#sarcophagus lid

[poet-to-none]

You know what I have always liked about Magnus?

He was (told or aware) he didn't have a right to exist as an immortal before he was one, to the end of his immortality, without a break, but he thought "I do have a right" and he stayed strong.

Anyway, when definations are going to chaos all around you, relax a little on the inside, you do have a right to just be doing you.

[yourantiquarian]

Bronze Age sarcophagus lid

ITEM Sarcophagus lid MATERIAL Pottery CULTURE Bronze Age, Canaanite PERIOD 1400 - 1200 B.C DIMENSIONS 270 mm x 157 mm x 35 mm CONDITION Good condition PROVENANCE Ex Museum Exhibiton of the Arbeitsgruppe für Biblische Archäologie, Germany (Deaccession) The Canaanite sarcophagus lid is an extraordinary artifact that sheds light on the burial practices and artistic traditions of the ancient Canaanite civilization, which flourished in the Levant region from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age. These lids, typically crafted from stone such as limestone, were designed to cover sarcophagi, or stone coffins, that housed the deceased. The lids often featured intricate carvings and reliefs, reflecting both the artistic abilities of the Canaanites and their beliefs about the afterlife. Many Canaanite sarcophagi, particularly from the Late Bronze Age, show a fusion of Egyptian and local Canaanite influences, indicating the strong cultural exchange between these civilizations. One notable characteristic of Canaanite sarcophagus lids is the stylized human face or mask often carved into the stone. This representation of the deceased, though somewhat abstract, was believed to honor and preserve the identity of the individual in the afterlife. The facial features, typically simple and symmetrical, were not highly personalized but followed conventional designs, which might have reflected the Canaanite belief in the continuity of the soul beyond physical death. Read the full article

[gaylittleguys]

[protofraggle]

so tense that i currently approach the state of rigor mortis. as they say

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

He pushed aside yet another sarcophagus lid. Draped himself over it. A cocky expression on his lips. "So who are we thanking today for his show of strength?"

"You're right, I should thank him for giving me a break with the heavy lifting." With a knowing smirk, Karlach swiped at the empty bottle at Astarion's hip, cradling it in her calloused hands. Turning now to speak to the empty flask. "Thank you, Cloud Giant Strength potion that Astarion nicked from my pack. You did great work today." Karlach gives the glass a little kiss before tossing it to the side and leaning over into the sarcophagus to see what was inside.

[slytherverse]

many years ago me and best friend were traipsing around the local history museum . the museum had an oft overlooked mummy exhibit on the third floor

the sarcophagus on display was open, the elaborate lid hanging a foot above the casket to barely reveal the mummy inside, like;

and bestfriend said, Sometimes they wrote messages under the lid for the Dead to read ,

and she laid down on the dirty museum carpet next to the glass case , patting the ground next to her for me to follow suit . sure enough, the underside of the casket lid was covered in inked characters , a brochure of directions to the afterlife in case they woke up all organless and confused

someone else wandered in to the little mummy room and asked if we were ok. she said, Come check this out. so he laid down on the other side.

i crossed my arms over my chest , and so did they . four bodies in a row , seeing a message intended for one; we love you, we miss you, we hope you find your way

[riverpiracy]

Joseph Robinette Biden, the forty-sixth president of the United States of America, was seen today being sealed into a container thought to resemble a sarcophagus. Hewn from a stone unknown to the large language model our reporters asked about it, the thing's lid made a terrible grinding noise—described unanimously by the nations tweens, who have begun performing contortions to the sound on TikTok and similar short-form video platforms, as "the gnashing of all teeth upon all whetstones, ong bro, ong."—as it was slid into place, and our cameras' view of the president's slowly probing hand was reduced until only a slit remained of the eighty year old Pennsylvania native's fingers as they moved across their newfound ceiling in the manner of reading braille, and this was also removed from sight. In Spaces, an audio-only livestream hosted on X, the platform previously known as Twitter, vice president Kamala Harris spoke of the incident, saying "He loves it in there, oh my God he really does (laughing) he really just (unintelligible) and I wish him the best. I wish him the best."

[lustlovehart]

Oh wow, the Modern! Monster! TWST AU is so good <3 Now I’m imagining how it would go down with the other dorms.

Influencer!Reader heading to the savanna to investigate rumours about an ancient cursed tomb. Exploring through the vast chambers of the tomb, they come across an elaborate sarcophagus. “I bet there’s hidden treasure inside.” Reader tries to open it to no avail. It’s too heavy. Kicks the lid half out of a genuine attempt to get it to budge and half out of frustration. The good news: it actually worked this time. The bad news: the lid didn’t so much budge from Reader’s kick as it did fly open through the actions of the occupant of said sarcophagus. Reader is now face to face with a pissed off mummy, glaring daggers at having his rest disturbed. Reader, with a smile frozen on their face, slowly backs away…and makes a run for it. Scooby-Doo esque chase scene ensues.

Chat: “Who’s the actor? Looks uncannily similar to depictions of that one dead prince I saw in history class. Kudos for research!”

Ahh, I love this interpretation for Savanclaws's version ( ˘ ³˘)♥ Since so many people enjoyed the Modern Monster!Twst, I do plan on writing the rest of them if people are still interested!

Cw: Mostly just Leona x Influencer!Reader, but the others are mentioned, Murder, Reader low-key flirts with Leona even though he just killed their friend

Maybe you go in there having set up a fake tomb, one with your friend stashed inside so you can coincidentally open the cover and have them pop out. When you enter and set your sights on the coffin, it looks a little different from when you last saw it... The gold trimming is more extravagant, and it looks a lot more expensive... Whatever, if anything, your friend must've been really set on making it as realistic as possible; it'll make the video even more believable!

Then, when you get to actually opening the damn thing... It won't open. You even put down the camera to get a better grip on the cover. No matter what you do it just won't budge...!

"Gosh... This is embarrassing..." You swore it was way easier to open this thing before. Then, you finally kick it! and nothing happens... "Damn it, what are you doing in there-!" before you can even say your friends name, the tomb shoots open, and you're met with a person.

He's wrapped in bandages, threaded with real gold, though blood and old age wear down the luxurious style. His eyes are covered with a faint glow of green behind the cloth. and... are those lion ears on his head...? they're pierced, which you didn't think animal ears could- Why does that matter?! He's looking at you with murder in his eyes-!

"What the hell are you doing?"

...

You slowly step back, picking up the camera and looking at the chat as you record him. It only serves to piss him off more.

"Raw"

"Till his bandages come off"

"He looks a lot like the prince from my history class. Good casting"

"Can I cast him as my groom? To like, my wedding."

Well, if you die, at least you have footage of a dead prince look alike...! You think...If your streaming career fails, maybe this is what makes you famous...?

He steps out of the coffin, tilting his head as his bandaged tail swings back and forth. If you could see his eyes, you're sure he would be glaring daggers at you. Actually, he probably is.

You're about to ask him if those ears and tails of his are real. Better yet, that you sorta had a film set up here. But then you look to your side, the tomb you originally set up propped on the wall.

