#this is a squad I wish I could see more

[fabuloustrash05]

I made this and I find it really hilarious so please enjoy.

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Gotta love how in Archie anti Jules and the biggest shit eating grin while poor baby scourge looked so lonely , puny and neglected.

Yeah poor little guy🥲

[probablygayattorneys]

Emmy and Seamus, sitting in a tree~

[scarletiswailing347]

something i hate about being used to small/dead fandoms is that the more active somethings fandom is the more overwhelmed i get which sucks cause i do wanna participate but oh my god theres way too many ppl here

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ

Summary: Your arranged marriage to the na-Baron is something that you look upon with a sense of dread and reluctance. His violence, brutality and cunning are something that haunts you. You should fear him. You do. But for some reason, you can't seem to stay away.

Warnings: 18+ content. MDI. AFAB, she/her pronouns. Reader is a virgin but not entirely inexperienced, virginity loss. Hints of morally gray reader. Oral (F!Receiving), biting and blood, PinV, non-protected sex, Canon typical violence (blood, death, gladiator fights). Feyd. Not proofread.

Notes: 20.4k words. The essence of enemies to lovers. The reader is an Atreides but not a daughter of Jessica. IDK ya'll, something about seeing Austin Butler bald and deranged has altered me.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. 

Your heart is in your throat. It feels as though it's lodged itself in place between the cartilage and flesh to choke your windpipe, making each breath snag and tremble. You can practically feel it pulsing along your pharynx. You try to focus, steeling yourself by lacing your fingers together until you fear you might break them. Not even the litany that has been engrained in you since childhood serves to center your thoughts, but still you try. Chanting lowly in your head and quietly under your breath as not to be heard. As not to reveal your anxiety, but you know that the evidence of your distress must be more than obvious. And it had been very apparent since this morning, as you prepared for your travel to Giedi Prime where you will be married. 

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

The looks that Lady Jessica had given you were harsh and piercing. The eyes of a teacher. You had found no forgiveness in her arms even though she has done her best to take the place of your mother. But she is a Bene Gesserit first. Always. Just as you must be. But you must also be an Atreides. Duty is your purpose. It runs in your blood. It's the very reason why you pull air into your lungs. It's why you were even born. You have to honor that. Even if it requires sacrifice. Even if fear trembles down each and every notch of your spine; even when your thoughts are scattered and wild; even with the entire trajectory of your life being placed into the palms of some of the most ruthless beings in the universe. You will survive. 

I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

You swallow harshly, trying to force down your nerves with it but the way that the craft shudders and trembles with the strain of breaking through the foreign planet's atmosphere doesn't help. It only serves to make your inner turmoil worse. Your gaze sweeps around the cabin, a hollow thing meant for military, not comfort, and the presence of a small squad clad in their combat armor reminds you of the strained relationship that your family has nurtured with this house for several millennia. A reminder that you aren't supposed to be here on your own. Nearly clawing at your own hands and struggling to center yourself as the cold, dark walls of the ship tremble and shake like the stomach of starved animal. Your wedding was supposed to take place on Richese, a neutral planet that no longer governs political alliances with neither Caladan nor Giedi Prime. That is what had been negotiated long before you were even born, with both Houses having been too paranoid to allow both products of their lineage onto enemy territory. But a month before the wedding, the Baron had sent word. An invitation of sorts, that he wished to encourage the House of Atreides to allow the union to commence on his soil as a token of good faith. As a signal that all of the bad blood and the violence shared between each party could finally be laid to rest.

But as with most houses, it was more than just an invitation. It strengthened the Harkonnen image to place forth the olive branch and if Duke Leto refused it could be seen in bad light. A sign of weakness or distaste. The summoning could not be refused lest it smear the Atreides name in the eye of the Emperor, always a fickle and superficial man. Even with that logic, you can't help the spike of anger that rouses in your chest and threatens to burn. It's because of that sense, no matter how correct it may be, that you're sitting in this damned ship, breaking into the polluted atmosphere of a dead planet when you could have had just one more day on soil that wasn't obscured and marred by heavy cities and volcanic rock. 

Selfish. You're just being selfish. 

Even though she is not here to guide you, the image of Lady Jessica's eyes flash within your mind, sharp and exacting despite their light shade; amplified by the delicate, embroidered fabric that framed her head just this morning.  School your face, her expression tells you. And she - or at least the mental image of her, is right. You can't let yourself fall to your emotions, no matter how strongly they want to eat you alive. You've prepared for this moment since your first breath. You've spent nearly every waking moment practicing in the ways of the Bene Gesserit under the guidance of Lady Jessica. You'vee spent countless hours poring over the history and politics of both houses in preparation for your future role; what must have amounted to months of studying the culture and customs of the Harkonnen. All of them seem to be rooted in violence and savagery in some way or another. Aggression and cunning are prized traits. Bloodshed is coveted. The people according to old texts and educational filmbooks are just as severe as their environment. An environment that they had cultivated from their brutal and avaricious nature, tearing up all of its resources until nothing was left. 

You can't help but wonder if you will suffer the same fate. 

But if you are going to be honest with yourself, it isn't the toxic hellscape or even the idea of marriage that puts you on edge. It is him. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is someone who is notorious for his violence. Stories of his conquests and cruelty echo out across the houses, Minor and Major; there is not a soul who hasn't heard of his reputation. And despite having been promised to him since before your birth, you haven't met the na-Baron once in your life. Both houses had been too stubborn to schedule an interaction between the two of you. Most likely due to mistrust. Plus, a meeting isn't necessarily required for a marriage to commence, not one amongst houses, at least. But the fact that you haven't so much as seen the na-Baron's face has always left you feeling horribly vulnerable. Like you have been left to navigate you footing in the dark and the slightest misstep might leave you to tumble into the void. It had been another reason why you have always been so adamant on learning of the Harkonnen people; some desperate venture to discover as much about your soon to be husband as possible. You've tried to paint some sort of image of him in your head with the information provided by word of mouth and old filmbooks. Gurney had been one of the first people to warn you of Harkonnen ruthlessness. Their proclivity towards greed and violence. A violence that they don't even spare their own people from. 

"You will have to be strong," he told you just before you had boarded onto the star craft, eager to speak to you before you left forever. It was his worry you knew. He was panicked inside despite being the picture of composure. The look in his eyes had kept you frozen in place, locked onto him even with the mild thrum of chaos and bodies clamoring around you, servants and soldiers alike working to prep the ship for your flight, loading trunks and chests full of your personal belongings onto the carrier. It was firm; the type of resolution that is brought from experience. From a personal sort of pain and the glint of it left you feeling empty; gutted. The only thing that kept you centered was the grip of his hand on your forearm, firm and warm in its hold like it may help to drill his words better into your skull. "Every moment will be a fight for you. Harkonnen sniff out weakness like dogs. You cannot yield. Ever." 

You've heard words like that about them all your life. Horror stories from Atreides soldiers who had encounters with opposing Harkonnen forces. Tales of stark, pale skin and the glint of snarling blackened teeth before they deliver a killing blow. Features that a younger version of yourself never would have imagined for her intended. But those naive, wistful fantasies that you used to entertain as a child are long gone now. Replaced by the harsh realities of war and bloodshed. When you were a girl, still ignorant to the true depth of your duties, you had imagined someone with kind, intelligent eyes as your future husband. Someone patient and understanding; even with the whispers of the Harkonnen's true nature lurking over you like leaping shadows. But back then you were young enough to have hope. Back then, you would dream of him too in the flashes of deep, piercing eyes; you'd hear the low rumble of a voice while blades flashed and carved through pale air. 

