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multimilfs · 7 months ago

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Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader x Rio Vidal: The Prize

Summary: Agatha has been fighting to reclaim her prize from Rio for a long time.

AO3

Included: dark themes, lesbian drama & yearning, near-death experiences, smut; biting, orgasm denial, praise kink, degradation, s&m, blood, fingering, cunnilingus, use of pet names, begging

Words: 9.7k

Tag List: @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @white--lillies @imtrashinflames

1750

Glowing hands press over the seeping wound, magic swirling around them, diving inside. There’s no satisfaction of watching the flesh knit itself back together. Instead, your magic drifts right back out like smoke.

Oh Goddess.

“Do take your time.” Agatha snaps, voice strained, “I have absolutely no plans.”

Five types of poison are immune to tangible magic. You know antidotes for three. Staring hard at the wound, you look for the blackened edges consistent with Nightrot, finding the flesh as red and irritated as to be expected. Is it swelling or screaming that goes with Alewife’s Revenge? A glance up at her face finds it normal. Her lips are pursed.

Your hands shake, one hovering over the open wound in her middle, the other clutching your head. Remembering has never mattered more so why is your mind empty? Pieces of information slip through your fingers like sand. Dozens of cadavers, hundreds of hours of study; useless.

Unable to rely on your memory, you scramble across the floor for the dagger that’d flown from the wall. The little light coming from the boarded windows prompts the metal to glint. The edge of the blade is sticky with blood, beneath it a metallic sheen that can only be a witches poison. You hold it up to the slant of light to see the color.

“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!”

You drop the dagger the second the poison glints purple. You slap your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to course through your veins; the body’s own special brand of poison.

How are you going to tell her?

“I’m trying!” You snap, voice breaking.

It’s a cruel joke that the poison should be so well matched to the witch bearing its effects. You stare at the edge as it rocks from being dropped, your stomach turning when the color doesn’t change. If only you could be wrong this once.

Were you a lesser witch, you’d curl in a little ball and quail under the weight of your failures. The idea is seductive. Yet, you turn to Agatha where she lies, pale and sweating on the floorboards. The pallor of her skin makes you whimper.

“Agatha,” You start, your voice holding just enough, “it’s Saura’s Dread.”

Things click into place behind her eyes despite the glazed-over look to them. She fights to find a way out of this, but you know well that the reality cannot be avoided.

“Give it to me. You’re wrong.”

“I know poisons better than most.” You hand the dagger over anyway.

“That’s not saying much.”

The comment stings, but you let it slide off you. You cannot give into petty squabbles now. With so little time to find a solution, you have to focus.

She stares hard at the blade as if willing it to change.

“Brew the antidote.”

“I can’t.” You whisper.

There’s a flicker of something in her gaze that looks suspiciously like rage. Your own internal fire leaps to meet it; of all the emotions to look upon you with—rage? As if this is your fault? You’re not the one that dragged her into this old cabin, intent on sifting through the contents.

It’s not your fault. You know that as the truth. Yet, shame floods you.

“You’re a healer.” Agatha spits, “What good are you if you don’t know the antidote?”

“Someone didn’t let me stay with my coven long enough to learn it!”

“The next time someone tries to keep you from me, I’ll let them.”

The fire in your chest ebbs. An old argument at an inconvenient time. There will be no rough makeup sex following this argument, no unspoken apologies in Agatha’s kisses. All the time, all the bodies; they cannot be for nothing. They mean too much.

Fleetingly, you feel pity for your old coven. In their minds they had attempted to do the right thing. Keeping you from Agatha must have seemed reasonable. But you remember how many bodies they made, how pleased it made Her.

Saura’s Dread takes its victim within six hours. This, you know confidently. The demise is slow and painful, a poison intended for torture. You can’t stand to see Agatha in this kind of pain. You’re not ready for her to be just another body.

“I’m calling Her.” You say.

“No.” Agatha counters, “She’ll never let me live it down.”

“You won’t live down anything if you’re dead, Agatha.”

“I won’t die.”

She’s an idiot.

Magic flowing into your fingertips, you trace familiar symbols on the floor. They glow bright and then dim as they wait. Around your neck sits an old, jagged bone, tied by a thread; you use the end of said bone to split your palm and drip blood over the symbols.

Agatha’s mouth is moving, but you don’t listen. You mutter the incantation in latin under your breath. The words—old and comforting—curl your tongue in ways that you’ve only known between two pairs of legs. You end the incantation with the key that gets you around the waiting list; Her name, Her true name.

There’s a blinding flash of light and a puff of fog, but the symbols contain it. You catch the glint of white teeth.

“You rang?”

Rio smiles, clad in darkness and bone and that same beauty that always stops you in your tracks. Upon seeing her, you breathe easier.

“We need your help.”

“You wouldn’t have called so formally if it was quality time you wanted.” Amusement dances in her eyes.

She eyes the symbols on the floor. They no longer glow, but still they contain her. She scuffs a foot along them.

You smudge the symbols and the containment drops. Stepping over the magic as it sinks down into the earth, she catches you by the waist and devours you; lips and teeth and tongue dominating your own, leaving you helpless to do anything but give in. And you’re all too willing to do so.

When she pulls back, you’re breathless. Somewhere in the fray your lip has begun to bleed. Rio soothes her tongue over the wound and you feel it close.

“Hand.”

You offer the demanded appendage, palm up. She places a kiss in the center and licks the blood from her lips.

Rio turns her head to where Agatha has dragged herself to sit against the wall. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, but there. She glares at the two of you. You flush while Rio grins.

“Hi, sweetheart. You look like shit.” Rio says, delighted.

“A side effect.” Agatha grits out, “The same can’t be said for you.”

Rio tilts her head back and laughs. It’s deep and rich and fills you with thoughts that are not appropriate for this situation. The hand on your waist squeezes as if she knows. Then, she releases you.

She crosses to crouch before Agatha, devious smile shifting to something softer. One of her hands works through a lock of Agatha’s hair, brushing it out of her face.

“What did you get yourself into?”

Agatha’s eyes drop to Rio’s lips, but she stays silent.

“Saura’s Dread.” You choke out, shame winding itself tight inside you, “I don’t—I can’t brew the antidote.”

You should have done more to push off Agatha’s agenda; just so you would have finished your research. A few extra days wouldn’t have hurt. They would’ve infuriated Agatha—and Rio by extension—but then you would know the solution instead of watching her slowly wither away.

Rio doesn’t look away from Agatha, but you know the soothing tone is for you, “It’s okay.”

Something passes between the two that you miss. One moment, Rio holds Agatha’s face in her hand, while Agatha—hesitantly—leans into the contact. The next Rio is standing between the two of you, toying with her knife, all business.

You feel a chill pass through you at the unfamiliar territory; staring into Rio’s eyes and finding the affection buried away. It stings more than knowing how you’ve failed.

“You’re asking me for life in a bottle.” Rio says, grinning, “What do I get in return?”

Short of knowing that Rio would fix it should you ask, you find yourself shamefully bereft of anything with value. You search the space for anything to bargain with. Agatha’s eyes should be looking at you with knowing, but her gaze doesn’t leave Rio.

When Agatha tilts her head and grins, turning on the bedroom eyes, you pause.

“What you’ve wanted for years.” Agatha says, “Brew me a little potion and you can have her all to yourself.”

Rio’s brows shoot sky high. You tilt your head, then freeze. It’s you. Agatha’s bargaining you.

There should be a sweetness in knowing you’re the only thing of value she has to offer, yet the taste is sour on your tongue. The words feel like a punishment, a reprimand—and not the kind you’ve begged at her feet for. That awful part of you would rather Agatha die than ever willingly give you up and Rio eyes you as if she knows it. Does it please her to know how they’ve twisted you?

One mistake, you think bitterly, and Agatha throws in the towel. Despite all the near-death experiences you’ve endured at her side. Despite the years you’ve spent together. You never expected a punishment of this proportion.

You bite your tongue. At your sides, your fists clench and unclench. They glow with the anger you can’t keep hidden.

Pride rears its unhelpful head and you speak before you can stop to think, “My life for Agatha’s.”

Rio’s full attention is on you, then. Her eyes are bright.

You speak directly to her, “I’m bound to you and The Road until such time as Agatha traverses it to collect me.”

Had you not been so focused on Rio, you would have noticed Agatha flinch at your suggestion. Her wide, glassy eyes stare at you. You do not give her the satisfaction of your attention. If she is going to be cruel, so can you.

Your terms are a challenge; and Agatha doesn’t turn down a challenge.

Her devious, wicked mask clicks back into place. Rio’s expression is pensive. Despite the poison working through her system, Agatha almost looks as powerful as her best day.

“You’d let me steal her away, O Death?” Agatha teases.

The comment is salt in your open wound. You glare, wishing more than anything that you could wrap your hands around her pretty neck and squeeze. You want her not only to beg—but to apologize.

But Rio’s eyes haven’t left you for a second.

“Alright, sweetheart.” Rio says, “Your life, bound to mine, until Agatha comes to get you.”

In it you understand the desire you both share; to have Agatha, one way or another. You wonder if the desire for possession is your own or something you’ve learned from her.

From her pocket comes a small glass vial. She tosses it to Agatha, who only barely catches it. She cradles it like something precious.

“Drink up.” Rio orders.

Then Rio is there, arm around your waist, holding all your pieces together. You lean into her comfort as color returns to Agatha’s cheeks.

“Te veo.”

1754

“She waits for you.”

Agatha whips around, purple crackling at her fingertips. At the edge of the clearing, Rio leans her weight against a gnarled tree, eyeing the withered husks of once-witches in the grass with interest. She looks almost predatory.

“Does she?”

Rio nods, eyes shifting to Agatha, “Like a puppy. It’s almost pathetic.”

It is pathetic, is what she should say. Time and affection have curbed her tongue on this small thing at least. On you. Agatha’s smile is knowing.

Rio has pulled her punches toward you since the beginning. Agatha’s never minded. It’s almost sweet watching the oldest force in the multiverse tiptoe around a witch barely into her second century. Is it that craving for ancient knowledge in your veins that renders Rio down, or is it simply your pretty face?

Does it matter?

“I don’t have what I need yet.” Agatha rolls her eyes, “Witches these days don’t have the power they used to.”

“Or maybe you’re leveling the population before they have time to strengthen.” Rio raises a brow.

Agatha thinks, deliberately dramatic, then shrugs, “No, that’s not it.”

With a shake of her head, Rio steps out from the treeline, and closes the distance across the clearing. Agatha watches every step with dark eyes. The stench of death and magic sends a chill down Rio’s spine; there’s nothing more delicious than a life snuffed out.

The wind slows in the trees as if sensing her. Birds silence their sweet tunes. There is frantic rustling in the trees somewhere as creatures do all they can to get away.

Yet Agatha stands, waiting, and allows Death to pull her into her embrace.

One of Rio’s great loves is watching skin split so she can lap up the blood at her own pace. Yet, when her hands settle on Agatha’s hips, they’re gentle. She doesn’t open wounds with her teeth. Rather, she moves her lips over Agatha’s until she can’t breathe. Agatha is wary when she pulls back.

Rio shrugs, “A message from her.”

“I see. Forgiven me, has she?” A slow, taunting grin, “Anything from you?”

“Have you earned it?”

“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”

A tilt of her head, as if considering, “Maybe you’ve earned something small, then.”

And they meet in a clash of lips and teeth. Rio’s hands are everywhere, leaving behind deep claw marks that make Agatha moan into her mouth. Agatha’s own nails pierce through cloth and skin at her hips but draw no blood. She tries to push Rio backward toward one of the trees, she just needs a little leverage and Rio’s thigh to—

Rio pulls back. She grins something wicked at the flash of Agatha’s purple.

“Something small.”

Agatha makes a face, batting her lashes. Rio doesn’t give in.

“You’re awful.”

“You love it.” Rio says, then her face takes on something more serious, “Don’t keep her waiting, Agatha.”

Then she’s gone as if she was never there; the only evidence being the bleeding marks on her skin. Agatha stares at where she stood for a long time before moving on.

1801

The Road changes, you’ve seen, as the covens come along. Small cottages, ancient ruins—the most interesting was an old system of catacombs, though it lacked the remains you’d been intent on studying.

Your favorite, though, is the bower, absent of any illusions or spells.

Beneath a canopy of purple leaves upon a seat of grass, you watch the events unfold from afar. An old curved trunk sits at your back keeping you upright. The animals—lost familiars, mostly—wander up to you here, nibbling at fallen leaves and taking up residence in your lap.

From outside it could be mistaken for a simple tree. Yet, beneath it, the world is at your fingertips. The position of your place presents the underside of millions of glowing leaves to your view; lives, Rio said, witch and non-witch alike.

You find the one you love best among the foliage. You trace your finger down the purple veins, hoping she feels you, thinks of you, misses you. The veins seem to glow a little brighter at your touch.

Rio doesn’t enjoy you toying with them; worried a wrong move on your part will take a life too soon, upsetting the greater balance she’s beholden to. But she taught you how to handle Agatha’s. Trace, never prod. Caress, but never pluck.

A black cat settles in your lap and you sit straighter.

Soothing a hand down her back, she purrs. Her little body presses against your stomach and basks in your warmth.

“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.

She stands a few feet away, clad in dirt and muck, yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.

“I like it here. It’s comforting.”

“You like being close to Agatha.” She corrects.

The leaf in question glows brighter as if sensing the mention. You trace a finger along the edge, willing all your love into it.

“This is all I have of her.” You admit.

Something like softness creeps into Rio’s face. As soon as it appears, it recedes. She joins you under the canopy. The cat in your lap startles and leaps from your lap, darting back into the underbrush.

You had never thought to secure some token of Agatha’s, then. Now, with nothing of her’s to hold close, you settle for her life-line, begging it to tell you her whereabouts and if she’s safe; it is always silent. Rio is, too. She doesn’t mention much when you ask, though you know she knows the actions of every life tied to her.

The Road is a wonderful home. Rio is an attentive partner. But you ache, still, for the other set of hands you knew; those who were predictable in their firmness, balancing the sudden changes of Rio’s own.

“You’re crying.” Rio says.

Her face is dark, but fury lingers around the edges. Something like worry flutters in and out of her eyes. You have nothing to say, so you only nod.

Then you’re in her lap. Rio’s bunching up your dress to your waist, canines embedded in your neck. Her nails dig into your hips and the blood warms you. You whimper.

Lips kiss down your neck while a hand hovers between your legs. You bear down, desperate for any friction to dull the ache. And she gives it to you. Her hand is exactly where you want it, fingers rubbing and pressing, and you grind your hips hard, harder until you’re right there.

And then her hand is gone.

You whine. Your hips move of their own volition, searching for that pressure to send you right over the edge. Rio’s lips catch your own in a bruising kiss and you whimper into her mouth.

Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.

But when she pulls away and digs her nails in harder, she whispers, “Cry for me, sweetheart.”

She alternates between giving you what you crave and rescinding it for hours. You whimper, moan, and beg. She laughs and repeats herself—cry for me. You lose count of how many almost-orgasms tighten your body just to go unfulfilled. You do cry. You sob and she’s there, tongue licking up your tears and knuckle deep inside you, thumbing over your clit until you have what you want.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, after, crying against her.

1833

Rio’s arm is warm where you’re wrapped around it. She leads you through the winding stone streets, around grand buildings with stained-glass windows. Some of the scenes depicted in the glass are beautiful, simple; but the majority are Catholic in nature, dripping with sadness and guilt. You shake your head.

Passersby nod or tilt their hats, but don’t seem to see you. Their eyes go especially glassy when they look at Rio.

