crowd as they scream Feyd-Rautha’s name follows your hasty steps.

You sneak a glance through the high, blue doors. The sight inside the vast hall has your blood curdling. Debauchery the likes of which you have never witnessed unfolds before your eyes. A peculiar blend of orgy and slaughter occurs in the hall. You’re failing to comprehend what you’re seeing, relief coursing through you that you refused the Baron’s invitation.

Once more, you are stunned by the vast cultural differences between your people and the Harkonnens. Sickened, you step away from the doors. Twisted curiosity led you there, and blatant disgust will take you straight back to your room.

The dusky, barren walls of the Harkonnen keep are a stark contrast to the colorful tapestries that can be found all over Castle Alderan.

Homesickness tugs at your heart strings. This alien world is hostile, wretched. You long for the familiarity of your bed and the warm, soothing winds of your planet.

As you roam the hallways, a prickling across your nape has you whirl.

Your sight fills with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Your chest clenches. Your head whips around, a fresh urgency livening your steps.

“Should you not be celebrating your grand victory, my Lord?”

“Frivolous pleasures do little to sate me,” he says, easily keeping up with you. His gravelly baritone ripples across your spine. “This isn’t for me…It’s for them. And my uncle knows it.” His arm brushes yours. You bristle. Amusement bleeds in his tone. “Where are you running off to, pet?”

Pet. You tense at the belittling moniker, the one he forcefully bestowed upon you.

“To my chambers. The evening has exhausted me.”

“You left early.”

You cast a puzzled frown upon him.

“In the arena," he specifies.

Your fingers curl into fists. The unfairness of what you witnessed still staggers you. The Atreides soldiers weren’t given a chance. Pigs led to their inevitable slaughter. And Feyd-Rautha plucked joy from their misery, seeing every slave as a tool to satisfy his unquenchable thirst for blood.

“I have no stomach for violence, my Lord.”

A humming sound pours from his throat.

“Perhaps it was careless then.”

Confusion flutters through you.

“Careless?”

A wicked smile tilts his lips skyward.

“Of my uncle to hand me such a delicate flower…one whose petals are bruised so easily.”

You let out a hollow laugh, dread gripping your insides. Loathing the way his dark gaze slides over your frame, you set your eyes forward.

“You say such strange things, my lord.”

“Do I?” He adds casually, “After all, you were promised to me.”

Your heart falters, missing a beat. He must be drunk, you ponder, in a feeble attempt to placate yourself with reassurance.

“Perhaps you ought to sleep the evening off, my lord. I believe victory may have gotten to your head, warped your perception.”

His sinister chuckle bounces against the walls.

“A pet with a sharp tongue. How fortuitous.”

It’s the only warning you receive before he snatches your wrist and slams you into a nearby wall.

You gasp. He pins your wrists beside your head, trapping you between him and the wall. You squeal, eyes bulging at the abrupt impact. You can already feel bruises form beneath his steely grip.

You fight to get free but he doesn’t budge. Sadistic enjoyment contorts his features as he admires your fruitless struggle.

He leans close to you. Your pulse soars.

“What are you doing?”

His lids sag as he drinks you in.

“Well…sampling my other gift, of course,” he whispers, lust oozing in his voice.

His mouth crashes over yours. You go dizzy. The kiss is bruising, staggeringly possessive. A brutal, sloppy clash of lips, teeth and tongue. You give his lip a harsh bite but it only draws a cheerful laugh from Feyd-Rautha. The acrid tang of metal coats your tongue. He moans against your lips and starts exploring your curves.

As his hands pluck at your soft flesh, fear surges through you.

“Let me go,” you scream, trying to use the Voice. There’s a flicker in his eyes and you feel hope…but it swiftly vanishes. One of his hands fastens around your throat while the other charts a dangerous path under your tunic. His fingers crudely poke and prod the apex of your thighs.

Your panic swells.

“Unhand me this instant!” you shout, a trickle of power rushing in your words.

Feyd-Rautha shakes his head, your thrall only seeming to last a few seconds. Mirth shimmers in his inky orbs as he studies you.

