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bigsoupspoon · 1 year ago

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A Safe Respite

Summary: You take Astarion on a private evening date to a bath house inside of Baldurs Gate.

Pairing: Astarion x Afab Reader

Warnings: Fluff, smut, minor angst, bathing,

Word Count: 2300 approx.

Rating: 18+ - If you are under 18 please do not read.

The day had been difficult and dangerous, multiple citizens abruptly transforming into mindflayers and the Absolute cultists posing a threat everywhere they go, not to mention attempts to infiltrate Baldur’s Gate for leads to destroy the Elder Brain. By the time sunset came, you and your companions were all accounted for back at camp, and decided to start the night with a celebration of the victories earned thus far.

“I think we all deserve a little fun after today’s tiresome events, there’s a tavern close by I used to visit from time to time. They make the best honeyed mead in the Gate.” Wyll promptly suggests.

“Aye, I second that suggestion.” Agreed Halsin, already nearly finishing a bottle of wine.

“Are you coming?” Shadowheart nudges, hoping you would join.

“Although that does sound fun, I actually have something else for the two of us planned for the evening,” You reply, now looking at Astarion, “Unless you’d prefer the tavern of course?”

“A private rendezvous planned by my lover? How could I ever say no.” Astarion gushed coyly.

The group collectively threw you several looks that implied “Have fun,” and with that, you took Astarion’s hand and walked up towards the bustling streets of the city.

* * * * * * * * * *

You make your way to the local bath house, one you had seen earlier in the week and decided to pay a visit to soon. The same clerk is working who recognises you from your interaction just hours before.

“Everything you had requested has been organised, I hope the room is to your liking.” They smile, and lead you around the corner to a private room.

The scent of the lavender oil bath embraces your noses as you walk into the room. It is dimly lit, containing multiple candles surrounding a circular wooden tub in the centre, filled with freshly drawn warm water. Leafy vines have grown to obscure the windows and further around the roof and sides of the room, some of the smaller fronds hanging down with flowering buds beginning to grow. Your specific request of wine and fruits was dutifully fulfilled, as they sit on a small table placed next to the tub for easy reaching.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion says.

“I wanted some space just for us, someplace where we could take it easy for the night.” You reply.

“Well, how thoughtful of you, my dear.”

You take Astarion’s hand, and lead him into the room, and begin the remove your clothes and then his. He seems pleasantly surprised by your offer to remove his clothes for him, but lets you do so anyway. He helps you into the tub first, supporting you as you take your first step into the water, and he follows a second after. You’re sat next to him, getting used to the warmth of the water for a few moments. You then begin to pour two goblets of wine when you feel his eyes watching you.

“Come here, my sweet.” Astarion invites, as his hands find your hips and pull you towards the front of him, so you are placed on his lap, your inner thighs caressing the outsides of his.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re trying to seduce me with all of this.” he teases.

“There’s actually something I’d like to do first, if that’s alright.” You poke back.

“Is it alright if I touch you?” You ask, eyes searching his for consent.

“Darling,” he coos, “I thought you’d never ask.”

You lean into Astarion closely, chests warmly pressed together, feeling his nose gently scrape the side of your neck, your arm outstretched to grab the cloth on the small table behind him, and dip it in the warm water of the tub. Once it is soaked through, you gently wipe it across his collarbones, swiping away any grime and blood brought on by the earlier events of the day. You tenderly move down his body, cleansing his chest and stomach, then proceeding to his arms and hands.

Astarion stares at you with a small, soft smile across his lips, watching you clean him, take care of him. His eyes softly caress your face, carefully taking in the moment of peace and safety, something that he wasn’t familiar with, but had longingly ached for.

Resting the cloth on the side of the tub, you check in with him again.

“How does this feel, my love?” you ask Astarion.

He initially smiles at you, but then his face becomes serious, it takes but a second for him to search his memories for a time where he was able to feel this kind of security.

“I can’t remember a time where I felt this kind of….intimacy. Its nice.” He answers honestly.

“Close your eyes, alright?” You ask.

You pick up the cloth again, gently swiping across his face, removing the last of the dirt and blood. Astarion’s eyes are softly closed, he basks in the moment as he can feel his skin being cleaned. He tenses in the beginning, his forehead creasing ever so slightly, he’s not used to this kind of gentle touch, but after a minute or so his breathing slows and deepens, relaxing into your touch as the safety of you embraces him fully.

Once his face has been cleansed, you place a small and delicate kiss on his cheek. Astarion turns his face towards you until his lips graze yours, staying in this moment for just a minute more. His hand caresses the back of your neck, prompting you to stay there. He kisses you slowly and deeply, and for those few seconds, everything else in the world fades away.

Your head spins lightly when you eventually pull away, cheeks warm and rosy, it seems Astarion feels the same way too. He rests his forehead against yours and places his hands on the small of your back.

It’s a peaceful and pure moment between the two of you, simply enjoying the quiet company of each other, a brief respite. The only sounds are your soft breaths and faint music from a tavern playing off in the distance.

“Allow me,” he gently takes the cloth and douses it in the tub, and returns your actions of cleaning him down. Astarion is careful to brush over the healing marks on your neck from his fangs the night before. He leans in and gingerly kisses the area of your neck where he last tasted you.

Your breath hitches as his teeth gently graze the sensitive area on your neck. Taking advantage of your small moment of bliss, Astarion begins to swipe the cloth across your chest and breasts, cradling them in his hands as he continues to clean you.

“This was supposed to be a night for me to take care of you, not the other way around,” you breathily confess.

“Seems like you enjoy being taken care of this way too, don’t you think, darling?” he smugly asks.

You push away his hands and place them back on your waist as you begin to trail small kisses from his shoulder up to his neck, gently massaging his chest while you do so.

Astarion lets out a small moan into your ear, quiet enough you barely hear it. Your planned priority was his sole pleasure and security, allowing him to feel safety and love as he deserves.

You pause for a moment and begin to work your way to the other side, giving equal attention to the other side of his neck. He firmly places his hands around your lower back, giving into his growing enjoyment.

“Love, although I’m loving this attention from you, we can take care of each other, you know. This doesn’t have to be about just me.” He takes your chin softly so you’re looking directly at him, and pulls you into another deep kiss. You can feel his smirk as you give into him, allowing him to kiss you more passionately than before, as his arms caress around your back, one hand nestled in your hair. He gently tugs at your scalp, pulling you out of the kiss for just a moment.

“I love you.” He whispers delicately, his pupils blown and cheeks lightly flushed.

“And I love you.” You return. He pulls you into a passionate kiss again, growing hungrier the more time passes by. You can begin to feel him grow between your thighs, so you take one hand and caress him ever so gently, encouraging him further.

Astarion lets out another small moan, more audible this time, and places his hands on your breasts again, gently swiping each nipple with this thumbs, making you moan in return. His expert fingers graze you ever so softly, then applies a gentle pressure, causing you grow aroused along with him.

His hands slither down your stomach and around your waist, firmly squeezing your behind before one hand comes back around the front to touch you more intimately. He drags his thumb slowly up your slit, even underwater he can feel your wetness starting to grow. He swipes up again, causing you to moan into the kiss, he reciprocates the moan as you rub your thumb across the top of his hardening member. You stroke him more firmly now, as he does unto you, eliciting filthy sounds from one another.

“I want more,” You breathily request.

“Only if you say ‘please’, my love.” He cheekily demands.

“Please,” You urge him. Satisfied with your instant compliance, Astarion gently pushes one finger inside of you, and begins to rhythmically pump his hand, while the other holds your waist still. You both spend several minutes like this, exploring each other’s body, teasing one another while yours and his lips remain deliciously connected.

Astarion reaches under your thighs, lifting you slightly out of water and gently onto your knees. Your cunt grazes his tip lightly, you balance yourself with your arms placed across his shoulders, crossing them over behind his neck.

“Are you sure want this, love?” Astarion asks, his lips barely leaving yours.

“Of course, baby.” You reply, your mouth leaves his for just a second.

As you slowly sink down onto him, both expelling a series of lustful sounds, you take a moment to adjust to his size. Astarion’s arms curl around your body, holding you as close to him as possible, his kisses grow more intense as he starts to tenderly thrust up into you. Wanting to reciprocate the movement, you lightly bounce on him, causing the tub water to steadily ripple.

You quickly become lost in one another, feeling nothing else but pure pleasure, love filling you both to the brim. He fits you so exquisitely, and he knows it, delicately and lovingly ruining you, over and over again.

The water begins to splash slightly over the edge of the tub the more you both continue, although neither of you notice, as the two of you are entangled with one another, as one connected entity.

The warm tingle in your stomach climbs higher, and your head swings back in reaction. Astarion takes advantage of the exposed flesh of your neck and kisses it, periodically sucking the skin leaving you sure there will be love marks come morning.

“Feed on me, please, I want you to bite me.” You beg, one hand entangled in his hair while the other grips his bicep.

“Are you sure, darling? It’ll hurt for just a second.” Astarion’s lips barely leave your neck as he speaks.

“Mhmm,” Pulling your hair to the side to expose more of your neck to him, granting him full access. Astarion needs no further encouragement, as he sinks his teeth into you, penetrating you for the second time.

It stings deliciously, the opposing mixture of the cold numbness shooting through your body, combining itself with the warmth of the fire between your thighs, you are overwhelmed by the simultaneous different sensations, causing your head to feel dizzy and your body to constrict.

Astarion removes his fangs and presses his forehead into your neck, no longer able to focus on drinking your blood and instead chasing his climax. His stifled moans exhilarate you, and you bounce a little harder, and a little faster, gripping his shoulders as you do so, feeling yourself about to come undone onto him.

His thrusts become sharp and jagged as he reaches his end, his hands gripping your waist so tight they’re bound to leave small round bruises where his fingertips applied so much pressure. The desperate noises Astarion makes are so sweet to yours ears, and are alone enough to bring you to the edge. You come undone around him, squeezing him tight as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. The sensation of you reaching climax around him sends shockwaves through his body a second time, rendering him utterly speechless, his brain only knowing the feeling of pleasure for that brief moment.

