#series: reparations

[jayflrt]

STOP YNS PFP . i thought it was tha return of baby yoda w falsies... heeseungs true love

THE DOG JAY LORE....... ifykyk

[shegeekery]

Reparenting Loki

I want to talk about a dynamic in the Loki/Mobius relationship (in the Loki TV-series) that I've seen touched on but not really discussed in depth.

Note to Lokius-lovers: nothing I say here in any way precludes a healthy romantic relationship. They're both consenting adults, after all, and this wasn't a formal therapist-client relationship.

There's a technique in therapy called "reparenting". The idea is that trauma and behaviors caused by bad parenting can be addressed to some extent if the therapist assumes the role of a "good parent".

I think we can all agree that the "All-Father" was crap as an actual father. Odin knew that Loki took after him even more than Thor did, but many of those shared traits were things that he tried to hide from everyone, while Thor better represented the image he wanted to project. The result was a cruel favoritism, which was picked up by Thor and the rest of the Asgardians. Frigga's love and support wasn't enough to counteract that cruelty, particularly in a strongly patriarchal society like Asgard.

Side note (because I'm that kind of geek): there were so many similarities between Odin and Loki (Odin's friend and blood-brother rather than his son) in the old Norse myths that some scholars have suggested that Loki was at one point simply an aspect of Odin. There's also evidence that the stories as they came down to us were manipulated by the Christians who committed them to writing to shoehorn Loki into something more like the Christian Devil.

Anyway, getting back to our guys... Within the context of the TVA, Mobius represented an authority figure to Loki, who had a long history of rebelling against (or betraying) authority for obvious reasons.

I think the first turning point in the relationship for Loki was:

Loki: I am smart!

Mobius: I know. Loki is rarely left speechless, but his only response to Mobius's simple affirmation was a very un-Loki-like "Okay..." He didn't know how to respond because he wasn't used to that kind of thing, particularly from someone who had power over him. It happened again with:

Loki: A villain.

Mobius: That's not how I see it.

The dynamic between these two people throughout Season 1 was like that. Mobius's genuine love (whether you read it as romantic, platonic, fatherly, brotherly, or a mix of any or all of these) for and non-judgmental acceptance of Loki was apparent from the start, but of course Loki's experiences during his very long lifetime made it nearly impossible for him to trust that until Mobius's actions convinced him that it was real. Learning to trust Mobius also allowed Loki to see himself in a new light.

For his part, Mobius consistently modeled what a good father would have been: loving and accepting, yes, but still able to apply "tough love" when that was warranted. Mobius didn't put Loki into the bad-memory loop to punish him because he was angry (though he was angry, or at least a bit hurt and disappointed). He was just trying to force Loki to acknowledge a truth about himself so that they could move forward — and it worked!

Mobius's instincts and experience as an actual father to two boys, one reasonably well-behaved and the other a mischievous troublemaker, served him well in this, even if he didn't consciously remember his life on the timeline.

Mobius all but confirmed this when he said:

Mobius:  I see a scared little boy, shivering in the cold... 

It's also significant that when Loki brought this up later, he called it "patronizing", which we usually use to mean "condescending", but can also mean "supporting" and has its root in the Latin word "pater" (father).

I see the hug in episode 1-5 as a sign that the reparenting had taken hold, and that Loki, while not completely healed (it would take a lot more than that!), was at least in a place where he could trust someone, accept love/friendship, and think beyond his own wants and needs.

By Season 2, the relationship between the two men was evolving into one of equals, but even then Loki still occasionally looked to Mobius for guidance. Mobius's approval had become important to him. When Loki witnessed the firm but compassionate way in which Don dealt with two boys who were so like himself and Thor (despite being a stressed-out single dad rather than a god-king with tremendous resources at his disposal), he had to have seen that this was at the core of who Mobius was. Moreover, Loki — and any viewers who had similarly survived a traumatic childhood full of emotional abuse and neglect — probably guessed that Don himself was a survivor who was determined to see to it that his boys would never have to deal with that. If that was the case, then Mobius didn't just see his own son in Loki. He saw himself and couldn't help but empathize.

Don wasn't perfect. His frustration with his younger son was very evident, but Loki, observing, could see the love that lay under it. He may even have thought of times when Odin was driven to anger by Loki's actions and realized that the anger didn't necessarily mean that Odin didn't really love him. Learning to forgive what can be forgiven is another aspect of recovering from childhood trauma.

It's worth remembering that Mobius knew Loki in much the same way we do. We got to see the things that Loki never let anybody see: the fear, the vulnerability, the pain, the longing, and the sadness. (Doesn't hurt that TH can turn a simple reaction shot into a freakin' soliloquy!) The difference is that, while we only get to see the highlights (and lowlights) of Loki's life, Mobius had access to all of it and he had centuries to study it.

Mobius literally knew Loki better than anyone else in (or out) of the multiverse. How could he not love him? And for Loki, knowing that somebody who knew him that well genuinely cared so much for him (same with Sylvie, who understood him in ways that only another Loki could and vice-versa) had to have shaken him to his core and made him rethink a lot of things. The fact that it was Mobius to whom Loki turned in episode 2.6 when he thought he might have to kill Sylvie shows how much he still looked up to Mobius in many ways.

This was a show about redemption, yes, but also about healing from childhood trauma. They did an amazing job with it.

[ausetkmt]

When Sorry Isn't Enough: The Controversy Over Apologies and Reparations for Human Injustice (Critical American Series)

When Sorry Isn't Enough: The Controversy Over Apologies and Reparations for Human Injustice (Critical American Series)

Leading scholars, activists, and political leaders on being victim's of the world's worst atrocities "How much compensation ought to be paid to a woman who was raped 7,500 times? What would the members of the Commission want for their daughters if their daughters had been raped even once?"—Karen Parker, speaking before the U.N. Commission on Human Rights Seemingly every week, a new question arises relative to the current worldwide ferment over human injustices. Why does the U.S. offer $20,000 atonement money to Japanese Americans relocated to concentration camps during World War II, while not even apologizing to African Americans for 250 years of human bondage and another century of institutionalized discrimination? How can the U.S. and Canada best grapple with the genocidal campaigns against Native Americans on which their countries were founded? How should Japan make amends to Korean "comfort women" sexually enslaved during World War II? Why does South Africa deem it necessary to grant amnesty to whites who tortured and murdered blacks under apartheid? Is Germany's highly praised redress program, which has paid billions of dollars to Jews worldwide, a success, and, as such, an example for others?More generally, is compensation for a historical wrong dangerous "blood money" that allows a nation to wash its hands forever of its responsibility to those it has injured? A rich collection of essays from leading scholars, pundits, activists, and political leaders the world over, many written expressly for this volume, When Sorry Isn't Enough also includes the voices of the victims of some of the world's worst atrocities, thereby providing a panoramic perspective on an international controversy often marked more by heat than reason.

[loboto-bear]

HIII HOW ARE YOU, I JUST WANTED TO SAY I READ YOUR ATTACHMENT THEORY FIC AND??? YOUR WRITING IS IMPECCABLE DUDE, THE WAY YOU GOT DOWN FRANCO'S MANNERISMS WITH ALL THE LITTLE COMMENTS WAS CHEF'S KISS, AND THE MAIN CHARACTER WAS SO WELL WRITTEN TOO!!! THANK YOU FOR FEEDING THE FRANCO ENJOYERS 🙏🙏 PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE MORE (IF YOU WANT TO, OF COURSE) YOU'RE HELLA TALENTED

Thank you, Other Extremely Enthusiastic Anon :)))

Again, I’m very happy to hear that people are enjoying my work. I’m glad to know that I’ve characterised Franco accurately and enjoyably. I always do my best to do characters justice when I write them.

In regards to writing more, you’ll be happy to know that there’s already a follow-up in the works. I’m going to make it into a tiny series following the same nurse and her many “therapy” sessions with Franco. I think that format is a good way for me to analyse his character, while also being self-indulgent and feeding the community, so to speak

Thanks again and keep an eye on my blog for updates :))))

[scarefox]

Rewatching the preview to fix me 🙃

[riversidewings]

"Living Ghosts" #17: "Splitting Rock"

From my reparenting series “Living Ghosts.” In which a trans lesbian combat doll named River, reunited with and reparenting her younger self now named Emi, visits Shiogama Shrine for a picnic under the cherry blossoms, and reflects on how far she and her daughter by choice have come.

(If you've enjoyed these stories, please consider supporting my work by subbing at komaneko.gay)

A story:

East of the City of Immortals, in the city to which it gave its name, its head in forest, its feet in Matsushima Bay, Shiogama Shrine sat amidst a sea of pink-white double-cherry trees in bloom. The flowers, of which shrine and city alike were very proud, had become the shrine's crest, and thus the basis of the crest that River and Emi wore on the crested overcoats that surmounted their kimono.

Twofold blossoms, with a central fan of three blades. Sharpness and softness in balance, with flowers that bloomed late but twice as full.

High above the shrine hall's eaves, corvids wheeled in a dark wave.

River smiled wistfully. When she'd first come here, all those years ago, she'd been a little bit intimidated by them, but now, it felt comforting, every time she heard the cawing and caught the flap of dark wings marked on her heads-up projection. They really were ever-present.

Mother and daughter made their offering of coin together, before the ancient shrine hall. It was not their home shrine, in the riverbend back in the city, but they cherished it all the same for its beauty and for the weight of shared history it carried, as one of the region's oldest and most storied places of worship.

They said silent prayers. The wind in the blooming trees came as if in reply.

Afterward, Emi turned to her mother, then looked out around the shrine grounds, eyes wide in awe.

"It's…so quiet." Her voice was hushed. "It's like, inside my head…"

"…the anxiety doesn't have any room," the older woman murmured, nodding slowly in recognition. "It's like my headspace is calm but flowing, like a…"

"…like a mirror-smooth river reflecting the sky," the girl echoed. "Yeah."

River smiled knowingly, her voice just as hushed. "I call it capital-S Stillness, but it comes in many different names and forms. This is just one of them." Then she gestured over her shoulder. "Walk with me a bit?"

So they walked for awhile, under the trees drifting in the breeze that rose from the sea. They ambled from the main shrine to the adjoining Shiwahiko Shrine and back again before finding a seat in the shadow of one of the cherry trees.

"Underrated," Emi murmured, gesturing broadly. "Everybody's so busy going to the same dozen spots they miss out on shit like this. This really is underrated."

"Severely underrated, but then so much about this corner of the country is." River smoothly shrugged off her messenger bag and retrieved a pair of neatly rubber-banded cypress magewappa bento, handing one to her daughter. "Here you go, honey. Gyutan onigiri, all yours."