 And on some nights visions still torment you. But now they taunt with the sensation of phantom touches and the mirage of balmy skin that sears against you own so intently that sometimes it tears you from your slumber with ragged breaths and a humiliating heat between your thighs. 

You can feel the pressure in the cabin shift around you, weighing over your head and bearing down on your shoulders as the ship continues its descent. Your ears pop, and the sound has the awful, paranoid visual of snapping bones and tendons projecting across your mind. You pull a heavy breath into your lungs, holding it there while you try to shift your thoughts onto something less violent. Escaping to fond memories to try and soothe yourself. For a just a moment you pretend that you are not here at all, but back home on Caladan. You can see the ocean. The long stretch of crystalline water, glittering underneath the cast of the balmy sunlight as trawlers coast along the current to capture netfuls of fish, looking like dots along the distant horizon. But it's always the wind that you love the most. Even when the skies are clear, unmarred from the blot of heavy rainclouds, you can always smell the presence of a storm in the air, perfuming the breeze with the earthy musk of petrichor and the fresh salt of the ocean. You can practically feel the brush of lush grass sweeping along your palms, prickling along the sensitive skin with the damp hint of the dew that seeps from the rich ground. 

Your reverie is shattered to a million pieces when the metallic hum of the craft's engine reverberates across the walls and floor of the cabin, signaling that it is approaching the ground; preparing to land. Each pulse of the sharp groan sounds like the pound of a nail in a casket. You can just barely focus around the wild patter of your heartbeat in your ears and for a moment you think that you might become ill. You could still feel the warmth of your brother's arms around your body. The way that he had clung to you. Like he was afraid to let go; to watch you slip from his life. In turn you had latched onto him, hesitant to unwind your arms from him, trying to claim the feel and scent of him to memory. But you couldn't have remained that way forever, and when you had pulled away from each other, the corners of his mouth were perked up into a smile. But it was too dull, too forced to be truly happy. You saw something mournful peeking through it, even while he tried to appear composed for your sake. You know how much he opposes of your intended matrimony. You have eavesdropped on the arguments he has shared with your father behind closed doors, attempting to fight for your sake even though it was a lost cause. His fear that you might not survive the ruthlessness of the Harkonnen, his misguided guilt for you taking his intended place. It had made you sorry for him the first time he had confessed that remorse to you. That he felt as though he was the one to blame for your marriage because it was his initial future to wed into the Harkonnen House had he not been born a male. Even with your near constant insistence that it was not his burden to bear, he refused to shed the weight of his self-imposed guilt. Always so damn stubborn. 

You had done your best to return his smile, softly squeezing his hand to comfort him and center your mind while the briny Caladan wind swept across the landing pad. But the memory cannot keep your heart from plummeting down to your gut when the craft finally touches the ground, shuddering lightly as it lands with a deep whir. 

You're here. You are actually on Giedi Prime now. 

There is officially no turning back. 

You feel like a ghost when you are drawn to rise, and you hardly register the fact that you haven't moved from your place on the seating to stand on your feet once the ship is still. You feel like an empty vessel, seeing but not registering as everyone moves about the empty space with practiced ease to stand before the hatch. The small unit of four soldiers have all built a formation around you and your own handmaidens, who stand diligently behind you. On any other occasion, they would have lined themselves in front of you all as well. Especially during affairs with the Harkonnen. But this is not a regular affair, and as trivial as it may seem, something as simple as guards posed in front of the Duke's daughter could be viewed as an act of distrust. A blight on your wedding and the union of the houses. 

Despite the way that everyone holds themselves; the images of discipline with perfect posture and heads held high, the apprehension that taints the atmosphere could be mistaken for a tangible thing. You could still see glimpses of tension set in the soldiers' shoulders; you could see the rigidity in their necks, anticipation and worry hidden underneath their armor.

Your father should be here too. Your family. But you know that they can't. A matter of ill, convenient timing that required them to board their own ship to leave for Arrakis. The Emperor had passed the fief to the House of Atreides, calling them to abandon their position on Caladan - to abandon your ancestorial home - in favor for the desert and the production of spice. It was an unexpected development, but one that your father would not turn down. As angry as you would like to be, you know how difficult this is for him. You have wanted to blame him for so long. And for a while you did. He's your father. He is supposed to protect you. To keep your happiness and security in mind. But because of the perspective, it is also easy to forget that he is more than just your father, he is also a Duke, with countless lives to defend and shelter. He is an Atreides. 

You are an Atreides, and there is no call you do not answer. 

You had shared one final look with him on Caladan, underneath the golden rays of the morning sun.  You didn't flinch or waver underneath his gaze. You remained firm, and some sort of understanding passed between the both of you, melting away the hatred and betrayal that ran thick in your blood stream. In that split second, you saw so much pass through his eyes: determination, acceptance and something like a bare shred of loss before it was quickly masked by unwavering resolve. A resolve that you too had to master. 

A dull jolt sounds out across the dark, metallic space and with it the large hatch of the ship begins to open, exposing a sliver of pale light. Butterflies erupt inside of your gut at the sight of the glow, brushing along your stomach and threatening to overcome you with a rush of nausea. But you hold yourself still, attempting to swallow down the unease but suddenly your throat is bone dry and stuffed with cotton. Perhaps the only thing that keeps you in place is the promise the Feyd-Rautha will not be present at your arrival. A small respite that your father had been able to secure you in the form of a Caladan wedding custom; that your husband should not be able to see you before your ceremony, lest the matrimony fall to bad luck. And in truth it is a tradition. One that has trickled down through the ages from Old Earth, so it was not necessarily done by means of deceit. Even so, the Baron had apparently been less than thrilled by the prospect of keeping you and his nephew separated once on the same soil, though it seems that your father still had managed to persuade him regardless. A small victory for you at least. 

Now all you can do is hope that the Baron has stuck to his word. 

You watch with ice in your veins and frozen lungs as the ramp continues to lower, yawning open akin to the jaws of an animal that threatens to discard you at the feet of starving beasts like scraps. More of that harsh light flows into the dark of the cabin, spilling over the heads of the soldiers, eating up the floor until it slips over your body, rising up over you until it reaches your eyes like a blaze; threatening to blind you with its intensity. You wince from the brightness of it, blinking rapidly until your eyes adjust to the absence of shadows. The surprised, low hiss that erupts from behind you, tells you that one of your handmaidens has also been taken off guard and blinded. 

With the continuation of its descent, it begins to reveal a blackened skyline of buildings that rise like slopping monoliths. Massive structures eat up the ground and cast stretching shadows across the dark platform. It strikes you that the little bit of the visible sky is a pale, as though a flat storm cloud had consumed the heavens. It isn't blue like the skies back home, or even orange or anything. It is simply a white void. It's all monochrome. Devoid of color and life. Everywhere that you look is either a piercing black or a violent white that almost burns to behold, and it is with a quick, almost hesitant inspection downward that you discover that the emerald hue of your silk dress has turned a shade of a deep smoky black from the strange illumination. 

But you don't get time to dwell on the discovery for long before the ramp meets the ground with a dull groan. It might as well as be a death sentence. You just barely catch sight of the of the figures that are lined along the platform, silently waiting for you to step out into the light. In your stupor, you have noticed that the number of Harkonnen that wait for your exit is a rather small group. It is not a massive procession with banners or celebration; there is no intrigued crowd of citizens awaiting to evaluate you. No more than five Harkonnen stand out on the platform, focusing on you with the distance the separates your parties with clasped hands and heads held high. The Baron it seems, holds no excitement for your arrival and has made no effort to welcome you on Giedi Prime. The message has been made clear of what he thinks of this union. Of you. 