It takes a minute for you both to recover, the both of you have your arms coiled around the other. Astarion leans his head back as you rest yours on his shoulder, both you unevenly puffing, trying to catch your breath. He softly grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling you into a small kiss. After a moment, you pull away slightly, caressing his face and staring into his eyes. Astarion smiles back at you, he looks both relaxed and beautifully disheveled.

“My sweet, did you reserve this room just for the hour?” Astarion questions.

“No, I paid for the night.” You answer, breathing still uneven.

“Good,” He says softly, “Because I’m not quite finished with you yet, my love.”

#baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x female reader #astarion smut #astarion x fluff

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chiprewington · 1 year ago

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It's nothing personal, just business.

#chip revvington #chainsaw consultant #corporate clash #corporateclash #ttcc #toontown corporate clash #toontowncorporateclash #my art #blood #implied blood #it's oil but im tagging it for blood due to how it looks #unnerving #unsettling #eye contact #more people need to draw the override being unsettling above all else #completely emotionless. no expression. just a cold and unfeeling machine #personality override

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astralfandoms · 5 months ago

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yeah so uh. benjamin does NOT have a good relationship with his father

there's a lot to unpack but honestly we should write more about the backstories because we have a lot of thoughts about them

but for now you get this :3

#🐭.text #my art #toontown corporate clash #ttcc #bellringer #benjamin biggs #implied child abuse #blood #< technically oil but shh

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comfortless · 10 months ago

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In Our Angelhood

König x fem!reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. silly & odd strangers -> lovers au, loner/loner dynamic. canon divergent. mentions of physical and emotional abuse, violence, hurt + comfort, mentions of religion & religious imagery (Catholicism), light horror/unease, sexism (from a minor, non-canon character), reader and König are both in their 20s. virgin!König -> smut, unprotected piv.

notes: listen…. I was raised catholic but simply do not remember most of my life in the church. take this as a silly fairytale instead of simmering on the religion bits. <3 reader is implied to be a virgin too but we’re not harping on that who cares.

wc: 10k.

You haven’t had it easy, but seeing the angel wander into the cathedral with purple and yellow stains painting his cheeks, his throat, is safe harbor. Oil on canvas to burrow in like booklice. You like the way he takes the front pew, doesn’t hide himself despite the horror that’s been made of his face; tempts god by raising a hand up to press on the bruises, shivers from the pain. His brow pinches when his gaze drifts upwards, as if to think: You allowed this, look at it!

Most days, he doesn’t pay attention to the sermon, his hands consistently prod at his face or twitch someplace bedded down in the fleece lining of the pocket of his hoodie, always dark green or black. You’re not paying attention, either. You could fall into that absent stare easily, find yourself lost in whichever world bathed in static and hellfire that he’s dreaming up.

The Father is wary of him, no doubt. The man fidgets constantly in his place, toying with the unseen thing in his pocket whilst the priest prattles on about the Holy Mother and the blood of a son she watched led away to slaughter. The angel seems to only display intrigue when preaching shifts to mentions of the wrath of god, of sin, of Hell, as if he knows he’s bound for all of it. Heaven’s not spotless, either, full of cobwebs where God exonerates his wrath.

Sitting beside him is unheard of, the other parishioners stay away, whispering behind upheld palms that ‘there’s just something wrong with him’, but you choose to move from your pew to place yourself at his side, crossing the rows of curious gossips with careful strides as you approach his seat. The wooden bench creaks when he tenses, and you can feel his eyes dart to your form while you remain facing forward, but not a word is spoken during service nor after.

You make a habit of sitting next to him each time he wanders into the church with his fresh bruises. A few weeks of this and he comes back with a gash striped down from below his right eye to his jaw, an ugly maroon trail. He makes a point to sit on the opposite end of the bench that day, and you’re left to stew in the rejection that your attempts at providing your comfort and your friendship have failed.

“What happened to you?” Your voice comes out as a mere squeak, staring up at that horrid cut once the sermon has concluded. You’ve got him cornered between the floral dress cloaking you and the wooden bench brushing against the backs of his knees. It’s almost endearing how the sight of a woman speaking to him, caging him in like this makes him panic, his lips part and his eyes dart.

His chest heaves as a sigh leaves him once his head is angled away, eyes staring at the stained glass just over your shoulder.

“Accident.”

It’s said so simply that one wouldn’t believe it to be a lie if he were simply a voice, rather than a fully grown man cowering in your presence. For half a moment, you wonder his age before a response comes to mind. Assuredly he must be like you, mid-twenties and despondent, he comes here all alone, but you never see him around town. It dawns on you then, that the man probably still lives with his parents, maybe they force their fallen angel to attend church just to be rid of him for a few hours.

“Looks bad.” The response isn’t an insult, but you can hear the way his breath is hissed through his teeth, see the way his jaw tightens as though he took it as one.

“Es tut mer leid,” is all he says in reply.

You take a step back, keeping your eyes on him as you fold your arms behind your dress innocently. The other parishioners have long since fled by now, dusted off their sins like crumbs from their hands and passed the doors of the cathedral with sideways glances at the mismatched two still stood before the altar. You get the sense that maybe you’re the only sinner left in this place when König nervously meanders a step away, but when he walks several stunted strides away, stops to give you a glance over the shoulder, that weight rapidly disappears.

His expression shifts, somber and yearning for something that he can’t bring himself to say before he turns away and leaves you to mull in the disaster of your first conversation.

You begin to worry when he stops showing up for homilies, several weeks of sitting alone on their shared pew. Mass is no different, he remains a distant phantom. The cause for his accident could have very well been the cause for a life ended too soon and you worry yourself sick, shifting in your seat until the courage to ask if anyone knows his address is ripped from your tongue. The answer comes relatively easy, coupled with a flighty look from an older woman who claimed to have seen him seated in the front yard of some decaying home, shooting at a barrel with some gun you almost dare to wonder if he entirely, legally owned.

Despite your better judgement you find yourself staring blankly at his front door an hour later, clutching a brown, paper bag full of goodies from the local bakery for him. The muffled shouting from within keeps you from knocking, the voices of two men in some uproarious vocal war seeping out in whispers through layers of insulation and wall. You feel like a terrified animal, rooted in place as you try to make out the cause for such anger within. The dull thud of flesh meeting flesh pulls you back to reality in such a rapid fall, your knuckles wrap at the door immediately. It all falls silent inside, and a part of you is left fearing for your own safety there, as if those words and furious blows would be focused on you for even daring to bring this angelic stranger a slice of raspberry danish and a blue velvet cupcake.

The door swings open with the whine of hinges that likely have never been oiled, and König has never looked worse. His face looks sickly from bruising, the gash partially healed yet split from a fresh blow readily seeping blood against his thick fingers pressed to his cheek. Your chest fills with a rage you’ve never known and you feels your fingernails curl into the bag like claws, ready to push past this weathered angel and beat the Devil himself with your bare hands.

Instead, you smile at him.

“I brought you something.” You hold up the bag to him, and you’re grateful that he accepts it without asking why you bothered at all or how you even found this accursed pocket of Hell.

“Danke.”

He shifts a little in place as he opens the gift, and though he could not bring himself to smile, the way his larimar eyes seem to swim a little displays his gratitude where words fail him.

A part of you might even pay the smallest bit of gratitude to the fact that he doesn’t mention just went on inside there. Though your eyes search his with blatant curiosity, he turns away each time, allowing the words to remain unsaid. You don’t pry, it’s not your place. You know treading here was not your place either. Angels don’t haunt you like stalking predators, they haunt you with a call, a silent song. Fate seemed a ridiculous concept, but you’re drawn to his very presence as you have been since the moment you first laid eyes on him.

You know you’ve finally won his friendship when you find yourself across from him at a picnic table with a coffee he purchased for you in hand. It’s not how you would have ordered it, some overly sugary thing nearly spilling out with whipped cream and caramel, but it suits what you’re feeling. You ignore the taste, sated enough by a conversation that comes so easily between the two of you that you feel you’ve known him for far longer.

König is actually rather teasing and boastful when he isn’t being questioned about his appearance or what goes on in his family home. He tells you of his dream of becoming a recon sniper with ease, and how the Austrian military denied him despite how ‘perfekt’ he was for the role.

You listen intently as he carries the conversation forward, tells you about his rifle, right down to explaining the anatomy of such a thing.

“Scheisse, you don’t care.” He breathes a laugh too soft for a man his stature after he speaks, wiping away a bit of icing from his bottom lip with the knuckle of his index.

“Yes, I do!”

“Nein, nein, girls don’t play with guns.”

So, maybe he’s a little old fashioned and odd, but his voice is sweet like spiced honey, and you couldn’t fathom any place you would rather spend a gloomy afternoon than seated across from him.

“I bet I could be a better sniper than you,” you jest, taking a sip from your coffee with a little grin on your face when you note the slight furrow of his dark brows and the challenging flicker in his eyes.

His face softens as quickly as that surge of determination had come, taking to look you over with a newfound appreciation in his stare instead.

“I could teach you.”

You spend a moment explaining that you were simply kidding, and his eyes light up as a tinge of red seeps into the mottled colors of a sky in the midst of a storm across his pale cheeks. Like the first break of sun when the deafening rain finally falls to a calming drizzle.

“Shouldn’t you know how to protect yourself, though?” He asks, sheepishly turning his head away, focusing his gaze on fallen leaves instead of you. Extinguishing your own steadfast gaze is difficult, when you find yourself further captivated by the man in front of you. Everything about him is enigmatic; even the sparse glimpses into his life he’s offered to you leave more questions than answers.

“Maybe.” You shrug absently as you lower the styrofoam cup back to the table, hands curled around it.

He turns back to you then, slipping a hand into his pocket to fish out a butterfly knife, latch closed around the shiny handle. It’s the very same color of his eyes, barely a quiet blue, though the blade itself is wicked steel, expertly sharpened. You ogle it in your hands for a moment, flicking it open before he swiftly takes your wrist and firmly shakes his head.

“Careful,” he gruffs as he retrieves it, brushing over your fingertips as the blade is taken back into his large hand. He dutifully shows you how to twirl it, performing a series of little tricks without even having to look at the weapon in his hands. The blade’s dance is swift and graceful, not one cut sullies his fingers. His chest puffs in pride when he notices the way your eyes try to keep up with the steel, and the tricks become more elaborate.