Blood covers the prop, the lid tightly sealed. When you look back to the man, he laughs once, a flick of his hand opening the cover. Your friend, dressed as a mummy, all sign of life seemingly sucked clean from them.

...

Why do you keep killing all your friends!?

"You gonna end up like them?" You can sense the confidence in the mummy's answer, his feet slowly stepping closer to you before he's face to face at you. You're so shocked your body can't move, even when he places a hand on the nape of your neck, his mouth leaning in, slightly jarred. He's ready to suck all vitality from your body, but then he pauses. "Wait... you're-"

You break free from his grasp, tripping over nothing, and despite his deep voice shouting at you to stop, you don't. Even as your surroundings turn to sand, bandages emerging to grab hold of your limbs, you run.

Not without recording this epic chase, of course. If you don't, no one will see!

You're just about to make it when you trip over your own foot. You don't even have the chance to fall before he catches you, wrapping you all in his bandages.

Oh, come on! You already have to deal with ghosts, zombies, and a stitched up corpse in your own home. This too?!

No matter how hard you shake in the cloth, you can't break free. His hands reach out and pull you in, chest to chest. He looks at you like he's inspecting some fine treasure with a close eye, centimeters away from your face.

"You're that human Ruggie and Jack watch."

...

You should be freaked out that other monsters know you too, but... You can't help but feel flattered you're known in the monster community. Even if they're the things you fake hunt in your videos...

Well... fame is still fame.

You fall back in his arms, having the beast follow along. Your back hits the wall, both your chests still touching as the mummy cages you between his body and the sandstone.

"Tell me more." Despite the fact he could very easily suffocate you, whether with his hands or controlled bandages, you continue your ministrations. You look to the side, making contact with your camera lens that faces the two of you, recording the interaction.

Sometimes, it's good to change up your content.

... Little do you know, on the other side of that camera, your other diligent monster followers watch a Mummy Prince, that they know all too well, practically breathe in your scent. Well, that's not fair at all... It’s no matter, they can always just commission you to come to their haunted locations too :)

[ancientrome]

Marble sarcophagus with the Triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons. Roman ca. 260–270 CE. x

This highly ornate and extremely well-preserved Roman marble sarcophagus came to the Metropolitan Museum from the collection of the Dukes of Beaufort and was formerly displayed in their country seat, Badminton House in Gloucestershire, England. An inscription on the unfinished back of the sarcophagus records that it was installed there in 1733. In contrast to the rough and unsightly back, the sides and front of the sarcophagus are decorated with forty human and animal figures carved in high relief. The central figure is that of the god Dionysos seated on a panther, but he is somewhat overshadowed by four larger standing figures who represent the four Seasons (from left to right, Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall). The figures are unusual in that the Seasons are usually portrayed as women, but here they are shown as sturdy youths. Around these five central figures are placed other Bacchic figures and cultic objects, all carved at a smaller scale. On the rounded ends of the sarcophagus are two other groups of large figures, similarly intermingled with lesser ones. On the left end, Mother Earth is portrayed reclining on the ground; she is accompanied by a satyr and a youth carrying fruit. On the right end, a bearded male figure, probably to be identified with the personification of a river-god, reclines in front of two winged youths, perhaps representing two additional Seasons.

The sarcophagus is an exquisite example of Roman funerary art, displaying all the virtuosity of the workshop where it was carved. The marble comes from a quarry in the eastern Mediterranean and was probably shipped to Rome, where it was worked. Only a very wealthy and powerful person would have been able to commission and purchase such a sarcophagus, and it was probably made for a member of one of the old aristocratic families in Rome itself. The subjects - the triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons - are unlikely, however, to have had any special significance for the deceased, particularly as it is clear that the design was copied from a sculptor's pattern book. Another sarcophagus, now in the Hessisches Landesmuseum in Kassel, Germany, has the same composition of Dionysos flanked by the four Seasons, although the treatment and carving of the figures is quite different. On the Badminton sarcophagus the figures are carved in high relief and so endow the crowded scene with multiple areas of light and shade, allowing the eye to wander effortlessly from one figure to another. One must also imagine that certain details were highlighted with color and even gilding, making the whole composition a visual tour de force.

Very few Roman sarcophagi of this quality have survived. Although the Badminton sarcophagus lacks its lid, the fact that it was found in the early eighteenth century and soon thereafter installed in Badminton Hall means that it has been preserved almost intact and only a few of the minor extremities are now missing.

[zackprincebooks]

Beloved of the Blood Moons

While the planet of Baal and its twin moons are seemingly lacking in spectacular displays of nature, there is a singular phenomenon, albeit it is a rare occurrence: the Blood Moons. When Baal Prime and Baal Secundus are in perfect alignment, they reflect the sunlight back onto Baal with a red tint from the sand. This turns everything on Baal a red tinge for forty-eight hours. It’s a sacred time for the Blood Angels. They say Sanguinius was buried on Baal during the Blood Moons, and it’s a time for mourning and praying. Work is halted except for extreme emergencies. This year, things get…weird, during the Blood Moons. At least for you. (Sanguinius x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; Reader is AFAB but not addressed with any pronouns. Because this is Sanguinius, there is blood drinking involved.)

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

Want to read my original fiction? Click here!

As Baal Prime and Baal Secundus move closer together, the sun’s rays align with their planetary surfaces. They become glittering rubies in the sky, projecting the image of their red sands onto the planet of Baal below so everything is bathed in a red tinge for forty-eight blessed hours. 

The Blood Moons are a momentous occasion. Not only is it a beautiful sight to behold, but it is a sacred sight as well. While not as sacred as Sanguinala itself, a Blood Moon had occurred during the burial of The Great Angel.

As the lid of the Golden Sarcophagus closed over Sanguinius, a red haze filled the air. Blood Angels and serfs alike looked up from their despair to marvel, for there could be no greater sign that Sanguinius was with them and always would be. 

From then on, the Blood Moons became a time of rest, worship, and reflection. Work would be cleared weeks in advance so they could dedicate their time to prayer of The Great Angel. They anoint themselves in special oil and lay artifacts and offerings at the Golden Sarcophagus. It is a beautiful time, and for a serf to witness the Blood Moons in their tragically short life is a miracle. 

Unfortunately, your first—and likely only—Blood Moon is spent in quarantine. 

You sniffle loudly and whine, trying to project your disappointment to the Apothecary, Brother Caphriel. He doesn’t lift his head from the computer he’s hunched over. “I understand your frustration, as this is a holy time of your life that will likely not occur again. However, until your temperature returns to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, you are under strict quarantine.”

Brother Caphriel reaches over and plucks the thermometer out of your mouth, plugging it into the computer. “Your temperature is still 104.5 degrees Fahrenheit, which is considered a high-grade fever. This will require strict bed rest, elevated consumption of fluids, and strict quarantine," he repeats. Though you cannot see Caphriel’s eyes, you can feel his judgmental stare on your prone, feverish body.

