#idk how to tag this one tbh

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; interlude i

(not my gif)

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previous next series masterlist

word count: 3k

summary:  What agony it is to desire such an abomination. or interlude i; Feyd-Rautha saves your life, and you wish to kill him for it.

warnings:  feyd rautha, violence and gore, blood/murder, manipulation, mentions of pedophilia/incest/noncon (only with feyd and the Baron), light smut - choking, dom/sub dynamics, light blood kink, feyd calls reader his pet, brief mention of pregnancy/breeding, brief thoughts of suicide, mentions of familial death, some dissociation bc of trauma and grief. LOL FUN

notes: hiii! back with another part - the first of the interludes, which will provide brief glimpses into the past (or possibly the future/present). sorry to leave a cliffhanger with the arraignment coming up, but the next chapter should be up fairly soon :) hope you enjoy this, even if there is no paul in this part. love u all thank you for the kind words i wish i could respond to every single comment! <3

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The room is thick with the pounding of your heart; black, everything, black. 

You look around, as if in a fog; did you hear a scream just now, or was that the ache in your head, the rushing of your blood? The weight of fear is oppressive in its own right, but with the thickly metallic scent that follows your quiet footsteps, you feel yourself dragged to the ground by more than just gravity. 

A ship arrived with a Harkonnen legion just minutes ago; you know where it came from - you know who is chained up in the cells that lie beneath your feet.

And you know that behind those large dark doors which stand tall in front of you, your own fate is being decided. 

There is a loud shout from behind the doors; a scream, then a thud. You swallow back the bile that once again rises - perhaps in your years haunting these sickening halls you've grown accustomed to the overturn of slaved-servants which churn like discarded laundry; yet each life disposed of remains a strike against your heart, a whisper to the stars in the universe. 

Feyd-Rautha's voice clashes against his brother's; a loud cacophony of rage which echoes over the halls. It does not bode well for you; you wonder faintly, as you stare down at the floor below you, how changed your brother must look now. Has he taken your father's features, or does he have more of your mother's Ginaz-blooded nose, those strong arms? Lined up, side-by-side, would he look like you or your sisters? You haven't seen him since he was thirteen - he's a grown man, now. 

You worry you may not ever be able to find out. 

There is another shout, but this time it is cut off by the low rumble of the Baron; you wish to decipher their words, but through the thick doors you dare not place your ears against the seam. 

You do, however, hear your name; Perhaps the way it curls off of Feyd-Rautha's tongue will forever be in your memory. He says it and in the tone you find an alarming lace of desperation; this only throws heaps of fuel to the fire of anguish that burns within you.

You might die, tomorrow. 

How fitting is it, you muse, that the first time my family comes to visit you, you'll all be put to death out on the sands of Harko Arena. 

Perhaps this is what compels you to step closer, to listen against the doors for any sign of mercy. 

"-Don't tell me you've grown fond of her." 

"You mock me, uncle." His voice is laced with hatred, "I am not foolish enough to care about her. But she will bear strong heirs, with Harkonnen and Ginaz blood in them. Fighters." 

You swallow thickly, fear creeping up your spine. Hatred twitches your fingers, but you can't make out the harsh, cutting response of the Baron through the pounding of your heart. Perhaps you could run, but where could you go? 

It's as if they sense your presence - the words halt and the doors swing open; Your misfortunes tumble as the door gives way against your weight.

You freeze, face to face with the Baron and his nephews, the three harbingers of your fate; at the Baron's side is the pitiful frame of the twisted Mentat who has whispered poison into the stream of information reaching the Baron for months; the one who found your father's spies, who uncovered the plot. Piter De Vries. 

Feyd-Rautha's eyes are wild, his chest heaving with emotion as he glares at you; bottomless pits of deep blue. "What are you doing here?" his voice is a dangerous growl.

The Baron's gaze bores into you, his expression unreadable - you stare back, ignoring your betrothed's words. "Look who's decided to join us." the man's deep voice sneers, "The little traitor." 

Your throat is dry with fear, but your mind is subdued with an odd shroud of acceptance. Perhaps this is but a milestone in the self-fulfilling prophecy of your own life; a marker indicating the jumping of ship. Your family has committed treason, this you have seen to be true - the trial has already begun. But the Harkonnen do not like to wait to be told they may crush their enemies. 