“Can I try?”

“Nein… let me show you how to use it first. Bitte.”

With a nod, you find yourself being led away deeper into the park, leaves crunching under the toe of the man’s boots just in front of you. Assuredly, you shouldn’t be so trusting of a titan with a weapon, especially after hearing the violence going on within his own dwelling, yet you don’t question yourself. He fills lapses of silence with a soft hum, likely some song he knows from his homeland, it’s a pretty tune coming from him. The cadence of his voice is something that sets your mind at ease when he does speak— always a rasp with a nearly giddy lilt to it. It’s pretty.

The trail leads you both down to a fallen tree, the trunk is thick and deteriorating, bark springing up with succulent, golden folds of what he tells you to be laetiporus. König guides you down to your knees with a gentle press against the back of your neck, the large hand is shaking when his calloused fingers meet your flesh. He descends next to you and places the blade in your hands once more, guiding you with a patient nudges to your wrist. The base of the fungus is gingerly cut with each metered motion from you both, and eventually a large clump of it falls free right into the lap of your dress.

“Not the best for foraging, but…”

“I like it,” you chime with a smile, marveling at the little blade in your hand before your gaze settles to the cluster resting on your lap. “What do we do with this though?”

König shrugs, lifting the cluster of mushrooms to your face, clutching it as though it were a bouquet of flowers with a wolfish grin on his face.

“Eat it.”

“It’s dirty, you eat it.”

Those broad shoulders shrug again as he peels a bit of it off and shoves it between his lips, chewing the filthy things several times before swallowing it down. Your nose scrunches in feigned disgust, before a laugh leaves your lips at the crooked grin he gives you in answer.

“That’s so gross, König!”

It’s possible that he’s been yearning for someone’s focus to shift upon him like this, not in anger or disgust, but something far more gentle. He lets you keep his knife, and the rest of the afternoon is spent filled with comfortable conversation as you wander around the forest together. When the sun begins to set, you actually find yourself a bit disappointed that he doesn’t suggest a bout of stargazing or something more.

It’s all felt too natural to let go of so soon, and you’ve no idea when you’ll see him again. A seed of warmth takes root in your chest when he walks you back to your home. The friendship is something you’ve both needed it seems, because his smile doesn’t even falter when he leaves you at the door to retreat back to the horrible place that he calls home.

— ཐིཋྀ —

You’re sick the next Sunday. A small cold, nothing worthy of fretting too much over. Over the counter medicine does the trick to keep you somewhat comfortable as you lie back against the sofa, ample pillows and blankets surrounding you. There are chores begging for your attention: the dishes stacked in the sink, a laundry basket full to the brim, and you can’t recall when the last time that you vacuumed was. A few days of forgetting and these things overlap into a miserable, tedious pile.

You wish you weren’t so quick to call blame to one particular reason.

Spending time with the angel has left you carrying a weight you’re not certain you can continue to bare. In fact, your cold may have come from fearing for his safety. Whatever ghouls he keeps locked up in that house, tormenting him endlessly… it’s difficult to keep yourself together when you haven’t seen him in days. He could very well be dead. There’s some comfort in knowing that he knew how to protect himself; he had shown you, and his stature was undeniable evidence of such. It just doesn’t feel enough without the physical proof.

He allowed himself to be hurt anyway. It was strange. Some people were simply difficult to comprehend, and you didn’t even begin to know how to unravel the strange spool that’s rolled into your life now.

Especially not when realization hits and you come to terms with one simple fact: You miss König. His eyes, his strange interests, even the overly-sweet drink he purchased for you— you find yourself missing all of it; the light and the darkness. He knows where you live; he walked you home, and yet, he hasn’t stopped by. You imagine it must be that you merely misread the supposed closeness. It didn’t matter. König was just an acquaintance, after all.

You take your mind off of him by turning on the television, a hand rested over your aching head and the other thumbing at the remote in search for anything that could hold your attention longer than a few seconds. The town is small and the news is never interesting; a traffic jam on a road you’ve never traveled, a safe at the grocery store, the sorts of things that come as nothing more than a buzzing to fill the empty air. Focusing on a movie sounded far too tedious, too. Eventually you give up, turning the television off and tilting your head back to stare up at the ceiling, all white and empty.

The bell tolls again, it’s ringing far softer now from within the walls of your home, drawing your attention back to the woods— to König. Gentle chiming is a strange thing to remind you of the bloodied titan. It exudes a sense of peace, like the safety of church bells. You feel your conscious slipping, curled into yourself there as your eyes flutter shut.

Only, the calm is short lived. A knock comes only minutes later, the soft graze of knuckles against your door as though whoever lurks outside didn’t actually want to disturb you too terribly. After a fifth knock, you notice they’re not leaving. It was probably best to answer sooner rather than later so you might be left to your sulky slumber.

It takes a moment to gather your bearings and straighten yourself out enough for company. Your head is still aching terribly, brain fogged by the weight of your sickness. When the latch of the lock clicks and you haphazardly swing your door open, you’re met with the view of a broad chest covered in black.

“König?” You murmur, raising your head to look up at him. It’s not the sight of his face that you’re met with, only his eyes visible beneath the black fabric concealing him. The remains of an old t-shirt, and you had your doubts that whatever he had hidden beneath it could be any more intimidating than he looks now.

“Es tut mer leid,” he huffs, his voice a bit tight as he stares down at you, pupils slightly dilated and irises flicking from your face to the room just behind you. He looks a total contrast to you, unable to help the slight upturn of your lips from just the sight of him. Perhaps he had missed you, too. “Can I come in?”

Again, you should be apprehensive, but in the end you step aside and gesture for him to enter. He readily obliges, stepping past you as he ducks beneath the door frame and walks a bit stiffly to the center of the room.

“You alright?” You manage, shutting the door behind you and leaning against the wood. The flutter in your chest makes it difficult not to break into a more obvious smile— you’re happy he’s here, even in such a sorry state.

“Ja, just…” König pauses for a moment before taking to the sofa, seeming so much smaller than he truly is when he finally seats himself. “You know Lukas?”

Lukas, a parishioner. The man with the ever-present smirk on his face. You had seen him before, spoken to him in passing a time or two. He wasn’t particularly pleasant. You had even heard him join in with the others, commenting on König’s appearance— a bully and a gossip, no different from most of the others. The man couldn’t have been any younger than you or König, still, he had all of the maturity of a teenager.

“Yes?”

“They kicked me out because of him.”

You tilt your head, furrowing your brow in confusion. It wasn’t like the church to turn anyone away, especially not one who had been a part of the congregation for as long as König had. Your bewilderment spurs him to continue.

“At the cathedral.”

“I got that,” you hum out a bit hoarsely as you pad over to sit on the couch, opposite of him. The pitiful look he shoots you then, through the holes in his makeshift mask makes him look like little more than a pleading puppy, begging for comfort that he would never actually request. “It’s alright, König.”

“Nein… I will not get to see you as much.”

If König were not a grown man wearing an ominous veil over his face, you would almost dare to think he was pouting. It’s ridiculous, but it warms your heart that he cares; he enjoys the time spent with you just as much as you did. Perhaps more, if what you’ve gathered about him supplied any hints. He didn’t seem to have anyone at all— only you.

What the church won't tell you is that angels hurt sometimes, too. The Father will tell you that they're The Lord's army, just as impervious to bullets as they are to temptations. With an abundance of wings and eyes, they are such fragile things… how could they truly be invincible? Unlike the seraphim thriving in a heaven far beyond your reach, or the battered angel seated beside you, you won't deny yourself a reprieve or a request for comfort.

“We could just make our Sundays for us, yeah?” You don’t think to stop yourself when you extend the offer to him. The way his eyes seem to light up then is nothing short of a burning ember. Missing tedious sermons couldn’t be that sinful. God could turn the other cheek for now, you thought.

“I would like that.”

You hum in response, reaching for the little bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table as that ache in your head begins to throb again. König’s eyes track you the entire time, shoulders slumping and eyes narrowing when he pieces it together.

“You don’t feel well..,” he says sternly, already rising to his feet to explore your home before a protest can even leave your lips. You hear the sounds of cabinets being flung open in the kitchen, the refrigerator flung open before he returns to kneel at your side with a glass of water. You weakly fumble with the lid of the bottle, offering him your thanks as he holds the cup out for you. Childproof lids are a pain, clicking incessantly rather than just opening when you need them to; each second feels like an hour passing as he stares at you like the strangest little creature he’s ever laid eyes on.

You feel your face warm in embarrassment when he sets the glass aside and pries the bottle from your hands, opening it up with ease before slipping two of the pills in your waiting palm. You down the medicine with a sip of water, nearly choking on it when he raises his hand to your forehead and gently presses against it to check your temperature.

“I’m fine, König,” you huff out, playfully batting at his hand. He remains insistent, not drawing away until you assume he’s convinced you aren’t feverish. “It’s just a cold.”

Your angel has never seemed sweeter than now, with worry painted clear in his blue eyes. He remains quiet, lost in thought for a moment before gently pressing you back against the couch with the press of his fingertips against your shoulder. The throw blanket is tucked over you in an instant. If the thought had occurred to you before, you imagined he would likely be rather clumsy when caring for another, and yet this all feels practiced. He’s told you he’s killed, in the military, yet you couldn’t imagine such gentle hands doing anything of the sort now as you curl up with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Sleep.”

You didn’t want him to leave. Impulsivity is enough of an excuse to take his hand, intertwine your fingers. He doesn’t pull away, not until your eyes close and sleep takes you once more. Only then does he leave your side and your home, locking the door behind him.

— ཐིཋྀ —

“Yeah… he said he saw a demon in there. All shadow.”

“Come on… that’s a lie. You know he was just scared!”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t think he would lie about something like that!”

You’re not trying to eavesdrop. It’s just that teenagers are never keen on keeping their voices down, at least not around here, it seemed. You’re already ten minutes late, having promised König you would meet him at the coffee shop at noon. You don’t have time to be standing around listening to children chittering about town myths. Especially not ones that make you feel so uneasy.