The bastard. 

The world has gone hush. Dead silent as everyone awaits your move. And it is with that thought suddenly that you realize that everyone is waiting for you to take action. You are no longer expected to follow. You aren't allowed the crutch of following after your father or Lady Jessica's footsteps. They aren't here to guide you anymore. You steel yourself with a deep breath, drawing up your shoulders as you will yourself to step forward. Your legs are suddenly heavy like they have been strapped down with boulders and iron, but you force them into a stride regardless. Even when each move forward feels like a motion closer to your demise. 

You can hear the gentle clink of your Handmaidens heels as they dutifully trail after you. It gives you some comfort, no matter how small, that you have some familiar faces amongst you. That you aren't completely alone here. 

Still, you try to distract yourself. And in some mad scramble, your mind latches onto some old passage that you had read back on Caladan during one of your distant studies. It has you daring to sneak a few glances upward to the pale sky in between your focus forward, squinting through the glare, ignoring the way that the delicate chained veil draped across your face nudges against your eyelashes in your search for the sun. You had heard of its description countless times, seen holograms of it before, but none of them had managed to do the true thing honesty. In its blaze, it is claimed to cast an infrared shine which explains the bleak, washout coloration of the planet. But seeing the source of said lighting was entirely different. You do your best not to openly gawk at. To not stare at it for too long. The last thing that you want is to go blind; your fortune is terrible enough as is. But you're unable to stop yourself from stealing fleeting peeks at the star. If you didn't know any better, you could have mistaken it for a sort of eclipse. It looks like a black hole has torn through the heavens, gaping like an open wound, and you would have no idea that it was burning if not for the streams of light radiating from its rounded edges like a halo. 

Even with the remnants of your hatred smoldering through your body and turning your muscles rigid, you can't deny that there is a kind of odd beauty about the star. It's strange to see something that you had learned about so many years ago, and there is some detached part of you that has not fully accepted that you are even truly here. That small piece is still safely tucked away on Caladan, admiring as the sea meets the cliffside in a rolling crest of foam and froth. 

But that still is not enough to keep you from your reality. 

You all come to a unanimous halt, standing to leave a decent breadth between you and the Harkonnen. You have heard many things of the Baron of Giedi Prime. His guile. His hedonism. Whispers among the houses claimed him to be a gargantuan man. Someone whose intensity and mannerisms alone command attention and make men cower. The Baron, you quickly deduce, is not here. It seems that he has sent his advisors and servants in his stead. Whether that be from arrogance or indolence, or hatred, you are not sure. 

The man who stands at the in the center of the greeting committee holds himself with an air of importance. Back straight and hands clasped as he analyzes your small party. He is awfully pallid, just as his other companions are, a product of being denied ultraviolet rays that could be found in your planets own sun. The hulking black star cradled in the sky above you is hardly able to provide a proper tan it seems. The stark, unforgiving light casted from the solar body bathes you all in a layer of an achromatic hue, and it glints across the rounded skin of his bare scalp. They are all bald, you have easily observed, and you can just faintly recall reading a chapter in regard to Harkonnen beauty standards. Their proclivity to remove every ounce of hair from their bodies as a sign of cleanliness and purity; the means to extract themselves from their meek beginnings and perhaps, to a degree, a way to separate themselves from humanity. But the dark vertical strip that stretches across the expanse of his bottom lip signifies his position as a Mentat. 

"Lady Atreides," the Harkonnen advisor greets, voice deceptively placid and monotone. "We are grateful for your arrival. I trust that the trip was respectable." His words are kind, but the expression on his face is decidedly neutral. There is something about him that instantly unnerves you. Be it the unrushed nature of his mannerisms or the sly look in his eyes, you are not sure, but he sets you on edge. 

You force yourself to speak, calming your features into something just as blank and fixed as his own. "It was fair," you answer truthfully, before pointedly scanning the surrounding area. "It is a beautiful planet." A lie is you have ever said one, and the Mentat does not appear to be ignorant to your sad attempt at charm. Even with the unmoved aura that radiates from him, you are sure that you spotted a small glimmer of amusement pass through the dark of his eyes. 

"I am pleased you think so," he replies easily. "In any case, I have my orders to deliver you to the Baron as soon as possible. An event is being held in the honor of your union to the na-Baron. You shall not want to miss it." 

The confession feels as though it has doused you with ice water, but you refuse to show your distress. You're not stupid. You know that at some point, you would have to face the Baron. You were just hoping that it would not have been so soon. You should have known better, you suppose, that the Baron would give you single moment of reprieve once on his planet, and now you are suddenly not so sure that you want to have to attend a celebration of any sort. 

"Wonderful," you force a smile, one as polite you can manage while making sure to keep your voice gentle and inviting. 

"Leave your soldiers here. They won't be necessary." 

The request leaves you troubled. For a moment you stand there silently, a little dumbly even. That last thing you want to do is leave your only form of proper protection outside on an unfamiliar world. Especially one as hostile and deceitful as Giedi Prime. But you do not have many options here. You are in no true form of power. You are not yet married to the na-Baron, you are lightyears away from your own planet - which doesn't belong to your family anymore by the Emperor's decree - and your father must be on Arrakis by now; even farther away. You are now the one who dictates your fate and survival, and although promised to the na-Baron, your life is still not secured. You must be tactful. 

You turn your head to look over your shoulder at the soldiers who diligently stand behind you and your handmaidens. Your focus meets the unwavering stare of the lieutenant; his hardened countenance, his lips pressed into a firm line. The nod you give him is subtle, but it is still a command, and with it, he and his men silently step back. 

When you return your attention back on the Mentat it is difficult to tell if he is pleased or not with how blank he keeps his features. It's unnerving but then he spins on his heels without any more fanfare and his fellow Harkonnen are quick to shadow him. Hesitation bears heavy in your gut, but even with your instinct telling you to run; to flee, you steel yourself. Drawing in a deep breath to clear your mind, you follow. 

You are not sure what you had expected to find when you had allowed the Mentat to lead you. Some wild, senseless part of you feared that he may have taken you to your death. Led you to a trap to be slaughtered. But no dagger has been raised to your chest. He has not summoned soldiers from the shadows to pull you away and toss you into a tomb. Or maybe in a way he has. 

The doorway that you stand before is daunting. Affixed in front of you like a rival. It is such a trivial, ordinary thing. You have passed through thresholds millions of times in your years, twisted knobs and guided doors open to pass through them. But suddenly, such a mundane thing seems to stand out like a hazardous sign - a bad omen. You know who lies beyond it. Who you must face. Now your bravery threatens to allude you. To leave you abandoned and flailing. It does not help that your handmaidens had been dismissed for you. Guided away by Harkonnen servants, and when you had asked the Mentat as to where they were being taken, what intentions lie ahead for them, he didn't answer. His silence on the matter has left you disturbed; fueled your mind to wonder and theorize about the worst. That they may be harmed. 

He stands next to you now, just as silent as before, watching you expectedly. 

No. You cannot flounder here. You cannot cower or cry. Your duty - your lineage will not allow it. 

With a newfound determination, you step forward with your chin raised proudly. Activated by the motion, the dark door slips open, beckoning you enter, and you answer the invitation without wavering. The Mentat doesn't follow after you, but you hardly pay that any mind, too focused on analyzing the room that you now stand in. The space is open and capacious, and you spot a line of servant girls rowed up to the right with their backs against the wall. They don't glance up when you look at them, even though you can tell that they are aware of your presence. They remain silent, eyes trained on the floor and posture rigid. There is fear in them. 