“Are you trying to use Bene Gesserit tricks on me?” The hand around your throat tightens. You claw at his arms, your vision flickering as he taunts, “Why don’t you try again, little witch?” He sinks two fingers through your dry entrance. Tears swim in your eyes at the aching, sudden stretch. His cruel voice flows against your temple. “Perhaps I ought to slice your tongue and shove it down your throat for our wedding.”

The hammering of your heart grows deafening. You swallow your tears and look into his eyes. You gather a thin breath to speak.

“Back away…” you croak weakly, desperation flailing inside your chest.

He gives a slow blink. To your surprise, the hand around your throat slackens. His eyes narrow as he leans away from you, a dazed expression on his face. You don’t take time to bask in fleeting relief, racing to your mother’s room as soon as his hands aren’t on you anymore.

Once you reach your mother’s chambers, you fling yourself into her arms.

Her arms wrap around your shuddering frame. She caresses your hair, gently whispering, “Daughter, the hour is so late…Is something the matter?”

You release a shaky breath, sinking further into her embrace.

“May we return to the ship? Go back home?”

“Why?”

You cast a tearful gaze towards her.

“Haven’t we done our duty, mother? Is it not enough?”

A long weary breath flows from her lips. Her hands curl around yours. She takes a deep breath before speaking again.

Her face becomes stern, impenetrable.

“Apologies, sweet child. We cannot.”

You search her harsh gaze. A heavy silence settles between the two of you. You retreat, horror clogging your airways as unsaid words hang in the air.

“Mother…What have you done?” you mumble, a fresh wave of tears breaking past your lashes.

“You are to marry Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen in three days’ time,”she bluntly announces. Your jaw drops as you take another step back. “All the arrangements have already been made.”

Your voice trembles.

“And Father agreed?”

“It was his idea, approved by the Reverend Mother herself.”

The deepest pits of hell welcome your plummeting heart. You sink to the floor, the weight of your kin’s treachery growing too heavy to bear.

“And you did not speak against it?” you mutter, disbelief confining your breath.

Your mother falls to her knees, joining you on the floor.

She cradles your face. “It is your destiny. We are Bene Gesserit. We exist only to serve.”

“He is a monster.”

“I’m afraid it’s irrelevant.”

A sharp breath spills from your throat. Your head snaps up.

“Is this all I am to the Sisterhood?” You unleash a dry laugh. “A broodmare to be sold and used to further their plans? To you and father…”

Her mouth wobbles. “Our way is not to question, but to answer when duty calls.”

You bring a quivering hand to your throat. You can still feel his harsh fingers crushing your windpipe.

“Do you see what he has done to me?”

“Mother, please…”

A flash of regret appears on her face. It barely lasts a second before a mask of indifference drapes over her features again.

“You should rest,” she says, cupping your cheek. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”

You take in your mother’s blank expression. The blatant lack of emotion despite her knowing what Feyd-Rautha did to you. You swallow a shivering sob. It might have hurt less if she struck you across the face. Or drove a dagger through your chest.

The room chills around you as you reach a sinister conclusion.

You are completely alone.

Packing your scarce belongings takes little time. You didn’t bring a lot with you on Giedi Prime. The trip was supposed to be short after all. A mere courtesy visit to honor your father and the Baron’s alliance. How naive you were.

In the end, you are just a pawn for the Bene Gesserit and your father to move around. You always knew marriage would come eventually. It is what you have been prepared for your whole life. But you harbored the faint hope that your future husband would be kind, or at least a decent man.

As you recall every instance of Feyd-Rautha’s cruelty, horror clutches your insides.

There isn’t a sliver of kindness in him. You venture he may even draw sick pleasure from others’ misery. The smile that touched his lips when you struggled against him still chills your veins.

It stuns you that someone like him, who seems more animal than man, even passed the Reverend Mother’s test, that he somehow withstood the pain, and maybe even embraced it.

Logic dictates that he must have however. Otherwise the Reverend Mother wouldn’t ratify the crossing of your two bloodlines.