When you had heard them, they were always about the haunted church tucked far away from prying eyes, hidden somewhere in the forest circling the town. No one knew where it was for certain, but many claimed to have wandered there. None of those stories really held any weight; there were no pictures or other fragments of evidence, just voices. The only thing that made those tales seem believable was the bell. You had heard stories about it since you were a child. They ranged from seeing specters, to smelling perfume wafting about in the small graveyard supposedly next to it with no one else around, and even a strange one about finding a corpse there.

Seeing a demon was a new one.

You supposed that someone or something had to be ringing that bell at the odd hours during the day and throughout the night. It was never on time, always several minutes after the beginning of an hour had begun. The thought was a little eerie, and if you thought too hard about it— a little sad. Picturing some poor lost soul stuck there for an eternity, damned to ring a cursed bell only for no one to ever come. In retrospect, it really was no wonder why it reminded you just a bit of him; damned to haunt this town and return time and time again to his own personal Hell.

When the bell chimes again, the children take off towards the noise, leaving you alone on an empty street. Their shouts about how they were going to find that demon and chase it out echo until they’re too far away to make sense of the rest of the conversation.

Your heart feels a bit torn. It was best to leave things like that alone, but… the poor thing must have been lonely, lonely like him.

Maybe it’s a sign from God, as if to remind you of how you’re treading deeper into the dark with every passing Sunday.

You haven’t attended mass since you and König started hanging out. You consider that it’s your own guilt spurring you to fear this unknown thing lurking out in the woods, if it even existed at all. There was something about forsaking a religion you had grown up with for a man you had only just met that was both exciting and heartbreaking.

The walk to the coffee shop feels almost unbearable, your steps sluggish, yet the second you make it inside with the little bell chiming above your head you’re put at ease. König hadn’t taken your tardiness as initiative to leave. The man was tucked in the far corner of the shop, seated at a table too small with his own drink and yours before him.

“No hood today?” You ask as you approach, staring at his scarred face in reverie. The cut below his eye had mostly healed, and you don’t note any new bruising.

He shakes his head with a little smile, gesturing for you to take a seat— not across from him but at his side.

“Do you want me to wear it?” He asks once you’ve taken your seat.

“No, I like seeing you.”

König is handsome. The realization dawns on you, sharp and searing like a bolt of thunder when he flashes you a lazy smile, propping his elbow up on the table to rest his cheek against his open palm.

To quell your sudden embarrassment, calm the warmth pooling along your cheeks, you tell König about what you had heard on your way here. He listens in silence as you prattle on about the haunted church that no one has ever truly found, about the demon lurking in its depths. It sounds silly, even to your own ears as you recount the ridiculous myth you had heard in passing, but König looks a bit more rigid with each word you breathe out.

When you finish, he slowly shakes his head, eyes focused on the door as you take a sip of your coffee.

“You don’t really believe that,” he says.

“‘Course not. I just thought it was interesting...”

“Do you want to see it?”

You pause for a moment, considering the offer. Perhaps with König there you would feel safe, sate your curiosity and enjoy a little adventure as well. You still had the butterfly knife he had given to you, too. Your own little token of protection, and if that failed you would still have an angel at your side. Maybe he would teach you those intricate little dances on the trek there, hold your hand when you found yourself too afraid to brave whatever may come. If you couldn’t find the place at all then that would be nothing more than a nice memory to look back on.

“I think so.” The thought of feeling his warm hand in your own again is enough to spur you on. That feeling may have been more terrifying than any demon at all.

“We will go tonight then. I know where it is.”

“Oh… that soon?”

König gives your shoulder a playful, gentle nudge.

“Ja. I’ll take you.”

— ཐིཋྀ —

It’s not a date.

It’s a misadventure.

Still, you find yourself preparing for it as though it were a date. You bother with a stick of mascara and a bit of lip oil, a dress just slightly more revealing than the ones you wore to service. You tell yourself that you’re dressing up for the memory, not for the angel. That doesn’t stop you from ogling yourself in the mirror, tugging down your dress just a bit so it fits over your cleavage in a way that seems appealing.

You imagine the Holy Mother would probably chide you well if she were to step down from Heaven and see you now, tell you to remain chaste and pure until your wedding night. Oddly enough, it doesn’t tear you up with guilt— it only makes you giggle a bit as you lift the hem of your dress and twirl in place.

It isn’t a date, it’s the least romantic thing you could think of, but he’s coming to whisk you away into the night and it feels like one.

König, gentleman that he seems to be, doesn’t keep you waiting either. You both had settled on going right as the sun began to set after you had finished your coffee and informed him that you needed to finish a few chores and get ready before going on a night long endeavor. Just as the light outside began to turn to a pumpkin glow you hear the knock at the door. It’s louder than the last time he came by— he’s excited too, you can feel it without even gazing upon him.

You take your jacket, patting the pocket to ensure the knife is in its proper place before bounding toward the door, a skip in each step. Tonight would be special, sweet, and tender; it would be all of the things you had repressed since you first saw him.

As you turn the knob and pull it inward, the man hardly has the courtesy to hide his eagerness either. His face visibly flushes when he sees you, all dressed up just for him. You wished you could read his thoughts, have just one moment where you truly had some sort of telepathic ability as you once believed was possible when you were a child.

Graciously, as the two of you begin to venture out towards the woods, with you trying to match his lengthy strides as you walk side-by-side, you don’t need any telepathy.

“You are so pretty,” König mumbles, facing forward rather than looking directly at you. His voice is the quietest you had ever heard it now, barely above a whisper.

If you had the courage to kiss him right then, you would have reached for his scarred face and peppered a dozen over every mark, held him like that until his cheeks went up in flames.

“So are you,” you huff out instead.

Though he doesn’t outright call you a liar, something tells you that he doesn’t believe the words you’ve spoken. The angel falls silent, doesn’t turn to you and merely continues to lead you further out as the sky swells with a brilliant purple, the silhouette of a crescent moon peaking out from high up above. You would tell him a million times if it would make him believe you, then. He doesn’t fiddle with a concealed blade in his pocket around you, and together, he seems so much less lonesome and battered. You know that he’s comfortable with you; his discomfort stems from somewhere within, something you couldn’t reach to pry away from him.

You believe that you’re patient. You could bear anything he had to offer, good or bad; you would accept the burdens just as readily as the gifts— knives and the taste of sugar on your tongue.

The streets of the town aren’t as quiet tonight, and though there are no children with their silly stories idling about, you recognize the voice of a man a few meters off. When you look away from the tree line in the distance, your gaze settles on Lukas leaned up against the wall of the old antique shop. The place hadn’t been touched in ages, yet baubles and little porcelain dolls all covered in a generous layer of dust still lined the shelves in the window. His cell phone is propped between his shoulder and his cheek as he speaks, until his green eyes settle on König who halts in place at your side.

You know that your fantasy of a perfect evening is ruined the moment Lukas rushes a goodbye to whoever was on the receiving end of that call and slips his phone into the pocket of his coat.

“What’s going on here?”

The man is no demon, but he’s arrogant and cruel like one; he sounds enough like one when he laughs in your direction— looks enough like one when he makes a cupping motion before his chest as if to signify your breasts.

König doesn’t respond, but he steps in front of you, shielding you behind him as though you’re a little lamb in need of a snarling maw to keep you protected. You don’t need him to protect you, not truly. You aren’t a little girl, nor are you the one that shows their face covered in a mask of pain.

You’re finally getting a glimpse, a little look at what he must face every time he dares to cross paths with another person.

“We’re just taking a walk,” you say confidently, as you raise your hand to give König’s sleeve a little tug.

Let’s just go.

König doesn’t budge, unmoving like a gargoyle as he stares down at the smaller man before the both of you. His large hands clench at his sides and you see the flames of Hell flaring up in his blue eyes.

“Skipping mass to fuck the freak, is that right?” Lukas tuts with a roll of his eyes.

You’re amazed how Lukas displays not an ounce of fear— even you’re afraid. König wouldn’t hurt you, a part of you was certain, but the way he looked now was so unlike the passive, lost angel you had taken him to be. You take a step back, realizing that whatever comes to pass next is not something that you could stop even if you cling to König and plead for him to clear his mind and let this go.

They’re just words, despite the way they claw at your heart.

“Didn’t think you were such a slut.”

König is no longer much of an angel in your eyes when he leaps at the other man and lands a blow directly to his unsuspecting, smirking face. The sound is a loud, a horrible crack. It’s not like the soft thunder of sudden emotion, but one of a tooth being dislodged from the smaller man’s jaw. Lukas falls back, directly onto his backside against the hard sidewalk with a low groan of pain. His hands reach up to clutch at his face, bright blood trickling from his mouth like a stream.

It’s not enough. Not to König.

Your eyes squeeze shut the moment you hear another thud, and the third sends your running without so much as a thought in your head. The sounds of your own shallow breaths deafen the world around you, drowning out the violence taking place behind. You don’t consider where you’re headed, your eyes remain closed until the sounds of pavement against your soles dissipates and you’re left only with the thumps of your shoes hitting soil.

It’s dark when you stop to gather your bearings. The canopy of tree limbs, crooked and curved above you, blocking out any glimpse of even the moon. You can’t even see your hands when you hold them up in front of your face. When the adrenaline begins to subside, you feel foolish for running away— especially now that you find yourself horribly lost in an unfamiliar area. You turn back to look for the way that you had came, but see no lights from the town piercing through the dark.

You’re alone here, bathed in inky black, in perfect silence.

There are no footsteps chasing after you— König isn’t coming, not to save you. Not when you saw him for what he truly was, you imagined he read the accusation across your face when you ran away from him. It hurts you, too, to think of your lonely angel turned devil. How he saw the word ‘monster’ written in your eyes, wide with fear as you left him. You wondered if he could cry at all, if he was now.

You didn’t even care if Lukas was okay.

You doubted the man was even conscious anymore, lying limp in a puddle of his own blood. Whether he deserved it or not wasn’t for you to decide, but a part of you considers that he certainly did.

Trying to retrace the steps you took in flight proves futile, if anything you think you’ve only sunken further into the woods. Terribly lost and vulnerable, you reach for the knife in your pocket to try and regain some courage only to find it’s no longer there; you must have dropped it somewhere.