Whereas you’re clad in a dress of rich layered fabric, Rio has opted for more masculine attire. The low heels of her dress shoes click upon the stone. The unwrinkled fabric of her suit smells of smoke.

Your heels don’t quite agree with the stone. After the fifth time of a near-twisted ankle, you huff, “Could I not have worn flat shoes?”

“The heels compliment your legs.”

“You can’t even see them.”

“Yet.” She winks.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat suffusing your cheeks. Another nod to a passing couple and Rio makes a sharp turn. You’re led into a damp, dim alleyway.

The ground is made from rough slabs of uneven stone. You curse when your heel slips and only Rio’s strength keeps you standing. Water slides down the walls on either side, thick moss growing in the cracks. You reach out to feel it only for your hand to come away red.

If not for Rio pulling you along, you’d have screamed. Blood cascades down the walls. From it grow dark, twisted plants you’ve studied beside The Road. Beneath the plants and out of them come bones; most have yellowed with age, but there is the occasional bright-white specimen.

Surprise aside, you lean toward the bones with interest. Still, Rio presses on.

The alleyway is growing slimmer by the second. Should it continue to do so, you’ll be forced to walk behind Rio, and the thought makes you tense.

Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”

“I’d relax more if I knew what we were doing here.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Before you’re forced to walk single-file, you come to the end. Rio traces a counter-sigil upon the stone. With a shudder, a door is revealed. Above the silver knocker, embedded in the door, sits an unblinking eyeball. The blue pierces you.

Rio pulls and slams the knocker. The eyeball falls from the door and hits the ground with a sickening pop. You nearly shriek while Rio makes noises of delight.

“Ooh,” She chuckles, “we’re not the first to arrive.”

You try not to think about what the eye must look like now, “Can I go home?”

“Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You handle the cadavers I bring you just fine.”

“That’s different. That’s research.”

“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”

The door opens soundlessly. Inside, the scene is much the same; another dark, slim space, though notably absent of plants and body parts. The owner of this place must be allergic to candles, the lighting situation is just pathetic.

Rio waits. When you make no move to walk inside, she sighs, nudging you with a hand on your lower back, “Ladies first.”

You’re not sure if being first or last is the worst. If anything is to jump from the walls now, you’ll take the brunt of it; you’re reminded of that day with Agatha all those years ago. Rio’s warmth at your back offers the strength you need to continue. Though, you do cling to her hand the whole way.

The hallway empties into a full room. Dark shelves match the height of the walls, on them jars full of ingredients. There are tables boasting dozens of drawers, though none sit open. Glasses and tools and cauldrons line the tabletops. In the center of it all are two figures; well, one figure and one corpse.

You can’t catch your breath. She’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.

“Agatha.” You whisper.

Agatha turns and smirks. She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see you as you do her. Upon seeing you, her expression softens, eyes full of affection and longing. It hardens a bit when she glances behind you.

“You ruined the surprise.” Rio says, arms crossed, though one motions to the corpse, “We needed her.”

“What could you possibly need with a poison witch?”

“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”

Something like regret turns Agatha’s face when she regards you. With a wave, she produces a thick book full of yellowing pages. You tilt your head when she offers it to you.

“Her life’s work. I’m sure there’s more here somewhere.” Agatha shrugs.

You take it and hold it to your chest reverently. All this time you thought Rio was putting you off about finding a competent poison witch and yet here you are, standing in her apothecary. She lies dead on the floor but you couldn’t care less when the real gift stands before you.

You long for her. You ache to feel the gentle caress of her hands on your face, the threat of her nails on your scalp.

A look at Rio tells you she isn’t entirely pleased with the turn of events. Yet when she sees your excitement some of her ire dissipates. The yearning in your eyes must be plain, since she gives you a single nod.

Book of poisons tossed onto the tabletop, you throw yourself into Agatha’s arms. She’s as steady as you remember. Her hand grips your chin and forces your lips to hers. Her hands are predictably firm wherever they land. She grips you as if afraid you’ll slip away. But her kiss, oh gods her kiss; soft lips and taunting, sharp tongue. The length of her body pressed against your own and so warm.

There are hands in your hair and this is all you’ve wanted—all you’ve craved for years. Why, then, do you feel the urge to cry? To rip the heart from your chest and banish it to where it won’t hurt?

Agatha is warm and steady. You bury your face in her neck and her in yours. Your hands shake with the force of clinging to her.

The feeling is bliss. Yet, it isn’t complete.

You glance over Agatha’s shoulder to Rio. She stands in the doorway, watching the scene with dark-eyed interest; but there’s a weariness in the set of her shoulders.

“Beloved.” You call, holding one of your hands out to her.

Rio raises a brow. Her eyes don’t stray from your outstretched hand.

“This is your gift, sweetheart.”

“And it’s incomplete without you.”

Her eyes stray to Agatha, who has taken to watching her, too. This time, Agatha’s eyes don’t harden. They maintain that soft look you melt for.

Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.

“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.

You watch the resolve break moments before she wedges her way into your embrace. Her fingers lace through yours, but her face is pressed into Agatha’s neck. She pushes and nuzzles like she wants to become part of her. It reminds you of the cat that visits the bower—Ebony—but you don’t dare say so.

Agatha’s hands leave you to caress Rio’s face. A thumb rubs along her cheekbone. You press yourself against Rio’s back, unable to glimpse her face but sure of the longing in her expression.

In a perfect world, there would be no separation between the three of you. No clothes, no emotional barriers, not even flesh to keep your hearts from mingling into one. You settle for Rio’s hand in your own and Agatha’s blue eyes locked on you.

You lean over Rio’s shoulder and kiss Agatha, your free hand fumbling with getting into the former’s pants. She chuckles darkly in your ear. It ignites a spark in your chest; a dangerous longing for this to remain, to be always. You try to push it away and focus on how Rio moans in your ear instead.

1869

“Will you walk with me?”

Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”

You laugh. She holds out her arm, ever the picture of a gentleman, but you lace your fingers through hers instead.

As a rare treat, you lead. You pull her along the road. The leaves change beneath your feet, from silver and black to the hues of autumn and then to pure green. The Road opens its arms into a clearing bathed in the color. Only the stone building in the center stands apart.

Upon your approach, flowers grow in the flattened grass where you step; honeysuckle and heliotrope, baby’s breath and red chrysanthemum. Rio glances over her shoulder as the blooms spring forth.

Ivy grows up the walls of the building. You brush a gentle hand over the leaves.

Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building.

Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”

The door is unlocked. You knew it would be. The Road cannot keep you from this place.

Inside is warm and hazy. Papers with elegant scrawl cover every surface, books half-open litter any free spaces. Shelves line the walls, jars bearing various specimens. Plush couches overflow with deep, red cushions, begging you to sit and stay. A fire cracks in the fireplace.

Rio turns this way and that. She wanders around the room, flipping through books. A fingernail taps against a jar full of eyes. An errant paper is plucked from where it sits haphazardly atop the mantle. She stops.

You know the paper the second she comes into contact with it; can remember the way you wax poetic about how beautiful she is, how safe you feel in her arms. She picks another, then another, so on, and you know every word the second she touches them; the way she unwinds in Agatha’s arms, her face twisted in perfect fury, the lightless turn of her eyes when she teeters on the edge of wickedness.

She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure, “What is this?”

“My heart.”

“That… then why is all of this here?”

Her hand shakes the papers for emphasis. You resist the urge to laugh, lest she think you’re making light of her. Death can be cruel, but you try not to be.

You step close. Gently, the papers are extracted and returned to their places. Rio stares and hardly breathes as you take your face in her hands.

“You pulled away after that night.” You whisper, finger tracing her cupids-bow, “Do you think I touch you only because it is convenient?”

Rio’s lip curls. Fists bunch at her side, crackling with green light. You feel the rumble of her anger working through her chest. She tries to pull from your hold, but you don’t let her.

“Do you think I kiss you and pretend it’s her?”

Rio snarls, “I will kill you if you don’t stop talking.”

You smile. The threat is a real one, but you don’t fear it; the outcome is remaining by her side. With one hand you reach and pull one of her fists between you. You unravel it, trying not to flinch against the bursts of power over her skin. You press the palm of her hand over where your heart resides inside your chest.

The snarl fades just so. Fury still lingers in her eyes. You press your hand over hers and will her to see, to know.

“Look at the walls.” You order.

Upon the walls, plain and dark, shimmering scrawl appears. Agatha Harkness, it reads in shaky lettering; like a name carved into a tree. One signature turns into ten and ten into countless. Purple and shimmering is Agatha’s brand upon you. Rio yanks and reaches for the dagger she keeps handy.

Rio’s true name appears in shimmering green letters, then. Same as Agatha’s, there are countless signatures. They conjoin and overlap until the walls of your heart look like nothing more than a child’s colorful scribbles.

She stares at the walls in disbelief. The knife in her hand clatters to the ground.

“I’ve carved your names upon my heart so I’ll never forget who it belongs to.” You whisper.

“Sweetheart…”

You bend and collect her blade, pressing it into her hand, “Now do it yourself.”

Her hand wraps around the handle reflexively. Rio’s hand doesn’t leave the spot over your heart, feeling the steady, truthful beat.

“It’ll hurt you.” Rio says. She doesn’t bother hiding the desire in her voice.

You urge, “Make me hurt.”

Each artful stroke of her blade is slow. You whimper, but grip her wrist and push the blade deeper into your flesh. She scoffs when tears flood your eyes. The tears run down your cheeks while you smile, filled with bliss and ache in equal measure.

It’s a gift to love so deeply it wounds you. You never want her to stop; who, aside from your shared scar, holds such power? Who else in the world could touch your heart truly enough to carve into it?

There’s delight in her every movement. She consumes the pain of millions and yet, none of it is of her own making. She can only relish in what others have done; torture for a being who remains eternally intimate with the greatest methods of drawing out agony. Death has no free will but that you offer her—and she takes what none else would give, ravenously.

Is it enough?

Not forever, something tells you, you think it might be her, but for now.

1925

“You called?” Rio asks.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re avoiding me.”

Agatha leans against the wall beside a small window. The pane has been slid upward, letting in the sounds of the city below, releasing the smoke of Agatha’s cigarette into the air outside.

The cigarette is clutched in gloved hands. Her expression is amused as she draws in and releases the smoke, watching it form the shapes she wills. Though it has no effect on such a witch, Rio admires the object’s capability of bringing Agatha infinitesimally closer to her.

“We’ve been busy.”

“Busy or not, I’d say twelve bodies earns me a visit. And with the bulk of good booze I just removed from the market, I’d say I’ve earned a little more.”

An obvious lure with paltry bait, still Rio bites, “What do you have in mind?”

“Let me see her.”

She should. You’ve come to accept Agatha’s absence in your life, but she sees how much time you spend in the bower, and how you flinch when her name comes up. Rio hadn’t expected the frequency of Agatha’s name on the lips of covens walking the road to be so overwhelming, but it always drives you right into her arms; that she will relish.

But Death is not giving. She takes. Taking is, in fact, her favorite hobby. Twelve bodies is not enough to make up for the haunted look in your eyes. She wants more—will have it. Agatha has to earn you.

“I’ll need a little more from you.” Rio drawls.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill that many witches here with the nightlife?” Agatha throws her hands up. Ash flies from the forgotten cigarette.

The sounds of Chicago seem to grow louder, as if to aid her point. Rio grins. She crosses the small space and takes the cigarette, snuffing it out on the back of Agatha’s hand. The action prompts a quiet moan.

“It shouldn’t be a problem. What I want, you have an abundance of.” Rio’s smile widens as she manipulates Agatha’s hand, removing the glove, pushing and prodding until purple flashes along the flesh.

A cooling breeze sneaks in the window and rustles the fringe along Agatha’s dress. It’s a beautiful thing, short and decadent. Rio knows you’ve enjoyed the few sightings of the period fashion you’ve glimpsed, but like her, you’d enjoy this specific dress in a pile on the floor.

Agatha’s eyes stare at where Rio’s flesh meets her own. Her eyes are contemplative, calculating. She hesitates. And that is her fatal mistake.

Rio throws her across the room with a shove. Agatha’s side hits one of the walls and she falls, face-first, onto the mattress she’s been sleeping on. The springs shriek at the sudden weight. Agatha snarls, throwing out a blast of purple that slams into Rio’s chest. Rio moans something filthy.

There’s a brief struggle where Rio does her best to keep Agatha pinned; to the bed, to the wall, wherever there’s a surface. Yet Agatha is slippery. Her magic whisks her right out of the hold Rio puts her in and wherever Agatha wills it; which currently, is behind the other witch so Agatha can kick the back of her knees. Rio kneels not of her own volition.

She braces to stand, only to find the blade of her own dagger at her throat.

Rio’s gaze has lost any warmth. Her affection is buried deep, beneath layers and layers of earth she craves to bury Agatha in right this second, “You’re breaking her heart.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, you like seeing her cry.”

“When I’m the one responsible.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. She maintains a carefully ambivalent expression. Rio knows better; knows, under all that forced emotion, that Agatha’s heart is waging against her head, warring over her selfish desire to keep every bit of power.

Then, something shifts. Rio feels it. Agatha has made her choice and it isn’t you. And it ignites a rage in her chest unlike anything she’s felt in centuries.

She snatches the dagger back from Agatha’s grasp and only just barely resists the urge to bury it in her chest. If she has to drag Agatha back to you kicking and screaming, she will. You would like that, wouldn’t you?

“I’ll kill you.” Rio vows, and means it. Agatha can’t run away from the two of you if her soul is Rio’s to keep.

Agatha’s eyes flash with fear. Then, she grins around it, “If you can catch me.”

Latin words roll off Agatha’s tongue faster than Rio can comprehend. She recognizes the words and what they mean, where they’ve come from. Rio reaches out with her magic for the Darkhold too late; it, and Agatha, have completely vanished from her awareness.

When she returns to The Road and finds you pacing before the bower, she stops short.

“Did you—is she dead?” You ask, worrying your lip. Though your eyes dart every which way, looking for whatever manifestation of Agatha you believe she’s brought you.

“Sweetheart…”

1937

“Do you think if I cut you open you would heal too fast for me to do any research?”

Rio tilts her head, considering. She’s sprawled out on the plush couch inside the physical manifestation of your heart, toying with her knife, having a staring contest with the unblinking jar of eyes while you jot down thoughts into notebook number… well, she’s lost count.

“Probably.” She answers, “I’m also not sure I have organs.”

You pause, “How is that even possible?”

“Magic, sweetheart.”

Leaning back, your mind begins to race; given how old she is, it would only make sense that the organs the body came with are gone, rotted away—but would the flesh not go with it? You massage your temples. Life magic is no easier to understand than Death magic.

There’s only one way to test your hypothesis. You stand from your place at the table and cross to her, straddling her hips where she lay on the couch.

“I want to see.” You say, holding out a hand.

Rio hands over her dagger and sinks further into the couch, as if that is possible. She grins up at you with no shortage of delight. You do your best to tamp down on your own grin.

The flesh beneath your hands is warm and smells of damp earth where you peel away her shirt. Her eyes darken with every inch of flesh revealed to you. Firm and unafraid, you press the tip of the dagger down against her sternum. The action earns you an exaggerated moan.

You rip the dagger away, glaring, “Behave.”

“Or what?” Rio taunts, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek.

“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.”

She tenses, “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I, beloved?”

“Get on with it.”

You lean down and steal a quick kiss. It melts away the darling little pout on her lips.