It is not incorrect to assume that, if you somehow survive the next two days, you might be permanently altered forever. You might be a Bourbon by blood only, if by anything, but Feyd-Rautha has just played a hand of very dangerous cards to his uncle in hopes of preserving your life. 

For what, you do not wish to think about; protecting himself and his own interests is at the forefront, and saving your life for your own sake likely barely crossed his conscious. One a mere consequence of the other. 

But you force yourself to stand tall, to meet their gazes with defiance though your hands tremble at your sides. Your nameday knife is upon your waist, but you are not foolish enough as to try and wield it now.

There is no weakness on Barony - none in this castle, nor the city; none on Giedi Prime at all. There is you, though; your skin is tough and your mind tougher. You will not go down easy. 

"You have my family." You observe, voice official, calculating; Rabban and the Baron are tearing apart your expression, hoping to find a chink in the armor. Lucky for you, Feyd-Rautha has spent several years ensuring there is not one. 

"Indeed we do," he said, his voice dripping with malice.

"-And soon, you'll join them in their fate." Piter De Vries speaks up from beside the Baron; your eyes slither venomously to the man, every muscle upon your frame tense with the urge to rip out his throat. 

Your heart drops, the static of the room metallic; it is as his words slide from his lips that you see the body discarded against the wall, blood leaking from its crushed skull. You swallow thickly, but Feyd-Rautha's expression darkens further at the Baron's words before you can respond.

With a dangerous glint in his eyes he steps forward, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his blade. "Enough games," he snarled, his voice low and menacing. "She has no place here."

You stare, bewildered, at the motion, but the Baron raises a hand, silencing his nephew with a single gesture. "Patience," he said, his tone calm and collected. "Let us see what the little traitor has to say for herself."

There is a small surge of defiance that rises; you know better than to anger the Baron by begging for mercy upon your family's lives. Besides, a deep-seeded part of you whispers, they would not do the same, would they? 

"You are to execute my family," you dare repeat, voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you, "But you will not kill me." 

You avert your stare from the man in front of you when you feel a burning; you would not dream to cry in a place like this. Adrenaline courses through you, slamming your heartbeat in your throat. 

"Na-Baron," Baron Vladimir muses, looking to Feyd-Rautha with a challenge in his beady eyes. "What would you have us do with the scum?" 

It is a sick test from the Baron; testing loyalty, honor. In the dimly lit chamber, Feyd-Rautha's voice slices through the silence, a dagger through your skin. "Throw them to the arena for their trespassing." he commands, his tone cold, merciless. The Baron glances at the guards who stand just near the exit of the hall; with a gesture, the Baron instructs Piter De Vries to issue a message to the city's public: There will be a royal execution in the morning. 

Fear courses through your veins like wildfire; reality sinks like a stone in the pit of your stomach. 

But Feyd-Rautha isn't finished; eyes glinting with malice, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Let her watch," he insists, his voice dripping with contempt, "and see how we crush pests under our boots."

There is a cold shiver that runs down your spine at his stare; condemned not just to witness your family's demise - your siblings, all three of them - but to endure the horror of it, to see their blood spill. A warning to any who dare oppose House Harkonnen. 

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When you enter your chambers, you are only mildly surprised to see your betrothed in wait. 

Though as you enter the room, Feyd-Rautha's fury reaches its boiling point; one look at your eyes, the absence of true fear - a void in your gaze replaced with wrath - tips him over the edge.

With a swift motion, he lashes out, striking down a nearby servant with brutal force. You stare as she shrieks, the absence of her tongue leaving a horrifying gurgling as blood spurts from her open throat.

With a dull shock you start towards her - the other servant, half-through steaming a gown, gasps and backs away. "Leave," You say to her, hands falling onto the servant who dies at the hands of the man across from you. She skitters away as Feyd's blade glistens with crimson. You can only give yourself the grace to crouch, shutting her eyes as she clings with the last of her strength, the blood on her hands, to your forearm. You don't look away as she loses her life; your voice is quiet, whispering a small hymn - something long forgotten in the winds of Sabberon's winters, but recovered by you in the quiet moments of dreams.

When you press a small breath upon her forehead, feeling the warmth for the last time, you turn and rise again. Feyd's eyes are wild with anger, and his hands trembling with the weight of his emotions. He sneers; he's never once liked the care you give to the dead. As if death is not an honor but a consequence of weakness. 

