#lie to me fanfiction

[lilolilyr]

More than Daydreams // An Endorsement

'He's so much happier when he's with you', Emily had said. Gillian is still wondering about that when she catches Cal lost in his thoughts in his office. She knows: if there is a time to make her move, it is now.

1k words, rated G, no warnings. Read on Ao3

I might post more Callian ficlets and edits, if you want to get notified when I upload more let me know!

[rafeandonlyrafe]

perfect wife

words: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding, mating press, established relationship, marriage, housewife stuff? cooking and cleaning

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @thelomlisrafecameron @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @drewsbabygirll @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog

it’s not that you enjoy cleaning all the time, but you get in certain moods, when your energy level is high and you got enough sleep the night before, that you absolutely love to clean, especially satisfying deep cleans.

today happens to be one of those days, and ever since you woke up, smiling at the note that rafe left you on his pillow, wishing you a good morning and saying he regretted not being there with you upon waking up, but also couldn’t bear rousing you from your sleep when he had to leave for work. it makes your heart flutter to see it signed not by his name but rather ‘from, your husband.’

you’ve been married to rafe for two whole months now, and it feels like a fairytale, somehow even better than being his girlfriend. you feel like a truly good wife as you already scrubbed all the bathrooms spotless before 10 am, and are now working on the common areas before hopefully cleaning the bedroom before rafe gets home from work.

you hum along to the music you have playing throughout the house wide sound system as you wipe down dusty surfaces, taking care to clean all the little crevices that normally get missed. 

time flies and before you realize, your stomach starts to grumble as noon rolls by. you take a pause from your work, having just finished the living room, and move into the kitchen, deciding to make yourself some food before getting to cleaning.

you love to bake, but cooking is not your favorite thing, so you make yourself something simple before you get a spark of creativity, making a stew to simmer so it would be ready by the time rafe got home around dinner. you finish your meal, having disregarded it halfway through to make the stew. 

you clean the kitchen while stirring occasionally before it gets to the point that you can lower the temperature and walk away, now off to clean the bedroom. you grab rafes hamper, filled with clean clothes that he didn’t have time to put away last night, too busy kissing and cuddling with you in bed.

you dump them onto the freshly washed bedsheets, taking the time and care to crisply fold everything or hang up what went on hangers. you even spend some time organizing rafes closet. he kept it pretty clean already, but you wanted to make everything perfect.

you run downstairs to check your stew before continuing onto your closet, it being a much bigger mess than rafes. you have a terrible habit of trying on clothes, deciding its not want you want to wear for the day, and tossing it onto the floor instead of putting it properly away.

“baby!” you hear rafe shout just as you finish up. you quickly flatten your hands over the comforter on the bed, smoothing out any creases to make the room truly flawless before you rush down the stairs, greeting your husband with a kiss as your arms loop around his shoulders.

“something smells good.” rafe says, taking a sniff of the entryway, the smell of the stew having radiated throughout the whole house.

“i made you food.” you tell him, smoothing your hands over his shoulders, keeping your body close to his having missed him all day. “it should be ready in about 30 minutes, just enough time for you to shower.” you know rafes routine well enough, he liked to shower right when he got home from work, to wash the day away.

“you’re the most perfect wife ever.” rafe bends his head to press kisses to your neck, making you giggle when he focuses on your ticklish spot.

“go shower!” you shoo him away, wanting him to have the soup when it is nice and hot.

“love you, honey.” rafe kisses your cheek before heading up the stairs. you echo the words back to him before heading towards the kitchen to check on the stew, but pause when you hear rafe calling your name from your bedroom.

you rush up the stairs, worried that you maybe accidentally threw something out that was important or moved something and he didn’t know where it was.

“what is it rafey?” you question, eyes wide as you see him looking around the room.

“you cleaned all this while i was at work? and put away my laundry?” rafe questions, seeing that even the baseboards have been cleaned of the bit of dust that always collects on them.

you give a shrug. “i like cleaning for you.” “you know you don’t have to do all this baby.” rafe moves to wrap his arms around your waist. “i mean i appreciate it, but don’t feel like you’re required to now that we are married.” “i know.” you smile, cupping his jaw in your hands. “i seriously just wanted to.” “okay.” rafe nods, satisfied with your answer. he knows you get little bursts of cleaning, but doesn’t want you to get the wrong impression about your role, even if you do stay home while he is at work.

“go shower.” you press a kiss to rafes lips before leaving him in the bedroom, smirking to yourself knowing that he’s about to see that you cleaned the bathroom as well.

you return to the stovetop, stirring everything together before preparing the final touches, even setting out the perfect silverware for the occasion, choosing the dining room for such a meal rather than the island where you and rafe usually eat.

you jump when rafe enters the kitchen. he always moves so quietly through the house that it catches you off guard.