"Mm, thanks."

Hanami-- flower-viewing-- was a centuries old custom, as were shrine visits. Sometimes they got very loud and lively, and that had its place and its pluses. But it was this sort of quieter observance with the people who mattered most, that mother and daughter, one soul at two times, loved the most.

"Hey, Emi?"

"Yeah?"

"Gonna be two years soon, since we first bumped into each other." She took another bite of her own meal, a foil-wrapped onigirazu. "And look at how far you've come."

The girl blushed, her gaze momentarily falling. "Thanks. Feels like longer, sometimes. I'm just happy we get to be together, now."

"You're like these Shiogama cherries." Her mother gestured with outstretched synthetic fingertip at one of the cherry tree's broad branches. "It took awhile, but you've split rocks and weathered the cold to finally bloom."

Emi thought it over for a moment. A flash of mischief passed over her expression. "Hey, we've got both sides of Shiogama covered, Mom. I've got the cherry trees and you've got the salt."

River sputtered in her surprise, and laughed. "Ooh, touché, kid, touché. I am pretty salty."

"You taught me," the girl replied, as she finished her last onigiri. "Salt is important. It clears things away and sets things right."

Salt was a purifier in shrine ritual, but here specifically, it was more than that. The story went that once, ages ago, the local gods had taught the humans how to reclaim salt from the ocean in salt kettles-- shiogama, in Japanese. Those kettles were believed to still be the divine vessels of Shiogama Shrine, hidden away in the inner sanctum, in the shrine to which they gave their name, which in turn gave its name to the city.

"Am I really doing that good, honey?" asked the unlikely mother to her daughter by choice.

"You've come a long way too," said the girl. "And you're doing just fine."

The sword looked on in pride at her daughter.

"Thanks."

pictured: the twofold cherries of Shiogama Shrine in full bloom

[xceanlynx]

FUCK IT I'M CRYING AGAIN

[captaingimpy]

Thoughts on media: Exploring the Depths of "The Big Bang Theory" Through the Lens of "Young Sheldon"

Hey everyone! I have a confession to make : Big Bang Theory is the show that I fall asleep to, I’ve seen every episode of the show multiple times, I’ve looked at the type of humor, sat there and dissected it, I’ve criticized it, and then come to appreciate it again as something that allows me to make fun of myself, some people that I know. At the same time, it literally provides a noise barrier…

[jayflrt]

Where can one (me) read “reparations”

I saw somone say its there favorite work of yours but i dont remmeber reading it, i would love to bc i enjoy your works

LOL you can read it here !! thank you for enjoying my works ♡

[yannig]

I personnaly love the idea that Kim is very aware of his father's manipulations, on a level Kinn isn't (which is basically canon). And so he's removing himself from Kinn as much as possible because if they don't have a relationship at all then Korn can't use them against each other (be it by pitting them against each other or using their affection for each other the way Gun does with Macau and Vegas). So he thinks it's safer for both of them if Korn think they don't care about each other.

And on top of that, he kinda resent Kinn for not seeing how bad Korn is, for still respecting him so much, when he's Kim's worst ennemi, far beyond Gun or Vegas. When all Kim wants is an opportunity to kill Korn. [I am of the opinion Korn should have died, and I hate that he won in the end, and if Kinn won't kill him then Kim should get to do it. As a treat for everything he put him through. (Porsche or Chay are also options but that's a different discussion.)] Imo, Kim's murder board is about piecing together Korn's plans so he can get rid of him. For everyone's safety, both his own and his brothers. But Kinn won't see how dangerous Korn is and part of Kim kinda hates him for it. And he can't even express that because any emotion he shows toward Kinn can and will be used against them, so he has no option but to bottle it up and let it fester.

And on Kinn's side, there is also some resentment because he feels like both his brothers left him alone ; and to make it worst Kim does it by fulfilling a dream that was Kinn's first. Kinn loves music, he loves singing and playing guitar, we learn that when he's lost in the forest with Porsche. I usually headcannon that he's the one who got Kim into music in the first place. And now Kinn can't play music anymore because he has the heir's responsibilities to shoulder, because Thankhun won't, and Kim is leaving him too and living his dream, and he loves them but he can't help but resent them too, because fuck, all he wants is someone at his side that he can trust but they won't do it, and what im saying is Kinn has abandonment issues.

what do you think is the reason why kim and kinn are so distant? do you think it was because of a major event(s) or a gradual build up?

oh this is such a good question thank you!

so like. honestly, i think there are a ton of possibilities, and my headcanons for this change in every fic i write.

the version i'm most inclined toward though is that it was a gradual build-up, and that Korn was in a large part responsible. like, Korn's father pitted his sons against each other, it seems, and now Korn and Gun are enemies, so it would be reasonable to assume that Korn is perpetuating the continuation of that cycle – pitting Kinn and Kim against each other in subtle ways as they grow up.

One of my favorite headcanons is that, in reality, Kinn and Kim are being very specifically groomed for certain positions = Kinn as leader, Kim as enforcer (similar to how Korn and Gun are) but that, to create competition, Korn would subtly imply that if either of them didn't excel at their duties, they would be dismissed – and that could mean very bad things, in the mafia. (one idea that i like, is that Khun's kidnapping was orchestrated, because he was not fulfilling his duties to Korn's standards. [this would even work if it wasn't orchestrated, and just implied to have been] so Kinn and Kim both...suspect, very vaguely, and understand what may be in store for them if they fail). So, in my fic "this tender violence" i went with the headcanon that when the whole Tawan fiasco happened, Korn planted the seed in their minds that Kinn could be replaced by Kim, and the fallout for Kinn if that happened would be... not good.

Obviously, this would never actually happen, because Kim's role in the family has already been established, and Korn is not actually going to put someone like Kim in a leadership role, but it makes the boys more distrustful of each other because it pits them against each other in a very dangerous way. we can look at it as competition, but i think resentment is more apt. Kim doesn't want to become the leader, and he resents Kinn for putting him in that position. Kinn thinks Kim is preparing to replace him, and he's scared of what that would mean for him. It situates Kim as an enemy to him, to a certain extent.

This particular headcanon would give Kim a really strong incentive to leave the family – he's protecting Kinn, in a way, by removing himself from the equation, but he's also screwing over Korn and protecting his own feelings by avoiding Kinn. If they don't communicate to clear the air, all of that resentment and fear isn't going to go anywhere. And it seems from canon like Kim is particularly responsible for the distance between them, which would make a lot of sense with this headcanon. Kim would not want to reach out to someone he thinks views him as an adversary/enemy, and he'd also not want Kinn to know he's trying to protect him. His martyr-complex is too big for that.

this is the headcanon i'm inclined to go with these days, but i'm definitely interested in hearing other takes on it!

thank you again for the ask <3

[bengals-barnesbabe]

Main Masterlist

Started: 15 April 2024

Last Updated: 12 January 2025

°.✩┈┈∘*┈🌙┈*∘┈┈✩.°

fluff - 🌸 smut - ❤️‍🔥 angst - 💔 requested -💛 unfinished - 📝

hurt/comfort - ❤️‍🩹 social media- ⭐️ personal fav - 💖 text imagine -📱

Joe Burrow

☾ ⋆*･ﾟseries ⋆*･ﾟ

track 9 ~ ⭐️🌸💔📝

“thank you tiktok” ~ 🌸❤️‍🔥📱

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

unattainable ~ 🌸 💔 early mornings ~ 🌸 washday at Joe's ~ 🌸❤️‍🔥 pick up lines w/ JB9 ~ ❤️‍🔥

coach burrow ~ 🌸

call me back ~ 💔❤️‍🩹

fuck your status ~ ❤️‍🔥

fys (babe's version) ~ ❤️‍🔥

parent trapping pt.1 ~ 🌸📱

there's something you should know ~ 💔❤️‍🩹🌸

the girl behind the camera ~ 🌸❤️‍🩹

not future...now ~ ❤️‍🔥💔

my type ~ 🌸

(i'm here) let me in ~ 💔❤️‍🩹📱

players ~ ❤️‍🔥���� 🌸

upcoming: coach burrow 2: game time

upcoming: calm down

upcoming: play something for me

˚○◦˚. blurbs ˚◦○˚

mrs. burrow #1 ~ 🌸

off the grid ~ 🌸❤️‍🔥

did you miss me ~ ❤️‍🔥

frustrated ~ ❤️‍🔥💔

baby boy ~ ❤️‍🔥 📱

relax for me ~ ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 📱

clingy reader ~ 💛🌸

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Tee Higgins

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

tender-headed ~ 🌸 legacy ~ 🌸

things are changing ~ 🌸

princess ti ~ ❤️‍🩹🌸☀️

picture day ~ 🌸

busy for who? ~💛📱❤️‍🔥

there goes my baby ~📱❤️‍🔥🌸

cheater ~ 📱🌸❤️‍🩹

upcoming: looking for revenge feelings

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

CJ Stroud

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

open practice ~ 🌸

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Ja'Marr Chase

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

reparations ~📱

cheater ~ 📱🌸❤️‍🩹

wyd? ~ 📱🌸

dream girl ~ 🌸❤️‍🩹

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

CeeDee Lamb

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

hey girly ~ 📱🌸

┊͙✧˖. mini series *°࿐

failed sneaky link ~ 📱❤️‍🔥🌸

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Andrei Iosivas

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

ex for a reason ~ 📱🌸💔

don't stress, i'm here ~ 📱🌸💔💛

what i want | part 2 ~ ⭐️🌸

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Justin Jefferson

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

closet date ~ 🌸❤️‍🔥

upcoming: you're my home

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

James "Bucky" Barnes

┊͙✧˖. mini series *°࿐

x red widow

you’re my mission - ❤️‍🔥💔

mission report: pending… - 💔💖

mission accomplished- 💔🌸❤️‍🔥📝

✧*̥˚ one shots *̥˚✧

date night - 🌸❤️‍🔥

upcoming: talk to me

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Tobias "Four" Eaton

☄. *. ⋆

Welcome fellow readers to my blog! I'm Babe and I love writing, always have. I specialize in black!readers, but will always be open to writing for more POC. I do this for pleasure, but I love incorporating others' ideas and bringing someone's vision to life. My requests are always open but I don't follow an uploading schedule. I do this so I don't follow out of love with writing, but also because I'm a Junior in college.

Anyway, happy reading!

xoxo Babe

[annwrites]

⸻ a call to arms. part ten. ⸻

· pairing: jacaerys velaryon x dragonseed!reader · type: part of a series · summary: you receive an unexpected summons to the red keep. · tw: talk of war & trauma, ptsd · word count: 4,254

Even months after having taken King’s Landing, you still have yet to grow comfortable to the sound of the bells tolling once again.