When you press the dagger back down, the flesh bends, but doesn’t open. You tilt your head and press harder. Rio watches, unphased. There is absolutely no give to her flesh. It gets to a point where you’re pressing your entire body weight behind the dagger, but Rio only laughs, squirming as if the action tickles.

You whine and sigh. The dagger is dropped unceremoniously onto her chest while you lean an elbow against the back of the couch, sinking somewhat into the cushion.

“If you want live specimens, we can collect some.” She soothes.

The idea isn’t intolerable, but you shake your head.

“They scream too much.”

“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

You look away, tracing the walls and their offerings with your eyes. Upon them hang paintings of your own making; scenes of life, death, love, fear—mostly fear.

The human condition fascinates you, always has. Of the emotions to study, fear is the hardest; it is always fleeting in your wake; your face is too kind, too trustworthy, wiping away any sense of the unease you seek to study. You stare at your paintings and feel only distaste, knowing they’re not quite right.

You can’t claim to have always had such taste. No, a cultivation for the finer flavors of life and death takes time. You can pinpoint where the itch started, however; that day in your childhood village when a dying soul reached out to you—scarcely were you a day older than four—and found no assistance.

How beautiful it was; grisly, messy, but beautiful. You did not flinch away. Rather, you found yourself drawn in, eager to see more. And being of a coven of healers, your desire was fulfilled. Death was yours before you knew her name.

Looking down at her, she stares back, unashamed to be caught. The heart in your chest—which has felt so stagnant in recent years—warms toward something almost pure.

Rio will one day claim your soul. This, you know, and accept; your soul belonged to her the second you watched that woman die. You fear the when. What becomes of you when she claims your soul? What if you have yet to conduct all the research you desire? There is so much still to learn and you know she’ll abandon it for the chance to keep you.

You love her, but you’ll never forgive her the knowledge you’ll one day lose. The warmth in your chest doesn’t ebb.

Her top is still splayed open from your attempt at dissection. A healthy amount of flesh is bared to your eyes. You trace one finger from her neck to the center of her chest and tap, just above where a heart should be.

“When you come for me,” You say, “I want to hold your heart in my hand.”

“You already do.” She utters.

“Will you let me study it, then, when I’m but a soul?”

“You can study whatever you wish as long as it leads to me.”

1989

Agatha dwells on mistakes, often. She just doesn’t allow them to distract from her purpose. She is ruthless, to her very core.

She spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to open the damned door to The Road. One coven after another, all failures. There is an obscene beauty in claiming a reward for what would otherwise be failure on her part.

Time passes, enemies made, promises broken. She shrugs them all off. Yet she can’t shake the feeling of your hands in her hair, on her face. The lingering whisper of your kisses haunts her. The Darkhold whispers to her, oftentimes in language she shouldn’t comprehend, and it offers her the solution, should she just be patient;

The Scarlet Witch

2026

The power that floats before you is biting and all too familiar.

It fights against your hold, twisting and writhing like a wild animal, desperate to return to its mistress. But you’re stronger for now. The Scarlet Witch threw this power into the ether in her attempt at playing Death, and now it is yours to hold until Agatha comes for it.

Anger rubs against the heart in your chest like a cat. You lean into it, feeling your own power respond to subdue that which isn’t yours.

Rio watches beside you. She runs her fingers through the purple electricity contained in your palms, laughing when it fights her. Lips press against your temple.

“Not long now.” She assures you.

You feel longing and fury in equal measure.

“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper.

A small chuckle, low beside your ear. It sends shivers down your spine. Her hand grasps your chin and turns you to face her, her lips meeting your own. The kiss is soft. You melt into it.

She pulls back, tone careful, “You didn’t walk The Road, sweetheart.”

You have not earned what The Road promises to grant.

2026

Agatha doesn’t expect the end of The Road to look like Agnes’ Westview home, nor does she expect to see Rio perched on the roof, leaning back, as if waiting. But every step closer to the front yard makes her more furious.

She is owed her prize.

Upon her first step in Agnes’ yard, the front door opens, and she is blasted with something so strong that it knocks her back to The Road, on her back. She groans. Yet, she feels more alive than she has in centuries. Her body shudders with its missing piece; her power curling up in her veins, pleased to be home.

She sits up, wincing at the ache in her bones that continues despite the gift she’s received. Leaves stick to the back of her arms, little pieces having crunched beneath her weight and adhered to her skin. She does her best to brush them away while getting to her feet.

Rio remains on the roof, grinning.

There, on the porch of Agnes’ house, is you. All the glory of you.

Agatha’s heart leaps in her chest despite the scowl on your face. To her, you haven’t aged a day; still the young, fresh-faced witch following at her heels, dizzy on knowledge and the thrumming power inside. Time has not erased the love she has—so great it threatens to bring her to her knees.

“Dearest…” Agatha murmurs, taking a half-step forward.

“You have your prize.” You sneer.

Your heart aches, begging you to go to her; hasn’t it been centuries? But your pride holds you back. She left you here while she gallivanted around the world getting what she wanted.

There’s a brief flash of hurt on Agatha’s face, before it morphs into a wicked grin. Her posture changes, too, to something more proud, as she slinks across the yard toward the porch. You resist the urge to take a step back.

“No, I don’t.” She drawls, “Are you going to be a good pet and come home willingly, or do I have to put you on a leash?”

Something inside you burns for her. You ache for her touch, for her to force you to do what she wants. It creeps through the cracks of your pride and turns it into something else. You stick out your chin. Agatha snickers.

Magic pulses in your palms, pulling various items from around you to throw—not fast enough. Agatha has you kneeling with your hands bound in a blink.

“That’s not very nice, dear. And after all I’ve done to get here.”

You regain some of your fight, snarling, “You left me here.”

Agatha hums.

“Into the deal you stumbled your way into. I’m not the one who tied herself to The Road in a fit of pride.”

“You were leaving me regardless. If I was going to be handed off, I was going to do it on my own terms.”

“Did I specify a length of time in my proposal? Was there any explicit mention of how long She could have you before I came back?” Agatha asks, mean-spirited joy in her eyes upon watching the realization dawn in your own. All that time you spent agonizing… when you had shackled yourself, “Years lost because you wanted to be a self-righteous brat.”

There’s a lilt to her voice that clues you in to everything you’d once seen instinctually; Agatha has been in just as much anguish as you have, left to walk the world alone. You see the pain in her eyes. Just like then, you try to get to her now, eager to fix it, to wipe it away.

The binding around your arms keeps you stationary. You whine and pull against it.

“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.”

“You will be.” She says. Then she turns to your left, finger poised and accusing, “And you—you kept her away from me.”

Rio shrugs, smiling, “I couldn’t just make it easy on you.”

Agatha waves a hand and Rio is kneeling on the porch at your side, similarly bound. Yet where you look pained, she is delighted.

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, “I didn’t mean to be bad.”

“That doesn’t change that you were.”

A cloud of purple smoke announces your arrival to the inner bedroom of Agnes’ house. It doesn’t look like what you’ve seen from Rio, though. Where Agnes had been bland and cookie-cutter, this is rich fabrics and deep wood. It is Agatha through and through.

You and Rio kneel side-by-side at the foot of the bed, where Agatha perches. Her beautiful blue eyes don’t miss the slightest movement you make. She’s clad in a dark robe with snakes and flowers that has Rio leaning forward in interest.

Agatha’s eyes lock on you, “You’re going to apologize. Properly.”

“I’m sorry—”

“With your tongue.”

Leaning back on her forearms, Agatha spreads her legs, and you feel the desire in your body rush through you. It’s so strong you feel your head begin to pound. She’s pink and dripping and all you want is to do a good job for her.

Yet, ever the brat, you lean forward and start with kissing her inner thighs. With every press of your lips to the delicate flesh you murmur an apology. She sighs.

A hand weaves into your hair and yanks you back. Her eyes are dark. Her face is set in a punishing expression but you see the yearning in her that matches your own. She yanks again, lighter, and you moan.

“What did I say?” She asks, before directing you where she wants you.

Witches don’t subscribe to the idea of what a human would call heaven, but upon tasting her, you think you could get behind it. She’s warm and sweet. You flatten your tongue and drag it along her slit just to collect a better taste of her. Agatha’s hand presses you in harder as she moans.

Without the use of your fingers, you have to use your tongue well. You stiffen it as much as you’re able when you delve inside her and hope it is even slightly close enough to satisfy. The pathetic sounds reaching your ears—breathy moans, sweet whimpers—tell you that you’re doing fine.

“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out.

You clench around nothing. You’re sure that you’ve ruined your undergarments thoroughly from how wet you are.

Eager for more praise, you direct your attention to that small, fleshy bundle of nerves begging for your attention. You swirl your tongue around her clit and her hips stutter, before they grind against your face with a renewed sense of purpose. You smile.

“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters.

You were born to do as she commands. All you want is to make her happy. Following her directions is as easy as breathing.

The tip of your tongue alternates between circling her clit and flicking it. Every flick earns you a high-pitched oh! and a firm grinding of her hips. Her thighs are tightening around your head, but she’s putting up a good fight. Her legs quiver.

“There—there—I’m going to—” Is all the warning you’re given before Agatha shrieks and comes while rutting against your mouth. You lap up every drop of her wetness you can get with glee. You did this, you brought her this pleasure; the knowledge sends a happy jolt through you.

Agatha’s grip on your hair releases and you lean back, taking in big lungfuls of air. She stares down at you with a thoroughly fucked-out expression that makes you preen.

Then she leans over and pulls your lips to hers. She moans against the taste of herself on your lips, tongue collecting the flavor from your lips. You throw every ounce of love you possess into the kiss—willing her to understand the longing you felt, the thousands of hours you spent watching her lifeline just to make sure she was safe.

“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, pressing little kisses all over your face, “My good girl.”

“All yours.” You agree.

She laughs, low and smooth, “That’s not quite the truth, is it?”

The two of you turn to regard Rio in unison. She remains in the position Agatha left her in, kneeling and bound. You admire her restraint at not breaking the bindings. Though you guess Agatha wouldn’t take kindly to that.

Rio’s eyes are black with desire. They dart between the two of you. She takes in the wetness on your face, licking her lips. You can feel her eagerness for a taste.

She’s writhing a bit in her restraints, pressing her thighs together and wiggling, looking for any source of friction she can find. Agatha tuts and she stops. If it were up to you, your face would be between her thighs, ears enjoying every sound she makes. But it isn’t up to you.

Agatha scoots back up the bed until she’s sitting against the headboard. That’s when you feel the restraints on you fall away. She beckons the two of you with a finger and you both follow the command, eager.

“Come here.” Agatha urges you specifically, patting her bare thigh.

You obey and straddle the appendage, shuddering against the feeling against your throbbing clit. There’s a split second where you think of just grinding down and taking what you want. But you don’t—you have to be good.

Words pass between Agatha and Rio during your silent struggle. When you look, she’s lying along the length of the bed, legs bunched up and spread wide next to you.

“What am I going to do with you both?” Agatha muses.

“Fuck us?” Rio drawls.

“You, my good girl,” Agatha says, ignoring Rio as she soothes a hand through your hair, “are going to use me until you come. And my bad girl isn’t going to come until I tell her she can.”

You shudder, whimpering, while Rio whines next to you. Agatha kisses your forehead while dealing a slap to Rio that makes her groan.

A hand settles onto your hip and begins to guide you through the motions of grinding against her. The friction is difficult to attain with how wet you are, but you do what you can, crying out everytime the pressure is just enough to make your toes curl. It won’t take long for you to finish.

Your face is buried in Agatha’s neck, where you press loving little kisses to the flesh. As a result you cannot see Rio. But you hear her; every movement of Agatha’s deft fingers through her wetness, every growl and keen of desire, every slap of Agatha’s hand when she gets a bit too eager. She won’t last long either, from what you can tell.

The image of Rio and Agatha in your mind is enough to push you toward that delightful little taste of death. Your hands tighten over Agatha’s shoulders.

“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead.

“So obedient, asking for permission even when you don’t need to.” Agatha praises, “Go on, darling.”

With her hand guiding you and her voice in your ear, you come so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You’re not sure what sound leaves your lips, only that your throat aches afterward.

You tune back in to hear a brutal slap of flesh on flesh. Rio snarls.

“Beg.” Agatha’s voice commands in your ear, though you know it isn’t for you.

Rio stays stubbornly silent.

The sounds of Agatha toying with her come to an abrupt halt. You don’t have the strength to lift your face from your refuge, but you can imagine that stubborn, yet pleading look in Rio’s face; wanting so deeply but not willing to give up what is required.

“If you don’t want to behave, she can have your pleasure instead.”

“No! I’ll—” You hear Rio grit her teeth, “Please, Agatha. Please let me come.”

Agatha laughs.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos.

Seconds—or maybe minutes—before Rio wails. There’s something primordial and animalistic wrapped inside it, almost like a growl. It makes you shudder. Then all that's left in the room is the sound of breathing.

You spent so long aching for something just like this. It’s beautiful, though you know it can’t stay; all three of you are far too ambitious to live a domestic existence, but it’s nice for now. You missed them. The heart in your chest feels complete again, filling to the brim with affection.

Tears seep from your eyes and you pull back before Agatha can question it, though you do feel her stiffen. You press kisses to her neck, her sternum, the inside of her wrist; then you grab Rio’s hand and press kisses to every pad of her fingers.

With every kiss, you murmur I love you.

2027

“If you don’t sedate him at least a little bit, his heart is going to give out.”

Rio’s sudden voice next to you isn’t surprising. You’ve grown used to her coming and going—Death waits for no one, after all. Her lips press to your cheek and you accept the affection.

“She did sedate him. Three times.” Agatha’s voice calls from the next room.

“Oh, I see.”

Rio leans over to examine the man on your table with no shortage of interest. He stares back, eyes impossibly wide. His heart rate picks up.

“What is he?” She asks.

“Not sure. Rapid regeneration, odd capabilities. Mutant, maybe?”

“He’s certainly not a witch.” Agatha’s leaning against the doorway now, arms folded over her chest, “Though it is taking a fair amount of magic to keep him subdued.”

“He’s no match for you, naturally.” You compliment.

Both Agatha and Rio grin at that. The former comes up behind you, hands settling on your hips. Her lips press against your neck. Then, she leans over and steals a kiss from Rio, who is all too eager to meet her halfway.

You smile. The heart in your chest threatens to burst—not unlike the specimen in front of you.

“Well, aren’t you sweet today.” Agatha comments.

“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks.

Rio kisses her way up the flash of skin available to her eyes, making you sigh, leaning back into Agatha’s hands. Then Agatha’s lips fasten to the other side of your neck. Your head falls back and you laugh. Then you moan.

The experiment on your table is forgotten as you’re dragged into the next room and bent into all sorts of shapes you couldn’t even imagine on your own. Oh, well; if he dies before the six hour mark, you can always just find another one. The same cannot be said of the witches bracketing you. And oh, how beautiful that is.

#agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #agathario #agathario x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader x rio vidal #agatha all along x reader #agatha all along fanfiction #wlw #wlw fanfiction #oct2024 #multimilfswritings

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shona22 · 12 days ago

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Derek’s not the type to be openly romantic. Like yeah, he’ll tug Stiles in by the waist and he’ll lean into the PDA (because Stiles absolutely doles it out like it’s oxygen), but he rarely initiates it. And he’s definitely not verbose, so from the outside, it probably looks like Stiles is the one constantly waxing poetic while Derek just grunts in the background . No one would ever believe he’s the kind of guy to use pet names.