"I do not like when you do that." He sneers. Your glare is sharp as you wipe the blood off your hands, hiding their tremor. "I will cease to do it when you do." It's always the same response, that cat and mouse game; he will not stop, because it is a part of him - as easy as breathing. 

He doesn't respond to this, merely heaving heavy breaths in the empty chamber. It is quiet for a moment as he wipes his blade; you watch with curious eyes. 

"You saved my life." You admit, walking up to him. His skin reflects in the open windows; a ghostly appearance, but one you've come to known. You can see in his expression that this is a repulsive thing to admit. It sparks anger within you. 

"I heard you," You insist; a half-lie. "You begged for my life." 

It is not what he wants to hear. His hand is upon your throat nearly instantly with a crushing dominance. You barely let out a gasp, eyes burrowing into his own. Your hand flies up to his own, the Adam's apple upon his throat bobbing as he growls. 

It is a morbid call and response: a fight with his uncle, a punishment - and he is at your door, anger in his eyes and arousal on his lips. 

"I do not beg." He snaps. Your brows raise slowly at this and you relish in the look of denial that flashes over his expression - both of you know this is a stark lie. 

You gave up on daydreaming your third week in this stronghold, but a flicker courses through you at what could have been: A husband with less bloodthirst, with more humanness - a home, perhaps. Children you might not grow to resent when you see flickers of their father in them. A place to govern, to rule - to help the people, cultivate prosperity, not fear. 

"Don't you?" You ask, but your voice sounds odd with the lack of air. You must be here in this universe for more than just bearing children for Feyd-Rautha.  

"I don't let others take what is mine." He hisses, squeezing your airway. He seems to say this a lot. You let out a raspy groan of defiance, your own hand small but strong as it closes in on his own airflow. A groan is suppressed in his throat but you feel the vibrations as you lean against his strong grip. 

"And you're mine, pet." He grunts into your ear, biting the skin. Perhaps tonight is a night you should let him believe such a fallacy; for your safety or your amusement. You cannot help yourself but to drop the glass, just to hear it shatter; Whispering into his own ear, the two of you are entwined in a sick connection of hate and desire, your hands crushing against the other's throat. 

"Careful, my na-Baron, your possessions seem to have started possessing you." You snap; His eyes darken, but you wouldn't dare soften your grip. 

"Shut up, witch." He snarls. "On your knees." 

So, he is in a mood to play this game? You glare, "I will get on my knees for no man." You grit your teeth. "Though perhaps, if he were my husband, I would reconsider." 

You can see the anger in his eyes as his hand releases its grip on your throat; you suck in an involuntary gasp for oxygen. If you are to lose your family, you must claim your new one - claim the power of the Harkonnen name, as that is the only thing left in front of you. But Feyd-Rautha has waited years to wed you, and your family is about to dream with the stars; you must act quick. 

"You are nothing now; you will still be nothing when you are my wife." He growls, letting you push him backwards, towards the cold bed that lies in wait. "My little pet wife. So pretty, so hateful." 

You are empty; to cast out visions of your sisters, huddled and cowering away from the creatures that lurk around their cell below your feet; of your brother, likely bloodied and curled with your parents, their eyes sharp and brains clouded with drugs. You know what will come tomorrow, and the only way to ignore it is to dissolve; you are no longer yourself. 

Anger will distract you. "Nothing in this universe consumes a man more quickly than the passion of resentment." You whisper as his hands fall to your hips; possessive, unloving, hungry. Passionately resentful. 

He pushes you onto the mattress, but you pull him with you. 

"Is that why I cannot get you out of my head?" He asks; rhetorical as it is, he is indignant, as if genuinely unaware of the tricks you can play within his mind. Your hand snakes between you, a phantom touch over the outline of his arousal; grunting, his eyes roll back. You watch with a sort of abhorrence at this budding obscenity that grows between you and Feyd-Rautha. He will give you power, a voice chides in your mind, the Shortening of the Way. The Shortening of the Way, the voice whispers - but it is not your voice. It is your mother's. 

You swallow back the pain of impending grief. 

"Perhaps that is why you begged for my life." You whisper, kindling into the fire. "Is the na-Baron in love?" 

He slaps your cheek hard and it is effective in taking your breath away. "You are not stupid enough to think I would ever love you." He spits, "You want my power." 