The day Rhaenyra took the Capitol was a day of much bloodshed. Otto Hightower had been the first to be put to the sword as dragons lined the walls of King’s Landing, including your own.

Silverwing screeched below you as you remained silent atop your mount, watching numbly as people screamed and ran in fear from her, Vermithor, Caraxes, Moondancer, Sheepstealer, Syrax, Seasmoke, and more.

Alicent Hightower’s life had been under consideration to be spared, until Rhaenyra came to discover that she had apparently betrayed her.

She’d supposedly promised her the life of her son in exchange for her, her daughter’s, and granddaughter’s, but when his chambers were found to be empty, Rhaenyra became enraged and refused to listen to “any further lies” the Lady Alicent spoke.

She exclaimed that she already took her throne through the initial lie that began the war: that it was what her late husband wanted, and thus endangered the lives of all of her sons by starting an unnecessary conflict. Sons she also proclaimed to be bastards for years on-end.

No forgiveness was found within Her Grace when Alicent left this world directly after her father.

Helaena was admittedly spared, but is kept, along with her daughter, under close watch within the Keep.

War still continued to break out through various kingdoms, since Aegon’s death was not something that could be confirmed, until a Braavosi ship captain discovered his presence aboard his ship, along with Larys Strong.

And so he redirected his merchant ship to the Capitol, leaving the men trapped in the hull as he collected his hefty reward for delivering them to the queen.

The morning began as their lives ended upon the executioner’s block.

It took some time for peace to be found, but it was, nevertheless. And for those who refused to bend the knee once more to their rightful queen met a swift end.

It grieved Rhaenyra to have her hand forced, but she did what was necessary to put an end to something which should not have ever began. So much death and destruction, and for what?

Had the Greens never usurped her throne, they would still be alive. Hundreds would.

At least reparations are being made, if naught else. Lands and keeps and homes are being restored, and Her Grace does what she can for her people.

Meanwhile, you remain content within your home. As content as you can be, at least.

When nightmares and memories of your horrific deeds at the Gullet and Spicetown aren’t plaguing your mind and every waking moment, that is.

Some days, you can barely stand to be touched or near others, so you instead lock yourself away in your bedroom and curl into yourself as you squeeze your eyes shut and will it all away.

And then the bells begin to toll every day at midday, and you’re taken back to that morn atop the walls when you anticipated the command of burning people in the streets.

You feared returning home to your mother and sister, only to find corpses in their stead.

Instead, you’d stood before that front door feeling shattered and distant as you lifted a heavy fist to knock. You’d collapsed in your mother’s arms the moment she opened it.

And people call you fortunate. Or blessed. Or lucky beyond measure.

They have no idea what it cost you.

Maisily is positioned comfortably in your lap with her head resting on your shoulder as you read quietly to her from the book in your hand. She’s nearly to sleep for her afternoon nap when there’s a quiet knock at the door.

You sigh and softly shut the novel, then press a kiss to her forehead.

“Come,” you call as quietly as you can, so as not to wake her.

The door slowly opens and one of the household servants, Jodi, steps inside. “Forgive me, My Lady.”

You gesture to Maisily, then glance toward the bed behind you. “I would, but…”

She smiles softly, then takes her from you and carries her over.

You rise and pad over to tuck her in.

“What is it?” You ask while you tuck a curl behind her ear and she snuggles against a soft pillow.

The young woman shifts on her feet. “There is…a guard here to retrieve you back to the Red Keep, My Lady.”

Your brows furrow and you look at her suddenly. “G-Guard? Red—”

She nods.

“Why?” You ask, your voice rising slightly in a panic as your heart begins to pound between your breasts.

You’ve not left your home in months. You hardly even bother to step outside anymore.

It’s not safe out there.

Nowhere is.

Not after all you’ve seen and done.

She shakes her head. “He didn’t say, My Lady. Not to me…”

She glances to the doorway and you follow her line-of-sight.

“Is he here in my home?”

She swallows nervously. “Yes, My Lady.”

You grow silent for a moment as you think. But you know that if you’ve been summoned, there is no getting out of it. Your presence is expected. It’s not a request.

You’d been so foolish to think you’d be allowed to live the rest of your life here in peace without ever having to return to a place which is nothing more than a traumatic memory for you. Because that Keep—the throne within—how much blood was shed creating a path to it? How much is on your hands alone?

You ignore the trembling of them as you tuck blankets tightly round Maisily before standing and exiting the room, making your way downstairs to greet your…guest.

You run your shaking hands nervously down the front of your gown, smoothing the flowing fabric.

You had anticipated that it was the queen who sent for you. That, mayhaps, she merely wanted to ensure you and your family are still doing well months after the end of the war. That you want for nothing.

Instead, you are standing within Jacaerys’ chambers.

You could crawl out of your skin at the fact.

Because you know you can’t hide the truth now.

He enters the room from the balcony, his cane softly clicking against the polished marble floor as he passes the threshold, bringing him inside.

He doesn’t so much as get a chance to open his mouth to speak before his eyes widen in shock while he takes you in.

For days—nay, weeks—he’s been rehearsing this moment in his head over and over again, to the point of exhaustion. But this he had not accounted for—had not known that he would need to.

“You’re with child.”

His eyes flit to yours, searching within for the truth.

You slide your hands protectively over your swollen belly and tell him the only thing you can think of to protect yourself and your unborn babe.

“It isn’t yours.”

His mouth tugs into a frown as he takes a measured step closer. “I don’t believe you.”

He rests both hands atop his cane while he awaits more lies to spill from your lips he has so dearly missed kissing and listening to loving words come from.

His heart aches for you.

You shrug slightly, trying to combat your sudden shortness of breath while your pulse steadily rises in fright.

“I’ve had many men since I returned here. I realized just how short life truly is after the war. Even upon Dragonstone I took more than just you into my bed. My story where I proclaimed otherwise was a mere lie, so as to protect him. Even if you eventually took him from me anyway.”

You pretend to smirk. “Ser Myles.”

His jaw ticks while his eyes bore into yours. Those oceans of lilac which remind him of a soft spring morn have now returned to him at last.

The thought of this being the last time he ever gazes into them… It can’t be.

“Name them.”

Your brows furrow and he takes another step closer to you.

“The men you’ve bedded. Name them.”

You scoff and begin to stutter over your words. “I… I am under no obligation t-to—”

“It is a command,” he states firmly. “From your crown prince. You shall not leave this place until you do so.”

He knows, merely by studying you—your frail frame, which has lost so much weight, your pallor skin, and the way your limbs twitch—that you are most likely like him now: unable to hardly stand the touch of anyone.

For there is only one who may sooth the terrors that plague you within your mind. One you each have been so convinced you could never again have.

Today is when that fact changes.

You clutch nervously at your belly while tears sting your eyes. “W-Why? So you can take them from me as well? So…so you…you c-c—”

He steps closer and closer, then cups your cheek gently within his palm as he brushes the pad of his thumb along the apple of it.

He watches with a bleeding heart as tear after tear slips from your eyes.

“You’re carrying my heir,” he says with a creased brow as his eyes search yours.

Your features shift into something akin to loathing then as you wrench yourself away from him.

“It is my baby, and you can’t have it! I won’t let you take it away from me!” You shout in a panic.

He rapidly shakes his head while reaching toward you, desperate to reassure you that he would never.

“I have been the one growing it within my womb! Have been…been suffering every day! While you threw me aside, like you never knew me at all. Make her give you one instead! Make Baela do it! My baby. You can’t!”

Jacaerys shakes his head rapidly. “What do you think I mean to do? Is that why you think I summoned you here? To steal your child from your womb the moment it enters this world? I did not know you were even carrying until a moment ago when I set eyes upon you once more.”

Tears sting your eyes and you choke back a sob. “Please, I want to go home! Please let go, I beg of you!”

He wraps his arms around you then and holds you close while he cups the back of your head as a gesture of security and safety.

“I want you to listen to me for a moment, my love,” he says quietly—soothingly.

You cry softly against his shoulder.

“I summoned you here because I have good news. Everything is alright, I swear it to you. Everything is perfectly well in the world. You’ve nothing to fear. You and your child are just fine.”

You begin to calm in his arms and quickly are overtaken by a state of weakness—exhaustion.

So he guides you over to a large plush settee positioned before a low fire that crackles softly within the room’s hearth.

He seats himself heavily and sets his cane to the side before turning to you.

“Baela and Addam are due to be wed in a fortnight,” he says with a happy smile. “It will be held in the Sept and the city will be filled with celebration. We’ve even put effort forth to have food delivered to the poorest in the city, as well as toys for the children—ribbons for the girls to have. Just…small gestures, I know. But we are doing what we can when able. Even if it seems minuscule… It is only the very beginning.”

Your chin wobbles as your eyes flit between his. “What does any of that have to do with me or my babe?”

He settles his hand atop yours, which rest in your lap.

“Do you not see, my love?” He asks with hope in his eyes. “We are free to be together now.”

Your brows furrow. “H-How—”

He nods slightly. “Baela and I… We tried.”

He glances to the window. “But each of us wanted another. We were miserable in the thought that that was to be our lives: living together, but apart in our hearts and minds. Forever living within memories. And so we had a discussion. A difficult one, but one that left us in the relief of understanding once it was done.

“So we went before my mother, told her of our true feelings, and she gave Baela her blessing for her and Addam to bind themselves in matrimony. The entire reason we were betrothed to begin with was to strengthen Luke’s claim to Driftmark’s throne, as you know. But now everything has changed. She and I will always have fondness, and mayhaps love in a familial form, but we are not in love. She and Ser Addam very much are.”

He cups your cheek in his hand and you sniffle.

“You threw me aside. Would not even…look at me—”

He swallow thickly. “I know. I did it for you.”

Your brows knit together.

He raises his opposite hand momentarily. “Allow me to explain. Baela and I wanted to protect you and Addam both. And so we—”

He drops his hand and glances downward, softly shaking his head. “You cannot imagine how difficult it was for the two of us to treat each of you the way we did when you stood before my mother: as strangers. But we did it because we feared punishment befalling each of you if she suspected that we betrayed our betrothal to take others into our beds, especially at such a pivotal moment. What if Lord Corlys discovered and disavowed the prospect of my marrying his granddaughter, and we thus also lost his fleet and house’s support? What if Baela became with child and it wasn’t mine and there was further repeat of…”

He does not finish his statement. “But most of all: what if she took it out on you and him? What if she refused to reward either of you for your efforts to our cause?”