But what they don’t know is how soft he gets when it’s just the two of them. How, when they’re tangled up in bed, limbs a mess, and Stiles asks something dumb like “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Derek presses his mouth to the warm skin behind Stiles’s ear, and whispers sleepily:

“Baby, if you were a worm, I’d raze the earth to find you. I’d sift through every grain of sand, tunnel through the dark until I reached you. I’d leave no stone unturned, no dirt unsearched. I’d go mad with the need to find you. And when I did, I’d rise from the underworld with you in my hands. You’d be my treasure. My reason for existing. I’d burn the world to ashes just to keep you close.”

And Stiles? He just kind of short circuits. Goes completely red and faceplants into the mattress because what the hell is he supposed to do with that?

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #teen wolf #derek x stiles #stiles x derek

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mariasont · 2 months ago

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pearls and other happy accidents

spencer spends the afternoon holding shells and enduring your sweet torture

pairing: spencer reid x bimbo!reader warnings: fem!reader, bimbo!reader, spencer being the most patient bf ever, reader making suggestive jokes, suggestive-ish ending prompt: here wc: 0.6k

Spencer cocks his head, eyes tracing your figure as you sift through the shore with earnest determination, sand sticking messily to your manicured fingertips.

You’d agonized endlessly over your swimsuit selection, consulting him repeatedly for opinions he knew you’d disregard anyway, yet the resulting ensemble (completed with color-coordinated anklet, bracelet, and claw clip) undeniably makes the ordeal worthwhile.

And sure, perhaps his lingering attention on your ass is not exactly intellectual, but he decides it’s permissible — purely observational, of course.

“Spencer, babe, look how pretty!”

Your fingers wiggle expectantly behind you, already certain he’ll handle the precious cargo.

Spencer dutifully accepts the offering, eyes flicking downward to inspect what appears to be little more than a battered shell fragment.

He nearly chuckles to himself, but tenderness wins out as he murmurs gently, “Yeah, angel, very pretty.”

He balances the newest treasure precariously atop the mound of sand and miscellaneous beach finds already overflowing from his left palm.

“You know, most of these shells are calcium carbonate — the same stuff pearls are made of. Not that we’ll find any pearls today, but,” he smiles, clearly entertained by your fascinated expression, “I suppose your collection is pretty valuable regardless.”

You peer up at him with wide eyes, a thin sheen of sand glittering across your face and tangled in your hair as if you’ve become part of the beach yourself.

“Wait, so, like, does that mean shells are pearls, or pearls are shells?”

Spencer nearly laughs aloud, his heart helplessly melting as he wonders how exactly he ended up falling in love with you all over again on a random beach.

Crouching beside you, he reaches forward and sweeps a gentle hand over your cheek, amused by the way sand sticks stubbornly to it.

“Well, they’re related, but not exactly the same,” he answers. “Pearls form inside the shells, kind of like a happy accident.” He pauses, eyes crinkling at the corners. “So, technically, your shells could’ve had pearls.”

He doesn’t mention, of course, that pearls aren’t really happy accidents at all — more like desperate attempts to shield themselves from pain.

When a grain of sand or parasite irritates them, mollusks secrete layer after layer of nacre, tirelessly covering the discomfort.

Spencer knows that sometimes beauty comes from suffering, though he’s certainly not about to burden you with the heavier side of biology — not when you’re smiling at him like the sun itself decided to visit the shore.

“Hmm,” you hum vaguely, fingertips tunneling deeper into the damp sand. “So my shells are almost pearls.”

“Maybe almost.” His brow furrows as he spots your slightly reddened knees — raw from hours in gritty sand. “Angel, your knees look like they’re taking a beating. Maybe it’s time to sit up for a bit?”

Your lips twitch into a flirty grin, eyes sparkling with barely concealed delight. “Is that your way of telling me you wanna be responsible for the state of my knees?”

Spencer nearly chokes on hair, eyes darting anxiously around the beach as if expecting judgmental seagulls or scandalized crabs to overhear. “You — seriously, you can’t just say stuff like that in public.”

Rolling your eyes, you stand, brushing your palms together to dislodge the sand sticking there.

“Okay, okay, I’ll behave,” you promise. “You ready to head back? I bet we can find something else to do.”

Spencer knows exactly what you’re suggesting — your subtlety has never been your strong suit, but frankly, it’s one of his favorite things about you.

He watches you walk ahead, smiling to himself as he trails behind, hands still full of your beach treasures. Perhaps it’s fitting, he muses, that pearls only exist because of persistent irritation.

After all, you’ve certainly mastered the art of sweet torture. Beauty from suffering, indeed, and Spencer is more than willing to endure a little discomfort, as long as you’re the one responsible.

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#mariasspringbreakgetaway #mariaversegetawaytrip #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x bimbo reader #spencer reid x bimbo!reader #spencer reid fluff

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hrrtshape · 3 months ago

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let me tell you something about doubt . . .

doubt is the thing that keeps the whole operation running. it's the sand in the oyster, the heckler in the cheap seats, the hard-boiled news editor with a cigar between his teeth barking, "you sure about that, kid?" and thank god for it. because certainty. . . certainty is a muscle, and muscles atrophy without resistance. certainty is a blade, and blades dull without something to cut against. certainty without doubt is blind faith, and blind faith walks into walls while sharp-eyed belief sidesteps the potholes.

and shifting...well, shifting is the art of living in the liminal. it is the act of stepping off the curb and knowing the asphalt will rise to meet you. not hoping, not wishing, knowing. but. to know something, truly know it, you must doubt it first. you must poke it, prod it, shake it like an old radio until you hear music. because certainty that is never questioned is brittle, and brittle things snap under pressure.

consider this. the strongest shifters are not the ones who believe without question, but the ones who have wrestled with doubt and pinned it to the mat. the ones who have cracked open their own skepticism like a walnut, sifted through the rubble, and found something solid underneath. they are the ones who know the difference between delusion and determination. the ones who understand that doubt is not the enemy of shifting, it is the crucible that refines it.

certainty is not the absence of doubt. certainty is what remains after doubt has done its work. shifting is not a science, nor is it a religion. it is a skill. it is a practice. it is a discipline sharpened by inquiry, by scrutiny, by the steady, unrelenting push against the edges of what you believe to be possible. and if you lose your doubt, if you let yourself slip into blind certainty, you do not become a master, you become a fanatic. and fanatics, my dear ones, are the easiest to break.

so doubt shifting. doubt it like a jeweller inspects a diamond, turning it over, holding it to the light, looking for flaws. doubt it like a scientist, testing and retesting, refining the hypothesis with every experiment. doubt it like a poet, flipping words inside out until they reveal something truer than truth. and then, when you are good and ready, shift anyway. shift with the confidence of someone who has questioned and found their answers. shift like a magician who knows the trick works not because of faith, but because of precision. shift with the absolute certainty of someone who has earned it.

and when you come back, if you ever come back, let the doubt creep in again. let it sharpen you. let it test you. let it make your certainty stronger. because that is the only kind of certainty worth having: the kind that has fought its way through the fire and come out gleaming.

so here's my prayer. let us be shifters who doubt, and in doubting, let us become unshakable.

555 notes · View notes

lacethighs · 3 months ago

Text

infuriatingly infuriating

neteyam sully x metkayina! reader

synopsis the olo’eyktan’s oldest daughter finds herself falling for toruk makto’s infuriatingly charming eldest son.

warnings no use of y/n.

word count 4.4k

it has been a few months since the sully family arrived in awa’atlu, seeking uturu. they learned the ways of your people quickly, perhaps faster than you expected.

when your father tasked you and your siblings with helping them adjust, you knew it would be no small effort.

your younger brother had been less than thrilled at first, grumbling about having to teach the forest people how to survive in the water. but in time, he grew accustomed to it.

tsireya, of course, had no complaints. if anything, she was too eager to help, though it was obvious why. she had taken quite the liking to the younger sully brother.

as for you? you didn’t mind them much. you treated them with respect and did your duty, teaching them as best you could.

but neteyam, the eldest sully, was the biggest pain in your tail.

at first, he had been quiet, reserved. almost too respectful. he treated you as if you were someone of great authority, so much so that you had to remind him once that you were not his superior.

oh, great mother, how you regret that now.

it was as if those words alone had shattered whatever restraint he had. now, neteyam refused to leave you alone. he took every opportunity to tease you, to pester you about anything and everything.

he was worse than your brothers. far worse.

for someone who carried himself as a mighty warrior, he certainly didn’t act like one. if he wasn’t showing off, casually proving that he could master every skill thrown his way. he was using that demon language of his, throwing strange words at you just to see your reaction.

and eywa, did he love your reactions.

those large, crystal-blue eyes of yours would widen in pure, utter confusion every time he spoke in that strange demon language. and that was exactly what he wanted.

he would grin, sharp and full of mischief, watching the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips parted slightly as if trying to make sense of the foreign words. then, just when you thought he might take pity on you and explain himself, he would simply shake his head.

“what?” you’d snap, frustrated beyond belief. “what does that mean?”

but neteyam would only tilt his head, feigning innocence. “nga kea nari si, yawntu?”

your tail flicked sharply behind you. “neteyam.”

nothing. just that insufferable smirk.

you hated it. hated how he refused to explain himself, as if he hadn’t just spoken an entirely different language to you. as if he hadn’t just left you standing there, trying to piece together something you had no hope of understanding.

infuriating.

and yet, every time, you found yourself waiting for the next time he’d do it again.

it was infuriating.

whenever the two of you were together, whether by chance or because your father had paired you up for some task, he would do the work, yes. but not without making your life miserable in the process.

today was no different.

your mother had asked you to fetch more shells for her, a simple enough task. yet, of course, neteyam had seen you leaving and, for reasons only eywa knew, decided to follow.

“you do not need help collecting shells,” he had said, trailing behind you like an overgrown ilu.

“and yet here you are,” you muttered, sifting through the sand near the shore, determined to ignore him.

neteyam crouched beside you, hands resting on his knees as he watched you work. he was silent for a moment—too silent. that was never a good sign.

“you know,” he finally mused, “where i’m from, we don’t waste time collecting pretty things from the sand.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to rise to the bait. “we do not waste time,” you corrected. “the shells are used for many things.”

“oh, of course,” he said easily. “necklaces. bracelets. decorations.” your ears flicked in annoyance. “and medicine, neteyam. and tools. and trade.”

he hummed as if considering your words, then leaned forward, plucking a shell from the pile you had already gathered. “this one,” he said, holding it up, “definitely just for decoration.”

you snatched it from his grasp, shooting him a glare. “why are you here?”

he grinned. “what, and miss a chance to spend time with my favorite metkayina?”

you scoffed, turning back to your task. “go bother someone else.”

“i would,” he admitted, stretching out lazily beside you, “but no one else makes such great faces when i talk.”

your hands froze for a moment before tightening into fists. infuriating. absolutely infuriating.

rolling your eyes, you ignored him, focusing instead on plucking shells from the sand. and then he did it again.

that strange, foreign tongue slipping past his lips; smooth, effortless, knowing damn well you wouldn’t understand.

“these shells are just as beautiful as you,” he said, voice teasing yet undeniably soft.

you froze, fingers curling around the shell in your hand as you turned to him, eyes narrowing.

“what did you just say?”

neteyam only smiled. that smug, infuriating smile. “nothing.”

your tail flicked sharply behind you. “no,” you pressed, shifting to face him fully. “you said something. say it again.”

he tilted his head, as if considering it. then, with a maddening slowness, he shrugged. “i don’t think so.”

you hated this game. hated that he knew how much it drove you mad.

still, you tried to piece it together, running the words over in your mind, searching for meaning. but you had no hope of understanding. it was a language that didn’t belong to you; a secret only he held.

your lips pressed into a thin line. “you could be insulting me for all i know.”

neteyam chuckled, leaning back on his hands, his golden eyes warm with amusement. “you think so little of me, sevin?”

you huffed, turning back to your task, determined not to let him win. “one of these days, i will find out what you are saying,” you muttered.

he grinned. “i look forward to it.”

and you were determined.

later, when your mother and father weren’t demanding anything from you, you set out to find the younger sully brother.

lo’ak was more open than neteyam, more willing. he didn’t hold himself with the same strict discipline as his older brother, and you knew he was always eager to prove himself. perfect.

you found him near the village edge, sharpening his knife, tail lazily flicking behind him. he looked up as you approached, ears twitching with curiosity.

“what do you want?” he asked, though there was no real bite to his words.

you crouched beside him, tilting your head. “i want to learn your demon language.”

lo’ak blinked. “you mean english?”

you scowled. “demon language,” you repeated. “the one you and your brother use.”

lo’ak snorted. “right. and why would i teach you?”

you smirked. “because you like my sister.”

lo’ak stiffened. “i—what? no, i—”

you raised a non-existent brow, waiting.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s so unfair.”

you only shrugged. “i do not make the rules.”

lo’ak huffed but gave in easily enough. “fine,” he muttered. “what do you want to know?”

you leaned forward, eager. “start with this, what does neteyam keep saying to me?”

lo’ak knew exactly what was going on.

he had seen the way neteyam looked at you, watched how his usually disciplined, ever-perfect brother turned into a teasing, insufferable menace whenever you were around. neteyam was completely, hopelessly infatuated with you.

and now, here you were, looking at him for answers.

lo’ak smirked to himself. oh, this is too good.

he had two choices: he could lie, protect his brother’s pride, and let this little game of theirs continue.

he could tell you the truth and sit back to watch the chaos unfold.

really, there was only one correct option.

feigning nonchalance, he leaned back on his hands, pretending to think. “well,” he started slowly, drawing it out just to watch you grow impatient. “neteyam’s been saying some… interesting things.”

your eyes narrowed. “like what?”

lo’ak bit back a grin. oh, this was going to be fun. so fun for him.

because as he went on, explaining the things he had heard neteyam say to you in english, you listened intently, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind you.

what you didn’t see was neteyam moving through the village, searching for you. he had grown used to your presence, enjoyed bothering you whenever he could, so when he hadn’t seen you for a while, he decided to track you down.

and then he spotted you, with lo’ak.

the way his brother was smirking, looking like a complete menace, was a dead giveaway. neteyam didn’t even need to hear the conversation to know exactly what was happening.

his stomach dropped.

lo’ak was telling you.

his body tensed, tail flicking in irritation. oh, that little skxawng.

you still didn’t notice him. too focused on lo’ak, your arms crossed, head tilting as you listened. and lo’ak? oh, he was relishing this.

neteyam clenched his jaw. he had two options: stop this right now before you learned too much, or let it happen and deal with the consequences.

yeah, like hell he was choosing the second one.

so, before lo’ak could dig his grave any deeper, neteyam stormed over.

by the time neteyam stormed over, the damage had already been done. lo’ak had fully dug his grave, and he was lying in it with a big, shit-eating grin.

you turned at the sound of heavy footsteps, just in time to see neteyam approaching, his expression unreadable. his jaw was tight, ears pinned back, golden eyes locked onto his younger brother with something between fury and panic.

lo’ak just sat there, far too pleased with himself. “oh, hey, brother,” he said, voice dripping with fake innocence. “we were just talking about you.”

your gaze flickered between them, realization dawning. neteyam knew. he knew exactly what had just happened.

and judging by the way his tail lashed behind him, he was not happy about it.

you turned back to lo’ak. “so,” you said, tilting your head, “you’re telling me neteyam has been calling me beautiful this whole time?”

neteyam inhaled sharply. “lo’ak—”

“oh, yeah,” lo’ak cut in, completely ignoring him. “that and, you know, pretty much everything else a man says when he’s in love with someone.”

silence.

your lips parted slightly, but no words came. neteyam looked like he was about to die on the spot.

and lo’ak? well, lo’ak just grinned and clapped a hand on neteyam’s shoulder.