Too weak to protest, you shake your head and whine again, dislodging the wet washcloth from your burning forehead. You spent the last month planning for the Blood Moons; finishing your chores early, creating an outfit to wear, and preparing an offering for the Golden Sarcophagus. When you felt the tingle in the back of your throat, you thought it was just a sign of dehydration. When you began wheezing and sweating at night, you prayed it would clear before the Blood Moons occurred. 

Maybe you hadn’t prayed hard enough.

“I am not any happier than you,” Caphriel sighs, fetching the washcloth. He wrings it out and places it in a laundry basket. “I am also missing the Blood Moons in order to care for you.” Taking a clean washcloth, he submerges it in cold water and wrings it out. “If you rest and take your medication, we will both be out of quarantine faster.” 

Though the cloth brings some relief, your sour expression does not sweeten. No matter how much you rest or how much medication you take, you will not get better in time. 

You flip your pillow to the cool side and close your eyes. Sleep embraces you in its arms, and you fall faster than expected.

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

Though you come to consciousness slowly, you do not feel ill or fatigued. You are able to sit up unaided in bed, and when your Apothecary does not berate you, you realize his post has been abandoned. The computer he used to read your temperature is dark, with the thermometer still plugged in. 

You swing your legs out of the bed and shakily stand on your bare feet. The chilled floor of quarantine sends goosebumps up your legs and you wrap your arms around yourself. 

“Hello?” Your voice echoes in the medical bay. “Is anyone there?”

Stony silence greets you. Combined with the ruby haze of the Blood Moons, it feels as though you stepped into an ancient temple untouched for thousands of years—still sacred, still mystical. 

The door to quarantine is wide open. If you wanted, you could leave and bring your offering to the Golden Sarcophagus. You could do it and run back fast enough that you could get back in bed and the Apothecary would never notice. 

You take off running, the sound of your bare feet slapping against the metal floors. It’s not just the medical bay: everywhere in the Arx Angelicum is empty. No one is in the feasting hall, no one is in the armory, and no one is in the serf’s dormitory when you fetch your offering and tuck it into your medical gown. There’s no time to change into your devotional attire, so your cloak wrapped over your medical gown will have to suffice. 

You can only hope The Great Angel will forgive you for your disheveled appearance as you leave the dormitory and make your trek to the Holy Sepulchre. Every now and again, you have to duck behind a corner as you hear a voice or a creaking door nearby, trying to escape the exasperated frown of your Apothecary.

But each time, there is no one. The Arx Angelicum is completely empty, and you appear to be the only soul inside. There aren’t even any signs of habitation, such as abandoned snacks or weapons carelessly leaned against a doorframe. 

At least, until you approach the Holy Sepulchre and the sound of singing and chanting fills your ears. While the Golden Sarcophagus always gives off a glowing golden light, it seems brighter now as it spills down the stairs leading into the Holy Sepulchre. Under the Blood Moons, it has been painted crimson; like a velvet carpet, it invites you to ascend. 

One shaking, footstep at a time, you climb the marble steps. The singing and chanting grow louder until it vibrates your entire body. They praise the Blood Moons and thank The Great Angel for the gift of His presence.

…His presence…

With each step, the Holy Sepulchre is revealed to you: Blood Angels garbed in their ceremonial robes line the entrance, their voices lifted to the vaulted ceiling where incense burners gently sway. The Blood Moons shine through the stained-glass windows depicting The Great Angel’s many victories and splash muted colors on the walls.

Once you have ascended the stairs, you can see the Golden Sarcophagus. You have seen it on previous Sanguinala celebrations, where you gazed at The Great Angel’s visage in His eternal rest. It always occurred to you that He looked…lonely in there, laying in an ocean of red silk. You wanted to climb into His coffin and rest His head on your chest, stroking His hair. Candles throw soft light on the details etched across the lid and sides of Sanguinius’s great battles and victories.

Halfway through your approach, the lid of the coffin moves, for the first time in ten thousand years. You pause, heart in your throat, as you watch the lid shift in place before slowly lifting. It falls away behind the altar on which the Golden Sarcophagus sits, briefly overwhelming the chanting and singing with its clattering and clanging.

Two hands extend from the Golden Sarcophagus to grip it on each side. Before The Great Angel leverages Himself out of His coffin, you’ve already taken a knee and averted your eyes from this sacred vision. The resurrection of Sanguinius is a hope that has sat in the heart of many an Imperial subject; a dream that blesses their slumber every night. You have been blessed with the opportunity to witness it firsthand, and you refuse to squander it.

Deep, rich laughter fills the Holy Sepulchre, silencing the singing of the Blood Angels and drowning out the roaring of blood in your ears. Sanguinius lifts Himself from His coffin and descends the altar, approaching you on bare feet adorned with jingling anklets. His wings rustle overhead, stretching after laying on them for so long. A single, white feather floats into your view, begging you to pick it up.

“Rise, Sweet One. I have need of you.” Sanguinius offers a hand decorated in gold rings and bracelets, beckoning you to His side.

Your throat unsticks enough to speak, “I am…worthy of this, Your Grace?” You reach for Him, but where you are hesitant, Sanguinius is not. His fingers encompass the length of your hand and wrap around the entirety of your arm as he pulls you up. Sanguinius could easily dislocate your arm in one pull, but He is gentle.

He is close enough that you can hear His breathing; a sound no one has heard for ten thousand years. You are at stomach height with Sanguinius and though you don’t dare to lift your head to His face, you can see His chest rise and fall through His gold and red robes.

“I have a gift for You, Your Grace. In honor of the Blood Moons.” Sanguinius makes an inquisitive noise and you reach into your cloak, through your medical gown, to pull out the necklace you made for Him. “It is a modest thing,” you confess weakly as you offer Him the chains of citrine and red tiger eye cabochons; as close as you could get to the rubies and gold of his armor on a serf’s meager salary.

“’Tis a princely gift,” Sanguinius insists, “for you made it with your own two hands, with all the earnestness in your heart. I shall accept it, and I shall do so with gladness.”

And��to your shock and horror—Sanguinius kneels in front of you.

He pays no heed to your stammering protests of unworthiness; you try to avert your eyes but you have no idea of where to look. It would be rude if you did not give The Great Angel your full attention, no matter how undeserving you are of His.

And so, you look.

Sanguinius sits with His hands folded neatly in His lap, waiting patiently as a child waits for their teacher. While the majority of His hair falls loosely around His shoulders, a singular braid encircles His noble brow in place of a crown. The lids of His sapphire eyes are painted with glittering gold, and His cheeks dotted with gold flecks. His nose, eyebrows, and ears have been pierced with gold rings and rubies, and when Sanguinius blinks, gold dust scatters across His cheeks and nose. Even when kneeling, He is eye-level with you.

“Will you please put it on for me?”

Your sweaty hands tussle with the clasp as Sanguinius patiently waits for you. After stopping to wipe your hands on your cloak, you’re able to unclasp it. He leans forward so the tip of his nose brushes yours and the smell of sage incense and sandalwood oil floods your senses.