His eyes return to yours. “What was most important to Baela and I was your and Addam’s safety. You each having housing and food and coin. For your family’s to be tended to. We each hated ourselves for it—that unconscionable treatment—but we knew not what else to do.”

He scoots the least bit closer and rests his palm against your back. “But now you know the truth and we are righting our wrongs as best we can. This is my attempt at that.”

He twines his fingers between yours and his throat bobs as he steadies himself and stares into your eyes. “I would get on one knee, if able.”

A tear slips down your cheek in guilt. ���I tried…”

He shakes his head, then leans forward and presses his forehead to your own. “I would not be here at all, were it not for you. Even then, it still works. Just not…properly. I have you to thank for my life.”

You bite your lower lip until you taste blood. “And how many did I take in its place? Do you’ve any idea the things I did those few days—at the Gullet and Spicetown? Did your mother tell you, or Daemon, or…”

You shake your head softly and silver waves slip over your shoulders. “They saw. They saw as I made the enemy into corpses and ash.”

“You had no other choice,” he whispers, sliding a hand along your waist to ground you to him.

“I did it because it felt good.”

You’ve admitted it now. Finally. After so many moons, you’ve let it come forth: that hideous fucking truth you’ve tried to desperately bury. Only, the more effort you put forth in doing so, the worse things became.

You could tell no other. Not your mother, and most certainly not Maisily—even if she has inundated you with questions about it all, you’ve refrained from telling her hardly anything. You will not sully her with your horrific acts.

You continue. “After what was done to you—the thought that you may not survive it—I unleashed my wrath upon them. And I reveled in it. I got my revenge. Body by body. Man by man. I did not rest  until their screams instead turned to silence. Until their ships turned to ash in the sea. Until their weapons were but splintered pieces of wood and their swords puddles of metal.

“I did that, and I liked it. It felt like the right thing to do. And then I began to fear—as I sat atop Silverwing overlooking the destruction I had wrought—that the phrase about our line and Gods and coins is true. That maybe I had gone mad. Because I didn’t want to stop.”

You pull back and look into his eyes. “I felt, for the first time in all my life, free and without fear. Unstoppable.”

Your chin wobbles. “I made her do that. Made my Silverwing…”

You begin to sob. “How could I have done that to her? Even the men I killed—they were merely doing the same as our side was: fighting for what they thought was right. And now they are lost to their families, their friends, and homes for forever. Their bodies will never be laid to rest.”

You wrap your arms around yourself.

“It’s all my fault,” you whisper. “Dozens upon dozens…”

Jace shakes his head while taking your face between his hands. “Because others did not do the same? Because I didn’t? I burned how many ships, all because one dared launch a scorpion bolt at you? And just like you, it felt like the right thing to do, because I was protecting that which I love. It felt freeing to exact punishment on those who brought it upon themselves. I felt vindicated in it. And I won’t apologize for it. Because by doing what we did, we are still alive. They made their choice. We all knew there was a chance that we were not to come home when we went off to war.”

He slides his shaking hand high into your hair and he buries his fingers in your curls in the hope of stilling them. “You are not alone. I too have suffered. As well as my mother. And Baela. And Hugh. And…”

He trails off. “But we live with it, because it is what must be done. We serve the Realm now. Peacefully. For our people.”

He looks at you. “We can be together now. That is why I brought you here: to ask for your hand.”

You stare at him in shock.

“Marry me,” he whispers tenderly, tucking a lock of silver behind your ear.

“Let us be together—the way we are meant to be. And we’ll never feel alone again. Will not wallow in hopelessness again so long as we have each other. We can…share our grief. Our darkest moments and thoughts and… No one else could understand. But we do. We understand each other.”

A tear slips down his cheek. “Please marry me. Please. I’m—”

He chokes back a sob. “I’m begging you. You’re all I want. I can’t do it without you. I don’t know how anymore.”

You worry your lip between your teeth as you fight a losing battle against further tears. “I don’t want to be queen…”

He takes you into his arms. “You would need be as much in name only. I would have no expectation for you to partake in politicking. There would be some expected appearances, of course. But apart from those, if you wished to remain here and be only my wife and mother to our child and little Maisily, then that is what will be. I only want you to feel safe. I want only to take care of you now. You and your family. Please let me. Please.”

He pauses for a moment. “You understand the smallfolk better than I can ever hope to. And I know they matter to you. To have you to council me on their needs, how best to look after them… Without you coming into my life, I fear I would still seem them as I initially saw you when we first met. You’ve changed everything, and for the better. I love you.”

You remain silent, for a long while as you lean against him, and he against you.

Two halves upholding one whole. If one pulls away, the other falls.

And you don’t want that: to fall.

You feel as if you’ve been continuously doing so since the Gullet. Falling further and further into an endless, black pit. For the firs time since then, you feel as if the sensation has stopped, and you are finally where you’re meant to be. Safe within his arms. Where none can harm you ever again.

“Yes.”

Your wedding takes place shortly after Baela and Addam’s, but is far more private in nature.

One, because the two of you wish for it to be. Two, due to your…condition, the people discovering Jacaerys’ heir was conceived out of wedlock is less than ideal.

Your mother and Maisily are moved into the Red Keep in rooms very near your own, and they each settle in comfortable to daily routines, but know they are always welcome to seek out either you or Jacaerys for any reason.

Quite often, Maisily comes to spend the night in your bed, and Jacaerys never tells her no, as he considers her his own now, and knows she is a great source of comfort for you.

Your mother comes to spend much of her time in the gardens and it does her quite well, which makes you…very happy to see.

When your little one comes screaming into the world, it is a boy, who is promptly named Lucerys.

He is the delight of your and Jacaerys’ lives, and a source of much curiosity for Maisily as she stands over his crib or bassinet and softly pokes at him, wondering about her new little brother.

Even your mother tends to him often—rocking him in her arms as she sits before her balcony, telling him stories of his late grandsire.

Jacaerys promises you—per his own request—that your next son be named after your late father, which he regrets never having a chance to meet.

There are nights where you, at times, still wake up screaming in terror as you choke on ash-filled air that is not there, but Jace merely holds you close until your trembling body calms and you fall asleep against his chest.

For him, he’s woken often by a throbbing in his scarred leg and memories of drowning under the influence of milk of the poppy. He had seen a great many terrible visions due to it. One of which was the fall of his family one-by-one. It had all seemed so frighteningly real.

And there had been one which was worse than all the rest: you lying in his arms upon undetermined shores as you drowned in your own blood. You would stare up at him with a look of desperation for him to make it stop, but all he could do was cradle you against his chest and tell you over and over ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ as you slipped away. Afterward…it always ended the same way: with him driving his own sword through his chest to follow along behind you into the next world. For his last reason for living was then lost to him.

He was supposed to be the one protecting you at war. Instead, he’d lain there useless upon a sick bed while you had to act in his stead. Something you never wanted to begin with. Should’ve never had thrust upon you.

That guilt never leaves him, even if you tell him it is in no way his fault. That it is what it is. Nothing which can be changed.

So you instead focus, as much as you can, on each other, and your family. Your son, Maisily, your mother and his, his brothers, and so on. You and Baela even become very close penpals. As a woman, after what you did, you confide in her the fear of not being a good enough mother to your child.

She shares in that, as she and Addam have begun to create their own line, as well.

But you assure each other that due to that same fear, you know you will be otherwise: everything your little ones need.

She becomes like a sister to you. And you to her, next to Rhaena, that is.

You even begin to venture, in time, back into the city you came from, to gain a new relationship with your people. It makes it easier that you are already familiar with so many.

A city which is in better shape now than you’ve ever seen it, for Rhaenyra has had many stonemasons and smiths of various trades tending to it. And she regularly holds audience with her subjects to hear their grievances and needs, and she does all she can to assure their happiness and wellness throughout the realm.

You know the deep-buried wounds of war within your mind may fade, but will never leave you entirely—any of you.

But it is made easier to bear in a kingdom of peace, with your lover, husband, and future king at your side, and your family all around with the memories of war behind you as you step forward…into a better future.

[sleepyangelkami]

CARL GRIMES MASTERLIST

ONE SHOTS

hush trouble adjusting sheltered oblivious clingy

DRABBLES

silent affection echoing need destruction and reparation safety blanket

SERIES

perverted

[mythicalmaven]

Beyond Boundaries • Oscar Piastri (PART FIVE)

Masterlist

Yes! You saw it correct! Time for chapter 5 already! <3 cant wait for chapter 6 already I tried something new this chapter & that was including some gifs in the chapter to make it a little more dynamic! It's just a little trial, so please let me know if you liked it or not, so that I know if I should include those more often :) So, just for the record, the chapter isn't finished after the gifs, it continues below the gif! :)

↳pairing: oscar piastri x female!reader (norris!reader) ↳word count: 4.2K ↳ parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, ↳chapter warnings: jealousy, first kiss, smut, 18+ content (mdni!), oral (male!receiving), fingering, emotional rollercoaster, brothers teammate trope, bestfriend!reader

↳series summary: Since Oscar joined McLaren as your brother’s teammate, you two have quickly become best friends. Recently promoted to be Oscar’s physiotherapist, you both relish the opportunity to spend more time together. However, as the new role brings you closer, Oscar finds himself grappling with unexpected feelings and rising tension, leaving him conflicted about how to handle his emotions

The rest of the holiday went by excruciatingly slow, the interactions between you and Oscar have been limited, you honestly were pretty much unable to look him in the eye, until you were pretty much forced by your job duties. Which meant you both had to put on a straight face and be act like the professional ones. The first time you spoke about what happened during your shared holiday, was the Wednesday before the Australian Grand Prix. You both had to attend the driver's meeting that was planned. His initial behavior towards you was distant and cold, something you completely understand. You had been avoiding him and he obviously noticed that. 

Afterwards you had decided to take Oscar aside, asking him if he was okay with having a talk with you. It took you a few days to work up the courage to talk to him. You knew you shouldn't have avoided him for so long, he didn't deserve that treatment and you knew it.  The talk with Oscar resulted in a big relief and a reparation of your friendship, a friendship with maybe potential for a little more.

*flashback to wednesday*

The two of you were sitting on the couch in Oscar's drivers' room, both looking at the floor. Talking about what happened during the holiday and how you both felt about it. You apologized to him about the way you handled everything and how you treated him. It was a good and relieving conversation, both glad that you made up. Because the both of you honestly couldn't stand this a day longer.

"I missed you" Oscar mumbled under his breath "I've felt annoyingly incomplete these past days"

You rested your head on his shoulder "I missed you too, Osc" you murmured back at him "I missed our jokes, our silly little facetime calls in the middle of the night, our movie night. I've missed my best friend"

Friendzone, that's what Oscar felt himself getting pushed back into. He rolled his eyes, puffing out a frustrated sigh "Don't you think you should stop calling me that?"