“good luck, bro,” he said before slipping away, leaving you both standing there, one of you in utter shock, the other in complete, soul-crushing regret.

neteyam stared at you, tense, waiting, trying to gauge your reaction.

you didn’t look at him at first, eyes fixed on the sand, lips caught between your fangs as if deep in thought. his heart pounded in his chest, breath held as he braced himself for whatever was coming.

then, slowly, the corners of your lips curled.

the biggest, most teasing smile stretched across your face as you finally lifted your gaze to meet his.

“oh,” you said, drawing the word out, tail flicking behind you. “so that’s what you’ve been saying this whole time?”

neteyam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “lo’ak is dead.”

you laughed, the sound light and full of way too much enjoyment. “no wonder you never translated. what was it you said earlier?” you tapped your chin, pretending to think. “oh, yes, these shells are just as beautiful as you.’”

his ears flattened. “you don’t have to—”

“but i am beautiful, aren’t i?” you interrupted, tilting your head. “since you’ve been saying it so often.”

neteyam clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. he could not believe this was happening.

you leaned in slightly, eyes shining with mischief. “tell me, mighty warrior, what else have you been calling me?”

he groaned again, feeling his entire body heat up. this was not how he wanted you to find out.

but when he looked at you, truly looked at you, all teasing and bright-eyed, wearing that smile that made his stomach flip, he knew, deep down, that lo’ak had only sped up the inevitable.

so, with a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and met your gaze.

“do you really want to know?” he asked, voice lower now, steadier.

your teasing smirk faltered just slightly. “…yes.”

neteyam took a step closer, eyes locked onto yours.

“yawntu,” he murmured, watching as your brows furrowed. “seysonì.”

you blinked, lips parting, the teasing edge in your expression flickering with something softer.

then he leaned in, voice just above a whisper.

“my love.”

your breath hitched.

for the first time since this little game between you had started, you found yourself at a loss for words.

your eyes flickered down to his lips for just a second—quick, barely noticeable, but he noticed. of course he did. neteyam was always watching, always reading you like an open scroll.

his ears twitched, tail giving the smallest flick as he took another step closer. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough that the teasing atmosphere between you had shifted into something else. something heavier.

“you’re quiet,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “that’s new.”

you swallowed, trying to regain some sense of control. “shut up,” you muttered, but the usual bite in your words was missing.

neteyam smirked. he knew he had you now.

slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand, fingers brushing against the shell still clutched in your grasp. his touch was light—barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“you never did tell me,” he mused, golden eyes locked onto yours. “do you think i’m beautiful too?”

your heart pounded against your ribs. that smug skxawng. he was throwing your own words back at you.

but two could play this game.

tilting your chin up, you gave him a slow, knowing smile. “wouldn’t you like to know?”

then, before he could get the last word in, you turned on your heel, leaving him standing there; stunned, frustrated, and entirely hooked.

you left him standing there, smug and victorious, but your heart was still pounding.

by the time you returned home, you needed to find your sister.

because these forsaken sully brothers had somehow woven their way into both of your hearts.

you found tsireya near the woven mats of your family’s marui, carefully threading beads onto a new piece of jewelry. she looked up as you entered, a soft smile on her lips—one that quickly turned into curiosity when she saw the look on your face.

“you look…” she tilted her head, studying you. “different.”

you scoffed, flopping down beside her. “frustrated.”

tsireya’s brows lifted. “ah. neteyam?”

you groaned, rubbing your temples. “always.”

her soft laugh rang through the marui, and for a moment, you let yourself relax. but then you narrowed your eyes, gaze flickering to the necklace she was working on.

“let me guess,” you said, nodding toward it. “for lo’ak?”

tsireya hesitated, just for a moment, before a faint blush dusted her cheeks.

you gaped at her. “oh, eywa.”

“it is not—”

“you’re making him jewelry?”

“he—he appreciates our traditions!” she defended, though the flustered look on her face betrayed her.

you stared at her for a long moment before shaking your head. “we’re doomed,” you muttered, flopping onto your back. “the sully brothers have ruined us.”

tsireya only giggled, threading another bead onto the string. “maybe.” then, she cast you a knowing look. “but you don’t seem to mind.”

you groaned, covering your face with your hands. because, deep down, you didn’t. not one bit.

as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and violet, your village buzzed with excitement. the salty breeze carried the scent of roasting fish and sweet fruits, mingling with the rhythmic sounds of drums echoing across the shoreline.

tonight was a night of festivities; a celebration of unity, of eywa’s blessings, of all that made your people strong. and, as the daughter of the olo’eyktan, it was one of those things you had to attend.

you stood near your family’s marui, adjusting the beaded adornments woven into your hair as your mother fussed over your attire. ronal was ever the perfectionist, making sure you looked every bit the part of a leader’s daughter.

“you must be present,” she reminded you, hands steady as she adjusted the woven top covering your chest. “engage with the people. show them your strength.”

you held back a sigh. “yes, sa’nok.”

beside you, tsireya giggled under her breath. she, of course, loved these gatherings. but you? you found them tiring, always forced to play the part of the dutiful daughter: composed, graceful, responsible.

still, you knew your role. you straightened your shoulders, casting one last glance at the glowing horizon before following your family toward the center of the village.

the festival was already in full swing when you arrived, torches casting golden light over the gathering crowd. children wove between the adults, laughter ringing through the air as dancers moved to the steady beat of the drums.

your attire was more ethereal than usual; custom-made loincloths adorned with the prettiest shells and beads, catching the firelight with every movement, making you shine. the woven top your mother had chosen was delicate yet intricate, the beading cascading down your torso like water, reflecting the hues of the ocean. you looked every bit the daughter of the olo’eyktan, and though you wouldn’t admit it aloud, the way eyes followed you as you walked made you feel powerful.

you had done your duties; exchanged pleasantries, greeted those who needed to be greeted, smiled when necessary, when you suddenly felt a presence.

a familiar presence.

you didn’t have to look to know who it was. you felt his eyes on you before you even spotted him across the crowd.

neteyam.

he was standing with his family, expression unreadable, but there was something in his gaze, something intentional.

your heart gave an annoyingly noticeable thump.

and you just knew, this night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

your father had given his speech, his voice commanding as he spoke of unity, of eywa’s blessings, of the strength of the metkayina. you were just settling into your place beside tsireya when you felt it. the people cheered, the drums picked up, and just like that, the festivities truly began.

which meant you were finally free.

you exhaled, the weight of expectation lifting as you slipped through the crowd, seeking a moment to just be. the village was alive with celebration, dancers twirling near the fire, warriors boasting about their latest hunts, children giggling as they weaved through the legs of their elders. it was beautiful, vibrant, home.

you found yourself near the shoreline, where the glow of the lanterns met the shimmering tide, your toes sinking into the cool sand. the festivities carried on behind you, but for a moment, you allowed yourself to take it all in—the crashing of the waves, the salt in the air, the hum of music in the background.

and then, of course, he appeared.

“you clean up nice.”

the deep voice sent a shiver down your spine, one you quickly masked by rolling your eyes before turning to face him.

neteyam stood a few paces away, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. his own attire was different tonight—his usual warrior gear swapped for something more ceremonial, beads woven into his braids, the soft glow of bioluminescent paint marking his skin.

he looked… good.

not that you’d tell him that.

“you again?” you sighed dramatically, placing a hand on your hip. “is there nowhere i can go without you appearing like a shadow?”

neteyam chuckled, stepping closer. “if you wanted to be alone, you wouldn’t have come here.”

you scoffed, though you didn’t move away as he reached your side, standing beside you as the waves lapped at your feet.

a beat of silence passed before he tilted his head slightly, golden eyes scanning your face.

“you really do look beautiful tonight.”

it wasn’t teasing this time. no smug grin, no playful lilt to his voice. just a quiet truth, spoken into the space between you.

and for the first time tonight, you had no clever response.

back at the heart of the festivities, away from the shoreline where you and neteyam stood, two warriors, two leaders, watched.

tonowari and jake stood side by side, their conversation casual, yet their eyes keenly observant. they had been discussing the ongoing training of the young hunters, the state of the tides, and other matters of importance. but, at some point, their attention had drifted.

to you and neteyam.

because, despite whatever you and neteyam thought, you were not subtle.

jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he watched his eldest son step closer to you, the way his body naturally leaned toward yours, the way you, despite your best efforts, didn’t pull away.

“they think they’re being discreet,” jake muttered.

tonowari hummed in agreement, arms crossed over his broad chest. “they are not.”

jake sighed. “he’s got it bad.”

tonowari’s lips twitched slightly, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. “as does she.”

jake glanced at him, smirking. “that a problem?”

tonowari was quiet for a moment, watching as you shoved neteyam’s shoulder, only for the boy to grin and lean right back into your space.

“…no,” the olo’eyktan finally said. “not yet.”

jake chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “good luck with that, brother.”

tonowari just sighed, already bracing himself for the storm that was sure to come.

back with you and neteyam, the air was thick.

the kind of thick that made your skin feel too warm, your chest too tight. the kind of thick that had your heart pounding a little faster than it should, your breath catching at the way his golden eyes burned into yours.

the tension could have been cut with a knife.

but the question was, who was going to make the first move?

neteyam was watching you closely now, that cocky smirk long gone. his lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths, though you could tell, that he was feeling it too. that same charged, unspoken pull that neither of you were willing to put words to.

for once, he wasn’t teasing.

for once, you were the one trying to look anywhere but at him.

“you’re quiet again,” he murmured, voice lower now, softer.

your fingers curled into your palms. “you talk enough for both of us.”

neteyam chuckled, but it was breathier than usual, as if even he wasn’t fully present in the words. his gaze flickered down for a split second, to your lips just for a moment, but it was enough.

your stomach flipped.

you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. the way the firelight flickered over his skin. the way his braids shifted as he tilted his head. the way his hands flexed at his sides, like he was debating something.

your tail twitched. was he going to do it? was he going to be the one to break first?

neteyam shifted slightly, leaning in just a fraction—so small, so subtle, but you caught it.

and eywa help you, you didn’t move away.

maybe you should’ve. maybe you should have smirked, teased him, run before he could turn this whole thing into something real.

but you didn’t.

instead, you just stared at him, pulse racing, waiting to see if this would be the moment one of you finally gave in.

just as your lips were about to touch, just as you felt the faintest graze of them, the smallest, feather-light brush—

a loud, booming clearing of a throat shattered the moment.

you jerked away so fast you nearly lost your footing, and neteyam; mighty warrior, future olo’eyktan, practically jumped back as if you had burned him.

that was how deep the two of you had been in your own little world.

heart hammering against your ribs, you turned, already knowing what you’d find. and, sure enough—

there stood tonowari.

and beside him, looking far too amused for his own good, was jake sully.

oh, eywa.

your father’s arms were crossed, expression unreadable, but the sheer weight of his stare was enough to make you wish the ocean would just swallow you whole.

jake, on the other hand, had the audacity to smirk, glancing between you and neteyam like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all night.

neteyam straightened immediately, shoulders squared, but you knew him too well. knew that beneath that carefully composed expression, he was panicking.

“neteyam.” jake’s voice was easygoing, but the warning beneath it was clear.

“sir.” neteyam’s response was stiff, formal, and oh eywa, you had to fight the urge to laugh at how utterly caught he looked.

tonowari said nothing at first, just looked at you, then at neteyam, then back at you. and somehow, somehow, that was worse than if he’d yelled.

“i see you are both enjoying the festivities,” he finally said, voice far too calm.

you swallowed. “yes, sa’nok’itan,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice even, though you swore you saw the corner of jake’s mouth twitch.

neteyam, to his credit, didn’t flinch. but the tips of his ears were burning red. “we were just—”

“i am sure you were,” tonowari cut in smoothly.

and that? that was when you knew you were done for.

you dared a glance at neteyam, but he refused to meet your gaze, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.

jake clapped a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, barely containing his grin. “why don’t we let them enjoy the rest of the festivities?” he said, clearly enjoying this way too much.

tonowari exhaled through his nose, giving you one last long look before nodding. “come,” he said, turning to leave. “we will speak later.”

you felt your stomach drop.

and then, just like that, they were gone, leaving you and neteyam standing there—mortified, frustrated, and one second away from kissing.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

then…

“…so,” neteyam muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “that was—”

“do not.” you cut him off, voice tight, because if you thought about it for one more second, you were going to combust.

neteyam exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face before finally, finally, meeting your gaze.

and despite everything, despite the sheer embarrassment of it all, he smirked.

“next time,” he murmured, stepping just close enough to send a shiver down your spine, “we pick a better spot.”

your jaw dropped. “neteyam!”

but he was already walking away, laughing, leaving you standing there, flustered and fuming, knowing damn well he’d just won.

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x y/n

469 notes · View notes

daisyjonesgf · 4 months ago

Text

ivy // finnick odair x f. reader

masterlist

5.3k words

summary: you've loved finnick as long as you can remember, and he's loved you too, but he doesn't want the capitol to know that.

warnings: angst w/ a happy ending, friends to lovers, a slow burn to get together but not to catch feelings, underage drinking, some emotional cheating not on reader or finnick, teenagers being teenagers, finnick kind of being mean to some people, reader runs out of a wedding (her wedding), allusions to the hunger games and trafficking, no use of y/n, unedited

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The smell of the salty ocean air had always brought you comfort, happiness, anything you could have wished for. It made everything feel so worth it. Long days working, early mornings, a few hours in school, late nights trying to fill in with any freedom you could find, and the few hours of sleep crammed in. All of it was worth it to feel the breeze on your face once again.

“What are you doing out here alone?” A voice interrupted your solace, but it was a voice that you instantly recognized.

“Finnick, you’re back!” You turned to smile at him and his own smile only made you want to smile wider. He’d always had this inherent brightness to him, he was like the sun, always had been. Shining so brightly, providing so much inherent warmth.

“Yeah, you miss me?” Finnick lifted an eyebrow cockily before sitting rather unceremoniously in the sand beside you.

“In your dreams.” You give an all too playful, all too exaggerated eye roll, leaning back on your elbows.

“Oh you know it, honey.” He’s winking and you can’t help but actually roll your eyes this time. It’s been this way between the two of you as long as you can remember, the lighthearted flirting, the playful banter. It just felt so natural whenever you were with him. Finnick kept sitting up and you didn’t prop yourself up until he was putting a bottle in his mouth.

“Oh my god, is that-”

He chuckled, “You know it, snagged some extra bottles off the train when I was getting back a few days ago.” Finnick handed the bottle out and you eagerly took it. He always took a few days to himself when he got back from the Capitol, locked in that big, haunting house of his. Everyone knew better than to ask him about it, you always just counted it as part of his stay at the Capitol. So him “coming back,” was really whenever he reemerged in the streets of District 4.

This alcohol was always so much more pleasant then whatever concoctions people would make at parties, it burned, but not in a way that tasted like pure chemicals. No, this was much more enjoyable, and much more rare. “How rebellious of you, tsk tsk tsk.” You shook your head, tongue clicking as you handed the bottle back to him.

“Anything for you.” He flashed that winning smile that had everyone swooning, a smile you’d forced yourself to be immune to.

“Mmmm, I’m flattered for your crimes to be completely about me, and not you wanting to get shit faced on the beach.”

Finnick put the bottle in the sand between you two, “Of course not, I put wanting to see your shit faced on the beach way above my own needs.

“And what a gentleman you are!” You laughed, picking up the bottle and tilting it towards him before you took another drink of the bubbles.