“god, if we weren’t already married i would propose to you all over again right now.” rafe wraps his arms around your waist as you work on ladling the stew into individual bowls, deciding to keep the rest in the pot on the stove for easy splitting up into tupperware later.

“i like making food for you.” you hum. “don’t expect it all the time though, i also love getting take out.”

rafe laughs and nods his head in agreement, you have a habit of ordering food at least two times a week, making it a tradition on fridays to watch an episode of tv while you eat in the living room.

“let me carry them in.” rafe stops you before you can carry the bowls yourself, picking them up and following you into the dining room.

you blow on your spoon to cool the stew as rafe begins to eat, commentating over and over how delicious it is, even going so far as to moan and roll his eyes back into his head, but when you take a bite you can’t help but admit that it’s very good.

“when we finish eating-” rafe says after a few minutes of silence, too engrossed in your meal. “i’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you.” “rafe!” you giggle at the sudden lewdness.

“i’m serious, baby. i need to after you did all this cleaning, put away my laundry and made me food? i need to put a baby in you immediately.” 

“well… hurry up and get back to eating.” you gesture to rafe. you talked about having kids after marriage, but this was the first time since your wedding that rafe brought up actually bringing them into the world.

you both rush through the rest of your meals, leaving the dishes on the table to be taken care of tomorrow as rafe sweeps you into his arms, carrying you up the stairs with ease. he sets you down on the bed, his lips connecting with yours as he works on taking off his pants, throwing them in the general direction of his hamper before pulling away to pull your shirt off over your head.

“i can’t fucking wait to see you all filled up with my kid.” rafe says, massaging your breasts through your bra, unable to keep his hands off of them, even to take off the fabric covering them.

“need that so bad, rafey.” you whimper. you’ve always wanted to be a mom, and it feels like the perfect time to make that dream a reality.

“gotta fuck you now, princess.” rafe says, quickly taking his shirt off, his cock already completely hard as he pulls his underwear down, clearly excited to put a baby into you.

you reach behind your back to take your bra off before sliding your leggings and underwear down in one go, needing rafe just as desperately as he needs you. you move up the bed, resting your head on the pillow as rafe moves to hover over you. 

“i would eat you out or finger you but i need this right now.” rafe says, reaching down to rub at your clit as his tip presses against your entrance.

“i need you right now too.” you tell him, letting out a moan as he pushes in, moving slowly to let you adjust. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, rafes chest heaving with deep breaths, trying to control himself.

“you can move.” you tell rafe after a minute. he doesn’t give even a second for your comment to sit before he is thrusting in and out, making your joint moans echo throughout the room.

rafe presses sloppy kisses against yours, lips vibrating together when you’re both unable to hold back your noises of pleasure. “feels so good.” you whimper, his thumb still rubbing against your clit, never stopping making you feel good.

“i know it does, princess.” rafe says. “you’re doing so good for me. gonna fill you up real good.” “you’re gonna be the best daddy.” you tell rafe, and its true, you know just from the way he treats you, how he straightened out and takes care of you, that he’s going to be an amazing dad.

“fuck-” rafe curses, somehow able to move faster, slamming in and out of you, annihilating your cunt with the ferocity he is thrusting into you at. rafe is grunting with the effort he is giving as you grip his shoulders tightly, sure to leave red marks from your nails come morning.

“gonna go fucking crazy, your pussy is so good.” rafe says, as if he hasn’t already gone crazy with the way he’s fucking into you.

“keep rubbing rafe, i’m close.” you moan, back arching off the bed as his thumb rubs over your clit easily due to your slick.

“cum for me princess.” rafe begs you, needing to feel your cunt squeeze around him. you’d never deny your husband as he rubs you to orgasm, entire body shaking as your high hits you, moaning wildly as rafes cock maintains its blistering pace.

as soon as your clit pulses underneath his finger and your back settles back against the bed, rafe moves, pulling out briefly to reposition you, slotting his hands underneath your knees and pushing your legs up and open, spreading your cunt wide for him before his cock reenters you.

he begins to thrust immediately, keeping up the aggressive, feral pace. you’re so sensitive from your orgasm but you can’t complain when you know he’s working to get his cum inside of you, to fill you up, to grow your family.

“gonna cum.” rafe warns briefly, his words slurred out, his eyes half lidded from the ecstasy of your cunt as he pushes in for a final time, shooting his cum as deep as he can, leaning forward and pressing you into the mattress, not even caring as your thighs burn from the stretch.

rafe grinds himself into you until there is nothing more to release, moving your legs back to a more comfortable position but keeping his dick buried deep inside of you.

rafe looks at you with a smile, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “gotta make sure it takes.”