The walk feels aimless and fear creeps up on you from every small thing. A snap of a twig off in the distance sends you running once more despite the aching in your chest and limbs. The thought of being utterly helpless with no one in sight to lend their aid brings the sting of tears to your eyes.

Worst of all, however, is the bell.

Closer, it sounds dreadful. A haunting cacophony of noise roars above you, not far off. The bell is rung softly at first, a gentle pull of the rope held fast within it before it begins to grow more desperate, louder still. You swear you’ve turned in the opposite direction when you make it into a clearing, only to find yourself faced with the chapel of myth. The tower housing the dreadful bell is shrouded in shadow, and the damned thing actually has the courtesy to fall silent when you step past the last tufts of shrubbery to make it out into the open area.

The air feels colder here, suffocating almost, as though you’ve been doused in ice water. The silence is more dreadful than the pain emitted from Lukas’ bloody mouth, worse than the ringing of a bell or the droning of another dull sermon.

You don’t fall to pieces, but you do drop to your knees, sullying the ends of your dress with dirt as you stare up at the ominous, white building before you. No demons poke their heads from the windows, no whispering fills your ears from the graveyard mere paces away. It’s void and empty, and that feels somehow worse.

It would be a long night, but you knew wholeheartedly you were not going to find your way home without the sun to guide you. Catching a glimpse of your flesh in the dim light reveals a menagerie of small cuts and bruises, flesh marred from scraping tree limbs and slamming into broad trunks in the darkness.

There was no way that you were sleeping, despite the way you ached for rest. Even blinking made you feel vulnerable and exposed here. This was not an unholy place, but perhaps the most sacred you had ever lain eyes on. It was untouched and wild, even the descriptions of angels written in scripture seemed less so.

You find your footing for long enough to seat yourself at the side of the small building, your head rested against the wall as you draw your knees up to your chest. The sound of your own breath fills the silence in the air, but you don’t feel alone anymore. It’s paranoia and you know it, there’s no way such a humble place could be haunted. Still, the feeling of being watched causes your skin to prickle, and you long more than ever for König’s knife to be fitted between your fingers.

It’s when the sounds of footsteps draw near that you lose all composure. Somewhere off to your right, something was walking towards you— too quick and heavy to be a curious animal.

You rise to your feet in haste and go to the only place you can think of to find sanctuary— directly into the old church, slamming the heavy wooden door behind you. It’s empty inside, apart from an overturned desk and a few chairs you can make out from the dim light leaking through the window. Everything is bathed in dust and it smells nauseatingly sweet and sour, like cobwebs and musk, a combination that does little to set you at ease.

Though the room is small and empty, several doors and a small hallway are off to the back and you imagine the demon leering at you from one of them, just out of sight as you stumble to crouch behind the altar.

You don’t remember when last you prayed, and you don’t bother with it now, either. A prayer wouldn’t save you from whatever horrid thing come crawling out of the woods hunting for you. As if sensing your defeat, the door begins to creak open, the hinges whining as the godforsaken beast began to lumber inside, just as the bell strikes up again.

You swear you can hear the rapid beating of your heart above all other noise, and though you wish for nothing more than to squeeze your eyelids shut and bathe out the sight in nothing but dark, you can’t look away.

The demon is impossibly tall, shrouded entirely in shadow just as the children had said. Its eyes don’t glow and you can’t catch sight of fangs or claws, but it’s ominous enough as it slowly wanders inside, turning its head to look around the room— to look for you.

Your palm rests over your mouth to muffle your breathing, but to no avail. Panic swells within you, its grip tighter than any corset, any vise.

Until your eyes adjust to the dark figure properly. The damned thing is nothing but familiar, comforting even. No demon could ever make you feel as warm as an angel. Your vision fills with unshed tears, relief and regret overpowering any lingering dread.

The demon is not some screeching beast that clawed its way from Hell at all, only…

“König…” You breathe out quietly as you drop your hands to the wooden floor below you and slowly crawl forward. His shrouded head cocks in your direction, and if not for his stature it may have been even cute the way he rushes toward you; thundering steps as the angel no longer walks, but runs in your direction with his arms outstretched.

You lack the time to flinch back from the suddenness, because the moment he reaches you, you’re pulled into a pair of thick arms, shaking as they curl around you tightly. Your face presses into his chest as you circle your arms around his middle in turn.

“Let’s not do that again,” he rasps, pulling you somehow closer as his veiled chin rests against the top of you head. “I am sorry that I scared you… He just…”

“Stop apologizing,” you whisper as your fingers dig into the fabric of the dark hoodie. You didn’t want to hear another apology, not from him; English or German it mattered not, all that concerned you was the fact that the two of you were safe. Heaven and Hell all the same.

König sucks in a breath above you as he carefully pulls you to your feet. The bell and the darkness surrounding no longer brought you fear, only calm in such a protective hold.

He brings you back home, carrying your weight with ease as the forest disappears behind you. The hood over his face remains in place, and a part of you wonders why he even bothered to wear it at all. Perhaps not to scare you further if Lukas managed to open up that wound, or more likely so you wouldn’t have to see the face of a man so easily moved to violence at all.

König drops you off at the door without another word. The butterfly knife you had left behind someplace in the forest is slipped into your hand, the blue handle clasped shut. The weight no longer feels like that of a developing bond, but of parting.

The sting burrows into your heart instantly as he turns away from you. With his first step you find yourself grabbing at his arm, pulling him back with a desperation you had never known prior.

“Please stay,” you voice hoarsely, digging your fingernails into his sleeve. “We were supposed to… to spend tonight together.”

Not here, of course, but out there shivering in fear of the unknown. This doesn’t feel unfamiliar, you know what you’re doing when you offer to let a beast into your home, to lead him to your bedside and hold him throughout the night, and not a word of it slips out carrying the burdens of apprehension.

He turns toward you as his long fingers circle your wrist, thumb brushing against the back of your hand. If you could see his eyes now, you would find the creep of longing buried in a sea of blue.

“You want that?”

“Of course.”

Your bedroom seems even smaller with König inside of it, your bed even more so. The tumble beneath sheets is clumsy, and he has to bend his knees in a way that digs against your own flesh just to fit properly. The veil is cast off with only a muttered complaint in his mother tongue, something you could decipher without even knowing the words. You shush him with a kiss, sweet and gentle when his face is bared. A silent apology for your momentary fear, for your desperate sprint away, for making him wander into that cursed place to bring you home.

He reciprocates clumsily, all too eagerly searching beneath the sheet to grip at your waist as his tongue pries apart your lips. You break apart with a sigh, looking all the part of an adoring devotee as you melt against him, head tucked in the divide between his shoulder and the column of his neck.

“I thought you were afraid.” König sounds a bit dazed, fingers gently prodding against the fabric of your dress as his hand drifts lower to hold your hip. “I was worried.”

“I just don’t understand,” you answer in a soft murmur. “Why you…”

Your voice trails off as he pulls you closer again, his mouth pressed firmly against the crown of your head as he presses a kiss there. There’s a vulnerability to his touch, soft and tentative as his hand trails along your spine, resting just above your rear.

You could ask him anything now and you know that he would supply an answer, tell you any secret you would like to hear, but you don’t. In due time. Right now all that you craved was his closeness as you both drift off to sleep.

— ཐིཋྀ —

The haunted chapel is less so during the day. You haven’t heard the bell toll since last night, any lapse of conversation is filled with the chirping of birds or your own shy laughter each time you marvel up at the man seated next to you, his hand petting your hair, your cheek, anywhere he can touch. There’s nothing ominous about the place anymore, all filled with the bright colors from the stained glass windows as sunlight drifts through, painting the room of broken furniture and cobwebs with softness and warmth.

You’re lying on your back over a soft blanket you had thought to take along, the picnic basket König had pried from your hands on the walk here, once filled with pastries and fruit, now empty discarded at your side.

He tells you of why he stays in that house, deals with his father’s abuse— all for an ailing mother that’s never loved him, not as she should. König takes care of her, demonstrates love the best he knows how despite the absence of it during his childhood. You hadn’t asked, but he speaks more freely with each moment that’s passed since the kiss. It makes you somber, angry almost, that someone you saw such beauty in could be treated this way. You’re no savior, you can’t pull him free from it all, but to offer the angel a reprieve at all is enough. At least, to him.

He even assured you that Lukas, or ‘the arschloch’, was absolutely fine. A few loose teeth and a broken nose wouldn’t kill him, but maybe it would teach him to keep his gossiping mouth shut.

In turn, you tell him more about yourself. He kisses you after each description of hurt, cherishes you endlessly with that adoring gaze, gives you the cutest laugh in response to you telling him that in truth, you wouldn’t have cared if he had punched a hole straight through Lukas. You just hadn’t wanted him to get into trouble, to leave your side.

“You’re like an angel to me,” you murmur softly, your eyes closed as he lays next to you after the innumerable kisses you’ve shared this morning alone.

The words stifle him momentarily, and your eyelids open only to see the man staring back at you with a look of utter devotion. It’s torture for him, maybe, the way you supply him with every spoonful of sweetness he hadn’t tasted prior. He remains silent when his hand grazes the hem of your dress, and you nod to him in silent consent before the delicate fabric is swept up over your head and brought to rest on top of the basket forgotten.

Kisses are sweet like the coffee he gifts to you, but the ones he supplies now are far more urgent, warm like the steel of his knives after being caressed by rays of the sun for too long. It’s worship in a sense, the way he tastes the salt of your flesh from your neck to collarbone, and further to the space between your breasts. Your bra is pushed down, blue lace resting just below your sternum before your mind catches up to you.

“Should we..?” You ask, though it’s not the wrath of God that you fear, only that his clumsy kisses and bereft demeanor all signal that perhaps he didn’t have much, or any experience at all.

His pupils are dilated, eyes nearly black when he seizes the plush skin of your tit in a hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over your stiffened nipple.

“Ja… I want to..,” he mutters quietly, chin resting against your tummy as he gazes up at you. “Can I..?”

König looks cute like this— breathless and pleading, an unhinged sort of desire bared plainly in each word he breathes. Two decades and then some of never having this… and now you’re in his grasp, beneath the roof of this holy place.