As if drawn by a magnetic pull, you attention leaves them to wander to the opposite end of the room. His back is facing you, but even then, you are certain that all of the stories you have heard of him will not prepare you for this moment. Even as he perches - lounges on the support of his seat from fully across the room, his presence commands your attention. The order that his being silently instructs is only amplified by the cool, harsh light that pours down around him from the viewing window, highlighting his shape as he sits like a gargoyle poised. The gossip was true, it seems, he is a corpulent man and shares the same ashen complexation as the other Harkonnen that you have seen thus far. And suddenly as curiosity burns in you to see the face of the person who has harmed so many, who has left his blight on the galaxy. 

"Are you joining me, or are you intent on staying in the shadows?" 

The voice is so rough and crude that it shocks you, prickling over your skin with the all the coarseness of sandpaper, and you just barely refrain from showing your displeasure at its harshness. It's graveled as it passes into your ears, but it seizes one's attention instantly, causing the hairs scattered along your body and at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Still you move forward, by the impulse of your own intrigue or the authoritative quality of his voice, you aren't certain, but you cross the breadth that separates you all the same. Each step reveals more of his face to you. The slope of his nose, the crow's feet that cluster around the corners of his eyes, the prominent frown that weighs upon his face. He doesn't spare you a glance as you stop beside him; intently focused on what lies outside of the balcony. 

"Lord Baron," you greet, nodding your head down and bending your knees in a curtsy. 

His hand raises up in a manner than almost seems reprimanding, and it causes you to freeze still, staring at those fingers like he might mean to strike you. But the curl of them is far too lax to deliver a proper blow and it is enough to give you some relief. 

"There is no need for formalities, " he speaks. Then his stare is on you: flaying you open, evaluating, weighing, searching your worth. But underneath the judgement of someone like him, you cannot waver. "We are family now, are we not?" 

The mere implication has you fighting off the urge to shudder in disgust. Instead, you straighten yourself and manage a polite smile. Or you hope that it seems polite at least. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for your answer. He casts a brief glance to the vacant chair close you, and you need no verbal instruction on what he wants, even though he still gives it. 

"Sit," he offers. Commands really. 

 It pains you to comply, to follow the will of the man that you have been guided to resent since you realized consciousness, no matter how small the order, but you swallow your pride. 

Carefully you turn on your feet, being mindful not to nudge the small table that is posted beside the chair, and you make note of the pair of theater binoculars that are displayed on the counter, waiting to be used. Gathering the light pull of your skirt to sit without crumbling the fabric, you allow yourself to recline in the seat and try to ignore how close you are to the Baron. But you suppose that you should learn to come to terms with it. He will be a permanent fixture in your life, whether you like it or not. Though it does not make it any easier to swallow down the bitter taste of loathing on your tongue. Desperate for a distraction your eyes are quick to look out past the boarders of the balcony and the sight that greets you latches onto your focus instantly. It is a wonder how you had even managed to miss the view upon your entrance. But in your defense, you were a little preoccupied. Now you are hardly able to look away. The sheer mass of the structure leaves you captivated. Great, sweeping, walls rise; climbing up towards the blank heavens with rows of seats secured between the hulking barriers. Pale, shifting shapes roar and cheer inside the stands in a fervent display of excitement and anticipation. People you quickly realize. All of them chanting loudly. But the distortion their voices all layered up into a chaotic stream makes it difficult to understand it. The walls that hold them and the very room you sit in encircle a massive plot of bare earth. It is an arena. 

You have seen a few of them in your lifetime. Visited the old coliseums on Caladan. The same ones that your very ancestors had fought wild bulls in. You walked along the ancient, stone walls and pillars, cupped the golden sand within your palm and allowed it to run through your fingers. But the sheer scale of this structure is mindboggling and the number of people that have all massed together to bear witness to its exhibition is even greater. The Mentat had promised you a celebration in the honor of your marriage, and you had been left to wonder what that said celebration may have been. But now you have your answer. There is the evidence of a ferocious fight having taken place in the arena. The face of the white sand bellow has been disturbed. Blemished and smudged by footprints and the clear sign of a struggle; that the fighters had rolled along the ground and tussled for their breath. But even more damning is the dark stains that are streaked and pooled along the course earth. Even with the coloration altered black by the dark sun above, you know that it is blood. 

"A gladiator fight," you conclude aloud, and there is even an edge of scornful humor on your tone. "If you truly wanted a spectacle, you could have me thrown down there. I'm sure your people would love to watch an Atreides be slaughtered." You are not sure where the comment comes from. A sudden burst of confidence or perhaps defiance. You regret your snark as soon as you register the words, but it is too late for apologies now. You simply squeeze your clasped hands together tighter, even while your head is held high. A raspy, amused sound erupts from beside you, like air escaping a puncture, and you just vaguely realize that it is a chuckle. The Baron is laughing even as the smile hardly reaches his face. It is a small sound. Barely even qualifying as a laugh, but it eases you still. 

"A spectacle indeed." He says it as though he is in on a secret that you are not privy to. Part of a joke you might never know, and it immediately snuffs out the small sense of composure that you had achieved. "But I have no use for you dead." 

"Then what use do you have of me?" You pry. 

He hums, a hushed, guttural sound. "Do you know why you are to be married to my nephew?" 

The question gives you pause. There are many duties that you are required to perform in the union with the na-Baron. It is a political alliance first and foremost. A joining of two rival houses, meant to put to rest the animosity that has burned between you both for over 10,000 years. But it is also much more than that. You are to give him an heir as well, the continuation of his lineage. But the Harkonnen are not the only ones who intend for you to produce a child: the Bene Gesserit also demand a progeny of your union (though the Baron must remain ignorant to that design). It is why your mother had been sent the Duke in the first place, to correct Lady Jessica's mistake and birth a daughter. To birth you. So much is dependent on this marriage to flourish. Much that you yourself probably are not even privy to, but it is your duty to perform regardless. If you fail, your family name will forever be smeared and the possibility of the Kwisatz Haderach may be lost to eternity. And you will not allow your mother's death to be in vain. 

"Yes." 

Once more he turns his head to face you and his eyes glint with a deadly intensity. "Then you know of your purpose. "

It is a plain sentence, but it speaks volumes in its simplicity and its intent is not lost on you. It is a warning. A set of instructions that you are meant to follow. Keep your head down, your mouth shut and fulfil your function as promised and you may make it out of this arrangement unscathed. It has anger flaring in the pit of your stomach, prickling over your skin and heating up your face. The desire to say something in defense of yourself rises up high, but you know that you must hold your tongue. You are sure that he can see your opposition in your eyes as much as you try to control it, but he does not mention it. His vision roves over your visage like he is studying you and your reactions, in search of weakness. 

"Now watch." He says and returns his attention back to the bloodied sand beneath. 

Your eyebrows furrow, openly showing you confusion. What the Baron desires you to see, you don't know. You can hardly imagine what he has in store for you but given the nature of the arena and the Baron himself, it surely won't bode well for you. You don't dare to question him or ask that he elaborate. Your mouth remains fixed shut as you survey the colosseum with your breath locked within your lungs. An unwanted type of anticipation prickles at your fingertips and toes; spurred on by the way that the crowd rouses into a frenzy and the vibrations of their riotous cries strike across the atmosphere. The sound of their shouting spikes until it is thunderous, and you can hear the blunt sound of their fists beating against the stadium like a hammer striking down on an iron nail. Despite the many voices overlapping and yelling to be heard of the others, somehow in their clamoring, their words have become clearer. And it is not just words that they are spouting. It is a name. 