When you put the necklace around His neck, your hands tuck under His hair. Touching Him feels like a holy act, and you savor the moment as long as you possibly can. Sanguinius indulges you, leaning His head back so your hands are engulfed by His soft, golden locks.

The gesture bumps His chin against your lips and you freeze. Sanguinius looks at you from under hooded eyes and some of His gold flecks shower across your brow like starlight.

“Fear not, my Sweet One. Show me your desire.” The hoarse register of Sanguinius’s voice goes straight between your legs and they squeeze together tightly. This does not go unnoticed by Sanguinius, as His eyes slip from your face to the opening in your cloak. His pupils are dilated so wide, the blues of His irises are nearly eclipsed by black.

You allow your cloak to fall to the ground. Under the eyes of Sanguinius, your rumpled hospital shift feels like a luxurious gown. “You were ill?” He tilts His head to the side, reaching out to pluck the fabric.

“A brief sickness,” you reassure Him, “I am well recovered.” And you find that it is the truth; your chills have subsided, your temperature feels normal, and your appetite has returned. Though the hunger lingering in your lower belly will not be sated by food…

The hand that plucks at your gown turns into a fist, and Sanguinius rips the fabric off your body with little fanfare. It joins your cloak on the ground and you are laid bare before Him, in all your mortality. The heat rolling off His form envelops you and Sanguinius’s eyes follow a bead of sweat trailing down your throat.

“What a luxurious gift,” He murmurs, following the bead of sweat as it continues down your chest. It stops near your nipple and Sanguinius lets out a deep breath that ruffles your hair. “Would you give this to me, as well?”

“I would, Your Grace.” Your voice is barely a breath, but it echoes to the ceiling of the Holy Sepulchre. “I will not deny you anything.”

His wings encircle you as Sanguinius lifts you effortlessly into His arms. He barely needs to exert effort as He carries you to the altar and lays you gently in the Golden Sarcophagus.

“Lord,” you protest, “I cannot! This is a holy place!”

“It makes for a most comfortable bed,” Sanguinius counters with ease, “for I have lain here for nights uncountable and had naught but the sweetest dreams.” And you cannot gainsay him when the silk cushions you and your skin is tickled by His discarded feathers. “You look lovely against the red silk.” As the Golden Sarcophagus needed to house Sanguinius comfortably, you can lay in it as though it was a bed.

“I once thought you looked lonely, laying here,” you confess as Sanguinius climbs in with you, “and I wished to lay alongside you, to comfort you during your long sleep.”

“Such kindness,” Sanguinius muses, kneeling on top of you. Your eyes are laser-focused on His fingers as they untie the knot of His robe; once Sanguinius realizes this, He slowly pulls the ties apart.

Sanguinius is a treasure. Inch by inch, His golden skin is revealed to you, glistening with oil under the light of the candles melting on the altar. His nipples, pink and pearly, are pierced with rings linked by a golden chain with rubies hanging from it. It’s so beautiful, it only makes you feel more self-conscious about your modest gift.

He is almost shy when the robe parts on His thighs, revealing His cock to you. As expected of a Primarch, Sanguinius is generously endowed, though longer than he is thicker. His pubic hair is well trimmed, and a darker color than His flowing locks. The veins along His shaft pulse enticingly, though the most mouthwatering part about Him is the gold ring pierced atop His cockhead.

“Would you like to touch it? I promise it’s not as frightful as it looks.” As though to demonstrate, Sanguinius grasps His cock and strokes it. Your eyes are fixated on the way that it bobs and twitches under His touch, and the shuddering groan that passes His lips is sweeter music than the chanting Blood Angels.

Emboldened by His noises, you reach out for His cock. Your fingers brush over His as Sanguinius moves His hand, and your fingers close around His cock. Sanguinius is oiled here too, and your strokes are smooth as you pump up and down. It’s warmer than you expected, and when you squeeze, a droplet of precum appears on the head.

“Have you touched another in this manner?” His voice comes out breathlessly, bucking His hips into your hand. You duck your head and bite your lip, but Sanguinius lifts your chin with two fingers. “Please, do not hide from me. I merely wish to understand.”

“A couple of times,” you admit, “but more than not, it is often my own hand.”

“Have you imagined me thusly?”

Your hand stutters in its stroking. Some of the statuary and tapestries in the halls of the Arx Angelicum of Sanguinius striking down the forces of chaos inspired your hot and heavy dreams later that night. “On the odd occasion,” you confess, resuming your strokes. He does not inquire further, but His throaty chuckling is a bolt of heat down your spine.

“Would you like to do more than merely touch? There is a myriad of things I would like to show you.” Sanguinius runs His palms up and down His thighs as He watches you, his eyes drawn to the quiver of your throat.

“Please show me,” you beg of Him, and Sanguinius gently disengages from your hand to lay down on top of you, supported by his elbows. When you’re so close to Him, you resist the urge to close your eyes as His breath cascades across your cheeks.

His lips are soft against your chapped and bitten ones, and His tongue swipes the space between to wet the kiss. Soft, slick sounds fill your ears, which burn red with arousal. Sanguinius is not quiet as He kisses you, humming against your lips as He pushes His tongue inside your mouth.

Sanguinius tastes like fresh figs and plums; sweet but with an earthy undercurrent. He kisses you gently at first, letting His tongue toy with yours in your mouth. When you try to push your tongue into His mouth to give Him the same treatment, Sanguinius presses against you almost aggressively, your wrists caught in His hands.

He finally deigns to pull away from you, a string of saliva stretching between your lips. “Please, allow me to take the lead in this. When you inflame me so passionately, I may lose control.” His lips are red and swollen, but beneath His upper lip is a glint that makes your heart stop.

“I understand,” you whisper softly, “though if you feel overtaken by your hunger, please grant me the honor of your bite, my Lord.”

You cannot stop your eyes widening when Sanguinius licks His lips and one of His fangs is exposed. It’s a sharp weapon, ready to plunge into your skin at the slightest provocation. Sanguinius must have powerful self-control indeed to reign in his Red Thirst during the throes of passion.

“You are the one who honors me.” He ducks His head to nose against your throat. Sanguinius runs the tips of His fangs along your jugular, scraping your heated skin and delighting in the shiver that runs through your body. But Sanguinius toys with you, continuing to tease you with the tips of His fangs against your neck. When He presses just a little harder against your jugular, your entire body seizes.

“I can feel your heart beating through my fangs,” He murmurs against your skin. Sanguinius licks the red marks He left behind before moving down your body. Where Sanguinius kisses you, warmth floods that spot even after He has moved on. It seems that Sanguinius is particularly fond of your nipples, as He swirls his tongue around the pink bud and applies pressure with His lips.

Or perhaps it is your reaction, as you cry out in pleasure and immediately fist your hands in His golden hair, loosening the braid encircling His brow. To ensure that your other nipple doesn’t go neglected, Sanguinius slides His hand over to twist and pinch it, playing the instrument of your body so your voice soars to the vaulted ceiling of the Holy Sepulchre.