The mere thought fills you with dread. He is dangerous. A monster who thinks, who plans, who schemes, who gathers joy from pain.

You come to a decision. You will not be Feyd-Rautha’s bride.

You must find your way back home. The sisterhood can find another sacrifice to fulfill their prophecy. It will not be you.

You wait for the keep to be quiet, not a sound lingering in the cold, blue hallways. You conceal a few belongings beneath your cloak. Another set of clothes, a compass, some jewelry and other valuables you’re hoping to trade for safe passage on a starship. Doubts wander inside you.

Where will you go? What will you do? Will you survive the weather conditions and atmosphere of a completely different planet? You still remember your brief visit on Salusa Secundus for the Princess Irulan’s coronation day. How you couldn’t move without fire rushing to your lungs. How every single step felt like you were taking a hundred. You could die.

Still, the prospect scares you far less than what awaits you in the Keep.

Uncertainty lies in your future. But you do know one thing. You must run as far away as you can from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Getting past the guards is easy enough.

You use what you remember of your Bene Gesserit training to sneak outside the fortress.

Harko city welcomes you in all its dull, somber rotting glory. You cross past discarded piles of rubbish and large oily puddles as you race through dark alleyways. Everywhere your gaze rests, it’s assaulted by sheer decay and putrefaction. Unlike the clean, cold, pristine interior of the Keep, the city is crumbling.

The putrid stench rising from the streets almost causes you to turn back. In the end, you refrain, steadfast as you rush through the busy streets. Every second is precious. You could get caught, dragged back to the Keep.

The back of your neck prickles. Your pulse escalates. The presence of three men hovers at the edge of your sight. Pretending you didn’t notice them, you subtly hasten your strides.

They catch on quick, too quick.

One of them pounces on you. You keel over and collapse on the harsh, dirt-covered ground. You try to crawl away, fright engulfing your senses.

Another of the men grabs your ankle and yanks you towards them.

Leering smiles float above you in the dim light of the alley.

“Hm, we could fetch a good price for that one,” the last man says. “Such a pretty little thing with pretty, pretty hair…”

The man who caught you barks a derisive snicker.

“An outworlder. How exotic.”

The second one bends closer to sniff the air around you. Your throat constricts as you turn your head.

“Not just any outworlder,” he says, his head tilted in curiosity. “This one smells like royalty.”

Elated chuckles burst in the darkness.

“That royal bitch will make us rich.”

The man who smelled you licks his lips.

“But shouldn’t we sample the goods first?” Fear shoots through you. “Never had me a highborn gal before.”

“Me neither.”

“This is a once in a lifetime-”

The man chokes mid-sentence. Your mouth drops as a blade is driven through his neck from behind, practically beheading him. Blood rains over you. Wet spots drip onto your face and dress as each of the men is gutted by a swift, ruthless opponent. You watch one pull a knife. He doesn’t get to use it, unleashing a blood-curdling scream when his hand is sliced at the wrist. The fingers of his severed hand twitch as it hits the floor. He sinks to his knees, wailing while cradling his bleeding stump against his chest. He meets his end with a brutal smash of his head into the stone wall. Gray matter spills from his skull as his eyes roll back and he falls in a dark puddle lifelessly.

The last one tries to run but is dealt with in the same merciless fashion.

Your wide, horrified gaze sweeps over the massacre. The speckles of blood on your face are still warm with the heat of the dead men’s bodies.

A shaky breath spills from your throat.

Your head rises. You come face to face with Feyd-Rautha’s expressionless stare. He picks up your trembling frame from the ground and tosses you over his shoulder. He strolls over the men’s corpses as if they weren’t even there, huffing a deep sigh of annoyance.

“You should be glad I found you in time, pet,” he says.

He throws you inside a car. The door slams and you huddle in a corner. Feyd smirks at your shrinking form.

“Truly? Nothing to say after all that fuss?”

Tremulous words trickle through your lips.

“Just let me go home.”