Feyd-Rautha. 

You are certain that your lungs cease to function. That they die inside your chest while you still live. The na-Baron is going to fight. You're going to see him. Despite wanting to slip your eyes closed, your body betrays you, leading you to scour along the dark sweeping walls of the arena in a terrified search that does not stop until your vision lands on what looks to be a massive entrance built into the bordering wall of the colosseum. Your heart flutters like a startled bird, quivering wildly like a pair of wings would. "I thought my father said that we would not see each other before the wedding?" 

"He said that he could not look at you. But there was no discussion of you witnessing him," the Baron answers. 

You do not know why the prospect of it makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat, wishing that you could sink into the cushion and vanish. Perhaps it's because seeing him would truly sink the severity of your new reality in. There would truly be no avoiding it once you do. All you can think of is all of the rumors and gossip that you had heard over the many years. The horrible tales of a psychopath. A man unhinged. No better than a rabid dog on a frayed rope. People spoke of a remorseless monster that delighted in blood and was unflinching in delivering death. Other's claimed that his appearance is just as terrifying as his actions. That he's gaunt and hideous to behold with awful, jagged teeth and bloodshot eyes. 

That is not a truth that you are ready to face, and your desire to remain ignorant to the possibility of his unsightly features burns in your gut. You are so caught up in your own anxieties that you hardly register the blaring of the announcer's voice sounding across the stadium, warbling over the sound system to praise and declare the arrival of the man who you have been dreading. You're entirely conflicted; transfixed as the entrance on the far end of the arena begins to slip open, even though your instincts tell you to turn your focus elsewhere. The floor, your hands, the crazed crowd. Anything. But is like watching a great fire or a calamity. The entire time your consciousness warns you not to look, but you are unable to. It is almost as if you have been casted under a horrible spell. Bewitched to see him even though you don't wish to. 

You stare helplessly at the threshold of the arena, and for a moment you wonder if it might be the entrance to the underworld instead. A dark, consuming void for a demon to come crawling out of. But this demon does not crawl. He marches. 

A figure strides out from the gateway wielding two recurved blades and the crowd erupts in an exhilarated cry. From the distance and height, you are unable to discern his features, but the way that he carries himself is already more than enough to give insight to his personality. His steps are long, eating up the ground in quick, measured paces; his shoulders are raised and straight, exuding pride. It's the saunter of someone confident in themselves and their abilities. Someone who is not just in their element but basking in it. He raises an arm high in the air, brandishing his fist and the weapon he clutches in it to address the masses, pointing the tip of the blade to sky as it erupts in a flurry of strange fireworks that burst and flourish like blots of heavy ink. The crowd punch their own arms up in turn and shout his name like an impassioned prayer. 

The apprehension chilling your chest begins to thaw, giving way to a strange sort of curiosity and before you know it, you're reaching for the theater binoculars placed on the table beside you. Anticipation thrums in your veins, nearly making your fingers shake around your grip of the handle as you lift the device up to your face, lining it up to peer into the eyepieces. It takes a moment for your brain to process what it is seeing. Who it's seeing. It's surreal how his once distant, blurred features have become clear and amplified underneath the optics of the binoculars. The familiarity of him strikes you like an unforgiving wave despite never having met him before. But everything, from his gait and the shape of his face seems as though you have gazed upon it a thousand times, ran your fingertips across the rise of his cheek bones and the plains of his face even though you haven't. The familiarity terrifies you, but it also keeps your attention firmly locked onto him. 

What catches your attention first are his eyes. It is difficult to tell their shade from underneath the monochrome emittance of the sun - they seem dark but some buried, distant instinct whispers that they're truly blue. A light shade akin the ocean, glittering in shades of pale cerulean and teal. It strikes you how they burn with a calculated excitement. A dangerous, fervid type of delight as he gauges the crowd with rapt attention. Even with the intense light bathing most of the scenery shades of white you know that the pale complexion of his skin is natural. Paired with the sharp angles that create his features it makes him seem as though he could have been cut from marble; a statue gifted with life and will. His lips, you shamelessly notice, are plush, and are set into a soft pout. 

Even with resentment for the Harkonnen still fueling your heartbeat you're unable to deny that the stories and claims that you had heard about his appearance were awful exaggerations. Absolute lies. You don't want to admit it, but there is a kind of beauty about him. Not one that you would have found on your home planet, but he's quite attractive in a way that is almost lethal. It strikes you in a way that it shouldn't. 

You continue to watch him as he comes to halt in the center of the arena, twisting his feet in a circle to look upon every section of the crowd before facing the direction of the balcony. He begins to lower himself to the ground, resting a single knee onto the sand in a sort of bow. All the while his eyes are trained upward, dangerously close to where you sit and you know that he's looking towards the Baron, kneeling to show his respects. All you can do is pray that he will pay your presence no mind. That he won't care enough to acknowledge you. 

It seems that the universe has no desire to answer your prayers this day. 

His dark focus flickers onto you so suddenly that you hardly have time to register it. As your eyes meet through the glass of the device, you suddenly feel as though you have been laid bare. The deafening cries of the masses fade down into a distant hum as all of your focus centers down onto him. You've never felt so exposed in your life. Like all of your every part of you has been spread open and seen; the darkest facets of you are held forward. It's like he's actually seeing you somehow. Peering at you through the distance that keeps you apart. But it's impossible for him to truly make out your features underneath the guise of the decorative chains that drapes over your face. He can't properly see you from your place this high. Still it feels as if he is looking directly at you, past the distortion of the distance and the cover of your veil and peering into your soul. 

You drop the pair of binoculars away from your face, severing the image of his focused gaze and the odd connection that had been created. Still you can't drop your attention from his figure down in the arena, but the loss of the close, magnified image of the device offers you some type of reprieve. He had felt too close, too near with their usage and the distance helps to soothe you. And with your regular vision provided to you, you are able to notice the other entrances posted along the walls are opening. 

The na-Baron realizes this as well. His head cocks in the direction of the open threshold to his far left, rising up from his crouched stance to properly assess it, eyes trained on the dark gapping gateway as a man ambles out from the shadows. Two others emerge from separate doorways on opposite sides of the colosseum, and Feyd-Rautha shifts his body to appraise them both in their slow approach. The three of them all but shamble towards the na-Baron, feet dragging lethargically across the sand like they caught under a drunken stupor. The realization dawns on you easily, and you are unable to stop yourself from turning to face the Baron with bewildered scowl. "They're drugged?" You accuse, sparing no judgement in your tone. 

"We cannot risk the safety of the na-Baron," he explains without shame, and draws a deep drag from a smoking pipe clutched within his hand. "Measures must be taken." 

You want to argue. But what use would that be? There is not an ounce of remorse or shame in his body. You've known this for years; you didn't have to meet him to realize that. You have heard countless tales of the Harkonnen's selfishness and deceit, so it should be no surprise that they're underhanded enough to rig a fight to the death in their favor. That they couldn't even do their slaves and prisoners the respect of dying in a fair fight. And the na-Baron stands so proudly in the center of that ring, holding himself high as though the scales have not been tipped in his favor. You knew that you were to wed a sadist. A violent, venomous man. It was a shame that you had to marry one that is also dishonorable. 