“Yes,” you whisper to him, reaching lower to ghost your fingertips over his face, already flushing in color. He leans into your touch pressing a kiss to your palm before rearing back enough to slot his fingers along the hem of your white panties. His breath is almost ragged when he tugs them down enough, to reveal your soft mound and a grin creeps across his lips when he finds you already wet.

Your back arches when the back of his cold hand meets your core, petting you appreciatively there, pulling a shiver from you that only spurs him to carry on. The underwear is discarded in almost record time and the rip of the delicate lace tearing from your body echoes throughout the little chapel. A sulking protest nearly leaves your lips before a long finger is slipped into your slit. König probes at your entrance, gathering your slick onto his fingers with a soft groan that leaves you breathing shallowly. For all his inexperience, he’s eager; eager to prod at you until the digit finds that spongy, sweet spot that brings you to moan. His thumb toys with your clit with each mewl of encouragement spilling from your lips, gently flicking before circling over you until you’re tightening around his finger and soaking the blanket below.

“Are you close?,” he asks through a desperate pant, free hand pawing at the bulge in his trousers.

You shake your head weakly, thighs trembling as he thrusts his finger into you again. “Just feels good.”

That only spurs him to make you come, a second finger thrust into you so quickly you feel your mind go fuzzy. The sounds are obscene enough without the quickened pace of his hand. You’re teetering on the edge within mere moments, crying out his name only to be left entirely empty.

“Hah..” He gives you a little laugh when he realizes what he’s done, torn you away from a near perfect bliss. You stare at him dumbly, eyes half-lidded and lips parted as he deftly unbuckles his belt and pries his cock from his pants, flushed red and leaking headily. “I want to feel it…”

To his credit, he’s done well to prepare you for the girth of him, and you’re already too far gone to whine over the loss of relief. “Then feel it. Please.”

There’s no hesitation when he grinds his tip through the mess of slick painting your sex. When he finds that pressing himself against your clit wills you to grind your hips back against him he practically growls. He continues the motion several times before his patience entirely dissipates and the head of his thick cock is thrust into your entrance. König’s head drops against your chest at the sensation of your walls enveloping him, but he doesn’t growl or groan as you anticipated— he hisses, a gruff inhale of breath through gritted teeth.

You’ve fallen into rapture with the first thrust, filled entirely by the length and weight of his cock slowly spearing into you. He’s careful, forcing himself to continue languidly rather than taking you like you know he wished to, a starved man deprived for far, far too long.

König pulls back, grasping at your hips to tilt them upward, looking down at where your bodies connect. You know he’s in that dangerous state of pure euphoria, you feel it too as his cock twitches inside of you, tip hitting your cervix in a way that’s both nearly painful and causing you to leak further.

“You have.. an engel’s pussy,” he grits out.

It’s… embarrassing and ridiculous, his attempt at dirty talk, but despite your shame you pivot your hips forward, grinding against the mess you’re both making on the patch of dark hair above the heavy cock impaling you.

“König… please keep going.” Your voice a mere whine.

He obliges without a second wasted, pulling himself out to slam back into you. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts, not for a while, but each still manages to hit that spot inside of you that screams for his attention. König isn’t trying to be rough or selfish with you, keeping one hand grasping desperately to your hip as he plays with your clit with the other— pinching softly, deftly rolling his thumb over the sensitive bud; continuing his motions until you’re spasming beneath him, clutching him like a vise and weaving your fingers into his shirt to pull him down to you.

You moan into his mouth as he pushes his tongue past your lips, rolling it against your own in time with every rapidly faltering thrust. Your climax hits like a flash of blinding light with a mere circle of his thumb, accidentally in time with the head of his length brushing against that sweet spot. It’s not a hiss that König emits then, but a loud groan as you milk him entirely. He comes with you, cock throbbing as he stills entirely, every muscle in his body pulled taut as he floods your cunt with his seed. You hold him close to your breasts as his gasps soft, riding out the fleeting waves of pleasure until he wills himself to pull out and lie at your side.

“Mein Gott..,” he huffs, curling an arm over your waist. You giggle as you relax against him again, turning on your side to bury your face against his chest. Everything feels like the summer despite the chill outside, the winter doesn’t touch you here, nothing could. The stress of yesterdays melt away, the longing finally subsiding, too.

The world fades away there in that old church, cradling you both within its walls until the sun begins to set, golden light filtering into a hazy gray, before you both have to force yourselves to tear apart from the other and carry on home.

“Will you come by tomorrow?” You ask him quietly, as you stand at your doorstep, a hand lingering on the knob.

König nods, hugging you tightly from behind as he leans over to press a kiss to your cheek, another against your jaw as you smile sweetly at him.

“I will come every day, if you want me to.” He murmurs, drawing back just enough to search your expression for any signs of doubt, fear. You don’t feel either of those things, only love; as though being bonded to him like this is something hallow and sacred in its entirety. Nothing clandestine— you would run to the church right now with his hand in your own and make a mockery of all who have used their words to harm him if it would prove anything at all.

“I do want you to.”

He presses a kiss to your temple as he turns you around to face him, squeezing you a bit tighter when his hands find your hips. You kiss him in turn, leaving a trail of demure little kisses along the chest of his dark shirt.

In time, he wouldn’t have to leave at all. For now, the light the two of you share seems just enough.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction #könig fanfiction #konig fanfiction #cod fanfic

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solbaby7 · 9 months ago

Text

Sharing the Wealth

pairing: cassian x reader

part 5 to the shy!reader massage series

warnings: swearing, sexual themes, minors DNI, possible typos, pure self-indulgence

summary: The Lord of Bloodshed begs for the relaxation that only comes at your hands—while the High Lord watches.

[ previous part ]

"Don't worry, it's not mine," The first words Cassian speaks when trying to sneakily slide through the crack in your door. His hair hangs at his shoulders, swords sleuthed between his wings and you're walking over without further explanation.

He melts like butter under your touch, allowing nimble fingers to make quick work of undoing leather holsters; relieving him of all switchblades, daggers, and throwing knives. They're all lined up neatly on the little table in the middle of the room otherwise occupied by books and journals filled to the brim with your girly handwriting; letters loopy and dotted with hearts. "Who's is it?"

“You don’t want to know,” He reaches out a hand to poke your nose but stops himself, golden gaze catching on the split knuckles, dried blood crusting over sun-kissed skin and Cassian indulges in the way you dote on him. Soft tuts of your tongue, gentle hands that guide him to the couch and he’s tugging his shirt off when you disappear to the bathroom to gather supplies.

He’s got his feet propped up against the table when you get back and he chuckles at the hands at swat at them, nose scrunched up in disgust when you huff at him to at least take off his shoes first. “Sorry Angel,” You end up doing it for him and Cass takes the time to admire you on your knees for him—even if you were wearing the High Lords colors. A pretty purple, satin fabric that’s cool against your skin and the General can tell that you aren’t wearing any underwear underneath.

Cassian nearly groans at the discovery; grateful for you brushing it off as such soreness when you help ease the boots off, then his socks. “Lay down for me.”

“What? You aren’t going to help me take the pants off too?”

You scoff at him, hands swatting at his leg but he'd say it again to see the blush that fans across your cheeks. He'd say it twice more in a different language when you push him to lay down on his stomach a little more aggressive than usual; a pleasant change from the doe eyes and polite words.

Always such a lady and Cassian itched to corrupt such innocence.

"Glad to see whatever happened earlier didn't do any damage to your personality." He's acutely aware of the way you sit on his thighs, the warmth of your sex ebbing through his pants and his hands clench at his sides.

"Nope, just my back." Cass snorts, the beginnings of a sexual innuendo morphing into a drawn out groan when oil slicked hands dig deliciously into the thick muscle between his shoulders. Some spots are worse than others and your fingers loosen their grip around two bruises you find but his healing already had the edges going yellow. "You know,” He shifts under you, body jolting a little and he can feel the way you adjust your nightgown to cover more of the skin he’s dying to get his fill of. “I’ve bedded many women and none of them have ever had hands quite like yours."

A furious blush burns and the Lord of Bloodshed actually grinds his hips into the couch when you playfully tug at his hair—a habit you’d picked up on with Rhys and you don’t notice how it’s affected the man beneath you until even your fingers can’t sooth the tension in his back. “Are you implying that you’re trying to bed me?”

He doesn’t answer; it’s unusual for him to be at a loss for words and you nearly stop your ministrations until you hear the throaty groan that fills the room when your thumbs apply pressure on both sides of his spine, kneading slow circles until the knots of tension released. The oils you use this time smell different than he ones Cass are used to and briefly he thinks of Rhys—who’d been so selfish with you, stealing you away and shooing off Azriel and Cassian when they grumbled about never getting to see you anymore. Maybe these new oils were of his doing—his preference and as if he’s been summoned, the High Lord enters your room as if it’s his own. “Already occupied, bunny?” A pout settles on full lips and you let out a yelp when Cass pinches at your calf, urging you to continue.

“She is,” The brawny Illyrian is quick to insist, raising his upper body up on his elbows and a deep groan vibrates through his chest as he falls victim to your touch. “—and don’t even think about making her stop because I just got her.”

Rhysand only hums, violet irises filled with amusement as he watched you and your slick hands rubbing against skin that wasn’t his own. He makes no move to stop you, undoing a few buttons in his shirt and leaning over to untie polished shoes before settling into the softness of your sheets. It shouldn’t be so arousing, watching you be so caring to his brother; murmuring soothing words and urging him to just breathe when you got to the sore spots at the base of his wings and Rhys gets what you mean now—Cassian was vocal when your hands would run over the right spots.

He shifts deeper into the mattress, back propped up by your mountain of pillows and both arms rest behind his head; the picture of balanced arrogance. Cass makes a noise, gruff and deep, a large hand reaching back to rub at your leg. “Yeah angel, right there.” A charming smile begins to etch its way in the corner of pretty lips when Rhysand sees the blush fanning over your cheeks and as if he’s called your name out loud, your head pops up to meet his stare.

“What are you thinking about, bunny?”