He slants his head, the corners of his lips lifting slowly. “No.”

“You could say that you didn’t like the look of me,” you insist. “That I repulsed you.”

Feyd-Rautha snorts.

His hand shoots out, moving too fast for you to comprehend. He leans over you, fingers squeezing your throat. “Pet…you were mine before you even set foot on Giedi Prime.” His dark gaze drags over you. You get a glimpse of black teeth as he grins. “The only place you’re going tonight is my bed.”

Once the car reaches the Harkonnen keep, you’re roughly pulled from your seat. Your chest tightens as you note the severed heads of your guards and maid lined in a neat row near the gates. Their lifeless eyes are wide open, staring at nothing.

You stumble back, hands flying to your mouth.

Satisfaction twinkles in Feyd-Rautha’s dusky orbs.

“I had to kill these incompetent fools, of course. They let my precious bride slip away.”

You gawk at him in shock. Guilt presses inside you. If you hadn’t tried and failed to escape, those poor people might still be alive. Tears swell beneath your lashes.

The na-Baron exhales, gripping your arm and tugging you along when you refuse to move. He smiles. “Do not worry, pet. We will find you new servants. Better ones.”

You end up in a large room inside the Keep. A tub filled with water sits in the middle. Feyd-Rautha’s concubines flash black-teethed smiles at you as you crash into a heap on the floor.

“Get her ready for me,” he says.

“Yes, master,” the three women reply in concert.

Your eyes swing upward in alertness.

“Ready for what?”

His inflection is chillingly matter-of-fact.

“Well, our wedding ceremony, of course.” You unleash a whimper as his fingers twine in your hair, twisting your neck backwards. His feral gaze seems to peel the layers of your blood-soaked tunic. “Why wait a few days when I can have you as my birthday gift tonight?”

His hand coils around your jaw, forcing your head to pivot. Your gaze falls on a slave girl standing fearfully in a corner of the room. You’re struck with recognition. She was in the arena before his fight, tending to him along with two other girls. Two girls who are now dead. Courtesy of Feyd-Rautha. She glances at you before her eyes tumble to the smooth black tiles again.

“Do you see her?” he whispers, his chest brushing against your back.

Feyd-Rautha beckons the girl with two fingers. She staggers forward.

“Speak, slave,” he orders.

The girl opens her mouth. However, instead of uttering words, only distorted whimpers come out. Horror twists your insides as you realize something crucial is missing inside her mouth.

“W-What happened to her?” you ask, dreading to hear what you already suspect.

His dark chuckle resonates in your ear.

“She can’t talk anymore. Do you know why?” His lips graze your cheek, his raspy tone lowering. “Because I took her tongue.”

Your stomach sinks.

When you attempt to turn away, his grip on you becomes harsher. He forces you to keep your eyes on the girl.

“I want you to take a good look at her.” His hand spreads over your chest, right above your hammering heart. “Try any of your Bene Gesserit tricks on me again…and I will feed your tongue, and perhaps even other parts of you to my darlings here.” He snorts. “After all, I only need one part of you intact to make me an heir.”

“Do you understand, my love?” he inquires, his husky bass dripping mockery upon the last two words.

You swallow a large gulp of air. “I-I understand.”

He storms out of the room and you sink to the floor. His concubines dive upon you. They nudge you to the tub and remove the clothes off your quivering frame.

The blood, grease and dirt is scrubbed off your flesh. Scented oils are massaged into your skin and hair. A dress is wrapped around your body.

You numbly let it all happen, defeat sinking its hooks deep inside your soul.

The farce of a wedding ceremony flies by in a blur.

Baron Vladimir and your mother are both in attendance, the two wearing satisfaction on their faces, albeit in different manners. While the Baron is smug, your mother is attentive. Not a single emotion betrays her face and you feel thoroughly abandoned.

Before the ceremony, she mumbles in your ear that the Reverend Mother requested a girl-child. You know the process, have been taught how it’s done. But it’s a cruel reminder…that you are nothing more than a tool in the larger schemes of the Bene Gesserit.