In the prisoners' approach, blackened figures seem to materialize from the walls of the arena looking like creatures out of a twisted fable. There is a great number of them, six you believe, if your hasty count does not fail you, all clad in a dark skintight material. But even more strangely are the horned headdresses that they all wear; it extends over their countenances to make them appear faceless and inhuman. They vigilantly wander along the border of the arena, and some even dare to skulk close to the slaves as they near the na-Baron, wielding some sort of weapon within their hands like they are prepared to strike the fighters if necessary. They must be referees of some sort, but their costumes make them look like dark spirits instead.

This game truly is devised in Feyd-Rautha's favor. 

The gladiator-slave that approaches from the left is the closest, covering the distance that separates him and the na-Baron quickly despite being lamed by the hinderance of drugs. With the raucous roar of the crowd resonating across the air, the suspense is palpable, hanging heavy and almost painful like a breath that has been held for too long and the people are desperate for release. You can't help the way that you watch expectantly, holding onto the handle of the binoculars like it might help keep you grounded while you observe Feyd-Rautha from the safety of your perch. 

He faces the approaching fighter. And for a moment you think that he is going to make the man hobble to over to him entirely, too cruel or perhaps even lazy to meet his competitor head on. But when the fighter brandishes his sword in an overreaching arch Feyd lunges forward on spry feet, cutting up the small remaining bit of distance with two massive strides and blocks the blade with his own. The arc that the prisoner had raised his weapon in was far too high. It left his most vital organs exposed to be gutted, and the blink of an eye the na-Baron takes the opening, deftly shoving the tip of his opposing weapon into the man's stomach and driving it in deep. The fighter's body goes limp near instantly, the hand holding his weapon slackens and when Feyd-Rautha pulls his sword from his opponent's stomach, he stumbles back on weak legs before tipping back onto the sand, lying belly up in a dead weight to bleed out on the ground.

You have heard of death all your life. Soldiers of your house have shared their stories of gore and anguish to you before. The horrors of the battlefield. And you yourself are no stranger to blood and bruises, having been trained by the best of your father's ranks and even Lady Jessica herself in the ways of fighting and hand to hand combat. Your teachings were meant for survival. Defense. But this is senseless murder set in the guise of entertainment. Cruelty.

Feyd-Rautha does not share the sentiment. He twists around to face the remaining fighters, mouth twisted into a feral snarl, muscles tense, ready to deliver another killing blow. He is clearly on some type of rush after claiming his first kill and his eyes dart between the pair of gladiators, gauging which one to attack first. Both of the prisoners have synced their steps as best as they can, with one coming towards the na-Baron from the front while the other nears from the back, intending to slay him together. 

But Feyd does not appear to be stressed by the prospect in the slightest, in fact you are sure that even from your elevated height you can still make out the presence of a smile on his lips. Delighted and fueled by the rush of adrenaline and the hope of slaughter. He evaluates them both carefully, waiting them out. He doesn't have to wait long though, because suddenly the one who stands behind is rushing towards him in a move that is entirely too impatient, the lapse in judgement probably brought on by the influence of the substance coursing through his veins. The other fighter is still too far from Feyd to offer any assistance, making them both fail in their effort to overwhelm him and attack at once. The na-Baron deflects the strike of the prisoner's sword easily, shoving the man back with the union of their blades to create enough space to deliver a harsh bone rattling kick to the man's bare chest. He stumbles back a few feet, dust spraying in his flounder as he struggles to collect himself from the soiled earth. 

Feyd doesn't have time to strike him down while he is vulnerable, because the second fighter finally reaches him, dipping his body low with the intent to strike his sword into the na-Baron's unguarded back, aimed for the spine. But Feyd is unsurprised by the attack; smooth and effortless in his movements as he rotates around on his feet to slip from the blades course and with the glint of silver the man's throat is sliced as he passes the na-Baron. You hardly would have realized that his neck had been cut at all if not for the way that rivulets of black have begun to pour from the wound, slipping down the pale hue of his skin and dripping to the bleached sand below before he collapses. 

The crowd somehow manages to erupt with even more passion to goad their na-Baron on dispatching the last man. But Feyd doesn't move on prisoner while he's still down on the ground, up righting himself on sluggish, weak knees. It is hard to stomach the sight of it, and you're certain that you can feel the oily, distant impression of nausea bubbling in your stomach. It urges you to look away, but you can't. You are frozen still. Locked into place as you watch Feyd pace around the arena like a predator stalking the bars of its enclosure. He's impatient in his wait for the fighter to finally get up on his feet, and you find yourself a little disbelieving that he would even allow the prisoner that little bit of respect, instead of slaying him while he was down and unable to properly defend himself. Maybe there is some honor in him after all. It's buried and diluted, but it seems there may be a shred of it still. 

The gladiator finally raises himself to his feet, spreading his legs wide to distribute his weight between his feeble legs. You can see resolve slip across the man's body, straightening his shoulders as best as he can to secure the grip he has on his weapon.  But it only prompts more of that amusement to flicker over Feyd's features before he springs towards his opponent. They meet in the clash of lethal blades, and their bodies twist and move like well-oiled machines. Even being drugged and exhausted, the prisoner's movements are powerful and practiced, but you doubt that it will be much of a match for Feyd. He has too many aspects in his favor. The game has fully been fabricated for his victory. But even with that in mind, you would be foolish not to acknowledge the way that the na-Baron uses his body. It is truly a sight - hypnotic almost. The slices he takes with his sword and the strikes that he bares down at his rival are tight. Swift, calculated blows that are charged with raw strength. He acts with pure, practiced confidence. It's clear that the art of combat comes as easily as breathing to him; second nature. The sight of him dodging and deflecting jabs underneath the extreme shine of the dim sun is an impressive display, and you can't help but wonder how well he would fair under the pressure of a fight with real stakes.

Maybe it was the controlled vehemence of his maneuvers and how skillfully he brandishes his blade, but you think that he would thrive. 

The gladiator is still alive, outlasting all of his fellow prisoners and it's honestly a wonder that he has made it this far. But you don't miss the casual way that Feyd holds himself, the security in the slices he delivers and how easily he dodges and moves around his opponent. Often dipping low into the man's space to nick his flesh with small, annoying cuts before dancing out of his field of reach. He's playing with him. Drawing out the fight like a bored cat toying with a wounded mouse. You can see the hope and determination dying in the gladiator with each passing second; it melts from his limbs, giving way to a venomous, mindless agitation. It makes him sloppy. 

He leaps at Feyd with little thought, desperate to get a decent lick in but the timing is once again ill and his body too open. The mistake does not go ignored and the na-Baron uses the mishap to sweep his opponents legs out from underneath him. And curiously, he casts one of his blades aside, banishing it to the sand. But you don't have to wonder for long before his hand strikes out like a serpent to grip ahold of the fighter's hair, using the leverage he has on the sluggish prisoner's head to harshly force him down and secure him on his knees. You can see the way that the man's face twists into a pained grimace, teeth gnashed together to fight off his agony as he pants raggedly, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Feyd stands behind him like some sort of figure of death. A creature sent to drag weary, tortured souls to their end. 