You looked at him confused "What? Why?"  

Oscar raised an eyebrow at you, rolling his eyes "I think we both know we crossed that line the moment you gave me a handjob, don't you think?" 

You chuckled at him, laughing it off a little "It wasn't just me! You pleasured me too, you know?" 

Oscar threw his hands up defensively "Hey! You started it!" he joked back at you.

Another laugh left your lips "Sure, we went beyond boundaries, but that doesn't mean you can't still be my best friend?"

The Australian driver jokingly shot you a suggestive look "What if I don't want to be just your best friend?"

"Osc.."  you uttered "We both know we shouldn't go down that road"

"I know, and I agree that it's for the best if we don't, but it doesn't change my feelings for you" he said, verbally admitting his feelings towards you for the first time "I can't change the fact that I'm in love with you"

You looked at him, softly placing a hand on his thigh, trying to comfort both yourself and him. You wanted to kiss him, but you can't, you shouldn't. It tore you apart, but it was for the best. You found yourself unable to reply to his words, too overwhelmed.

"Just be honest with me please, do you have feelings for me?" Oscar asked, placing his hand on top of yours. 

You looked at him, his brown eyes meeting yours "Yes"

*back to present*

It was Sunday, which meant it was race day. The race took the least expected turn, which lead to Max not even finishing and Carlos securing another win. The whole ordeal resulting in your brother on the podium for a 3rd place and Oscar finished right behind him in 4th. To say that you were proud, would have been a massive understatement. Event though the boys themselves might be a little disappointed about not reaching the top step, you were over the moon. To celebrate Carlos' victory the drivers had decided to go to a well known nightclub in Melbourne. 

You were currently trying to convince Oscar to join the lot of you, which seemed to be a lot more difficult than you would have liked "Come on Oscar! You gotta come!"

Charles piped in, leaning on your shoulder "Yes! Listen to y/n! It won't be as bad as you think!" Charles exclaimed "And! Not entirely unimportant, those nightclubs are full of hot women. You cant convince me that you wouldn't enjoy having a little fun with a gorgeous woman"

"I don't need a random girl twerking on me, thanks. I'm fine where I am" Oscar replied a little uncomfortable. Yes he definitely would enjoy having a little fun with a gorgeous woman; but only if that woman was you.

Charles looked at him and rolled his eyes "Don't be a party pooper, Piastri" he joked, putting his arm around your shoulder, sending Oscar a little puppy dog face "Do it for us?"

"Fine" he huffed, finally giving in

"Yayy!" you cheered, jumping into Oscar's arms, hugging him enthusiastically.

—————⋆₊⁺☾⋆the nightclub⋆☾⋆₊⁺—————

A few hours had passed since you all arrived at the nightclub, one that was pretty private and today only allowed entrance to the drivers, f1 staff and their invitees as well as a few other high established guests. So to speak, it was safe for the drivers to have a fun night out without the media getting involved.

You couldn't deny you might have had a few too many cocktails, completely unaware of just how drunk you were. Oscar stood at the bar, a beer in one hand and the other in his pocket, watching you intently. His gaze was locked on Carlos, who was dancing with you far too sensually for Oscar's liking.

The music thrummed through the room, a sultry beat promising temptation. You felt Carlos's steady hand on your waist as you moved together, the rhythm guiding your steps. His touch was warm and reassuring, but your eyes kept darting over his shoulder, seeking out Oscar.

Oscar stood on the opposite side of the room, his gaze fixed on you. He watched every sway of your hips, every flick of your hair, the intensity in his eyes palpable. You met his stare head-on, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned closer to Carlos, your fingers trailing lightly down his arm.

You saw the muscle in Oscar's jaw tighten, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Carlos was getting on his nerves today. If he wasn't driving him off the track, he was stealing the girl of his dreams. Yes, Oscar knew he was exaggerating the problem, but with too much beer in his system, he was extra annoyed.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Lando asked, following Oscar's gaze. "Oh, that's what's bothering you," he chuckled.

Oscar and Lando's friendship had fortunately returned to normal quickly after the whole ordeal. After his talk with you, Lando immediately went to Oscar, apologizing for the situation. They discussed many things, including Oscar's feelings for you, which Oscar found incredibly scary due to his previous reaction. Lando admitted he had been too overprotective and childish. He told Oscar he realized he would always be protective over his sister, but if she had to date someone, it might as well be someone he trusted more than anyone, pretty much giving him a green light.

Oscar downed the rest of his beer in one go, almost slamming the glass on the bar, and ordered two shots. "I need more alcohol," he huffed.

"Oscar, she's single and drunk, it doesn't mean anything to her. She probably just wanted to have a little fun and Carlos was at the right place at the right moment" Lando laughed, knowing his sister well. "And besides, I can guarantee you Carlos isn't interested in her that way. They just like to flirt sometimes."

"Yeah, everyone but me," Oscar huffed, handing Lando one of the shots he ordered.

Lando laughed again, rolling his eyes. "That's your own fault, you idiot. You're the one standing by the bar instead of on the dance floor."

"I can't dance," Oscar stated simply, trying not to say too much.

"Mate, if you dance with her, she'll probably take the lead anyway," Lando began, running a hand through his curls, looking back at his sister. "And you're blind as well, by the way."

Oscar gave the Brit a confused look before Lando immediately opened his mouth. "Oscar, it disgusts me to say this because she is my sister. But she's literally undressing you with her eyes. Eww." Lando pulled a disgusted face before continuing. "She's been looking at you pretty much every few seconds. I know my sister; she's one hundred percent trying to make you jealous, mate."

"Even if she is, what am I supposed to do about that?" Oscar scoffed, redirecting his gaze towards you to see if Lando was right. "She's the one who told me we shouldn't be together."

"She said you guys shouldn't date; she didn't say anything about being friends with benefits, did she?" Lando said, pulling yet another disgusted face. "It's honestly downright revolting to talk about my sister doing stuff like that, but someone had to tell you because I'm going insane from all your pining."

While the two boys stood there, Daniel joined them, putting his arm around Lando's shoulder. "Lando is right, you know."

"See! Even Danny agrees!" Lando exclaimed.

Daniel laughed at Lando's enthusiasm, glad to see he made up his mind. "You could always give her a taste of her own medicine. Go dance with my sister over there," he said, pointing at the brunette dancing with Pierre and Charles. "Just whisper in her ear that I sent you and that you need to make Y/N jealous, and I'm sure she'll play along."

"Daniel, how do you expect me to do that? I have the social skills of a peanut," Oscar replied.

The two boys laughed at Oscar, finding it incredibly funny how awkward he could be. "Just go! Go with the flow, come on, live a little!"

"Ugh, fine," Oscar huffed, a sigh of annoyance leaving his lips as he walked off towards the crowd of people on the dance floor.

Lando looked back at Daniel, giving him a smirk. "Mint."

"It's funny to see how quick you turned around. I'm proud of you, though," Daniel told Lando, still leaning his head on the younger one's shoulder.

"Would be a little hypocritical of me, now wouldn't it?" Lando replied, turning around in Daniel's arms, giving him a quick, sneaky peck on the cheek before pulling away quickly to make sure no one saw.

"Honestly surprised she hasn't figured it out yet. We've been a little too obvious, no?" Daniel asked.

Lando chuckled, taking a sip from his drink. "And that's exactly why she hasn't caught on to it yet. I'll tell her eventually, though."

Meanwhile Lando and Daniel were talking, Oscar was already on the dance floor, his arms around Michelle, Daniel's sister. He explained his plan to her, which she replied to with a roll of her eyes and a giggle, but gladly agreed to. It felt wrong, horribly wrong. The alcohol was making it a lot easier, kinda served as liquid courage. 

"She's looking" Daniel's sister whispered in his ear, gliding her arms over his back.

 As the music shifted to a slower, more sensual rhythm, he pulled her close, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony. He whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder.

You felt a sharp pang of jealousy twist in your gut. Carlos must have sensed the change in your demeanor because he gave you a questioning look. But you were too focused on the scene unfolding before you to offer any explanation.

Oscar's hand was low on Michelle's back, guiding her movements with a practiced ease. She looked up at him through her lashes, a playful smile on her lips, and he responded with a grin of his own, his eyes flicking to you for the briefest of moments. It was a challenge, a direct provocation.

Determined not to let him see how much it affected you, you pressed closer to Carlos, your movements becoming more fluid and seductive. You laughed at something Carlos whispered, but the sound was hollow even to your own ears.

Across the room, Oscar spun Michelle, his hand lingering on hers a fraction longer than necessary. He dipped her, their faces inches apart, and your heart raced with a mixture of anger and something you didn't want to name. When he pulled her back up, their gazes locked, and the air between them seemed as though it crackled with unspoken  tension.

But it was the look he shot you afterward, a look filled with defiance and raw emotion, that made your breath catch. The dance floor had become a battleground, each movement a strategic play in a game of jealousy and desire. And neither of you was willing to back down.

Carlos's hand slid up your arm, his touch gentle but firm, grounding you. "You okay?" he murmured, concern lacing his voice.

You forced a smile, nodding. "Yeah, just... caught up in the moment."

But as you glanced back at Oscar, now laughing with Michelle as if nothing else mattered, you knew the truth. The moment was far from over, and the stakes had never been higher.

"You're trying to make him jealous, aren't you?" Carlos whispered in your ear, a smirk growing on his lips. 

"Duh, obviously" you retorted, pulling the Spaniard even closer, your arms around his neck inching his face even closer to you. 

"Well, I think it's working. He's coming over" he spoke in a low voice "Keep your eyes on me until he's here, cariño" 

You tried your best not to look behind you, feeling the adrenaline surge through your body, nerves overwhelming you. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your arm, the familiar warmth of Oscar's fingers enclosing your upper arm, pulling you out of Carlos' grasp. You looked into his eyes, and before you could react, he cupped your cheek in his hand and smashed his lips to yours.

The kiss was fierce and urgent, a release of all the emotions both of you had been holding back. His lips moved against yours with a desperate intensity, and you matched his fervor, your hands flying to his shoulders, then tangling in his hair. You could taste the faint bitterness of beer on his tongue as it slipped into your mouth, and the sensation sent a shiver down your spine.

Oscar's other hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your bodies moved in sync, pressing against each other as if trying to meld together. You tugged at his hair, eliciting a low groan from him that you felt reverberate through your own chest.

The kiss grew messier, more frantic, fueled by the alcohol coursing through your veins. His hands roamed your back, gripping and kneading, while your fingers traced the line of his jaw, down to his neck, then back up to his hair. The world around you blurred into nothingness; there was only Oscar, his touch, his taste, his heat.