And that perhaps, your entire life you have simply been your mother’s mission. Maybe she even feels relief to be delivered from her duty.

The thought overwhelms you with sadness.

You stand before Feyd-Rautha in a flowing white dress while he dons black from head to toe.

He astonishes you by uttering his vows with the utmost seriousness, swearing to protect and cherish you until death forces the two of you apart. Death...In that moment, you find yourself silently wishing for its swift, imminent arrival.

When the Harkonnen priest whirls to you, the words stick to your throat, refusing to unfurl from your tongue.

“Does the bride consent to the match?” the officiant repeats.

Shell-shocked, you shiver in your spot. Feyd-Rautha’s mouth quirks upward.

“Oh, she consents. She is simply too overwhelmed with happiness to speak,” he replies on your behalf, openly taunting you.

You grimace as he slices the inside of your palm with a dagger and brings it to its lips. Your blood coats his mouth and his tongue flicks out. He hums at the taste, a smile blooming on his face. He does the same to himself, digging even deeper in his alabaster flesh. You flinch as he presses his bloody palm against the bottom of your face.

The Harkonnen wedding ritual concludes with him planting a rough kiss on your lips. He shoves his tongue inside your mouth, pulling you against him.

When the ceremony ends, he hoists you in his arms and takes you to his bed.

As promised, he lays his claim on your body right away.

Your wedding dress is ripped open with a few precise slashes of his knife. Your insides coil, the fear of him driving the weapon through your soft flesh keeping you docile underneath him. You don’t say a word, your tongue shackled by his earlier threat. He takes a moment to drink you in, relishing the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he drags the tip of his blade across your skin. He savors your fear like the sweetest offering, growing harder against your thigh as you tremble beneath him.

His black-toothed grin freezes the blood in your veins.

“My pretty little pet…all mine to play with, finally,” he rasps.

There’s no gentleness in the way he explores your body, scratching and nipping at your flesh as if to make sure no one dares doubt whom you belong to when you leave his chambers. Every plea for him to slow down is met with renewed ferocity. He tastes and fondles every inch of your quivering flesh. Your nipples pebble under his palms. Your core ignites below his tongue. Pleasure and pain mingle in sinful, twisted harmony.

Your back folds and your eyes roll back as a myriad of confounding sensations assaults your senses.

As he buries himself inside you to the hilt, he frees a satisfied grunt.

Pain clamors through you when he starts to move. Your walls catch fire at the aching, brutal stretch.

Holding your wrists above your head, he pours every ounce of lust and aggression inside you. You feel it in every stab inside your core.

His pale, muscular form pins you to the bed as he thrusts deeper inside you, reaching a tender spot that has you releasing an ear-splitting scream. You squirm over the soaked sheets as he takes you again and again, the mix of blood and arousal coating his length easing his blunt intrusion. Your helpless wails mingle with his feral moans.

Raspy words in the coarse Harkonnen tongue are heatedly whispered into your ear. You don’t understand any of them and it makes your terror grow.

You feel as if you will break, shatter at the seams beneath his rough, careless touch.

The agony seems to stretch into eternity.

Feyd-Rautha’s lips skate across your bruised cheek.

“Do not fret, pet. I shall aim not to break you just yet,” he teases, sinister promises lurking in his lewd inflection. “Not when our fun has just begun.”

A single wayward tear traces a slow path down your cheek.

He greedily licks it, purring at the taste of your misery.

You feel him strain against you as he nears his peak, his thrusts getting slower and deeper. He comes with a deep roar.

The na-Baron spills his seed inside you. Your eyes shut. Power flows inside your womb as you conjure the right outcome.

A girl they desired. A girl they shall have. As you writhe beneath Feyd-Rautha, forced to bear his rough, bruising touch, you wish your daughter fierce and strong.

Strong enough to pluck the stars from the heavens. Strong enough to unweave the tangled threads of time.

Strong enough to twist the arm of fate itself if she wills it.

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd-rautha #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune part 2 #dune #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #dark fic

1K notes · View notes