Sanguinius is polite enough to let you come down from your ecstasy before moving on, though this is not the height of your pleasure. You watch with your heart in your throat as Sanguinius moves down your body, peppering kisses across your hips and belly in preparation for feasting on His prize.

His thorough affection for you has gone straight to your pussy, and by the time Sanguinius settles between your legs, you are wet and your clit throbs with need. “What a delicious meal,” Sanguinius murmurs. He slides one of your legs over His shoulders, nuzzling the interior of your thigh.

“I will not bite you here,” Sanguinius promises as His fingers spread your pussy lips. You are caught, unable to look away as Sanguinius blesses your swollen clit with a kiss but overwhelmed and wanting to look away.

Blissfully unaware of your internal struggle, Sanguinius keeps one hand on your thigh while His other hand slides up and down your pussy lips, gathering wetness until He can slip a finger inside of you. The hum that passes His lips vibrates your clit and your walls flutter around His finger.

It’s just His finger, but the enormity of His size means that even a Primarch’s finger inside of a baseline is stretching you deliciously. While He lavishes your clit with kisses and licks, Sanguinius slowly pumps his finger in and out of your pussy. His blue eyes are hooded by His golden lids, but you are pinned under Sanguinius’s gaze just as much as His strength.

The hand that holds your leg open begins rubbing the soft skin of your inner thigh. Sanguinius puts pressure on your femoral vein and holds it there, letting it throb against the pad of His thumb.

A second finger is added to your pussy and you whine, pulling harder on Sanguinius’s hair. His braid comes completely undone so His hair falls around His face and tickles your thighs. “Oh, o-oh, I’m so s-sorry,” you whimper, trying to push His hair behind His ears. Your fingers brush the shell of His ears, feeling the chains linking each earring.

“Hmmm?” Sanguinius chuckles, sending vibrations up your body through your clit. His eyebrows bounce into His hairline but doesn’t stop His attention on your clit. Once you settle around His fingers, Sanguinius resumes pumping his fingers in and out of you. They curl up into your pussy and stroke your sweet spot, making your toes curl and your mouth drop open, though no sound comes out.

Sanguinius finally lets off your clit with a soft, wet popping noise, but His fingers continue stroking you inside. “That’s it, give yourself over to me. Do not hide your pleasure from me.” His words of encouragement dance on your ears, distracting you as Sanguinius moves from your pussy to where your thigh is slung over His shoulder. Keeping His thumb on your femoral artery, Sanguinius runs His tongue along your inner thigh until He stops and sucks on the spot to make it tender.

You know what He’s going to do before He does it, but Sanguinius curls His fingers inside your pussy again to stroke your nerves. As pleasure bolts up your spine and white stars explode in your vision, Sanguinius sinks His fangs into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Any pain you would feel is lost underneath the waves of your orgasm. By the time you come down from it, the pain has faded and His fangs in your thigh feels…almost sensual.

It's hard not to, especially when Sanguinius wears a look of sheer bliss on His face. When you stroke His hair, a rumbling noise escapes Him almost like a purr.

“Drink to your satisfaction, Your Grace,” you whisper tremulously. His eyes have slipped closed as He drinks deep of your blood, the sound of His swallowing making a nest for itself in your brain forever. When you tilt your head back slightly, you are treated to the sight of Sanguinius’s neck bulging slightly as He drinks your blood.

You’re not sure how long He drinks; it could be anywhere from a few seconds to multiple days. But with a long, guttural groan, Sanguinius pulls off your thigh and cleans the bite wound with his tongue.

“I was right to call you my Sweet One,” He coos, “though I cannot tell if your blood is sweeter than your cunt.” Your blood decorates His mouth in a ring of shining crimson and when He licks it off, your eyes follow His tongue.

His arms wrap around you and pull you towards Him, so His cock slaps against your belly. Your legs can barely wrap around His waist, thighs straining with the effort. But it is worth it for Sanguinius to dip his head and nuzzle your forehead.

“I can no longer wait,” He warns you, using one hand to guide the head of His cock inside of you. It splits your pussy lips and the piercing rubs your clit. Sanguinius rubs Himself on your open core, wetting His cock with your juices while getting you wet with His precum. Only when you are both glistening does Sanguinius begin feeding His cock into your pussy.

It’s a tight fit. Your hands fist into the red silk and your eyes squeeze shut, your head hammering with overstimulation. Sanguinius’s wings flutter, sending more feathers drifting into the sarcophagus to brush against your bare skin and make you whimper.

“Do you think you can take all of it?” The rasp in His voice makes your pussy clench around Him, and Sanguinius moans.

“I want to take all of it,” you whisper, and grit your teeth as Sanguinius pushes the rest of His cock inside of you. The piercing on His cockhead rubs against your inner walls before it comes to rest at the entrance of your womb.

“And so, you have.” Sanguinius takes hold of your wrists again, holding you in place. You are helpless under His strength as He begins to move out of you, slowly at first until His glans brush the lips of your entrance—

—Before Sanguinius slams back inside of you, rocking the Golden Sarcophagus back and forth on the altar and knocking a few candles onto the floor, where they harmlessly sputter and die.

Your mouth opens to scream, only to have the breath punched out of you by another merciless thrust. Sanguinius closes His mouth over yours, forcing His tongue into your mouth. You taste your blood on His tongue, and Sanguinius scrapes your lips with His fangs when He pulls away.

“I will not apologize for my rudeness,” He groans, “not when I have been waiting for ten thousand years! I will have what I want, even if I must take it.”

“Take…every-thing…f-from me,” you wheeze, and His growl sends ripples through your body. Sanguinius does not slow down his punishing pace, continuing to rock the sarcophagus hard enough that you are afraid of falling out. His cockhead slams into your womb, opening you up with His piercing in preparation to receive His seed.

You barely feel your second orgasm; you’re only aware of it when Sanguinius’s thrusts suddenly become wetter and louder. Your body has become a vessel for His pleasure, and His alone.

It is the highest honor He could have bestowed upon you.

Or at least, one of them. Sanguinius gathers your wrists under one hand with ease, while His other hand grips your head and forcibly turns it to expose your bare neck to him. “I am yet thirsty,” Sanguinius moans, no longer hiding His fangs behind His lips. He is forced to slow His thrusts as He bends over your body, but Sanguinius compensates by grinding into your cunt so His piercing rubs on your womb and His pelvis rubs your swollen clit.

The overstimulation sends you into a smaller orgasm right as Sanguinius sinks His fangs into your neck. Blood flows from your neck and pools under your hair, staining the silk underneath you. It’s hard to tell which act Sanguinius derives more pleasure from: drinking your blood, or filling your womb with His cock.

Black spots fill your gaze. The last thing you see before you faint from blood loss is Sanguinius hunched over you, lips stained with your blood.

“Oh, my Sweet One…we have only just begun.”

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

Your mind and body float through space, cradled in Sanguinius’s arms. At some point He stops pummeling you and lets you rest, though you’re not sure when or why. You’re not sure if He finished, and when you raise your head to ask—

He is gone. Instead, the sterile wall of quarantine greets you, and you blink to clear your vision. Given the deep crimson color, the Blood Moons have not yet reached their apex.