You see the gladiators loose grip twitch around the handle of his sword, struggling to build up the last remaining scraps of his energy to swing the blade back and drive into the na-Baron's ribcage. But he doesn't have time to deliver the blow. Feyd raises his own weapon, hitching his arm back to build up tension in his hold. In that exact moment, you are certain that your eyes meet. That somehow, between the distance, his gaze reaches your own, focused in its intent like he is looking for your approval, like he is gifting you a sacrifice in your honor. You hardly have time to think of the implications of it before he drives the sword forward into the back of his victim's neck, severing the man's spinal cord and shoving it forward until the tip of the blade peeks through his throat. It is a horrid display of brutality. The violent sight almost forces a gasp from you, and you can feel your body shudder at the presentation of it. Your mind has long since gone blank, too rattled and shocked to form a coherent thought and the frenzied way the masses arise and breakout into a rapturous applause fills you brain like a haze with the wicked, rhythmic chanting of his name. 

He extracts the blade from the captive's body, spraying a dark splatter of blood across the pale sand with the pull and lifts the gore-soaked weapon up into the air in a silent claim of his victory. 

"Is he everything you had imagined?" 

The Baron's course timbre breaks you from your daze. Your head swivels to him like a doll, but the challenge proposed in his tone rouses your focus to the center. He wants you to be afraid. To shy away from his nephew. Why you aren't sure. Perhaps he simply enjoys the idea of an Atreides cowering, but you will give him no such pleasure. You harden your gaze before you speak next, making sure to project your resolve clearly when you answer. 

"He's perfect." It scares you because it doesn't even feel like a lie. It leaves your tongue too easily, like the compliment belonged there. Like your body and soul held it as a truth that you aren't ready to accept, and you're not sure how to cope with that. But what you say next surprises you even more. 

"I want to meet him." 

A part of you had hoped that the Baron would refuse your request. That he would stick to firm to your father's traditions and prohibit you from seeing the na-Baron until the wedding ceremony. But you know better than to think that he would honor or be controlled by old superstitions.  All too soon you find yourself being led by timid servant who wordlessly guides you deep into the inner depths of the arena. The look that the Baron had spared you before you left had been unsettling and sharp, and it made you wonder if you have agreed to go to your own execution. In your descent, the rabid cries of the masses fade into a distant warble, and with it, the corridors become dim and chilled like the walls of a forgotten crypt. The caution in your gut churns with that treacherous sense of anticipation and you struggle to concentrate past the separation in your emotions. You're not sure if you should be fearful or intrigued and it leaves you caught between a confusing sort of purgatory. 

The little bit of suspense hanging over you reminds you of when you used to dream about meeting him when you were both young. Nearly longed for it even, when you'd lose yourself to childish flights of fancy and daydreamed of love and adoration. It scares you to think that the sense of pining you had once entertained for him may have never truly gone away. Even with the stories of his brutish conquests, a blemish on your naive yearning. A stain of red; soaked with the scent of iron and viscera.

The sight of his violent display down in the arena seemed to confirm all of the horrid rumors that you have heard throughout the years. His indifference towards death, how casually he is able to take a life. It should all disgust you. And to a degree it does. It coats your tongue with something acetous and tart. It makes a shiver threaten to tremble down your spine. But as much as you wish to hide from it, you can't deny that he intrigues you. That the sight of him gazing upon you from the ashen sands of the colosseum like you were an ambiguity that he desired to unravel made your body thrum. You wonder if he would look at you so openly in the same way once you are both on even ground. Or if perhaps, some pathetic, traitorous part of you had simply imagined it. 

The servant stops suddenly before a wide threshold, forcing you to still in your tracks to watch as she steps to the side and bows silently without so much as meeting your eyes. And then she leaves, turning sharply on her feet with the gentle echo of her feet pattering along the obsidian floor while she skitters away. 

You're on your own now. 

You're not sure what you will find when you cross this barrier: pain, misery . . . pleasure. A primordial type of anxiousness wells up inside of you, screaming at you to turn heel and run. You could do so easily. Escape these dismal, tenebrous chambers before he even realizes that you're here. But you're quick to squash that wild impulse. It is a dangerous thing to entertain. You must eliminate that urge all together. You're not an animal. You are an Atreides. A Bene Gesserit. You have survived the Gom Jabbar. You passed the test. And you will survive this. 

With no further hesitation you step forward, focusing on sound of your dress whispering over the floor as a means to center yourself. As soon as you cross the threshold it opens up into a massive space, but the shadows are so thick and vast here that it is difficult to see where the walls truly begin or end. A pair of servant girls stand in the corner, just as rigid and silent as the others that you've seen so far, standing with their backs to the wall like they mean to merge into the shadows and hide. The only light to speak of pours from the ceiling, broadening in its descent to encapsulate the massive round pool that sits in the center of the room like a spotlight. And there, lounging along the far end of the bath with his arms draped along the border, relaxed in the murky, steaming water, is the na-Baron. 

When your eyes meet you have to wonder if this is what prey feels like when locked within the gaze of a wolf; poised to lunge and jaws longing to bite. The way that he had gazed upon you in the arena had been appraising and seeking. Like he was sizing you up and searching for your favor all at once. But something in his stare has shifted since then and dipped into something searing and stifling, and it serves as an obtrusive reminder of who you've willingly confined yourself alone with. But you're unable to stop yourself from admiring him as he does to you. Roving your examination over his face, and you find your attention captivated there. The glow of the florescent lighting reveals a delicate cream undertone in his skin, and the light blush in his lips that had been hidden outside, stunted by the black sun. It breathes a sense of life into him, and nearly separates him from the otherworldly image that had been crafted by the violence he had basked in earlier.

"You must be lost." 

The voice that speaks abruptly is husky and inflected with an accented lilt that blends into the rasp of it. It buzzes over your skin, and you can feel it murmur across your fingertips, but it is not enough to distract you from the confusion that sparks in you from the comment. He must notice the perplexed look that crosses your face because you don't even get time to ask him for clarification before he speaks next. "We're not to see each other. Or was that a lie?" 

If you didn't know any better, you would have thought that he sounds insulted. Like the mere suggestion of you not meeting each other before the wedding had been a great offence. But surely it simply came from a place of ego and not genuine rejection or hurt. That would require affection. And that is an emotion that you're certain the na-Baron is incapable of. Still, regardless of if he truly harbors a sense of fondness for you are not, keeping this relationship as cordial as possible is in your best interest for both of your sakes. 

"It wasn't a lie," you finally answer, clasping your hands together in front of yourself. "But I wanted to congratulate you on your win. . . And to finally see the man that I am intended to marry." The final admittance comes out somewhat reluctantly. But it catches his attention still. You can see the intrigue openly flit through his eyes and he tilts his head while he surveys your from across the room in a curious manner. 

"And what do you think?" 

You are not sure if the question is in reference to himself or his performance in the arena. Either way, your answer still stands. Though you find yourself reluctant to reveal it, even while it burns in your throat. But the way that the na-Baron watches you with a glimmer of restrained vehemence in his heavy stare almost rips the truth from the depths of your chest. But your eyes pointedly flicker back over to the servants in the corner before moving back over to the na-Baron. The question hangs heavy in the air, silently exchanged between the two of you. 

"Leave us," he dismisses firmly, without removing his gaze from you. They nearly spring forward on their feet, vision casted down on the floor as they cross the room and vanish past the threshold like a pair of phantoms. You catch the subtle nod of his head as he watches you, and it is hard to tell if it is done with disinterest or an air of mocking.  "There. You may speak freely now." 

You don't hold in your answer now. "Disappointed," you say firmly, and you're thankful that your voice comes out stronger than you feel. A palpable shift rushes over the room. It is frigid. Moving over the blackened walls like a cold front and seeping into your bones; brought on by the subtle vexation that shifts across his features. You can see the muscles along his shoulders and the plains of his chest ripple underneath his pallid skin, tensing in his ire. It has you stuck in place like the bottoms of your feet have been glued to the floor. It doesn't feel like you're in a room with a man but sharing the space with a hunter that has its teeth and claws poised to slice. But you know that you can't cower. Not with men like him. If you give him and inch, he'll take a mile. And if you are going to make it out of this arrangement alive, you're going to have to try to stand on even ground. "That fight. It was supposed to be in my honor. But it isn't much of a victory if your opponents are impaired with drugs." 