There is no point in denying this claim, nor to pretend that you could ever find it in you to love him. 

He rips your blouse open, teeth dripping in inky desire as he bites along the exposed flesh of your breasts. Groaning in pain, your hand squeezes over his cock, eliciting a grunt from him. "I ought to kill you." you say, voice hollow and laced with malice. "Take what is rightfully mine." 

This is amusing to him, and it fuels your hatred so much more. What agony it is to desire such an abomination. "Wait until my child is inside you." He hisses, eyes dark. "Then you can try, little bird." 

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Two days later, while you are in the throes of grief, torn and tossed askew by the altering of everything you have known, the news comes from the High Council.

The House of Bourbon were called to answer for their crimes at the Harko arena and lost their lives. One sole survivor remains, a prisoner of kanly war to the House Harkkonnen, on Giedi Prime. The Council has ruled to dissolve your betrothal to the Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen under concerns raised by Houses Atreides and Ginaz over your safety. 

You are no longer Feyd-Rautha's to wed. 

He takes you more rough than he ever has after this news, still dripping with the blood of whoever met the unlucky fate of presenting the message to him. While your hands held to his shoulders, nails scraping the skin clean off his back in bliss, you could almost imagine some kind of longing within his possessive hands, the marks of pain and hatred upon your skin. He withholds the very essence of bliss from you one, two, three, four times; until his name sings from your lips, a plead - a swear. I am yours, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Again, again, again. Until he thinks you truly believe it; though you never have and you certainly never will. 

"I should have wed you sooner," His voice is painted with wrath, "Kept you here to answer for your family's betrayal. Now that Atreides boy thinks he can take you-" 

You are too numb with the news to consider Feyd's words, nor the way the servants slither in the dark corners of the room to pack up your possessions. If your father could see you, would he be distraught that you are not more broken? Would he want you to cry, to cease to eat, to live? Would your ancestors watch on in horror as you bare your face to the world in light of the death of your bloodline, not a thread of green upon your body?  Would your mother whisper that you must fulfil your duty with your new husband, that you must adapt; evolve? It does not matter. They are absent to the void, now. Returned to the soil of your planet, in one way or another; star dust and ash.

You do not want to leave. Threats require adaptation; How must you change now? What will your chains look like?  You fight against the soldiers who enter your chambers when the time comes, even when you recognize their armor. They expect you to think you're being saved, but you know better. 

I will find you again, my pet.

Maybe he will, or maybe he won't. You don't care. Your life will forever be cold; you are alone in this world. 

A new name, a new power, a new prison.

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follow @tremendumnotifs for notifs.

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[dusty-pistol]

I hate havin a human body cuz what do you mean I sweat? I should be expellin steam, not makin myself uncomfortably moist. My clothes shouldn't be stickin to me this is so uncomfortable

[deitiesdark]

7 Music themed pronoun templates!!! (ˊ˘ˋ) ›

♡⃕ prn . prn ♡?

𖦹 prn . prn ° ✮

⊹ ◟prn . prn ◝ ˖

𓍢ִ໋ ♬ prn . prn ︶꒷꒦ 

♬✰. prn . prn ｡ ⟢

♬𓂃 prn . prn ✩˚｡ 

❝ prn . prn ❜❜

[sycamoretrees]

what i picture when my american friend tells me about the apparently carceral experience of shopping in drugstores

[drag00ni]

Nice hat

[ziptiesnfries]

i know everybody loves the bodyguard/client dynamic because of the intimacy, the devotion to another person's safety, but what about when that dynamic gets a little more ... intense? when it goes from "i'd do anything to protect you" to "i'd kill for you, even if you don't want me to" to "only i know what's best for you"? what about when it becomes "no one is allowed to touch you except for me"?

when does devotion become obsession? when does it cross the line into something the client is no longer comfortable with?

only when it's too late to escape.

[pierrothare]

Possesed Red Son AUs have such a chokehold on me y’all don’t get it

old doodle while I work on other stuff

[fr0guu]

The guy! The fella!

[ruthlesslistener]

Wrote down two relatively simple recipes that I like to cook for my family's aid, so I decided to post them here too as well! The chorizo, bell peppers, and potato one is kind of rough because I did it on a whim with random stuff in my fridge, but a rule of thumb is to have 2x the amount of potato as you have chorizo. The amount of onion or bell peppers you add is up to personal preference.