For some reason, your arms are above your head and your blankets have been kicked down your bed.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Brother Caphriel leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. His helmet sits on the floor beside his computer, revealing his mane of white hair.

“You had an active night for someone with a fever, however…” Popping a sanitized cap onto the thermometer, he puts it into your mouth. After it beeps again, he plugs it into the computer.

“Your fever broke last night, so it seems your fervent praying to The Great Angel was successful.” His eyes cut over to you and you throw the blanket over your head to hide your pink cheeks from his knowing gaze.

[kemetnefret]

| The god Osiris depicted on the sarcophagus lid of Teuris, surrounded by incorrect hieroglyphs (Most likely written by someone illiterate in the script) | { Greco-Roman, 2nd Century AD, Tuna el-Gebel, on display at the Allard Pierson Museum in Amsterdam }

[blueiscoool]

A Sealed 2,500-Year-Old Etruscan Sarcophagus Found in Italy

For over 2,000 years, a heavy stone sarcophagus sat buried near a volcanic lake in Italy. Its contents remained untouched and unknown — until now.

Archaeologists were excavating Bisenzio, an Etruscan settlement on the shore of Lake Bolsena, when they uncovered several ancient tombs, Italy’s National Research Council and Institute of Cultural Heritage Sciences said in an Oct. 3 news release.

The tombs were dated to between 700 B.C. and 500 B.C., around the time the ancient Roman empire was founded, and had not been affected by looting.

But one of the 2,500-year-old burials stood out to archaeologists: an untouched stone sarcophagus.

A YouTube video shared by officials shows the simple rectangular coffin being excavated and opened. The lid of the sarcophagus was so heavy archaeologists needed an excavator to remove it.

Inside the ancient sarcophagus was a complete, well-preserved skeleton with a small pot next to it, archaeologists said and photos show.

Officials described the find as rare and unique. Researchers hope to study the ancient remains and learn more about the deceased individual.

Excavations at Bisenzio have been ongoing for over a decade. The ancient city flourished for about 1,500 years during the Bronze Age as an important trade and manufacturing center, but shifting trade networks and other political changes led to its demise.

Lake Bolsena is in central Italy and a roughly 70-mile drive north of Rome.

By ASPEN PFLUGHOEFT.

[somethingclevermahogony]

A Quick Ramble about Bronze Age Fishes and Worldbuilding

This is a minoan larnax, aka a "bathtub" sarcophagus. I had the privilege of seeing it along with many others while I was in Crete. Many of these sarcophagi, like the one below, had lids. However, this particular example (above) was not displayed with a lid, though it was presumably meant to have one.

What caught my attention about this particular larnax were those three fish. Many of these vessels have marine scenery (marine life, ships, water-like patterns, etc.). It is theorized that this imagery may be indicative of the Minoan afterlife, which was innately linked with the sea, or perhaps waited beyond it. But that is a whole different issue.

Why I found those fish so interesting is because they were located not on the outside of the larnax, but inside, meaning that when the deceased was interned and the lid placed, they would have only been "visible" to the dead, keeping them company in a way.

I wonder if the person who this coffin was intended for had a part in its design or, if not, what the loved ones who commissioned it were thinking. Maybe it was a bit of flair from the artisan that was never explicitly requested.

Regardless, I find something charming about those strange, seemingly inconsequential little human details that appear on ancient artifacts. They're not images of deities, and nothing indicates to me any deep explicit cutic or ritualistic meaning. They seem to just be fish. I hope those three little fishes were able to help the occupant on their journey.

I think when it comes to world building or just imagining the past, an important aspect is remembering little quirks like this. It's easy to use generalities, particularly about the material and physical aspects of a culture, but I think occasionally sprinkling in these little quirks helps to make your world feel more alive.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 15 "Herr God, Beware"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter in particular. It was my favorite out of the entire fic 🥺🥺 And now, just some smut before we enter the finale (3 more chapters) 🥹

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Feyd-Rautha's strong hand clutches the wrist of his giggling, ticking time bomb as he herds her down the hollow hallway, back to her own chambers. Blackened water still dribbles down the thick curve of his pale calves and his feet leave wet imprints on the tiles. A black bathrobe clings damply to his shoulders, fabric curling around the salacious shape of his muscles.

Lilia quickly vacates her Lady's quarters and closes the door, Glugo at her hand, when the half undressed na-Baron and his beloved rush past her into the bedroom in a hurry.

His darling had wanted to have him right there in his tub. He had to stop her, rising out of the diluted healing concoction dripping wet. For their first time as proper betrotheds, he doesn't want to be submerged in claustrophobic bath water. He has a special place in mind, one that has her eyes growing round when she realizes that Feyd-Rautha does not intend to fuck her on the bed.

"Feyd! It's meant for cryo sleep, not for—"

"Open the lid, my darling, please."

Desire claws at his belly and a near perverse delight floods him when his fiancée obeys. Her pupils give a telltale flicker to the side and the top of the Sarcophagus swings open by her invisible command.

"What are you doing?" She giggles, her voice still high-pitched from the afternoon's victory.

Feyd-Rautha lets the bath robe drop to the floor and her eyes fall from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and the muscles of his glutes that flex beneath his fair skin when he raises one long leg and climbs into the man-shaped mold that had sheltered his darling during her long journey between the stars.

"I want you to have me in here."

His semi-hard cock falls against his navel as he sinks down. The gel padding of the mold is surprisingly soft, cool to the touch but quickly warming up to his damp skin. The surrounding walls are lined with tubes like blood vessels and the chamber hugs him like he was transferred back into the womb.

"It's designed for one person," she scolds, but her hands are already at her waist, sliding under the hem of her trousers.

"And your trousers are designed for men, yet you are wearing them." Feyd-Rautha lets one corded arm dangle out of the sarcophagus, beckoning his betrothed closer with a curl of his hand. "Come here," he purrs. "Sit in my lap."

"You dare lecture me on my clothing when I've just discovered—?" Her trousers and boots are kicked to the floor with ferocity and when she climbs into the mold to him, Feyd's cock swells to full hardness without even a touch. His woman's eyes flash with the kind of indignance that he had hoped to spark.

His pelvis leaves just enough space on each side of the chamber for her to slot her folded legs, though it is a tight fit. Feyd-Rautha's hard flanks warm her knees and she frees her torso from the cover of her tunic with a swift curl of her arms that has her chest popping out and her breasts lifting as she stretches her arms high. The garment tumbles to the floor and Feyd-Rautha's hands are immediately at her hips and belly.

When she meets his gaze and lets the apex of her thighs sink down on his pelvis, feeling the soft squishiness of his balls against her cunt, she realizes the true nature of Feyd's provocation. While her eyes are glaring with fire, his are glossy and wanton like the deep-blue oceans of her old home.