You weren’t sure long the two of you had spent laughing about every stupid thing you could think of, but the bottle was almost gone, the sun setting. Finnick was picking up handfuls of sand and letting it sift through his fingers, you were letting the last few ways of sunlight warm your face.

“You know who I heard is desperately in love with you?” Your eyes are closed, smiling at the sun as it slowly fades away.

“You? Because I’ve known about that one for years.”

“No, asshole!” You sit up enough to shove him playfully and he’s laughing, which makes you laugh too, he’s so infectious. “Moira!”

Finnick takes what is probably the final sip from the bottle, “Who’s that?”

“You are such a dick, Finnick!” The smile hasn’t left your face though, in fact you’ve been feeling kind of floaty for a while now.

“What? I honestly don’t know, I swear! Should I?”

“Yes! You were flirting with her the other week, her parents run the, god, what do they run?”

“Don’t look at me!”

“Fuck, um, oysters! They do oysters, and you were talking to her at the market, flirting with her.”

“I was not flirting!”

“You were!” You copy his facial expressions, his defensive eyes, trying to suppress every giggle that wants to force its way out.

“That’s how I talk to everyone.”

“Well, I know that, but she doesn’t. Anyways, um…” You’re taking a second to rub your face, trying to regain your train of thought in your fuzzy brain.

“Somebody is shitfaced on the beach!” Finnick is poking at your nose.

“I am not! Oh my god, I’m not. I’m not!”

“Whatever you say, gorgeous. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Oh, fuck off! As I was saying, Moira, thinks that the two of you are meant to be or something, that you’re gonna get married someday, I think she’s already planning out the wedding. So, I do need to know what I should be bringing, like what wedding gifts are you-”

“You think you are so funny.” Finnick rolls his eyes.

“You’re the one who’s laughing.”

“No, I am not!” He says, too defensively, and the two of you stare at each other in silence until you’re both cackling. By the time you’ve both stopped the sun is almost all the way down. A comfortable silence has settled between the two of you, “I’m never going to fall in love with anyone.” Finnick breaks the silence, throwing a pebble he found into the water. Your initial instinct is to say something snarky, but with one glance you can tell he’s being serious, the alcohol must have tricked him into being vulnerable. “I’m not going to let them hurt me through that.”

You don’t ask who ‘they’ are, you don’t really need him to say, you’d figured out for yourself what the odd cryptic things he’d mumble really meant. He didn’t need to open up like that if he didn’t want to, you could read him far too easily. “Never?” Your knees move up so you can lay your arms across them and prop up your head.

“Nope, never.” His gaze was trained steadily on the ocean before you both, but yours was on every small expression that could cross his face. You’d memorized every expression he could make.

You didn’t mention that he was only 16, an age that seemed far too young to claim to never love again when he would probably live 70 more years, a sad life to force himself into. He had his reasons though, even if he wouldn’t tell them to you, so you’d respect them. That’s what best friends are for. “Well, you better tell Moira the wedding is off, I feel like she might’ve already bought a dress though, so-”

There it is. He’s smiling again, and you’re successful. You have to make a pact to yourself too though, you can never love him anymore than you do right now, because you already love him far too much.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Don’t you dare!” You’re screaming through giggles, running away from the two boys trying to throw you into the ocean. They’re about to catch you when a very recognizable, honey-dripped voice is interrupting them.

“Don’t! It’s her birthday, Caspian just brought in a crate of white liquor.” Finnick says and the boys are off running to drink as much as they can before it runs out. As soon as they’ve moved though, Finnick is sweeping you up in his arms.

“Finnick!” You’re screeching instantly.

“What? You thought I was here to save you? Absolutely not, just wanted to do the honorary birthday girl splash myself!” He throws in some unnecessary spinning on his way to the water and you’re laughing, but not even trying to fight your way out of his arms, before being tossed into the shallow water.

You’re absolutely drenched when you sit up, and he’s trying to stifle his laughter. “You are evil, Finnick Odair! Absolutely evil.” It’s freezing, but in the best of ways, you love nights spent in the water. You brush your hands across your face, getting the water out of your eyes.

“You should’ve known better than to trust me.” His smirk is so unbelievably smug and you hate him for it, hate that you love it.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. At least help me up.” You reach out your arm and he sighs, taking it, so you quickly pull him down with you. It was far too easy, and you know he let you do it, but you laugh at him anyways. “What happened to knowing better? Takes to one to know one, I guess.” Before you can get another snarky remark in though he’s digging his fingers into your side, tickling you until you’re gasping for air, sides aching from laughter. “Fin, stop, stop it!” Splashing water at him to try and make him stop, but it does nothing.

He finally halts his actions when a rather annoyed voice is calling out to him, “Finnick!” You both look up to see Moira with her arms crossed, “You said you were only gonna be a minute!”

“Right, sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, pointing at you with his free hand, “Found her!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” The way she says it is so icy it makes you want to shiver. “Come on, we should get inside, do cake and all that.”

“Yeah.” Finnick stands up, grabbing your hand to pull you up with him, and there’s a second where there’s a pause. Hand still in his as he looks at you, shining so angelic under the moonlight, he has to scold himself for it as he pulls his hand away. You scold yourself as well for even sensing a spark of something, he doesn’t want to fall in love, he won’t. So you need to be okay with that.

The walk back up to his house is quiet besides the sounds of seagulls, or the ocean waves crashing up and down the shore. You hate that you resent Moira, especially when you know she’s going to be let down just as you’ve been. Yet you are, he’s still your best friend, every moment you can have with him is so immensely precious. You don’t need anyone else hogging it up.

You’re shivering by the time you get inside of the house, still completely drenched, and the breeze hadn’t helped a bit. Finnick is quick to get you a towel the moment he looks at you, “Here you go, honey. Can’t have you getting hypothermic on me, especially on your birthday.” His hands rub up and down your arms, over the towel, trying to heat you up faster.

“Well whose fault would that be?” You jab back, but your voice is soft.

“Oh, I’ll make it up to you.” He clicks his tongue, moving a hand to softly move some of the wet hair that’s stuck to your face. His skin is somehow so warm even though he’d gotten just as soaked as you had. His thumb brushing across your face, looking into your eyes as he does it. Part of you hates him for this, he has to know what he’s doing, but you won’t tear yourself away. He’s addicting like that. His hand has just stayed still, holding the side of your face, and it’s as if neither of you can hear the rest of the party going on around you. It’s as if he’s forgotten himself to stare at you.

“Finnick, cake!” God, it’s so hard not to hate Moira nowadays. Her voice pries him away from you, out of the warmth and comfort of his touch.

“I’ve got it.” He still maintains enough eye contact though to show you the eye roll that’s pointed at her. Before he’s disappeared into the kitchen to grab said cake.

You’re sitting on the couch not long after that, fork pushing around your slice, as your eyes try not to bore into Moria’s head. Finnick is surrounded by a small group of people, leaning on the frame of a doorway, being his usual magnetic, sunshine self, and there she is. Draped all over him, laughing just a little too loudly at everything she says. It’s infuriating. You know you shouldn’t be jealous, you have no power over who does or doesn’t let that close to him, and you know he doesn’t love her. It’s still a bubbling anger though, one you try so hard to suppress, that forces itself forward, despite your own wishes. In fact, you beg it not to, but it persists. Why should she get to do that and think she’s so deserving of his love? You love him miles deeper than anybody else even knowing he’ll never love you the same. Someone is trying to talk to you, but you can’t hear a word they’re saying. Eventually you push yourself off the couch, leaving the plate, and are grabbing the last bottle of white liquor to go sit on the porch.

You’ve drunk at least half of the bottle of burning liquor when you hear the door opening behind you, “What’s wrong, honey?” Finnick is sitting right beside you, body heat already exerting off of him.

“Just needed some air.” You lie through your teeth and keep your eyes focused forward as you take another drink.

There’s a pause, he always knows when you’re lying, but he also knows how to read you the same way you’ve learned to read him. He knows better than to bring up why you’d choose to not be honest right now. “They’re looking for you to do gifts.”

You exhale, trying to breath out the negative emotions shrouding you. “I don’t need anything.” You say, finally looking at him.

“Sound the alarms, she’s 17 and too cool for the rest of us now.” He jokes, taking the bottle out of your hand to have a drink himself, shaking his head after gulping it down. “Remind me next time to smuggle more than I usually do, this is disgusting.”

You snort the smallest bit as you look down to the wooden porch, picking at it, when the door is opening again, and it’s that last voice you want to hear. “Finnick, what are you doing?” You are involuntarily grimacing at the sound of her voice, and you really know you shouldn’t, but jealousy isn’t a demon you fight off well.

“Moira?” Finnick isn’t even turning behind him.

“What?” She tries to sound somewhat sweet through the exasperated tone, honestly you’d be annoyed too if you were her, but you’re not.

“Fuck off, bother someone who cares.” He takes another drink from the bottle, and you know how much that probably hurt her, but you’re so glad she’s gone, so glad it was him who said something. Plus, isn’t this what being a teenager is supposed to be like?

“You’re such an asshole.” You say once the door has shut again, but you can’t stop yourself from smiling.

“You were jealous.” Finnick shrugs, taking yet another sip before trying to pass the bottle back to you, but you’re too stunned to speak, let alone grab it back. “What?” He chuckles, giving a cheeky smile.

“I was not!” You argue back when you’ve finally been able to regain some speech, feeling your cheeks burning up. Grabbing the bottle from his hand to chug some of the liquor down.

“I know you were, you don’t have to lie about it, it’s fine. She’s gone now.” He’s drunk, that much is abundantly clear. This is the sort of stuff that’s always remained unsaid between the two of you.

“You don’t need to do that for me.” You finally let yourself react, stop being defensive. There’s no point in hiding from a truth that you both know. It’s so mean of him though, to know you love him yet carry on playing with you as he does. Is it worse for you to let him?

“Not like her and I were going anywhere, anyways.” He cocks his head to the side.

“You knew what she wanted, Finnick, don’t be cruel.” You finish the rest of the bottle and stare into the dark night before you.

“Do you think I’m cruel?” Finnick’s voice feels so vulnerable, letting a small piece of that side of him break through.

You sigh, and you do want to reassure him, but when he’s being like this it feels more harmful to lie to him, so you divert, “Don’t think twice, it’s alright.” He might not be cruel, but that doesn’t mean that’s not how you feel deep down. He looks down at the ground, nodding, frowning a little, “Fin-” You instantly want to take it back, you’re not trying to hurt him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry.” He turns his head to look at you, and you avert your gaze forward again before standing suddenly.

“We should go inside, she’s right, we’re keeping everyone waiting.” You go to turn towards the door.

“Honey.” He’s grabbing your arm and you turn around to look at him, trying to ignore the way his touch tingles up the rest of your arm. You look at him expectantly and suddenly his lips are pressed to yours. He tastes like you’d imagined he would, like honey and saltwater. This only furthers the proof that he can’t help but be somewhat cruel, you know this will change nothing, and yet you can’t pull away. So you kiss him back, it’s really so brief, and you can taste the alcohol on both of your breaths as well, but this is the only time this can ever happen so you let it. When he finally pulls away he just rests his forehead against yours and you notice that he’s crying. So you don’t say a thing, just let him. He presses another kiss to your forehead when he’s finally been able to force the tears away, and it’s time to head back inside. With the silent acceptance that neither of you will talk about this ever again, and you keep to that promise.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I hate him.” Finnick remarks, throwing a random rock he found into the waves.

“Well, it’s a good thing you're not the one dating him then, isn’t it?” You stretch your arms out to let the wind fully engulf your body.

Finnick glowers at you, “I should have some say, you’re my best friend, I’m just looking out for you.”

“I don’t need you looking out for me, Finnick!” You say it too harshly and your laugh is much too incredulous for either of your tastes. “Sorry. Finn, I know you mean well.”

“Then just listen to me, not him, okay? Anyone, but him.” He’s turning to you, pleading, grabbing your hands in the warmth of his.

“Finnick, you said the same thing about Irving-” He’s about to cut you off with some excuse, but you don’t let him, “And Malik, you can’t do it to Lir too!”

“Don’t we have veto power? Like, with Moira!”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, Finnick, and it was two years ago! We’ve grown up and I have let you veto and veto, but Finnick, I- I don’t want to be alone forever!” You knew eventually this conversation would have to be had, especially now, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“You’re not alone, you’re never going to be alone.” Finnick is letting go of one of your hands to cradle your head and you don’t know why you let him when you should try to pull away.

“You know what I mean.” He does, you both do, and the waves crash as the words settle into the recesses of each of your brains. Finally he’s letting go of you completely, rubbing his face, trying to hide his emotions somehow. “Finnick, listen…” He looks up at you expectantly, raising an eyebrow in a way that feels somewhat scathing, but you have to brave it. Despite the fact that you can feel your heart beating out of your chest and that you are completely sick to your stomach, “Lir and I, we’re, we’re, um, fuck, Finnick, Lir and I are getting married.”

Whatever he expected you to say it most certainly wasn’t that and his reaction makes it seem like you’ve just shot him in the chest. You so desperately want to take it back, but you know that you can’t. You have to move on, you can’t let your life be dedicated to wishing for a love that he’ll never commit to giving you. Then you’re shocked because he’s laughing, sliding himself back into his cocky persona.

“Honey, you’re 19. This is a life commitment, don’t act out like this.” The idea that you’re ‘acting out’ makes you angrier than you’ve ever been with him in your life.

“Finnick, you know better than anyone that someone’s life can be gone like that.” You snap your fingers, “I want to live my life!”

He nods, angrily, swallowing, “So, you love him?”

“He loves me.”

This time Finnick’s laugh is cold, biting, “And that’s fair to him, how? Wow, I’d expect more from you, honey-”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” The way you say it makes him still, he’s never seen you like this before, never heard your voice be so rigid. “I never said it was fair, do you think I feel like I’m doing the right thing? Because I don’t. Fuck, it keeps me up at night, I know, he deserves better, I fucking know that. And it’s so selfish, but what about me?” The tears have started slipping down your face before you can stop them, it’s like you’re trying to choke on them. “I want to be loved, really, truly loved. And maybe it will haunt me for the rest of my days, but it’s the only thing I have ever really wanted.” You take a second to let yourself breath, to wipe some of the tears away, “Finnick, I have never pushed you, or asked you, I have done exactly what you wanted because I respect your decision. You don’t even have to tell me why, you never do, but if I can’t be with the person who I love, why can’t you let me have this?”

You’ve finally calmed down your tears and your breathing has become steady once again, and Finnick is nodding slowly. “You’re right, I’m sorry. You’re not selfish for that.” He finally says.

“Thank you.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The soft fabric of the dress is so comforting on your skin, not itchy like you’d expect a wedding dress to be. No, it’s flowy and the wind is sure to make it billow around you. One of your bridesmaids, Nerissa, is weaving flowers into your hair with the seashells that had been so carefully attached to the little pins. As always, the sound of the ocean waves through the open window relaxes any nerves that tried to approach.

“You look beautiful.” Finnick’s voice startles you and you smile at him in the mirror.

“Finnick! What are you doing here?” You ask and Nerissa tries to stick in one final pin.

“I know technically I shouldn’t sneak in before it starts, but I have something for you.” He’s got a twinkle in his eye as he approaches, and you can’t not smile back at him. Nerissa moves and suddenly he’s standing beside you, carefully moving your hair out of the way. Finnick adjusts a necklace onto your neck, glistening pearls, you notice they’re blue, the rarest color.