The smooth voice seems to caress at your mind, flowing softly through one ear and lingering around until your rhythm faltered slightly at Cass’ shoulders. “I think I know a few people who’d be willing to come by the house to help do this for you when I’m not around,” You answer instinctively, the words directed towards the man beneath you rather than the one who’d asked in the first place and Cassian goes rigid. The High Lord only watches as you run your hands through the General’s hair, fingertips working away whatever questions he’d started overthinking about. “I’m happy to help; I only mean I’m not around as often as before and it’s not good for your body to have so many knots.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” You’re not surprised when Cass manhandles you a bit, brawny body adjusting on the couch and he sets you down so you’re straddling him, peering down with flushed cheeks and clenched thighs; unbearably aware of the compromising position and lack of clothing but he seems none the wiser. “I prefer yours though,” Cassian grabs your wrists for emphasis, touch gentle but firm when he guides your hands to his chest and settles with his eyes closed. “—and I wouldn’t have so many knots if my brother would just learn how to share.”

“Can you blame me? Look at her.”

“Trust me, I am.” His eyes weren’t even open but they didn’t need to be with the way he’d memorized the parts of you he had seen; the rest always covered in some cute cut of cloth in a varying shade of the High Lords colors—a not so subtle claiming of who you really belonged to at the end of the day.

Rhysand shifts a little, one leg crossing over the other and a smirk grows across handsome features. “Yeah? What do you say, bunny? Want to give my brother something pretty to stare at?”

Your brows raise, hands stilling as if it were some trap that you were walking into but nothing but lust lingered in violet irises. Rhys gives a comforting smile, one meant for only you and him as he mentally questions if it’s something you wanted at all. “Are you sure?”

“I trust you.” Golden light casts over his form, like a glowing god gracing mere mortals with his presence. Hard muscle tenses beneath you and you don’t even have to look down to know Rhys was in Cassian’s head; setting down ground rules and offering up as much as you were willing to give. “Both of you.”

The confirmation is all it takes for you to do as asked, obeying Rhysand’s command without a shadow of a doubt because he’d never once led you the wrong way before. Warm palms mold over your thighs as dainty fingers curl under the hem of your nightgown and Cassian’s gaze burns into the skin you expose as you lift it higher and higher and higher until it’s nothing but a satiny heap on the rug.

You squirm under the attention, the two sets of eyes trailing up and down the length of your body and Cass can’t restrain the gruff noise that escapes when you attempt to continue about the massage as if nothing was happening. “Wanted to thank you,” Slick hands glide over just chest, down his abdomen and the Commander of the Night Courts armies is reduced to an eager male bucking his hips for friction, utterly transfixed with the growing wet patch on the front of his leathers. You shush him gently, channeling your cocky High Lord and his hellish tactics when you settle Cass like a whiny child. “—for protecting me that night.”

Cassian swears your talking, he can see your lips moving but his brain can’t seem to grasp the words—hypnotized by the shape of you illuminated in such a sultry glow, doe eyes seeming to go hazy, dark pupils dilating when you walk two fingers down the fine smattering of hair that trailed beneath his bellybutton. A nail hooks in the tie of his leathers, a brow raised and a perfectly sweet smile sent his way. “Will you let me?” Hundreds of dreams playing out a million different ways this scenario could take place and he’s too caught up in choosing where to put his mouth first to even realize you’re expecting an answer. You pull your hand back, giving room for him to say no. “Cassie?”

“He’s fine, bunny,” Rhys all but purrs from his place in bed, watching with an amused smirk, a knowing look resting in violet irises. “You’re just too beautiful—give him a chance to catch his breath.”

A little degrading. Definitely sobering and the masculine rumble of Cassian’s grunt at the words has Rhysand giddy to continue pushing his buttons until he finally snapped. “Sorry sweetheart,” Cass recovers quickly, reinforcing his mental shields to keep the chuckling High Lord from distracting him from you—above him. Naked. “Anything you want.” Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, a sheepish glance at Rhys and Cass seems to catch on that there’s an underlying conversation happening that he’s not involved in. “What?”

“He said anything, bunny.” Cassian feels the tremble of your fingers at Rhysand’s teasing taunt, catches the faint blush that fans across your cheeks and the feminine smell of your arousal steadily thickens in the room. “Why not act out some of those little fantasies you told me about, hm?”

Always the instigator.

“Yeah,” Cassian’s growing confidence is palpable and he prays to the Mother above that neither of you scent the desperation—the relief that the want he felt was reciprocated. He’s more sure when he touches now, strong hands memorizing your soft curves and heavy breasts, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw as a calloused thumb stroked along your cheek. “Share the wealth, I’ve earned it.”

You melt at his words, nodding like some blubbering virgin but his hands were fucking everywhere and your bold streak subsides when Cass tweaks at pert nipples. Chuckling softly to himself when you whine, back arching and cunt digging harder into his clothed cock.

Even through the fabric you knew he was big. Big enough to have your nails scraping at his back and mouth watering from how fucking deep you knew he’d be able to go. Goosebumps rise at the mere thought of being subjected to nothing more than a cock sleeve for the mountain of a male and Cassian feeds off the way you melt into him. “Want you to fuck my mouth.”

Twin moans fill the room and you’re already shimmying your way down his thighs, ass perked up in the air and a pink tongue darts out to wet your lips as you undo the bindings of his pants. “Fuck,” The curse drawls out, inky hair splayed messily at his shoulders as he pries golden eyes open to watch the kisses you press into the cut lines of his abdomen. More slow presses of your mouth down the ‘V’ of his hips and when his thick cock springs free, Cass sighs with relief. “Such a filthy mouth for such a pretty girl.”

Too caught up in the throbbing length before you, there’s no time to notice the High Lord is no longer in your bed but behind you now. Greedy hands spread you open and it’s slightly embarrassing how fucking wet you sound. “Don’t mind me,” You can feel his breath between your thighs, cunt clenching over nothing as you lean forward and take Cass into your mouth.

“Fuck yes,” It comes out no more than a strained hiss, hands gathering you hair into a makeshift ponytail and his stomach fucking clenches when you pull back up only enough to messily offer more spit. It drips down the length of his cock, your lips chase the dribble and after he’d halfway inside you drop your hands and peer up at him. “I don’t know, sweetheart.” Cassian hesitated. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Before you can say, he won’t; that you’d like it more than anything—Rhysand takes control of the situation, slipping past the crumbling defenses of his brothers mind and takes the reign for a moment. Long enough for Cassian’s hands to bunch tighter in your hair and buck the rest of his length down your throat. “She can take it.”

You moan pathetically in agreement to Rhysand’s words, eyes fluttering shut as you relinquished control and allowed Cass to have his fill. He’s holding back still, that much you can tell but you accept what he gives. Tongue swirling and cheeks hollowing when suckling harder, thin streams of tears curl down the curve of your cheeks from the strain but the contentment you feel from his pleasured grunts is enough to keep going. “That’s it,” He praises, thumb wiping away salty tears. “Taking me so well. So fucking good.” Two fingers push into your sopping hole and Cassian can’t hold back the particularly harsh thrust that has you gagging around him, a strangled moan following the more Rhys teased you with skilled fingers. “Gods. Fuck—do that again.”

Rhysand’s fingers curl inside, rubbing against a spot so sensitive it makes your body jolt forward, completely cutting off your airway with the thick cock abusing your throat. “Can feel you clenching around my fingers, bunny. You close?” You try to answer but nothing comes out, throat clamping down nearly as tight as you cunt and Cassian’s done for; spilling in your mouth between gravelly compliments and breathy groans. “Such a good girl.” The High Lords fingers don’t relent their steady pace between soaked folds and Cassian simply admires the way you look, chin slick with spit that drip drops down your chest. Swollen lips and damp lashes framing a gaze so fucked out it makes his cock twitch just thinking about being the reason you looked like that—all fucking night.

Rhysand sends his brother a sinister grin but his words aren’t directed towards him. “Now, turn around and let him clean up your mess.”

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar #high lord rhysand #cassian #rhys acotar #rhysand #rhysand x reader #cassian x reader smut #cassian x you #cassian smut #cassian fanfic #cassian fic #rhysand x reader smut

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lowtaperfeyd · 3 months ago

Note

What about a feyd x reader in a lower house on the rise? Like they have a strong lime of the voice but few resources/ titles. The baron knows this and works out a marriage alliance he just needed to see which nephew would get reader and after rabans failure feyd comes out on top.

Monochromatic

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader

warnings: mentions of killing, blood, wounds, dune stuff, but still overall kinda fluffy

author's note: never realized that austin butlers head was so pointy

wc: 2357

The baron was shrugged over in his giant vat of oily black liquid. The room was dark, stuffy, and full of tension

“Piter,” he rasped.

“Yes my lord?” Piter De Vries said, seemingly coming out of the shadows.

“The (L/N)’s? Did they agree?”

“Yes, sire”

The Baron let out a malicious snicker.

“Who should they go to, Piter?” the Baron said with untimely humor.

“Both of your nephews have potential…” he said, leaving something out.

“But?”

“Feyd’s destructive, we can’t have him break your most valuable asset. Rabban is too easy to walk on, too emotional. They aren’t dumb, they'll see. Let your nephews sweat it out, make the decision at the end.”

“A challenge, a competition,” he murmured, sneering. “Very good, Piter.”

He said before submerging under the crude oil

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Father, you cannot allow this!” (Y/N) shouted.

“The Baron is making us a very good deal!” He yelled back.

“A very good deal for him!”

“What are you implying?” He interrogated

“He only wants to benefit himself.” They retorted. “And besides, you don’t know which one I’m marrying! Do you want your child to marry a tyrant who instills terror in people or a coldblooded killer who finds pleasure in it!”

Silence cut through the room like a sharpened knife and thick tension poured from the wound. It still wielded and ready to slash again.

“I want what’s best.” their father said through gritted teeth.

(Y/N) looked at their father one more time. Feelings of betrayal and anger ran through their body. Their fists clenched like iron and knees locked a dungeon door. There was no saving from this damned situation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a couple of weeks since (Y/N) had arrived at the Harkonnen homeworld, Geidi Prime. None of the servants looked them in the eye, or in fact looked at them without trepidation. They had no encounter with Rabban because of his earlier departure to Arrakis to begin his duties and they were very careful to not cross paths with Feyd-Rautha.