The hand with which she intends to aim the gun at the Baron slides over Feyd-Rautha's warm chest, where his heart beats, and he makes no move to overpower her or coax her into action, just holding her expectantly to his straining manhood. She lowers her voice, wild giggles replaced by a sultriness that comes from the overflowing well of her earlier victory. 

"Is that what you desire right now?" She coos, eyes gliding proudly over the hard, masculine body that lies so docile beneath her. He has been vulnerable with her before, when he needed her touch to keep himself from drowning, but never like this. Not with his pretty mouth open and his blue eyes rendered so dark with lust, like he's going to come apart willingly at a fleeting touch of her hand.

His submission is not an escape tonight, it is triumphant.

Feyd-Rautha nods and his tongue darts out briefly to wet his pink bottom lip. She eclipses the light of the golden glow globe and he readily cranes his head for her trailing hand, moaning when her fingers encircle his throat. The thick tendons that stretch from base to jaw strain against her palms, yielding under pressure, because despite how hard he looks, Feyd-Rautha is made of soft flesh, like anyone else.

As he gazes up admiringly, he briefly wonders how old his betrothed actually is. He's never asked her, but she glances down at him with a wisdom and confidence that melt his bones. Willingly, his knees fall apart against the walls of the man-sized cavern.

She's going to make it alright. She's going to cure his rot.

"Can you ask me again?" He demands pleadingly, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against the palm of her hand.

"Ask you what?" Her thumb brushes over the sharp tip of his Adam's Apple. It is cute, the way it jumps away from her touch, like a frightened animal.

"To be your husband."

"But you already said yes," she purrs and makes sure that he feels the weight of her against his pelvis. With the way she's seated on him, her clit comes to rub against his smooth pubic mound as she leans forward a little.

"But I want to say it again," Feyd-Rautha confesses. A part of him yearns for her to ask him again every new day, so he knows she hasn't changed her mind.

"How about you ask me now?" At that, her betrothed's strong fingers twitch around the soft flesh of her hips.

"Will you be my wife, my darling? Will you honor and serve me til death do us part?" His pupils fill out the blue pools of his irises with comical dilation and a heavy inhale raises his chest a bit closer to her breasts.

"Is that how Harkonnens ask for the hand of their Lady?"

"You need to say yes," Feyd-Rautha snarls with a pleading darkness gathering behind his eyes.

"I will, if you ask me right." Her cheeks are rounded in a coy grin, infuriatingly disregarding the distress that pounds against Feyd's ribs. His hold on her tightens and so does hers around his pale throat. At the possessive touch of him, her cunt provides moisture that flows across Feyd-Rautha's sac.

"Will you be my wife and let me honor and serve you til death do us part?"

She laughs brightly and the flexing of her muscles brings the cradle of her thighs against his pelvis in an involuntary jerk. When her betrothed moans, she repeats the same motion, this time deliberately, and leans down to his face, nestling it within her palms.

"I was thinking more of loving and caring for each other til death do us part, but I suppose honoring and serving works too, as long as we both do it."

"And does that mean yes?"

"Of course it does, silly boy. Yes, I will be your wife. And my wedding gift to you will be death."

He shudders obscenely at the power that lies at their fingertips. The power to not only put an end to his tormentor's regime, but to throw the universe into a new dark age — The universe that had always looked away from his suffering, endorsed it.

"Would you say this is a worthy gift, my love?" His woman purrs lovingly and slowly grinds her sweet, wet cunt against the base of his cock. 

Feyd-Rautha nods, moaning quietly. His hands just lightly aid the rolling of her pelvis that has his cock jump longingly against her abdomen, plump head almost nudging her navel. She feels the velvety hardness of him against her belly and arches her spine to meet the next twitch of his aching length.

"Then so be it."

One hand abandons his neck and embarks on a journey down the length of his smooth, tapered torso.

Feyd is the perfect harmony of strong and vulnerable. Thick muscles wrapped around his chest and shoulders, his thighs powerful and hard, his wiry forearms entwisted by prominent veins that stretch all the way down to his hands, knuckles still dusted in the purple remnants of bruises from the afternoon brawl. 

Yet, there is a graceful felinity to his long limbs and slender core and the way he carries himself, every muscle in a perfect equilibrium of poise. The skin she skims is made soft by lotions and oils, the perfectly delicate cover for the hard swells of his abdominal muscles that flex deliciously in the wake of her fleeting fingertips.

"Woman~" he moans low and sweetly and her gaze falls on the absurd dip of his cupid's bow and the plump curve that defines his bottom lip.

"Yes?" Her fingertips gently dance around his twitching length, indulging his abdomen in ticklish caress while avoiding the place where he aches all over.

"Please." Feyd's pelvis rolls up against her cunt, bare feet seeking purchase against the odd, cushioned floor of the sarcophagus.

To Feyd-Rautha, tonight is a night of self-indulgent weakness. He has grown long tired of living behind the guards of violent defense that he has erected around himself, sick of the impotent fear and rage his uncle has cultivated in his misshapen boy heart.

Perhaps Feyd would have been able to kill the Baron without her. But an animal may not be able to free itself from its cage, even when the key in the lock is turned. It may just need someone to push the handle and open the gate.

His darling may be diabolical for the knowledge she has unlocked with the aid of the machine that calmly hums beneath his back, but she is not diabolical to him. One sweet plea from his lips has her lifting her pelvis and his cock readily jumps against the folds of her cunt.

Another day, his hand would have been around the thick base of his cock to angle himself into her entrance, but tonight he waits for her smaller hand to guide him. The briefest of touch has his mouth open and his neck strained in anticipation, and then the wet heat of her meets his weeping slit.

"Oof~" A little sound escapes her lungs when the blunt tip of him spears her open wide, generously slick but otherwise unprepared. She holds herself there, fingers twisted into the skin of his tensing stomach. Feyd-Rautha waits with agonizing patience as the head of his cock is veritably crushed by her tight walls.

He is so absurdly sensitive, the impossibly slow descent of her pelvis has him hissing through his teeth.

"God, what did they, agh, feed you to make you grow to this size?"

Feyd-Rautha lets out a burst of boyish laughter, then curses to the Sun in Harkunnin  before he can tell her that, if not genetics, it could have only been the extraordinarily carnivorous diet he had enjoyed as a boy. She raises herself and the slow glide of her cunt massages the aching inches of his cock.

His voice grows guttural and deliciously pathetic as she establishes a slow, rolling pace, aided only gently by the push and pull of his hands. He feels truly cocooned in the way her walls wrap around his cock and her soft hands on his chest press him down into the cushioned gel pads.

The moisture from the bath has long dried on his skin and what dampens it now is a warm flush of arousal. Blue eyes are glued to the movement of her flesh, trailing over her tummy and breasts before meeting the calm, simmering confidence in her eyes. Her torso folds itself halfway over his chest, one hand propped against the gel cushion next to his head, the other cupping his flexing jaws.

"My baby just needs someone to take care of him, isn't that right?"

Feyd-Rautha's brows twitch briefly at the unfamiliar moniker, but its meaning is clear and his pelvis shudders against his will. A deep, sweet desire blossoms at the base of his spine, waiting to be spilled.