“Oh, Finn.” Your fingers trace across them as he clasps the necklace together/

“I got them for you last time I was in the Capitol, made me think of you.” His face is then right next to yours, warm cheek pressed to yours, “Something new and something blue.” He’s got that award-winning, cheeky smile, but there’s something sad in his eyes that makes you sad too.

“Thank you.” You turn to actually face him and say the words so softly, even though you know you shouldn’t, like you’re trying to let him know that you do still love him. Finnick looks at you, smirk turning into a soft smile.

“Of course, honey.” A nickname he definitely shouldn’t be using, but you don’t care, and he raises his hand to brush a stray hair behind your ear. His burning touch is so comforting, and yet it unearths all the anxiety about what you’re doing, all the anxiety you’ve been trying to push down. Suddenly he seems to realize what he’s doing and pulls his hand away, which you accidentally chase after. “You really do make the most beautiful bride.” Finnick straightens himself and stands up, about to walk out, “Oh, and I got you another gift, out on the table, a proper gift. And, I snuck some good bottles of champagne out onto the table.” He smiles and you can’t resist smiling and chuckling back at him.

“Thank you.” You watch him go so fondly, and then have to shake yourself off a bit. You need to remember what you’re about to do, why, you can’t get distracted. You want him so bad, but he can’t be the one you need, it’s not him.

That’s the mantra you repeat to yourself when you’re finally about to walk down the aisle. You’re so thankful that it’s on the beach, desperately wishing for the sound of the waves, the smell of the ocean, the feeling of its misty breeze to give you the same comfort it always does, but it refuses. The churning of your stomach refuses to subside as you clutch onto the arm of your father to try and not fall, as your feet are starting to feel resistant. This happens to every bride though, right? Nerves are common, so is the feeling of cold feet, but you can do this. You have to do this. It’s the closest thing you’re ever going to have to the life you really want, to who you really want.

You feel almost like you’re out of your body as you walk down the seemingly infinite aisle. Lir is smiling so sweetly, he is so sweet, with his bright blue eyes, the curl of his brown hair, but you can’t stop your brain from filling all those attributes in for a sea green pigment instead, or waves of blonde. You’re scared your bouquet might break from how tight your fingernails are crushing into it. Everything feels heavy, you can’t even hear the waves anymore, just the rapid beat of your heart. You wonder if you look as terrified as you feel, that’s the last thing you need. Maybe it does just look like nerves though, if you’re really lucky.

When you finally reach the end, you’re trying not to visibly hyperventilate, and as your father lets go of you to sit down you try to look at him, to ask for some sort of help, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you okay?” Lir asks you quietly, brow furrowed. You don’t know why you nod, you do, because you need this, but you know you shouldn’t. You’ve never felt more trapped even if it’s a cage of your own making. “You look stunning.” He whispers before looking back at the officiant who is going on about something. You try to smile, but your eyes dart around the audience, looking for someone they most definitely shouldn’t be looking for. “I’ve never seen that necklace before-” Lir says something else, but you don’t hear it, your fingers trace up to it, feeling each bump.

Every movement, even your breathing suddenly freezes, “I’m so sorry.” You quickly blurt out, staring at Lir, and you really do feel bad, but that guilt isn’t nearly as terrible as the way you feel like you might suffocate. Everything has stopped, even the drone of the officiant, and you are so aware of everyone’s confused eyes being on you, so you make a run for it. Dropping the bouquet and suddenly you feel freer than a bird.

The ocean air is whipping around you and you are getting as far as you can away from all of it. Ripping off your sandals as you go, just letting your feet feel the coarse sand of the beach. Your cheeks feel frozen from the mist hitting them so harshly, but it makes you feel so alive. Most of the flowers and pins of seashells have probably been flung around the ground, the path of you. You keep running until you can’t breathe anymore, until your sides are burning and aching in the best of ways, a fire that burns so perfectly. Letting yourself stop in the water, it wades up to your knees, and you like the dress better that way too. This is what is real.

“Fuck!” You exclaim to no one but yourself as you stare at the sky, spinning in the water. Feeling the sun beat down on you, laughing at yourself, at everything, at nothing in particular.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Suddenly Finnick’s grabbing your arms, steadying you, his cheeks are bright red and you can tell he was running after you. “If it’s just nerves, he’ll understand, everyone will, you can go back, honey.” You’re smiling as you shake your head and he’s furrowing his brow in confusion. “Isn’t this what you want?”

“Oh my god, no! I thought I did, but no.” You press a hand to your forehead, and then to his chest, “And don’t think this is me trying to make you do something that you don’t want, Finn. It’s not, I respect you too much for that, I just, I thought that I needed that, that I needed someone to love me, but I can’t do that to someone. I can’t just hope to love him eventually because that’s just not going to happen, I can’t give up the only thing that might let me.”

Finnick still looks confused as you maintain your smile, your breathing finally allowing itself to go back to normal, “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, oh my god, yes! I’ll be an old maid by the sea, I don’t care, I can’t do it!”

Finnick takes a deep breath and something about the way he does it just tells you exactly what he’s going to say, “Honey, I-”

“I know, Fin, I’ve always known, but I also know you have your reasons for what you do. It’s enough for me to just know.”

He looks at you, like he’s thinking just for a second, “No it’s not.”

“What?”

“That’s not enough. It’s not enough for you, and it’s definitely not enough for me. They can’t have all of me! Maybe it’s selfish, but I want this one thing for myself.”

“You don’t have to say it just because I-”

“I’m not! I almost let you marry another man and I realized, it wasn’t worth it. If you want this, and I want this, let’s just do it. I’ll figure everything else out, just, you should marry me. Please.”

The shock almost stops you from doing anything at all, but the excitement far overcomes that. You pull him in, kiss him, and his hands find your face. Melting into his touch, and never had life felt so right. Wind billowing around, sun shining down, and come what may, at least you have each other.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

As always, thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks are always much appreciated. I love you all, and I hope you enjoyed this, I really enjoyed writing it, and I cried while I did 💋

#wanda 💋#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick fanfic #finnick odair #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair x reader angst #finnick x reader #finnick x you #thg x reader

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perlelune · 1 year ago

Text

Young God | Feyd-Rautha

The mercy you show towards an enemy in the aftermath of battle yields tragic consequences for you and your people.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fremen!Reader, Kynes!Reader, Kidnapping, Unrequited Love, Mentions of cannibalism, Knife Play, Masochism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

The aftermath of battle is often the same ritual. Corpses are taken away to scavenge for bounty and salvage the water in their bodies. Moisture is too precious, too rare in the air and the dry desert sand covering your home world to be wasted. Harkonnen foot soldiers especially. No sympathy is spared for the cruel beasts who slaughter your fellow fremen, ravage your land, and bleed your beloved home planet Arrakis of its most valuable resource. The Spice.

Today is one of these days. After fending off another attack by the Harkonnen army, your entire tribe is sifting through the desert fields. The proud white-skinned soldiers weren’t expecting the swarm of Fremen that unleashed upon them. Thankfully Muad'Dib had a vision of the attack and managed to convince enough of your people to raise their blades in unison to stand against their oppressors. While you balk at violence, preferring to stay back and sink into your role as a healer, you still wish to offer assistance in cleaning up the battlefield and checking for any potential injuries. You were a little shocked when you arrived and were struck with the realization that there is so little for you to do, the number advantage having been so overwhelming.

Still, you find a few warriors that require medical attention. Their injuries are deeper than you expect. Apparently one of the Harkonnen soldiers wouldn’t let himself be slain, unleashing a storm of fury all on his own and taking several down with him. You gingerly finish dressing your last wound, lifting your head as you notice your cousin heading north.

Wiping the blood on your hands with a rag, you get to your feet.

“Chani, where are you going?” you inquire.

She stares ahead, crysknife in hand, determined.

“Some may have survived and slipped away from us. We’re checking the caves nearby.”

You give a nod and follow after her. “I’ll come with you.”

While your voice didn’t waver earlier, your stomach is in knots as you join the search. You and Chani split up. She points in a direction and you acquiesce, rushing the opposite way. You sneak underground, climbing down a row of steep, slippery rocks before you find a small cave.

You practically have to crawl the rest of the way inside, the lichen-draped overhang almost too bent and crooked for you to advance any further. It’s no wonder no one thought to check this place. It’s hard to imagine any wounded Harkonnen soldier gathering the strength to hide in such a place.

You’re forced to swallow your words however when you find the outline of a pale form lying across the cave floor.

Your jaw drops. You inch closer to the corpse, already planning on calling another Fremen to help you extract the water from the body.

But the man’s chest lifts, his mouth shuddering ever-so-slightly.

Tamping down your fear, you hunker down and inspect his armor. Your brows knit. A long, deep jagged cut slashes his side. The kind of deadly injury that makes you wonder how the man is still breathing, as it’s impossible no internal organs haven't at least been nicked.

Yet, somehow he is, still breathing that is.

Though you gather not for long based on the way blood gushes from the wound.

You hear your name called from outside the cave. Pulse soaring, you climb your way out of the concealed shelter with haste.

You’re faced with Chani’s questioning stare. She must be done with her own search. You note the tinge of crimson on the tip of her blade. Your insides wrench.

The lie flows from your tongue with frightening ease.

“I already checked that one. It’s empty.”

She nods and walks away. You wait for her to be at a safe distance to return inside the cave.

As your slow, fearful steps bring you closer to the wounded man, your mind rages, at war with itself.

You are of two worlds. Daughter of the fallen Liet-Kynes, imperial planetologist, and a member of the Sietch Tabr. The Harkonnen are your people’s ancestral enemies. Oppressors who annihilate whoever stands between them and their unquenchable thirst for more wealth and power.

They are monsters. There is only one rational thing to do when one is faced with one of the pale-skinned warriors. Only one thing that is right to do.

You unsheathe the crysknife at your thigh from its scabbard. The blade is shimmery and new. So perfectly sharp. For you have never used it. Not even once.

You approach his unmoving form and lift the blade high in the air.

The crysknife in your hands quivers above his chest. It’d be so easy to end it. So quick. Over within a few minutes. You’ve seen countless members of your sietch do it, not a sliver of hesitation in their smooth, practiced motions. Some even enjoy it, reveling in seeing that spark wither in their enemies’ eyes.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder, picture yourself snugly gripping the blade and driving it through the Harkonnen’s alabaster throat. The watery coughs he’d let out. The blood seeping from his neck and pooling around him. The light in his onyx orbs flickering before going out.

It should satisfy you. After all the evils they’ve inflicted upon your people, upon your planet, the prospect of retribution should fill you with immeasurable joy.

Yet it doesn’t. Chest heaving, you slowly lower the weapon until it slips out of your hands, its clattering echoing in the cave.

Your shoulders sag as you unleash a tremulous breath, one you didn’t notice was even caged inside your lungs.

An unyielding truth swaddles you as you watch your pale-skinned enemy draw feeble, dwindling breaths. You can’t take a life. You are a healer, through and through.

You gasp when you suddenly feel the cold bite of metal against your throat.

Your eyes widen. The Harkonnen is awake, heavy, wheezing breaths bursting from his chest as he presses the blade against your neck.

“I-If you kill me, you will not survive,” you stammer, your chest clenching in fear.

He shocks you by flipping the blade and handing it to you.

“Then give me a warrior’s death,” he says, his gaze unwavering. You study him. He looks worse than before. What he just did must have taken his last bit of strength.

Steadying your hammering heart, you glower at him.

“The glory you seek isn’t in a dank cave, Harkonnen.”

As soon as he collapses over the cold, hard stones, you get to work. First, you check his pulse. Though it’s faint, you find a steady heartbeat. He must be quite strong, you surmise. You’ve never seen anyone survive this long with an injury this deep. Logically, he should be dead.

But he isn’t. So while you shouldn’t feel this way, every fiber of your being craves to pull him from the brink.

You peel the layers of his armor off him. Heat nestles inside your cheeks as your gaze roams over the hard, defined planes of his muscular form. You shake off the sensation, reminding yourself that you can’t proceed unless you have complete access to the wound and need to assess for other potential injuries.

You reach for your medpak and pouch. You use a mix of wound sealant and medicinal herbs to curb the bleeding. You then clean the wound with antiseptic and press onto it firmly. Eventually, it stops. Once the bleeding is under control, you pull out a needle and thread from your pouch and begin sewing the wound. Every stitch is nice and neat, so tight that you know he will barely scar. You squint as you work, the dim lighting of the cave making you miss the right spot in his skin a few times. You keep a cool head the entire time, simply starting over whenever necessary.

After the wound is sealed, you set up a hypovial with a plasma bag. Finding the bulging vein in his arm isn’t too hard. It’s quite easy in fact, as every part of him appears carved from stone. You slip a dash of spice melange in the IV. A potent cinnamon smell fills the air. Just the right amount to keep him awake. Now that his life isn’t on the line anymore, his peculiar body chemistry should do the rest and recover.

You unleash a deep breath and wipe the sweat doting your forehead. You sag against the cave wall.

Your eyes drift to the night sky, visible through a small opening in the overhang.

For the first time since you snuck inside the cave, the tension woven through your limbs comes loose.

Nights on Arrakis are a thing of beauty. You are willing to bet there are no more beautiful skies in the entire galaxy. None so clear and vast and with stars twinkling this bright. Mother used to say the same thing, that the boundless empyreans of Arrakis were the most beautiful sight she ever laid eyes upon. And as an imperial envoy, your mother traveled far across the known universe. So she must have been right.

You cast one last glance at the Harkonnen warrior. He’s stable. Or stable enough at least.

It’s time for you to return to your sietch before too many questions are asked.

“You were gone a while,” your cousin blurts out when you return to your sietch. You weigh her tone. There is no suspicion laced in it, just curiosity.

“I was just making sure we didn’t forget any of them,” you casually reply.

Chani heaves out a deep sigh. “You don’t have to. You have no heart for killing, cousin.” She turns her focus to the rest of your tribe. “We need you here, tending to our wounded. It’s where you shine best.”

You nod in acknowledgement. No one in the sietch ever expected you to fight but you often wish that you could do more. You think of your mother’s untimely death, of the way Fremen laid down their lives today. Your heart sinks. If anyone learned of what you did, you would be exiled. Rightfully so. Your eyes wander to your cousin, now besides Paul Atreides. Longing gazes lock and fingers twine before they disappear into their shared tent. You look away.

You hope one day that twisting inside your chest whenever you see them will cease. You are happy for them; you truly are. Nevermind that you felt a pull towards the heir of House Atreides from the moment you met him, that you felt it was returned when his gaze rested upon you. That all of it vanished the moment his eyes crossed Chani’s.

A seer from your tribe foretold that a woman in your family would have a great destiny, one that will change the fate of worlds. You now understand, that woman is Chani, and she and Paul aren’t just destined to one another. They are fated.

And who are you to stand in the way of fate?

“You must be insane, girl,” the Harkonnen soldier scoffs as you remove the needle in his arm. Since he appears to have regained some color…or whatever consists of “color” for a Harkonnen, you elected to remove the plasma bag this morning.

A sliver of shame flutters through you that you were almost relieved to find him alive. You saved a life. Perhaps not the most worthy one, but a life nonetheless.

“Striking an enemy while he’s down isn’t brave,” you reply with nonchalance.

A crooked smirk cants his plump lips, baring a hint of the black teeth underneath.

“Insane and stupid then,” he sneers, the gristly echo of his voice resonating in the cave.

Ignoring the way his comment chafes you, you retrieve the little vials you packed this morning.