[fiishtail]

i shaved him.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’ 

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you. 

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones. 

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods. 

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.  

Even at your sister's funeral. 

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister. 

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day. 

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium. 

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore. 

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles. 

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins. 

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. 

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey. 

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much. 

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand. 

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically. 

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power. 

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly. 

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end. 

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin. 

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.  

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet. 

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done. 

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.  

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. 

Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–” 

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood. 

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage. 

Duncan. Why did you wait so long? 

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour. 

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy. 

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk. 

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart. 

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted. 

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green. 

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky. 

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams. 

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below. 

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you. 

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment.  Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green. 

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent. 

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge. 

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be. 

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance. 

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke. 

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements. 

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy. 

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.” 

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears. 

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.” 

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words. 

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of. 

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness. 

A place to watch his pets play. 

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.  

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.” 

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman. 

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.” 

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue. 

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil. 

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil. 

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him. 

“Threats demand evolution.” 

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. 

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena. 

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers. 

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. 

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers. 

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it. 

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate. 

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which  shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water. 

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection. 

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.” 

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort. 

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds. 

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten. 

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t. 

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself. 

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be. 

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.” 

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore. 

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years. 

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”  

Your stomach chills. 

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing. 

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown. 

“–Or, I was supposed to be.” 

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same. 

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon. 

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation. 

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.” 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike. 

She tells the truth. 

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust. 

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued. 

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent. 

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke. 

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife. 

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat. 

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.” 

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. 

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk. 

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride. 

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions? 

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart. 

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen. 

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric. 

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts. 

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes. 

Threats demand evolution. 

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade. 

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[daffodilsonaprettystring]

Fanart for the fanfiction “all was golden when the day met the night” by spinningincircles on ao3, @tripleaxeldiaz here on tumblr!

Oh my god I am such a sucker for Buddie and I am such a sucker for flower language and this is one of my favorite combinations of both those things I’ve ever read 100 stars a million awards highly recommend checking it out!!!

[soapsbaby]

☆ Day 1 // First time // Leon Kennedy ☆

Summary: You're his first.

Characters: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Themes: NSFW (18+), oral (both receiving), PIV, virginity

Word Count: 1.5k

Leon quietly moaned into your kiss, hands tangled in your shirt as if he was desperate to have something to hold onto. 

His hair had fallen into his face, a smile on his face as you pulled back for a second to gently swipe it away so that he could see. 

The reaction to your makeout session was hard against your thigh. 

You pushed your hand between your two bodies, running over his erection, smiling as he let out a quiet moan.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

You gave him a quick kiss again.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

“What is it, hm?”

“I… I have to tell you something.”

His hips bucked into your touch, almost involuntarily, an embarrassed whine escaping his throat as he realized the way his desperate body had betrayed him.

His pale cheeks were now bright red and you could tell that he was struggling to even look you into the eyes.

“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.” 

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I’ve never… Slept with anyone.”, he said so quietly that you could barely understand him. 

You hid your surprise well, luckily. 

You gently cupped his face, he eased into your touch immediately. He was so receptive, so eager for any of the attention you could provide him. 

“Do you want me to be your first?” 

He nodded, still bright red.

“Yes. I’d… Really like that.”

Your hands slipped under his shirt, fingers exploring the ridges of his muscles under his soft skin.

His lips found yours again, kissing you needily.

“Please be my first.”, he whispered, a certain sense of desperation in his voice.

“I want to take off your shirt.”, you said softly, watching his reaction closely, hoping he wouldn’t feel any type of discomfort by your request, but beyond blushing a little harder, he seemed eager.

He pushed himself up from the mattress to give you access to remove his shirt, pulling it over his head. 

The flush on his cheek went all the way down his neck, across his pale chest. 

“You’re so beautiful.”, you said quietly, your hands roaming his chest still, taking in all of him. 

He tugged on your shirt until he had removed it as well, tossing it to the floor.

His eyes scanned your body, gaze falling to your breasts, then jumping up to your eyes again, as if there was any shame in how he wanted to look at you.

"It's okay. You can look. You can even touch if you want, you know?"

You unclasped your bra with a smile, baring your breasts to him. 

"Are you sure?" 

You grabbed his hands, moving them to your chest, smiling as you could feel his inexperience in the way that he touched you, awkwardly kneading your flesh.

Your body tensed as one of his thumbs slid across your nipples, feeling it harden under his touch. 