Eventually, the need for air forced you both to break apart, but only just. Your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. His eyes were still closed, his lips slightly parted, and you could feel his heartbeat echoing the wild rhythm of your own.

Oscar's voice was a rough whisper as he spoke, "I've wanted to do that for so long."

You nodded slightly, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "Me too."

For a moment, neither of you moved, savoring the closeness, the shared warmth, the unspoken promise hanging in the air. The nightclub continued to pulse around you, but in that moment, it felt like you were the only two people in the world.

Oscar pressed his lips to yours again, more a short brush of your lips this time "Come back to the hotel with me? No strings attached" he proposed, his voice a little husky.

That's how you both ended up in the elevator, on its way to the floor where both of your hotel rooms were located. Oscar had pinned you against the elevator wall, his lips feverishly peppering your neck with kisses, unable to hold back. His hands roamed from your back to your stomach, slipping under your top to grab your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hipbones.

"I need you so bad, love," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged.

"Fuck, Osc— I-I need you too," you moaned out, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer.

His mouth moved up to capture your lips in a searing kiss, tongues tangling with a desperation that made your head spin. You could taste the remnants of alcohol on his tongue, mixed with the raw desire that fueled both of you. Your hands explored his body, fingers slipping under his shirt to feel the hard muscles of his back, the heat of his skin.

Oscar's grip tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him. The elevator hummed around you, but all you could focus on was the sensation of his hands, his mouth, his body pressing into yours. He trailed kisses along your jawline, nipping at your earlobe before returning to your lips with renewed hunger.

You arched into him, your back pressing harder against the cool metal wall of the elevator. The contrast between the cold surface and Oscar's fiery touch sent shivers down your spine. His hands slid up, pushing your top higher, his fingers splaying over your ribs as if trying to memorize every inch of your skin.

"Oscar," you breathed, your voice a mix of urgency and need.

He responded with a low growl, capturing your lips once more in a kiss that stole your breath away. One hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as his other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you to him. The elevator dinged, signaling your arrival at the desired floor, but neither of you moved, lost in the moment.

Reluctantly, Oscar broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes burned with desire as they locked onto yours. "You okay with my hotel room?" he asked in a whisper, his voice husky with promise 

You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your mind still reeling from the intensity of the kiss. Hand in hand, you stumbled out of the elevator, anticipation thrumming through your veins as you made your way to Oscar's room, ready to lose yourselves in each other.

Oscar reached inside of his pockets to grab his keycard, fumbling with it to open the door. When he finally managed to open it, he pulled you inside with him. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Oscar pinned you against the wall, his body pressing into yours. His breath was hot against your ear as he murmured huskily, "I can't wait any longer."

His lips found yours in a heated kiss, his hands roaming your body with a desperate need. One hand slid up under your top, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, while the other moved lower, slipping under your skirt. You gasped as his fingers brushed against your inner thigh, teasingly close to where you ached for him.

"Oscar," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire. "You have no idea how much I want you," he whispered seductively, his lips grazing your jawline.

His fingers found their way to your core, slipping beneath the fabric of your panties. You moaned softly as he began to caress you, his touch both gentle and insistent. His other hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head so he could claim your lips once more.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "I need to make you feel good."

You could only respond with a whimper, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his fingers moved with expert precision. He circled your sensitive nub, then slipped a finger inside you, his thumb still working on your clit. The dual sensations had you arching into him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"That's it, love," he purred, his lips now trailing down your neck. "Let go for me."

He added another finger, curling them just right, and your world narrowed down to the feel of his touch and the sound of his voice. His whispered sweet nothings in your ear, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he needed you, how he wanted to watch you come undone.

Your body responded to his every word, the tension building inside you until it was almost unbearable. "Oscar," you gasped, your nails digging into his back.

"I've got you," he breathed softly, his fingers moving faster, his thumb pressing more firmly. "Come for me, love."

With a cry, you shattered around him, your body trembling as waves of pleasure coursed through you. He held you through it, his fingers still working you gently, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm.

When you finally came down, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing heavily. He withdrew his hand, bringing it up to cradle your face as he kissed you tenderly, his touch now soft and soothing.

"You're amazing," he whispered, his voice filled with love and awe.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure. "So are you," you replied breathlessly, your fingers tracing his jawline "I need you to fuck me, Osc"

He pulled you into a gentle embrace, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I don't want to remember my first time with you as a drunk encounter against my hotel room door." he admitted, honesty evident in his voice.

"At least let me make you feel good then" you smiled at him, feeling a sudden boost of confidence taking you over as you flipped the two of you around, Oscar now being the one pinned to the wall. You send him a lustful look and sank to your knees, looking up at him with (not so) innocent eyes. 

Oscar let his head fall back against the wall, letting out a soft groan as he felt your hands explore his thighs. His hands moving to your hair, tangling his fingers in it. You fingers were moving extremely slowly, fully on purpose, trying to make the young Australian go insane. You carefully unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pulling it down his thighs. You used your teeth to pull his boxers down, causing Oscar to let out an almost embarrassing whine "Fucking tease" he uttered, his voice nothing but a rough whisper.

You lips traveled from his abdomen to his thighs and back, placing soft kisses everywhere, except for where he needed your lips the most. The sensation was electric as your lips met Oscar's skin, biting, sucking, and leaving a trail of marks in their wake.

Oscar tugged at your hair and moaned out loud as you finally closed your lips around the head of his cock, sucking softly. Your mouth felt even better than it did in his fantasies, Oscar felt like he was in heaven. He didn't want to feel like a teenager and cum too quickly, but the alcohol in his system and the way you worked your magic on him, caused the knot in his stomach to tighten quickly. Adrenaline and heat moving through his body, taking a tighter grip on your hair "Fuck, y/n" 

You licked and sucked, causing Oscar's breath to get caught in his throat. Tongue dancing over the sensitive flesh, coaxing a gasp from Oscar. Each movement sent waves of extreme pleasure coursing through his body, moans only growing louder every second. Unable to hold back the sound escaping his lips.

You then took his whole length in your mouth, your nose almost touching his abs, before releasing most of his member, except for the tip. You looked up at him through your lashes as you twirled your tongue against the underside of his cock "F-Fuck... wait" Oscar uttered, stumbling on his words, his breath coming out in ragged puffs. 

You pulled off him for a little while and looked at him, a little concerned "What's wrong?" you asked softly

 "F-Fuck, I'll come if you do that again"

A smirk formed on your lips, Oscar's dick disappears back between your lips. You bob your head up and down again, the rhythm pretty much perfect for Oscar. Another satisfied moan escapes his lips, right before you repeat your previous action, immediately feeling his himself get closer to the edge. He tried to pull you off his cock, but you refused, only sucking him harder, your eyes meeting his again. 

Oscar feels his orgasm washing over him in a way he has never experienced before, emptying himself in your mouth. You swallowed it all, before slowly pulling away, before you slowly rose from your knees, wiping your lips with the back of you hand. Your lips were puffy and red, your hair a mess. The sight of it almost enough to make Oscar get hard all over again.

—————⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺—————

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Taglist @aceyalonso @saachiep81 @landosgirlxoxo @andruuu28

[astroboots]

Every You Every Me Issue #3

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You are determined to meet your Spider-benefactor face to face and you go to ever increasing extreme lengths to do so. Problem is, Miguel O'hara is very uncooperative to your plans.

Word count: 5,500 words.

Content: Slowest of the burn, so slow you wonder if it's even burning. Near death experiences, the state of the economy and how expensive it is to live in a big city, the emotional whiplash of Miguel O'Hara.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

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You saw them in the window display of a bakery in Greenwich Village. Round sugar cookies with red frosting and white eyes, decorated as a tribute to everyone's favorite neighborhood Spiderman.

Before you had time to properly think things over (would he even like the cookies? Is he on a strict superhero diet and workout plan? What if he's gluten intolerant?) you were already standing in front of the cash register having a dozen of them wrapped up in fancy crinkly paper and were $72 dollars poorer. 

Charging six dollars per cookie is practically highway robbery, but that's par for the course with New York bakeries. You wouldn’t be surprised if every bakery in New York was already a part of Wilson Fisk’s criminal empire. 

As you push open the door, box in hand, you wonder wryly to yourself why Spiderman’s ruder alter ego isn't there to save you from that.

You wonder, for Superheroes, what classifies as an event worth intervening in and what everyday citizens need to be saved from?

Financial ailment doesn't quite seem to qualify from what you've been able to glean so far.

Tony Stark, for all the wealth he’s amassed (a large enough treasure hoard that he would be capable of buying the whole planet of Mars according to Forbes) isn't massively involved with charities. He only donates to the one: his own. And the Stark Foundation is really just Tony Stark paying reparations for the damage he and his buddies caused in the first place.

Thor is an actual deity, and you still remember that write-up in Esquire magazine, where local waiters in New Mexico had called him a terrible tipper and a habitual smasher of glassware.

Assault and battery is up in the air. There are accounts of Superheroes intervening; that Tiktok videos of She-Hulk breaking up a bar fight that went viral a few weeks back. But then equally, there are memes of Doctor Strange peeking out the window of Sanctum Sanctorum watching a street fight unfold,, utterly uninterested in getting involved. The internet labeled it as "mood". 

As for murder and mayhem, there's a longstanding public debate as to whether Superheroes cause more than they prevent. Case in point: that Moon Knight guy that paints the streets of London red.

There is no rule book written to explain how Superheroes decides who is worth saving and who is not.

Does one have to be important and have a material effect on the state of the world?

If so, you fall pitifully short. The most world-changing decision you made as of late was deciding to opt out of utensils on your last GrubHub order to help save the environment.

So it makes you wonder: Why on earth has this non-costume accurate Spiderman saved you, not once, not twice, but 13 times to date?

That’s just the first of many questions you’d like to ask him. What does he know that you don’t? Does he know why the universe seems to be out to get you lately? Or why death itself is following you everywhere you go, nipping at your heels?

You haven’t had the chance to ask him anything, because despite all of your encounters, you haven't met him face to face since that very first time. 

Inconveniently, you don't exactly have a way of contacting him. Superheroes aren't listed in the phone book. 

With no other way to reach out, you go at it the old fashioned way. You write him a note from a page you've ripped out of your notebook:

‘Thank you for saving me. Can we meet? I have questions.’

You place the note on the window sill. Setting the plate with $72 dollars worth of Spiderman cookies on top of the left corner of the paper to make sure it doesn't get blown away in the wind. Then you leave the window open for the first time since you've moved into this apartment before heading to bed.