“Drink that.” He sits up, humming low in his throat with the movement when you’d expect him to wince or groan at the pain. It’s almost like he’s enjoying the pain he surely must be experiencing, but you discard that thought, because it’s ludicrous. What kind of person enjoys pain? “It’s water.” He studies you, making no move to grab the water. You fidget, unnerved that you can’t read his expression, his lack of eyebrows making it even more difficult. “I could only steal a little from the deathstill. It’s all I could get before anyone could see me.”

You briefly considered trading your mother’s water rings, the ones you inherited upon her death. The symbol of her standing and wealth within the Sietch Tabr.

Though while you may have saved your enemy, you want to hold on to that piece of her for as long as you can.

“I also have some food.” You rummage through your pouch to pull out dried fruits, slices of meats, bread and spice honey. It’s the best you could gather on short notice without drawing suspicion.

His dark gaze flicks over you as he taunts, “Perhaps I shall eat you. You look far more appetizing than…whatever this is.” You shudder, acutely aware that while cannibalism isn’t widespread amongst the Harkonnen…it’s also not unheard of.

He snickers at your expression. “Do not fret, desert rose.” His gravelly voice drips with suggestion as he licks his lips. A chill runs through you as his black tongue and teeth are bared to you. “I’m not quite that hungry…yet.”

Your shift, discomfort slithering through you. There is something profoundly unsettling about the Harkonnen, even more so than a typical one. The blood leaking through the bandage draws your gaze.

“I should dress your wound and redo the stitching,” you offer, clearing your throat.

When your hand stretches towards his wound, he growls at you.

Your heart leaps and you retreat your hand.

“Please,” you insist. “You’re bleeding.”

When he doesn’t make another threatening sound, you take that as your cue. You quickly gather your supplies and approach him. The drumming of your heart inside your ears is a clamor, but you pretend it isn’t there, removing the bandage and driving the needle through his wound to sew it shut again. He doesn’t flinch, showing no hint of even feeling the needle. His sizzling scrutiny sears through your flesh, almost causing your usually steady hands to quake. You sharpen your focus, remembering your grandmother’s teachings. Steady heart, steady hands.

He tilts his head, dark gaze trained on you. “I threaten to eat you and you tend to me still. What a peculiar creature you are, desert rose.”

The days fly by in a strange haze, your days spent preparing for the new Reverend Mother while you sporadically check on the stranger. He recovers faster than you expect, even without you needing to use the spice melange again. Considering he was at death’s door when you found him, you can’t help but be a little amazed.

You sense the time to go your separate ways is near. You have done a lot, likely more than you should. The alabaster-skinned warrior is well enough to roam the desert and find his way back to his people through his own means. You brought him supplies, food and a stillsuit. Whatever befalls him will be up to fate and his own wits. You don’t plan on returning after tonight.

“You’re looking better,” you note, checking his wound for the last time. You leave the bandage for good measure even if it’s clear he doesn’t need it anymore, the wound having begun to fade since you removed his stitches yesterday.

He pins you with that unsettling stare once more.

“That song you sang…” he rumbles.

“A song?” Your head tilts as you comb through your memories. It comes back to you. You sometimes hum it to yourself. It calms you down. You didn’t even realize you’d done it in his presence. “Ah, that song.” You shrug, a small smile sneaking onto your lips. “It’s just a lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me before she passed, to teach children about the Shai-Hulud.”

He looks at you in what you believe to be confusion at the name, though you can only assume.

“Your people call them… sandworms,” you explain. “They are sacred and should be revered.”

Silence hangs between you and the Harkonnen. His deep raspy voice shatters it after some time.

“Songs…I had a blade in my hands from the moment I could walk.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, unsure what else to say. He doesn’t seem sad, more reflective, but it seems you should say something. “Do you…Do you ever think of what your life would be like if you weren’t Harkonnen?” When he looks at you blankly, a nervous laugh peals from your lips. “I’m sorry. That was a silly question.”

Your crysknife materializes in his hands from behind his back. Your blood runs cold as you pat your thigh. You don’t remember ever leaving it around him.

“My older brother...He took me from our parents when I was a baby,” he utters, sounding detached, almost as if he were recounting someone else’s life. “My uncle raised me. I don’t remember my father. And my mother…” His lightless gaze slams into yours as he smiles, exposing his glistening, black teeth. “I killed that whimpering, meddling bitch.”

Your breath snags in your throat. Perhaps…you let yourself get too comfortable around the Harkonnen. The crude reminder of who he is, who they all are, yanks you back to reality.

You bolt to your feet, coaxing a tremulous smile onto your face.

“It’s getting late. I should return home before the sandstorms grow too strong.”

As you prepare to leave, the muffled pitter-patter of footsteps above you freezes you in your tracks. Your eyes bulge. Dread sinks within you as you realize someone’s right above you.

Before a single sound can make its way past your lips, the Harkonnen’s large hand envelops your mouth. He pulls you flush against his bare chest as he whispers into your ear, “Quiet.”

His muscles go taut against you. You catch him twirling the blade with smooth precision, clearly ready to fight if need be. You hold your breath, bridling your stuttering heartbeats.

Two men in full Harkonnen livery leap inside the cave. Panic rushes through you.

However, instead of a fight breaking out, relief fills the soldier’s faces as they see him.

“Na-baron. We received your beacon.”

Na-Baron…The air is knocked from your lungs. The title isn’t that common amidst the known universe. In fact, it’s quite unique and you only ever heard of one man from one specific house using it. Na-baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the heir-designate to Baron Vladmir Harkonnen.

He is a monster, a ruthless killer…and you nursed him back to health. Allowed him to get well enough to hurt, maim and kill as he pleases. The cave seems to twirl off its axis around you.

Perhaps he was right that night. You might be an insane idiot.

You feel the subtle lift of his lips against your scalp.

“Right. Did I forget to mention my name?” he taunts, as if he could read every thought zooming across your head. Giving you no time to even try to run or fight him off, the na-Baron slams your head against a nearby wall.

Pain explodes inside your skull. Your vision dims as you grow too weak to stand, your knees buckling beneath you. You fall into his arms and he holds you against him. He strokes the side of your face, a fire burning in his onyx orbs. Consciousness slips from you, his last words reverberating inside your ears.

“You and I are going home to Giedi Prime, my desert rose.”

You awake startled, jarred by the softness of the sheets and the largeness of the bed around you. This is nothing like the cot you used to sleep on in the desert. You leap from the bed, clutching your face and hugging your frame, stunned to note you are without your stillsuit and face mask.

Instead, you are wearing a sheer white tunic that hugs your curves in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. The outfit is unlike you, impractical in every way. Your pulse escalates.

You rush to rise and nearly crash down on the bed again.

Your forehead creases.

You wobble around, struck by the difference in gravitational pull, humidity and atmospheric pressure. Every breath you take exerts you, bearing heavily on your lungs.

Your head spins as you glance at the unfamiliar room. Every single detail of it is cold, somber, opulent.

Horror twists your insides.

You’re not on Arrakis anymore.

“You’re in the Harkonnen keep, darling.”

The gravelly voice erupting at your back has you whirl around. A half-exposed Feyd-Rautha fills your sight, his carved alabaster muscles and bald head shimmering silver in the low light.

You swallow hard, fighting to keep yourself breathing normally in the brand new air.

“The Harkonnen Keep on…”

“Giedi Prime, yes,” Feyd-Rautha finishes.

While you understood it on your own, having it uttered out loud sends you in a renewed state of alarm. You are away from your family, your friends, your home. You are alone on a foreign planet. A hostile, enemy planet.

“In secluded apartments away from my other concubines,” he further informs. A shadow of mirth lurks in his gaze. “They’re quite the jealous kind. They may even try to take a bite out of you if they learn of your existence…” He leers at your shivering frame, making no effort to hide his lust, the evidence already bulging in his pants. “Though I don’t think I could entirely blame them.”

He inches closer to you. “How does the weight of a real planet feel?” he asks, a twisted excitement swaying in his dark orbs. “Is it crushing your bones? Is every cell in your body screaming in pain, my desert rose?” He grips your chin, studying you oddly, almost as if he wishes he could absorb every bit of your agony and discomfort.

You glare up at him, your insides white hot with rage.

“H-How could you do this? I saved you.”

He frames your chin, squeezing tightly. “Oh darling, you should have killed me…” A squeak spills from your throat as he drags his tongue across the side of your quivering cheek. His lips brush over your earshell as he mumbles under his breath. “Because there’s nowhere in the galaxy you will ever be able to hide from me now.”

“I belong in Arrakis with my people. You have to let me go,” you plead.

You search his impassive face, scouring for an errant ounce of humanity. The emptiness you find has tears rushing to your eyes. You mourn the tragic loss of moisture, willing yourself to stop crying. Ever since you were young, you were taught never to waste your precious water...especially on something as trivial, as painfully unnecessary as tears.

...But you can't quell your weeping.

He tilts his head.

“You belong with me…No, to me, desert rose. In my arms, screaming as I ruin that pretty cunt of yours with my cock.”

Fear floods your entire being. Your eyes scan the room. A faint spark of hope blooms inside you as you spot a long, sharp knife on a stone table nearby.

Pushing past the queasiness you experience every time you move on the unfamiliar planet, you race across the room and grab the knife.

You point it at him. Instead of cowering, Feyd-Rautha opens his arms, smirking.

“Do it,” he urges, making no effort to protect himself from the sharp blade in your hand, inviting you to strike him as his tongue darts across his lips.

His uncanny anticipation coats the air. Confusion fills you.

“I will,” you say, trying to appear braver than you feel. Still, the blade quakes in your hand.

“Please. I beg of you,” he purrs, gliding towards you. As he watches you hesitate, he cruelly reminds you, “You will never go home, never see your beloved planet again. In fact,...” He hums, his eyes lighting up as if a wonderful idea just occurred to him. “I think I might slaughter some of your family and friends just for sport.”

A wave of wrath surges through you. Bereft a thought behind it, your hand slashes across his chest, a small cut forming there. Droplets of blood so dark it appears black drip down onto his alabaster flesh.

“More…” he rasps, pleasure leaking from his gravelly voice.

The sight of the bleeding wound rattles you, causing you to retreat.

But he doesn’t let you remove the blade, his fingers cinching around your wrist and keeping its sharp tip over his bulging pec. You sob as he forces you to drag the blade across his chest, a blissful expression spreading across his features. A long dark cut oozing dark red blood decorates his body now, going all the way to his defined abs.

Terror and confusion tangle within you. You stagger backwards, the dagger slipping from your lingers and hitting the floor.

“You’re sick.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a fire inside you, desert rose. If I don’t have you now, I think I’ll go mad.” His hoarse, lewd tone scrapes against your eardrums, causing your insides to twist in dread. He cracks his neck, black tongue sweeping over his lips as he approaches you. “No, I definitely will.”

It’s the only warning you get before he tosses you on the bed and rips the clothes off your frame. Tears brimming your lashes, you squeal in protest, scratching and punching every part of him within reach. You slap him hard and he cackles, baring his black smile in sheer delight.

“Come on, desert rose, I’m sure you can hit even harder,” he sneers.

To make him eat his words, you hit him again. Harder than before. His laugh gets louder as you watch a faint bruise form on his cheek.

Pinning your wrists besides your head, he bends over your chest. His tongue swirls around your nipples, his cool tongue causing you to hiss and shake. Sharp teeth graze your breast and the breath hitches in your throat. You squirm on the sheets, completely at the mercy of Feyd-Rautha as he licks, bites and kisses every part of your flesh. As if he wanted you covered in marks of his ownership, wanted to ensure there wouldn’t be a doubt in anyone’s mind that you were his if they stole a glance at you. You loathe the way your traitorous body writhes and pants, a disgusting dampness gathering at the apex of your thighs.

The tears in your eyes swell. Your body is divorcing your frazzled mind little by little, yielding to his rough, wanton touch.

He grabs your thighs and dips between your legs, diving straight for your center. He licks a long stripe up and down your folds and you tremble. As his devilish tongue swirls around your clit, your eyes flutter, blinding pleasure building in your core. Hot waves of delight engulf you as he gathers your arousal with his tongue and drags it around your tender spot. The slow, unrelenting patterns he traces with his mouth have you fight the urge to buck your hips into his jaw. Your juices drench the entire bottom of his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind, greedily devouring your cunt as if he’ll never get to do it again.

As you quiver against him, your orgasm flowing through you, he chuckles against your wet cunt.

“Your body can’t even deny how much it craves me, desert rose.”

Shame pulses through you with his words.

He crawls over you, cutting his pants loose with one aggressive shove downwards. Only a glimpse of his thick alabaster cock, glazed with his need at the tip appears in your vision before he shoves the entirety of himself in you. The pain is so intense, flames alongside your walls, that it robs the words from your throat. He sinks inside you until his tight balls chafe your cunt, his hand wrapping around your throat while the other keeps your wrists above your head.

You whimper beneath him, defenseless against his sharp, piercing thrusts. Pleasure builds within you, his cock overwhelming you with shameful sensations each time it grazes your sensitive places, making you see stars. Gargled sounds pour from your throat as his girth splits you apart.

He grunts as your walls constrict around him, slamming into you even harder.

“You’re so delightfully tight around me, darling.” He bends over you to whisper, “I bet I’ll turn you into my perfect little cock-hungry whore in no time. Have you on your back and knees for me whenever I wish it.”

The Harkonnen heir’s pace fastens, his cock hitting spots that have you question your sanity. So delicious that you can’t help but let pathetic little moans escape from your throat.

He buries himself inside you even deeper, the pain and pleasure blending in crescendo. Your eyes roll back as you near your peak. Meanwhile, Feyd Rautha’s hunting his own release, his quick thrusts growing sharp and slow, his bald head grazing your bare chest.

Pleasure rolls over in a tidal wave, your back curling alongside the sheets. His own release comes after yours, thick ropes of his seeds painting your sore, sensitive walls.

As you crash in a boneless heap on the sheets, he wraps his hand around your jaw and steals your lips for a sloppy, heated kiss.

You cry out in pain as he sinks his teeth into your neck, placing a visible puncture wound that won’t disappear for a while.

Still nestled in your warmth, he scatters more bites along your shoulder.

“Any man would be insane to let you go after tasting such a sweet cunt, desert rose.”

You know he wants you to see, doesn’t want you to miss a single second of the spectacle. It was a split second moment, one that could have easily resulted in his death.

But at the very last second, Feyd-Rautha prevailed and dodged Paul Atreides’ attack. He then proceeded to stab him in the heart in front of his heartbroken mother and your cousin.

You don’t want to believe it. It must be an awful dream, one you will soon wake up from. One that lasted entirely too long. While seeing Paul’s body sink to the floor, your heart shattering into a million tiny pieces…Watching Chani glare at you with pure hatred in her eyes from across the room is almost worse. You want to run to her, embrace her, tell her you never meant to leave, tell her you aren’t a traitor to your people despite what clothes you may wear now, what marks may brand your skin.

But it’s all for naught. Paul is dead and with him the hopes for your planet, for your people have died as well.

And you are left with nothing, no one. A stranger in a strange world.

It’s what he reminds you as he has you caged beneath him that night, burying himself inside you again and again with abandon.

“You’re mine, desert rose. And nothing, no one can take you away from me. Not my uncle. Not Paul Atreides. Not the Emperor.” He chuckles darkly, whispering against your ear. “...And not even you, darling.”

He is right. You are his. And with no one to challenge the rule of the now Baron Feyd-Rautha, ruler of House Harkonnen, it is as he said…There is nowhere in the galaxy you can hide where he will not find you.

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #dune fanfiction #dune part 2 #dune #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd-rautha #feyd-rautha harkonnen #dark fic

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