Text transcript (Spinach and Feta Pie)

For the crust:

-1 and 1/4th cups of all purpose flour

-1 teaspoon granulated sugar

-1/2 teaspoon baking powder

-1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

-1 stick (1/2 cup) cold unsalted butter

-2-3 tablespoons of ice water

To make:

Mix the dry ingredients together with a spoon, then chop the butter into pieces and crumble into the flour (either with a fork or food processor). The mixture should be dry and crumbly, with no lumps. Then add the 2-3 tablespoons of ice water and slowly work the mixture until a dough forms. It won't seem like it will come together, but it will. Press into pan and set aside; you won't need to precook it

For the filling:

-3 cups finely chopped fresh spinach (water extracted)

-1/2 cup chopped white onion

-2/3 cup dry crumbled feta cheese (or more as you like)

-1/4 teaspoon black pepper (or more as you like)

-2-3 cloves of garlic, minced

-1 large egg

To make:

Squeeze out as much water as possible from the spinach, then mix in the onion, garlic, feta, pepper, and egg. Pour into prepared pie shell, then bake at 425F for 15 minutes. Then turn the heat down to 250F and bake for 15 more minutes, or until crust is golden and spinach looks dark and dry on top.

Text Transcript (Chorizo, Potatoes, and Bell Peppers)

Ingredients:

-2-3 tablespoons of olive oil

-1/2-1 cup of minced onion (of your choice)

-1 red/orange bell pepper, sliced or diced

-2 handsized russet potatoes, peeled and chopped (in a separate microwave-safe bowl)

-2 tube of chorizo (beef or pork)

To make:

In a large saucepan/pot, pour in your olive oil and set on a burner to medium heat. Add in the onion, then the bell pepper. While they are cooking, take the bowl of chopped potatoes, then cover with a ceramic plate and microwave for 3-4 minutes*, or until slightly softened. Wait until the onion is just turning transparent, then add in the potatoes, stirring until they are completely covered with oil. Then add the chorizo, stirring constantly. All ingredients should be kept rotating to prevent uneven cooking.

Once the chorizo is browned and mashed into small pieces, add 1/4th cup of water, cover the pot with the top, and let steam for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are soft and easily mashed (you may have to stir occasionally). Once uniformly softened, drain off excess water and fat, then serve on top of sliced rosemary bread with vegetables on the side.

*The potatoes will still be firm, but microwave-steaming them will heat them to the temperature of the pot and start the cooking process, making the overall cook time shorter. Smaller cubed potatoes will require less time.

[dykesabers]

me irl btw

[sunnidewdrops]

i think hanahaki is just such a cool concept because of how its base values can be interpreted! “flowers grow in your lungs with unrequited love”. does it matter how long you’ve loved that person? how serious does the love need to be? can obsession get you hanahaki? what about passion? platonic love? can you get hanahaki from family? friends? celebrities? how personal does it need to be? if you think it is love, but its actually some other emotion, does that count? i also personally subscribe to the concept of being able to remove hanahaki via surgery, on the expense of your capacity for love.. what about “unrequited love”? does it genuinely need to be unrequited, or does the person who gets it have to THINK its unrequited? are there other ways to rid of hanahaki? ive seen a few aus about how confessing can get rid of it, or maybe having your heartbroken? theres so many different ways to spin it, ways to write it, draw it, create from it! it also allows for people to utilize follow languages so beautifully in writing, something about it is just so nice

[me-beef]

@strangeravatar made a great point

i was gonna focus on the spike-hotboxing-celestia aspect but i got distracted somewhere along the way and i think i forgot what joke i was trying to make

but dont you think its interesting how many guards of the exact same color/body type she's managed to accrue?? i do

ooohh you want to go look at our stickers so bad

[meamiiikiii]

mira !!! :]

[mellowmonsters]

🔴♥️🔵

[pjs-everyday]

lol the girls side of the dorm isn't safe either-- leave ya shit out for 48 hours and it's ochakooo's ✌️😊✌️💕

cheeky thief comic: part 1 // closeups // bakugo's shirt // part 2

[starboundsingularities]

faster turnaround than usual huh? or should i say faster turnabout than usual no i shouldn't say that delete delete post turn this thing off

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