"My baby boy has been so lonely all his life, but I'm here now. I'm taking care of you."

He wants to be something for someone, something of value, something precious, something coveted and even vulnerable. For once in his life, someone is standing up for him and Feyd falls head first into the white-hot ignition of love that pulses at his core and reaches so quickly into his balls and the root of his cock.

"Yeeesss," he moans, brows scrunching together tightly. The steady rocking of his beloved's hips milks him dry of his cum and his lungs wheeze in breathless huffs. Tears prick at his eyes below closed lids.

"My darling," she sighs, her voice a shiver that flows across his face along with her hot breath, so close, so sweet.

"More," he demands even though his empty cock begins to burn from the deep rhythm that fills her out from entrance to navel. Feyd-Rautha's strong fingers cling needily to her hips and she grins upon his request, straightening herself. A bead of sweat dribbles down between her breasts.

"Then be good and help me, yes?"

His thumb is on her bundle of nerves before she can even finish her sentence, blue eyes wickedly gleaming with determination. It is the least he can do to reward her for being an angel sent to him across space and time. 

Her pelvis rolls back and forth, meeting the perfectly placed pressure of the pad of his thumb. Even with him half flaccid, she still feels deliciously full, and the gravelly moans she pulls from his throat sinfully aid the approach of her climax, a tightening pressure against the base of her spine that seems to be pulling every muscle inwards to her core.

In their wake, they make a mess all over his lap and balls, inky seed marking them both in sticky trails.

Where another man might struggle, Feyd-Rautha has little trouble growing hard again from having his future wife around his overstimulated cock. The pleasure-pain of it makes him sink his teeth into his plush bottom lip and his fingers into her waist, taking back a smidge of control. His shaft twitches against her tender walls.

"Just like thi-is, ahh, Feyd—!" Her toes curl against the outsides of his thighs.

"Almost there, sweetling," he promises, positioning his soles safely against the cushioned ground and then pistons up into her cunt. The force and stamina behind his thrusts is effortless, splitting her poise. Her torso falls against his, breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest, lips finding his.

Feyd-Rautha drinks up his to-be wife's needy whines like wine from a chalice, wraps one strong arm around her middle while his thumb remains on her swollen, little clit. His cock does the rest, rhythm powered by his thick thighs, he slams himself into her slick cunt.

Moments away from climax, her tongue squirms against his and her pelvis tries to escape from his hold, the first tendrils of white-hot pleasure so overwhelming that her first reaction is flight. But Feyd-Rautha's grip screws itself tight around her waist and the next, perfect circle of his thumb has her coming apart on his cock, drool slipping into his open mouth, in glistening rivulets down his black teeth.

Feyd gives himself to the sweet strangulation of her cunt, shuddering from each burst of seed that is wrenched from his balls. Each clench of their combined release sparks like a bang of fireworks, a rumble that shakes the fundament of the universe.

Their bodies grow still aside from their lungs' heaving and Feyd-Rautha's cheeks are dusted in a blush, lids drooping low as he lets his big hands wander over the curves of her body in blissful delirium. When his hand arrives in her nape, their lips meet again for a slow dance in the afterglow of their release — lazy, sloppy kisses and slow grinding of their hips while sweat cools on their flesh.

A silly thought tugs on the strings of his drowsy mind. If he fell asleep right here and she closed the lid of her sarcophagus over him, he could time travel to a world where the Baron is already dead and burned. He has not a doubt in his heart that she will make it happen.

With a sweet sigh, his darling straightens herself, fingertips lingering on his belly as she admires him from above. Golden glowglobe light spills from the crown of her head down her shoulders like a bridal veil, like a ruler's cape. Feyd-Rautha's hand moves up her sternum and cups her warm cheek. Her lashes flutter shut and she exhales slowly, and by the time she casts them open again, her gaze has sharpened itself to the tip of a spear.

She was an unshaped piece of wood, pulled out of the grave, then carved into a lumpy shape by the Bene Gesserit and set on the board, a wildcard pawn with promising genes, ready to play.

Now, she is about to shatter the chessboard with a fractal hammer, because now she has a reason. 

For him. For her new kin. And out of rage. And for freedom.

The Bene Gesserit didn't just open a relic from space. What they did is unleash an invasive species from a time capsule into a delicately stable ecosystem, and she intends to unravel it like a tumor from within.

Ash, ash — You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the [ice] I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

   - Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

A/N: Because I'm an asshole, I will say the following: Two characters will die in the next chapter, and one of them you're looking forward to. Give me your best guesses 😌✨ If anyone guesses correctly, I'll eat my own arm.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[meseqet]

Goddess Nut, inside the lid of the sarcophagus of King Merneptah (19th dynasty, 1273-1202 BC)

[prissyprince]

Some of my fave devnotes/line directions I found on Lacroix's script that I feel give some extra insight or are just plain funni.

That's how he talks to my canon pc all the time

[Like talking to the mentally ill]Yes, yes… I'm sure it was quite an experience.

Not 'in shock', just 'as if'.

[Pauses, as if in shock]Look at me. Are you sure it was Nines Rodriguez? Because if it was, the consequences…

Idk why this one cracked me up the most

I want him found! I want him… [stops himself from saying "killed"] found. The sarcophagus could be… exploited… causing who knows what catastrophe to this city.

Me going to my new year's resolution's first and only gym visit

[To Beckett] I see. Then there is no good reason why we shouldn't open it. [Sound of prince trying to open the sarcophagus] Won't budge. Beckett, do you see any mechanism for the lid?

[Getting pissed] Why won't it… [struggles trying to lift off the lid] why won't it open, Beckett? [Pause for half of Beckett's response] And you, I thought you said it looked as if it had been opened on the Dane…. [Sound of disgust] I want it open!

Local man lies so much, he needs to pause and steel himself to tell the truth

[Dramatic pause] Rodriguez was a sacrifice. Without a leader, there was confusion. The Anarchs needed retribution.

[Pauses] It was a difficult decision to make. But I only did it for the greater good. The Kuei-jin did not question my scheme, but I did it to bring all Kindred under Camarilla govern.

baby's gradual meltdown

[Smirks, giggles to self. Domination line] Give - me - the key.

[Domination line, angry] I said, give - me - the - key!

[Frightened, knows it's over] The key! I need the key! Don't you understand? This city needs a leader!

Chat, this is so sad!

[Sound of a wounded LaCroix struggling, reaching out for the sarcophagus across the room]

[Sound of a wounded LaCroix trying to stop the player from opening the sarcophagus, though his body is shattered and prevents him from doing anything but dribbling out pathetic, blood-soaked pleas]

Kuei-Jin ending

[A hollow look of defeat fills LaCroix's face as he focuses on something behind the player. He understands and accepts he has been beaten and knows he will be dead soon] Oh… it's too late.

Big boom

[Flipped. Laughing to self, maniacally, realizes he's staked all his power on one big joke and has lost his mind in his final seconds of life] Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!