There's nothing else to do but to wait. 

You wake to the spit and splatter of rain against your window. It's gray outside, and the cookies you set out the night before remain untouched. You frown at the sight, but you can't say you're surprised.

There was never any real indication that he was lurking around you. Superheroes are bound to have more interesting things on their schedule than stalking a random insurance employee.

You don't know why you thought this would work in the first place.

Getting out of bed, you walk up to your window to inspect the scene. The note is where you have left it, ink a little smeared from the rain, where the plate has kept it in place on the right corner.

That seems odd, now that you think about it. You stare at the note, eye drawn to the watermarks. Why are there water stains bleeding into the paper if your window was closed? As crappy as your rundown apartment can be, water damage is the one thing you haven't had issues with.

You draw your eyes to the closed window being smattered with the rain outside. Didn't you leave the window open last night? You're pretty sure you did, hoping that the open window would be seen as a gesture of invitation. You had left it open… right?

You did.

You're sure you did.

He must’ve been here.

Rude, not-costume-accurate Spiderman was here.

Right?

Your eyes flicker back to the window.

Or maybe you did close the window?

You close your eyes trying to recall your evening, packing the length of your apartment as you replay the memory. Suddenly, you're not so sure anymore. You always close your window, and even though you had every intention of keeping it open last night, who is to say you didn't close it out of sheer habit?

It's strange. Because if he was here, he would've spotted the note. But it's in the same spot you left it yesterday right under the plate on the left side of it...

You eye the undisturbed note tucked under the right corner of the plate.

Wait, wait. Didn't you put the note under the left side of the plate?

You did.

Yes, you definitely did.

Which means, he was here... Right?

You feel like you are going insane.

Are you seeing things that are not there? Was he actually here and if so why did he go to such lengths to pretend otherwise. Why would he passive-aggressively gaslight you into thinking he was never here?

You decide on a redo.

Because if you can't trust yourself and your questionable memory, you can trust a recording.

A teddy bear nanny cam sets you back $50. Not cheap, but not as outrageous as your stale-cardboard-tasting Spiderman cookies. 

You set it up on your dresser opposite your window and link it to your phone as per the instructions.

As for the bait. After having tasted those brick cookies for yourself, putting it out for a second night for a man who has saved your life repeatedly didn't seem right. You decide to bake them yourself this time.

The added bonus is that you get to mix blue food coloring into the frosting for the decoration that goes on top. In retrospect, the red Spiderman cookies from last time might’ve implied that you’re calling him a knock-off Spiderman. 

Besides, even with the cost of living crisis: a bag of flour, baking powder, unsalted butter, sugar and eggs cost a lot less than $72 dollars.

This time, you don't write him a sloppily put together note. You decide to write him a proper letter. 

If he did visit your apartment, (and you're not just going insane) the fact that he moved the note meant that he must've read it. 

This note didn’t work. 

It must not have been compelling enough, you were kind of in a hurry… 

You’ll have to write something better this time. Longer. More emotionally compelling. Surely if you take the time to really explain your plight, you can make him understand why it’s so important he talks to you! 

The problem is that it’s hard to sound serious when it’s written on lined paper from your ruled notebook. 

That won’t do. You go to the nearest stationery store in your neighborhood, a chain outlet of Paper Source to get yourself some decent looking stationary paper with a matching colored envelope to boot. 

You immediately regret this part of your plan, because it ends up setting you back another $26 dollars. Why is 6 pieces of paper so damn expensive anyhow? Surely there’s a few trees left in the world to chop down?!

$102 dollars down in your bank balance, you sit down at your dining table that night, pen in hand and begin writing. You pour your heart onto the pages, setting out in as precise words as you can manage the effect your near death incidents have had on you. 

How scared you are, how confused you are, but also how grateful you are that he's saved you, again and again and again. That you believe if you and him can just meet in person and talk, if you could ask questions and figure out why this is happening, then maybe you can find a way to stop it from happening again.

Then you fold the letter and tuck it neatly into the matching envelope and slide it under the left side of the cookie plate and go to sleep.

When you wake the next morning, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

The cookies are still neatly arranged on your plate. The letter snugly tucked underneath it.

On the left side this time, you note. 

It doesn’t look like he came. 

The only thing is that you swear that the envelope is now several inches further to the left than where you left it last night.

Again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

You pull up your phone, opening the app linked to the nanny cam and press play.

There is nothing but the still frame of your studio apartment, your bed to the right and your window square in the camera-view. You speed up the video, but the only thing that takes you by surprise is that you apparently toss a lot more in your sleep than you thought.

The camera footage goes well into 3am, and you’re resigning yourself to the fact that this was all down to your imagination.

He didn't come last night. Probably didn't come the night before. Most likely you woke up from the rain, closed the window and were too sleepy to remember.

You sigh, setting down your phone on the table, prepared to let this whole endeavor go.

On your screen, a smudged shadow appears in the corner of the window. You jump to your feet from your seat, knocking your chair over in the process with a raucous thud. The dark figure grows larger on your screen, dark navy blue and lines of stark red that perches itself onto your window sill.

YES! yes-yes-yes! You knew it. You fucking goddamn knew it!

You were right.

Adrenaline buzzes victoriously in your veins, and you grip your phone harder. Your heart is pounding so fast and hard in your chest you can hear the drumming beat of it in your ears.

He was here!

(You're not cuckoo for cocoa puffs).

You watch as his large figure sits on your window sill. He's still wearing his mask, and while you can't make out the expressions underneath, the outline where his eyes would have been, painted in dark blue, now narrow into a slit on your screen. 

There's a hostility emanating from that glare that you are able to sense all the way from the opposite side of the screen. He stares down at the plate of cookies suspiciously. Then he just stays there, unmoving, having a staring competition with the cookies you baked in his image.

In the privacy of your living room, you have the luxury of taking the time to get a proper look at him without interruption. It's hard to ignore the fact of just how tightly fitted to his skin that suit is. The dark blue fabric clings to every line of muscles on his body and it makes your cheek prickle with heat when you look. It feels voyeuristic somehow, but you can't help but think that the more modest alternative would be if he had worn nothing at all.

He's absurdly ripped. Muscular doesn't even begin to describe it. Broad shoulders and a narrow tapered waist segueing into obscenely thick and defined thighs that have your eyes linger for far too long. You shake your head to snap yourself out of it, Jesus you are acting like a creep. This isn’t OnlyFans, though lord knows you paid for this privilege! $102 for a cam video! 

On the footage, there is finally movement. He reaches for a cookie, bringing it to his mouth. The blue fabric dematerializes on his lower face until it reveals his tanned skin and that ridiculously cut jaw of his.

His mouth parts. Fangs protrude where his canine teeth are supposed to be and the sight makes you nearly drop your phone in shock.

Is this Spiderman a vampire? Or is he like a tarantula Spiderman with fangs to match?

You watch in suspended horror as he bites into the cookie, those sharp fangs of his are in plain view as he chews. 

He leans over to reach for a second cookie and all your trepidation is forgotten for a second, because if he’s reaching for a second one, it must mean he likes them. You grin at your screen, culinary pride beating out any caution or fear you may have had. 

Then he lifts up the plate, picking up the letter. The anticipation is too much. You press your face closer to the screen to try to get closer, because your screen is too small to pick up any possible nuances in his expression. 

He's carefully opening the envelope as he starts to read. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. There's no visible change of facial expressions in the outline of his masked eyes. His mouth, which is bared to you, doesn't so much as twitch.

It doesn’t take long for him to read it. When he's done, he tucks the letter back under the plate. Then he bends down over the plate of cookies, and for a moment you think he’s going in for a third. Instead his hand lingers on the plate, before he starts to slide the remaining cookies around the plate to your confusion. You watch in confusion as he picks up the cookies one by one to space them out more evenly. You don't quite understand what he's trying to do, wait… is Vampire spider man re-arranging the cookies to make it less obvious he’s eaten them?!  

The bastard really was trying to gaslight you into thinking he was never here.

Once he’s seemingly satisfied with his work, he straightens up, turning until his back is against the camera preparing to leave.

To your surprise his face turns around to take one last look inside. The direction of his gaze settles on your bed where you're sleeping. His eyes lingers there for a handful of moments, inscrutable over the mask.

Is he sad? Angry? You can't tell.

He finally looks away and then he leaps off the window.

Politely asking him in writing is clearly not working out for you.

You decide the only recourse you have left is to try and physically catch him.

Such a simple sentiment that had sounded so easy in your head, but you quickly run into logistical issues when you try to put it into practice.

The man is built like a tank. Can leap off of skyscrapers (and the window of your sixth floor) without breaking a sweat. Potentially also a vampire.

You're not exactly sure how you're supposed to catch someone like that.

Your google research is off to a shaky start. Somehow you end up down a rabbit hole of tutorials for non-lethal mouse traps. It's not very useful inspiration. Because you can't exactly build a 7 foot large cage trap to catch him the next time he comes around to help himself to cookies.

But the concept of having a lure trap set with bait seemed transferable and so you decide to go for a classic spring trap that you’ll modify. No cage, instead you set up a DIY contraption with a sturdy string attached to a bell meant to quickly alert you to his presence next time he comes around. 

The game plan is to wake up and corner him before he has a chance to abscond.

As for bait, you google things that vampires might like in a half-thought of plan it might be applicable. Unfortunately, there are no young virgin maidens you know of as far as the eye can see in New York (yourself included) so that was a no go. 

So you default back to cookies (because hey, at least it worked last time).

Amazon has your whole set up shipped and delivered by the next day and you implement phase 3 of your rapidly escalating attempts to reach out to him.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work. For one he doesn’t show up that night. Or the night after. It takes him four whole days to show up again and when he does, he spots your trap a mile away. When you review the footage on the cam the next day, he avoids the rope and the whole mechanism effortlessly. 

There's no sound on the nanny cam so you can't be sure of it. But you think from the way the line of his shoulders shake as he steps over the rope that he might be laughing at you. He’s definitely seen through few supervillain traps in his days so in hindsight the probability of success here was low.

He does however eat three of your cookies this time.

You get a little bit more desperate after that.

You decide that if a trigger trap to wake you won't work, then obviously, the next best thing is for you to simply stay awake.

The problem is that he doesn't show up every night. His visits are entirely random without an obvious pattern. Sometimes he shows up two nights in a row, sometimes he goes several days without making a guest appearance on your nanny cam footage.

It means you end up downing a whole carafe of coffee, and several energy drinks, every night for a week straight. Entirely unable to predict what night he's going to appear, you keep dooming your already tiny bladder to a dozen visits to the bathroom before the clock has even struck nine.