As (Y/N) was strolling through the bland walls of the Harkonnen Fortress, the sounds of clanging metal and grunting became more and more apparent. As they creeped closer, they noticed it was the Baron’s nephew, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Who was training with a man wearing an entirely black uniform and an upside down hat that looked like an archaic hammerhead shark. They stood against a nearby dark gray pillar, partially covered by it.

A gladiator, an entertainer, a killer, a man who killed his own mother, and surprisingly a man who bleeds. They thought.

Suddenly, the clangs stopped.

“Why are you watching me?” he questioned, annoyed.

(Y/N) rushed to take refuge from behind the pillar, hoping that Feyd-Rautha would think he was going crazy. Their breath sped up as panic flowed freely.

Feyd-Rautha turned around fully, looking head on at the pillar. His eyes were dark, darker than they had ever seen before, and filled with a never ending fire of irritation.

“Why are you hiding from me?” his tone changed from annoyance to ridiculing. He bared his teeth in a smile as he began stalking toward them, knife in hand.

Courage surged through (Y/N) as they abandoned their relative safety.

“I wasn’t hiding” they declared, their voice still uneasy. “I just went behind the pillar.” Feyd-Rautha continued to approach them, with mile length strides, getting so close to (Y/N) he could most likely hear their heart beating out their chest. He raised his knife to their neck and swirled it with no pressure, barely on them.

He ran his black tongue against his pale lips. (Y/N) maintained eye contact. Their eyes cold to match his. Just as quickly as he placed his knife on their neck, he swiftly removed it. There was a glint of mischief and entertainment in his eyes as he turned away from them with no words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Mother,

It has been 5 months since my departure from home. I miss you as well as everyone else. Besides the fact I’m exceptionally alone, it has all been well. The costumes are foreign and the people are either scared into submission or as cut-throat as the Harkonnen family.

I have only exchanged correspondence with Count Glossu Rabban, the governor of Arrakis. His actions on Arrakis are devolving into idiocracy and foolishness as he has been terrorized by the ever mysterious Maud��Dib, desert mouse. I only know this because he whines in his letters. I’ve come to my own conclusion that some soldiers think it's a death sentence to be sent there, others the greatest honor.

On the other hand, Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha is insane Feyd-Rautha. He only fights drugged opponents and toys with them like a cat with a mouse. He threatens slaves and servants with them being eaten by his ‘darlings’, a group of three cannibalistic harpies. Who are equally as terrifying as him. They all have beady black eyes and sharp black teeth to match. Whilst they always sneer, I seem to be on the receiving end of most of them. It’s not a satisfying feeling.

I’ve received no further word on which nephew I am marrying. It seems like a sick twisted game the Baron is playing. In my time here I have been the butt of many reiterations of ‘time will time’ in a way that reeks of some form of schadenfreude, taking pleasure in my displeasure of not knowing. The nephews seem to have their own opinions on the matter, in other words they both think it will be them. I have heard from Rabban’s letters that he thinks that since he is currently ruling a planet that he should have a wife by his side. Feyd has taken a different approach. Due to the nature of why I am here, I have been witness to many of the gladiatorial events put on by the Baron for Feyd-Rautha. After every victory, he raises his bloodied knife and faces the Imperial Box filled by the Baron, me, Piter de Vries, and others. While this all seems very normal, he makes direct and stern eye contact with me and statues, like I’m already his. This could be easily interpreted as he is just doing this in the general direction of the Box, but if you have felt the full force of his eyes, then you know when they're on you.

This was very prevalent at his birthday celebration fight. Though the overarching weight felt heavier and more severe in the grand scheme of things.

He often speaks of his fights and other things. It’s all very Harkonnen.

I'll update you later,

Love,

(Y/N)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking out the tall window, (Y/N) saw the pollution outside of Geidi Prime. Smoke stacks covered more of the skyline than skyscrapers. It was dulled by the black sun which gave the whole planet a depressed atmosphere. Occasionally there would be a firework that looked like drops of black ink for pens.

Softly heavy footsteps began to slinked forward towards them. Footsteps that could have only belonged to one person.

“You don't have a very grand palace for such nobility” They declared, still looking out the window.

“It's grand by Harkonnen standards.” Feyd-Rautha replied, smoothly.

“What I’m saying is where I’m from, the spires from clock towers reach the clouds and beige brick is the backdrop of green ivy and creeping vines” (Y/N) recovered.

“I didn’t mean to offend or insult your planet and home.”

Feyd-Rautha walked forward his hands behind his back and it was almost like he was walking playfully. He took a place next to them to look out the window, his head slightly swooped down.

“It's very,” he started, “monochromatic.”

“I mean, it makes sense from the sun,” they mentioned, “cancels everything out.”

“More or less.”

They stood there for a while, watching the ink drop fireworks light up the sky. A comfortable silence eased over them, as crackles were heard above. It was one of the pleasantest conversions they'd had together since (Y/N) arrival.

Feyd-Rautha cleared his throat.

“Tell me about your home world.” Feyd-Rautha asked.

“My home world?”

Feyd gave them a slight nod.

“Well,” they breathed out, “the air is much clearer than here and there are fields of tall green grass that is littered with yellow flowers, dandelions, which make the valley smell a little sweet. Crystal water with white beaches, multicolored ships across the horizon, and a gentle breeze from the water.”

“That sounds nice” he admitted quietly,

“It is, it’s very nice.”

“You must miss it very dearly.”

“I do,” they said, partially, “the people can be very annoying.”

Feyd let out a small chuckle at their brash words.

“I can agree with that.”

“Oh no, Na-Baron thinks his own people are annoying.” (Y/N) teased.

“Sometimes.”

It was now their turn to laugh. (Y/N) let out a chuckle and a smile at his honesty.

“Be careful,” Feyd joked, “I could have you fed to my pets.”

“Who would you marry me if I wasn’t here?” (Y/N) feigned concern.

“Don't worry, I would keep your pretty face to marry.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“For such a skilled fighter, you are a clumsy man.”

“He snuck up on me-”

“‘While I was fighting the other one, lighty cut my arm, before I heroically killed him. Yes Feyd, it's as if you have told me a hundred times.” They retorted.

The gash along his bicep was skinny and long. Dried blood encased the outside of the wound. (Y/N) took a damp cloth and began to carefully clean the wound. Their eyebrows were furrowed together with concentration. Every so often they dipped the cloth back into the pot of warm water. Feyd looked at them as they worked diligently. For such a tense man, he was relaxed. He leaned back against the firm arm chair he was sitting in and his hands weren’t clenched. Shortly, they finished cleaning the wound and began walking to the other side of the room to grab a roll of bandages.

“I think you may have missed a spot, my dear.” Feyd poked fun at them, while they were walking away.

“Don’t start with me right now, Feyd-Rautha.” (Y/N) asserted as they walked back to his side. They took a seat on the small stool beside him and began wrapping the wound tightly.

“It may scar. But knowing you it could just make you look scarier to your opponents.”

Feyd softly hummed in agreement.

“There, all done.” (Y/N) said as they finished wrapping his injury. Quickly, they gathered all the equipment they used and put it away so that a mess wouldn’t need to be cleaned up later.

“You know if it wasn’t for me you would still be bleeding” They said mischievously

Feyd got up from his chair and began to slowly walk towards them.

(Y/N)’s back was turned against him as they put the cloth into a basket.

“It would be quite a sight to see the petrifying Na-Baron say than!-’

Before they could finish their sentence, Feyd wrapped an arm around their waist, turned them around, and kissed them passionately. Their teeth clashed against each other while their lips molded together. The kiss was unbreakable while simultaneously free. It was like the energy between them was alive and breathing as they were. Feyd pulled away from the kiss, both of them breathless.

“Thank you,” he breathed out, “thank you very much.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As (Y/N) was walking through the barren halls of the Harkonnen fortress, a negative cloud seemed to linger overhead. A cloud that could even bring concern and freight to the toughest of Sardaukar. Before they knew it they were in front of the menacing doors that belonged to the grand dining room that was mainly used for state occasions. Beside the doors were two Harkonnen slaves who seemed to be waiting for (Y/N) to ask for the doors to be opened.

They gestured to the door, indicating to them to open it.

When the doors opened, a long, dark, wooden table filled with enough food to feed the planet twice ove, lit candelabras, and elaborate centerpieces filled with dark florals. Baron Harkonnen sat at the head of the table, scarving done plates of food with little care one after another. Feyd-Rautha sat to the right of his uncle with hawk-like eyes pointed at (Y/N) while the Baron was still consuming.

They took a small step forward to fully stand in the room and announce their presence.

“Baron Harkonnen, Na-Baron, you wanted to see me?” they stated

The baron finally looked up from his food.

“Ah yes come here,” he said in a voice he would use for close relatives and gestured for them to take a seat, “come here don’t be shy.”

(Y/N) plodded down the side of the table to sit to the left of the Baron and opposite Feyd. Feyd’s face was carved by the candlelit shadows. There was a reminisce of a smirk on his lips and in his eyes.

“Now,” the Baron started with food in his mouth, “there is quite a bit of news that needs to be shared-”

“Exciting news.” Feyd cut in.

“Yes, very exciting,” he said, swallowing, “first and foremost, the governorship of Arrakis has been taken from Rabban.”

“Oh dear.” (Y/N) said flatly,

“And?” they asked the Baron.

Instead of the Baron answering their question, his nephew shot in.

“I am to marry you.”

“Yes, as my nephew blatantly said, you are to be his wife. And accompany him to Arrakis.”

Dumbfounded, (Y/N) contemplated what just played out before them.

“I understand the part about me marrying Na-Baron.” They affirmed, “But why would we go to Arrakis.

“Well due to Rabban’s failure as governor, it is only right that the title gets passed to Feyd.”

“I’m marrying Feyd and then we will go to Arrakis.”

“Now you have it.” the Baron replied triumphantly.

As if in a flash, more color seemed to be added to the world of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and his soon to be spouse, (Y/N).

#dune x reader #feyd rautha x reader #dune pt 2 #house harkonnen #fanfic #x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #queue

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