"Do you like that?", he asked, looking up at you with those puppy eyes of his. 

You nodded, now you were the one to blush.

He hesitated for a moment, then he leaned in, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue darting around it.

His hand moved to the small of your back, anchoring you as your body arched into his touch.

"Fuck… Leon…", you muttered, sighing as his other hand came upward to massage your other breast with a new found confidence from the way you reacted to him.

His hands were so gentle on you, as if he was afraid he'd hurt you otherwise.

"I want to taste you.", he said quietly, lips still pressed to your chest, but slowly working up to your neck.

The hand on your back traveled forward, the tip of his index finger slipping into the waistband of your shorts.

You could see the eagerness in his flushed face, he genuinely meant it. 

You didn't answer, instead just pushing your hips upward, letting him undress the rest of you. 

"You're so beautiful.", he said softly, carefully pushing you back on the bed so he could get easier access to you.

He pushed your legs apart with a gentleness that sent shivers down your spine, kissing across your parted thighs as he worked his way closer to your core.

His eyes fluttered shut as he dragged his tongue across you for a first, almost hesitant taste.

You ran your fingers through his hair, biting back a moan.

"You taste so good.", he whispered, before he leant back in, shorter, quicker licks around your clit now.

Even though his inexperience was obvious, he read you like an open book, interpreting your every noise until he had learnt how to work you, where you needed his tongue, his lips.

"Why are you so good at this?", you panted, feeling yourself slowly build up to your release, your breaths coming in stutters.

He didn't answer, his arm wrapping around your thigh a little tighter as he devoured you.

The moment he sucked your clit between his lips was when you lost it, arching yourself against his face, riding out your orgasm against his lips.

"Fuck… Fuck.", you quietly moaned, grabbing him and pulling him upwards so you could kiss him again.

Your taste was on his lips and you could feel the desperation on him. 

"You did so well.", you muttered as you slowly regained your composure.

His hips grinded against your hand as you palmed him through his pants, he was rock hard.

"I'm sorry you got so little attention.", you said quietly, but he immediately shook his head.

"No. Don't apologize. I could do that forever."

He licked his lips with a grin as if to drive the point home further.

"Still. It's your turn."

He nodded obediently, moving his hips off the bed so you could take his pants off, dragging his boxers down with them.

His erection strained against his stomach.

He bit his lip as you wrapped your hand around him, giving him a gentle first stroke.

His eyes followed you as you bent down before him, kissing along the V lines of his hips.

“Please don’t tease me.”, he whispered breathily, his hand gently in your hair, but not pushing you.

The desperation in his little moans made you try even harder, doing your best to draw even more noises out of him.

He groaned quietly as you took the tip of his cock into your mouth, his body tensing at the new sensation.

“Please…” He didn’t finish his plea, but you knew what he wanted, taking him further into your mouth, tongue swirling around him. 

“How’s that?”, you asked quietly, licking up his shaft with a smile, replacing your mouth with your hand for a moment.

“So good.” He looked at you with a look on his face that you could only interpret as awe, his eyes glazed over in desire.

“Do you want to fuck me, then?” 

“But fuck… I don’t know how long I can last like this.”

There was something akin to embarrassment on his face, but you shut it down immediately, sitting up so you could put a kiss on his lips, gently reassuring him.

You climbed onto him, grabbing his hands and placing them onto your hips, giving him something to hold onto.

He nodded eagerly, even though you could see the nervousness on his face. Your choice of words flustered him even more.

“Hey, there is nothing you can do wrong, okay?”

You kissed him again, gently, passionately, until you pushed him backwards onto the bed.

He whined quietly as you grabbed his cock, lining it up with your pussy. 

You gave him a questioning look, he just answered with a nod, so you slowly lowered yourself on him.

His lips parted with a gasp, grip tightening on you as he took in the feeling, overwhelmed by your warmth and wetness.

“So fucking good.”, he repeated.

You leaned forward, kissing him hungrily, drowning out his quiet moans with your lips as you slowly lifted your hips before moving downward again, giving you a few slow, first movements to adapt to his size.

“You feel so good.”, he panted, his eyes finally opening again, watching you in amazement, eyes wandering down to the spot where your bodies met.

You slowly picked up the pace, always keeping watch of him and his reaction, but there was nothing on his pretty face other than adoration.

His body fit against yours almost perfectly, the way his hands were grabbing you, your chest against his, his cock inside of you.

“I think I’m close already.”, he said, almost apologetically.

You stopped your movement for a moment, gently cupping your face.

There were beads of sweat on his forehead, his hair damp against his forehead.

“Do you want to try to be on top?”

He nodded. He grabbed you without slipping out of you, pushing you to be the one on your back.