The saddest part of it is that despite being wired on enough coffee to power a nuclear power station by yourself, you never end up staying awake the whole night through. 

More often than not you end up falling asleep sitting upright by the dining table waiting up for him. Then the next morning you wake with a wry neck, a sore back and your face pressing up uncomfortably against the wooden surface.

But you're nothing if not tenacious. Tonight makes it the sixth night in a row that you’re doing this. You stare down the can of red bull on your dining table as you pick it up and lift it to your mouth. You’re going to keep going, hardness of the wooden table be damned.

You're surprised to find yourself waking up feeling well rested without any aches. Surrounded by the softness of your quilt and your even softer memory foam pillow. 

The luxurious comfort of it all is such a relief that you don't even question it at first. Don't question why you're in bed when the last thing you remember was nodding off against the palm of your hand and the hard discomfort of your dining chair.

In the sanctuary of your bed, you just dig your face deeper into your pillow and snooze for as long as you can. Ignoring the bright sun pouring in from your windows until it sears unforgivingly against your skin and you decide that it’s finally time to start your day.

By habit, the first thing you do as you get up from bed is to pull up the nanny cam app on your phone and press play on last night's recording.

There's nothing of interest. Seeing yourself read a book by the dining table and chugging down a series of Red Bull is hardly riveting television.

Yesterday you barely even make it until midnight because you can see yourself nod off at the table, head sliding off your palm and plonking down on the dining table. You flinch at the impact, vaguely impressed that the collision didn't wake you.

Your (maybe vampire) Spiderman turns up at 3 am.

Much like the times before, he perches himself on your window sill, peering inside (presumably to check for any new traps you might have laid out for him).

His broad frame stiffens, and then, with a smooth leap, he's inside your apartment.

Excitement rushes to your head, because this is the furthest he’s gone and the first time he's come all the way inside instead of just lurking on the window sill. 

He goes over to your bed, flinging the quilt to the side. He seems stressed, the dark shape of his eyes wide as he stands over the empty bed when it dawns on you what’s happening on screen right now. 

Oh, he's worried.

He looks over at you, hunched over the dining table, sound asleep and oh god, is that drool on your cheek? 

The line of his shoulder relaxes. The broadness of his chest rises then dips with a heavy exhale. Something warm trickles in your stomach at his obvious concern for you.

The mystery is confounding. You don't know him. You've never met him, but for some unfathomable reason he cares enough about you to genuinely care about your safety and you want to know why. 

He makes his way over to the table where you are. The mask slowly ebbs away, uncovering his familiar chin, cheeks and then finally his eyes. An other-worldly shade of crimson that has you spellbound and transfixed on the screen. 

You find yourself raising your phone closer to your face, trying to get a better look at him. Cursing the crappy quality of the video. You don't know what to make of the way he's looking at you. It's intensely focused, almost sad, and… and… And you don't know what, but it makes your heart leap up into your throat, chest clenching tight.

He bends over, wrapping his broad arms under your knees. He’s careful in his movements, cupping your head as it lolls to the side until you’re comfortably resting against his shoulders. It’s a practiced movement, as if he’s done this a hundred times before as he picks you up and carries you bridal style to your bed. Gingerly tucking you under the quilt with something that looks a lot like tenderness. 

It leaves you with more questions than ever.

Ever since you started your caffeine chugging marathon, work has become a new kind of hell.

You're already half-asleep and nodding off at your desk by 10.30. Eyes sore and strained as you stare at the bright screen and try to make sense of the endless columns that are all different and also all the same until your brain refuses to try to make sense of any of it anymore.

You need to go for a walk. Clear your head.

Maybe pop out for a coffee... smoothie. Definitely smoothie.

Outside, the heat is oppressive, far too hot for only being May. Definitely too hot when there are this many tourists around. The street is so crowded you can barely make an inch of headway, trapped behind a family with a stroller in front, trapped in front of a pushy businessman who keeps stepping on your heels every two steps, and trapped next to a guy who is really into his airpods.

With the excess of caffeine still trying to make its way out of your system and the unforgiving heat of the sun beating against your back, it all has the effect of making you feel like you’re hung over. Your breakfast is roiling in your stomach. Sweat plastered against every inch of clothing. You don't know why you do this to yourself.

Every morning you tell yourself never again, and yet every night, there you were, spending half of your disposable income on energy drinks.

Starting from today, you're going cold turkey on the stuff. You've finally given up on trying to stay awake long enough to catch your super-stalker in his cookie burglar routine. Endlessly chugging down caffeine every night is not working out for you. Neither are the DIY mouse traps.

You're running low on ideas of how to trap him. You have nothing else to go on anymore. No idea on how to summon the man. The only time you know he'll be there is the moment before each near-death when he's there to save you.

What are you supposed to do with that? Purposely throw yourself off another building to lure him out?

That's crazy!

…Right?

But maybe... No! Definitely crazy.

Someone screams, and you snap out of your thoughts. There's yelling and terrified shrieks all around you. You're caught in the throng of people, panicked bodies pushing and pressing up against you, all of them trying to run the other way.

You dig in your heels, bracing yourself against the stampede of people. They’re pushing in from every direction until it’s impossible to move an inch. It’s hard to turn your body, when second after second, someone is pummeling into your side, knocking into your bruising shoulder. You barely manage to crane your neck back far enough when you finally spot it. 

A red-green truck with a gigantic taco on its roof is careening towards you across the pavement, no driver behind the wheel. The sea of bodies parts around the out-of-control vehicle, people running left, right and forward to escape being crushed under the wheels.

There’s no time to react. It’s too close. Too fast. 

A hand clutches at your wrist and pulls you backwards, your vision obscured as your face is pressed up against a familiar solid warmth. 

"Hold onto me," he tells you, and you do. 

You're held firm against him as the ground underneath your feet disappears, and everything feels weightless. Then all you hear is a loud thunderous crash.

Your feet touch back down on the ground, and the strong protective hold on you unravels.

When you open your eyes he's already gone. You're left on the corner of Lexington Avenue, still trying to catch your breath. The mob of people is still there all around you, but the panic has passed now, everyone is standing still. Everyone is observing the wreckage of the run amok truck that is now flipped onto its side, rendered harmless.

Miraculously, somehow, nobody around you seems visibly injured.

From a distance, you can hear sirens approaching with a deafening wail. 

But your mind is elsewhere, on the shade of the familiar dark blue and red as you were being saved seconds ago. On his gentle voice in your ear that still thrums pleasantly in your chest. 

You want to see him again. 

It's Friday, and you break half an hour early for your designated 40 minutes of lunch, taking the elevator directly to the 72nd floor, which is under construction to renovate it into an open observation deck for the public next year.

The thing with commercial skyscrapers is that nowadays most of them have safety glass panels on all outside spaces of the upper floors to ensure that it is impossible to climb up the buildings and jump.

It's a safety feature that became standard after the financial crisis of 2008.

Turns out that imposing an 80 hour work week on your employees, where they don't get to see their family or friends or have a life outside of work, and then stripping them of their financial security makes a lot of people miserable and suicidal (who knew?)

The elevator pings open, and you exit into the construction zone, carefully avoiding the various tools scattered across the half-finished deck. On Fridays, the construction workers on the site leave by lunchtime, and the space is empty of people. 

Step by step, you walk up towards the edge of the terrasse, until you stand before the temporary safety rail, looking out over the sprawling city below you. Cars look like tiny moving pebbles and the people, a hive of ants scurrying from street to street.

It’s a dizzying view. Both beautiful and grotesque in its grandeur. The 72nd floor will be 28 more floors to fall from than the 44th was.

The air around you seems to thin, and your stomach wants to crawl down to your feet and hold on to steady ground.

Taking a deep breath, you lift the hem of your shirt, running your hand over the safety harness strapped around your waist, reassuring yourself it's still there. Then you feel along the attached cord, using the carabiner at the end to clip it around the rod of the safety rail. 

Being impulsive and daring in your quest is one thing. Reckless and stupid is another.

It’s not a real climbing rope and harness. Turns out professional safety gear is shockingly expensive, but you found a knock-off resistance training set, complete with harness and stretchy bungee cord rope, on Amazon for a very reasonable $15. You’ve already spent $72 on cookies, $50 dollars for a nanny cam set, and an extortionate $26 for stationary paper in your never-ending quest to lure out Fake Spiderman. You figure a rope is a rope, and you're not paying $100 more to get ripped off by the big climbing corporations. But you’re also not willing to go without.

After all, you've already fallen from the Chrysler building once, and you're not angling for a repeat.

As intent as you are on seeing your Spider-benefactor eye to eye, you're not quite prepared to die for the privilege. Your plan is just to make it look like you are going to jump.

Any superhero worth his dime wouldn't actually let you fall before they would be willing to save you.

That would be a real dick move.

You give your impromptu safety rig one last tug to make sure it's secure, then straighten your posture. Grabbing a hold of the metal rail, you hoist yourself up. You clamber onto it, gripping tight with shaking hands as you swing a leg over, straddling the bar.

Left leg then the right, until all of you are on the other side of the railing.

Then you stay there.

One second. Then two. You close your eyes and try not to look down at the many, many floors below, and how one gust of strong wind could probably knock you over and have you falling down the building again. You count the seconds that pass you by. 

Five. Six. Seven.

A strong gust of wind blows through your side, and your legs buckle at the strong resistance, hand gripping down on the metal railing to hold yourself steady so you don't fall off.

Eightnineten! Ok. Fuck. No. You're good. Fuck this! He's not going to come.

If he didn’t come when you climbed over, he's not going to turn up now.

You briefly let go of the railing with one hand, adjusting your grip so you can climb back to safety. The sun beating down on your back disappears and is eaten up by a large and looming shadow. Every hair on the back of your neck prickles in warning.

Your reaction is too slow, you don't even have time to turn around to see what caused it. Then all you hear is an angry booming voice right next to your ear.

"Have you lost your goddamned mind?!"

You panic, flinging out your hand to catch the bar, but the hard metal of the railings isn't there anymore.

There is a sharp metallic snap. The safety rope around your waist splits from the hasp.

He’s calling your name.

The world tilts and everything goes upside down along with it. Your stomach sinks with a sickening plummet, legs dropping through into zero gravity as you find yourself staring up at the blue and endless New York sky.

Then you're falling from the Chrysler building.

Again.

Fuck!

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my dearest @thirstworldproblemss who has to constantly listen to me jabber on about this day and night endlessly and forever. She is in every sense of the word a collaborator on this project. She brainstorms, she pitches in, she edits and she beta-reads. This and so many of my works would not exist without her, please send her all the love if you enjoyed this story.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[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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