He pounded into you quicker than you had ridden him earlier, panting heavily next to your ear, lips pressed against your neck.

“I’m so fucking close.”, he muttered, his voice breathy.

“Keep going, then.” 

You grabbed his face, pulling him in for another kiss as you could feel his thrusts start to stutter, hands grasping the sheets next to your head.

He pulled out of you, leaving you almost painfully empty as he shot thick ropes of cum onto your stomach, moaning desperately against your lips.

With a final groan he collapsed on top of you, easing into your embrace as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

“That was perfect.”

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

here's some benreys for y'all!!! it's meal time little ones!!!! nobody starves today. i provide

also random gordo he's here too i guess-

[lulublack90]

Prompt 4 - First Lie

@wolfstarmicrofic January 4, word count 206

Why did he lie? Why did he lie? WHY DID HE LIE??? “James!!!” Remus cried as he burst into their dorm room. “Prongs, I need you!” Idiot, why did you have to lie? He shoved the bathroom door open. “James, I need your help,” He said into the steamy room. “I told Sirius I could ballroom dance. It was a total lie and I need your help, so I won’t look like a total idiot when he takes me out…” Sirius walked out of the steam.

“You owe me a galleon Prongs, I told you he’d come straight to you,”

“Sirius, I…” Remus started, but Sirius cut him off. 

“It’s fine, the whole point of the date was to show you how to dance,” Sirius said kindly. Remus felt his whole face heating, and it wasn’t because of the steam from James’s shower. 

“Sorry for lying,” Remus told him as Sirius moved forward and wrapped his arms around his waist, drawing Remus closer. 

“Meh, who cares? All I wanted was an excuse to fondle you in public,” Sirius barked out a laugh as he grabbed Remus’s arse and swayed them as he hummed a little tune. Remus couldn’t help but laugh. He really loved this man. 

[pollenallergie]

i need more people to write benedict bridgerton x reader fics. i simply do not have the time to do it myself, but, goddamn, do i fucking love reading them.

[lilolilyr]

A Callian + Emily triple-drabble for the @flufftober 2023 day 6 prompt: corn maze!

The family manip without the corn maze edit

<1k, rated G, no warnings, fluff!

Read on Ao3

[silk-wool]

The trope (usually in enemies to lovers) where a character that used to be fierce become docile so their love interest taunts, pesters, and sometimes fights them until they see their spark come back >>>>> any other trope

[k-n0-x]

Red flags but the flags are heart shaped~

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧🚩✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Okay we all know that Lucifer is the perfect man for me, but even the brightest stars have their dull moments.

Luci has these moments where he’s really clingy where it’s almost possessive? and sticks to your side like a cleaver, which usually you don’t mind, but it gets annoying when he whines whenever you have to do the most mundane tasks.

Gets jealous waaaaay too easily. If you give positive attention to any other Hell resident bar Charlie ofc, it sends him into a fit of silent rage, some of which you notice, and confront him about it.

This leads to the next red flag. He clams up and defends himself, using excuses like “He doesn’t wanna lose you” (Which is valid, given his backstory) but sometimes he doesn’t just admit he’s wrong, and communicate that in an appropriate way. Though, he tries to improve, without telling you as such.

Speaking of communication, he struggles to open up about his problems and what he sees; 9 times out of 10, you have to coax it out of him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧🚩✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[mossterunderthebed]

watchin' season 2 episode 3. thinkin', people who like jujutsu kaisen sure are a special kind of masochist huh

[cliveguy]

im in actual hysterics. neil gaiman toiled for years in the google docs mines trying to write a fitting sequel to the acclaimed book he cowrote 30 years ago. and he came up with basically that fanfiction that exists for every gay man ship. the b plot is a lesbian coffee shop au with ocs because the original text didn't have any women you could ship together. i feel like i kept dying every 5 minutes while i was watching but then michael sheen squeal or put on a feather boa and i'd be instantly revived and the torment would continue. i'm physically sweating. i feel like i've just been heavily beaten by two pale coconuts.

[sherbetstudios]

I keep forgetting to post stuff anyways I have lfls doodles from the other day I’m very proud of

bit of a blood warning and also obv it’s lfls

Lmk Hyperfixation may be strong but I do not forget my origins ❤️ rise fandom knows how to write my type of fics (angst)

lfls by @eternalglitch !! Check it out it’s cool

[youling-the-ghost]

More handwritten fanfiction!!

I've decided to just write this entire bubbamiah fic in my notebook and honestly it's so much fun to write on paper. I've said this before but I genuinely recommend you try this out if you're a writer, even if it's just for a bit. It makes you think about your word choices more because it's so much harder to edit a mistake when it's on paper.