"It was out of my hands," comes his answer. It nearly could have been overtly defensive if he hadn't delivered it so steadily and direct. It's a knee jerk reaction to assume that he is lying. It has been instilled in you since birth to be wary of the Harkonnen and their words. And perhaps it is simply a dangerous form of hope, but the intuition in your gut promises you that he is telling the truth. But even then, it is difficult to find forgiveness. 

"And you fought anyway." 

"Careful." His voice cuts across the atmosphere like a sharp growl. He bares his teeth with the warning, letting you catch a glimpse of that dark snarl and for a moment your mind treacherously imagines what it would be like to feel the sharpness of it grazing along your skin. "I've taken tongues for less." 

The threat does not strike fear in you like it should have. Like you expected it to. The longer you spend in Feyd-Rautha's presence, the more that your initial caution begins to ebb away. For better or for worse, confidence seeps in to take its place. You shock yourself for the second time today by moving towards him instead of backing away like someone with common sense would. Though if you're being honest with yourself, you have always flirted with danger. The temptation towards things that you should not want has always taken you to places not meant for you, and it is a trait that your family and teachers alike had struggled to dissuade. That you yourself have always fought. But you can't resist the urge to close the distance between you and him, following after it blindly like you're being tugged along by an invisible string. 

He trails your approach with that calculated sort of interest, fully invested on your form as you carry yourself up the pair of steps. You continue to move even once you reach the final platform, but your feet do not stop moving. It is like some subconscious part of you is determined to cut as much distance between you and the na-Baron as possible. He doesn't tear his attention from you once. It's fully fixed to you as you saunter around the boarder of the bath like he couldn't bear to look away from you, and it fuels you to keep moving forward, only stopping once you stand beside him. He turns his head to gaze up at you from his position, studying you as he lounges. 

"I'd save that for after the wedding, it may be difficult to say my vows otherwise." You level him with a firm stare as your tone shifts from subtly sardonic to hardened, and possibly even disappointed. " Though I'm glad to know where we stand." 

You see something harden in his gaze. What, you are not sure, but the ferocity of it makes you breathless and something heated stirs in your gut. 

"I mean you no ill will," he assures you, as if he had not just threatened you just a moment before. But the gravelly tone of his voice is distracting. It courses over your skin like an electrical current, humming and warm across your body. "I will bring you the heads of a thousand men if it pleases you." 

It's not the admission itself that shocks you. You know that slaughter comes naturally to the na-Baron. You have witnessed that firsthand. But the sincerity and passion that cradled his words made it sound like a promise. A vow. And you know for certain that he is being purely honest. It floods you with disbelief. The way that he watches you is raw. Vulnerable but not weak or insecure. He said it with the zeal of a devout follower speaking of their faith. Full of hunger, reverence and sincerity. It makes your knees weaken and the oxygen in your lungs is suddenly useless. The devotion burning in the dark hold of his stare is something that you never imagined Feyd-Rutha could be capable of. You know that it is not love. That you are not naive enough to believe. But it is admiration. Consuming and wanting. It is almost frightening how he looks at you. Like you are an oasis, a banquet, and he is a man parched and starved. It only draws you to him even more. Like a moth fluttering closer to an open flame; hoping to be burned in its welcoming, vicious warmth.

"Why?" Your voice comes out weakened. You nearly pant, trying to breath around the fit of your bodice. It has suddenly become too tight, squeezing around your ribcage and sweltering against your skin. 

He does not answer immediately. Instead he rises from the depths of the dark water, shifting to turn his body to yours, causing the water to ripple and gleam underneath the light. You can smell the perfume of the oil on his skin, fresh and warm like amber. A scandalous part of you is tempted to glance downward, even though you know that the height of the dusky liquid still hides the most intimate parts of him, but you are unable to tear your eyes away from his. They look like heavy black chasms, drawing you in and stealing your focus until he is all you can see. You can just vaguely register that he's stepping closer to you. He angles his head as he draws near, and you feel the point of his nose brush over yours through the chilled chains of your veil; the warmth of his body seeps past the barrier of your dress and sinks in deep, settling between the cradle of your hips. 

"You and I; we belong together." He says it like it is a fact. A creed. To him it is. He beholds you like you are something worth worship. And the thought of having such a formidable man observing you as though you were an answer that he has been seeking makes something in you burn. It is scorching. Powerful. It knocks you breathless. "I dream of you." 

The admittance makes you gasp. You briefly wonder how he could possibly have been touched by the sight of visions. Much less ones of you. How he had managed to see you in his sleep just as you had seen glimpses of him. But your marveling is quickly flooded and overruled by images of your own past dreams dancing and flashing in your mind. Pale hands sweeping across your body and leaving white-hot trails in their wake; the sting and glide of teeth and tongue; the musk and salt of sweat in your mouth. It rouses a heady sense of curiosity inside of you. And when he raises a hand and slips it underneath your veil to cup your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the shape of your lips, it makes your interest burn hotter. When you speak next your voice nearly catches in your throat. "What do you see? In your dreams." 

The weight of his stare pulls you in and grips you tightly, heavy with a wild sort of hunger that might eat you alive. When he speaks next, the smoky rumble of his voice courses over you and clouds your head with a low mist. "Let me show you." 

You are not sure when he had slipped the veil from over your face and off of your head, but you hear it fall behind you. Hitting the floor with a sharp, twinkling clatter. But you hardly pay it any mind. Too entranced on the heat of Feyd's palm cupping your face, holding you close while his heavy, heated stare bores into your own and in your haze, you admire that they are truly a shade of blue, just as those old visions promised. A gorgeous splash of color caught in a world of black and white. He shifts closer to you - as much as the low edge of the bath will allow, and with it you feel the sultry impression of his body heat glides over you. The cradle of his hand on your face slips from its place, traveling downward until it reaches your neck. Your heart skips a beat when the hold of his fingers reaches around your throat, and you're sure that he could feel the wild pulse of it fluttering against his palm. A flicker of amusement passes through his gaze, and suddenly it feels like some kind of test. He wants to see if you'll crack and flounder while he holds your life in his grip. But you find that the urge to flee has vanished. It's been wrung from you as though it had never been there, and suddenly you can't understand why you had ever wanted to run in the first place. 

The pressure of his hand tightens like he means to squeeze the air out of you and to block your breath. Fear doesn't rise up to greet you. This isn't a challenge that you have the desire to shrink away from. You want more of it. Of him. You lean into his touch instead, tilting your chin back to bare your throat to him, and you see a ravenous type of delight pass over his expression when you do. The weight fixed around your neck; the heady scent of the rich ointment wafting from his skin dips more of that intoxicated haze over you. 

For a moment you wonder if he might actually rip the oxygen from your lungs and attempt to send you to your death. The tight hold of his hand and the dark look glittering in his eyes imply that he might. But then his hold goes light, and you nearly mourn the loss when he allows his fingers to slip from around your neck. Disgracefully, you almost feel a low whine rising to the tip of your tongue. A desperate plead to have his touch on you again. But like an answer to your silent prayer, his hands unanimously run down your body, roving dangerously close to your breasts, leaving your skin tingling in their wake as they trail down and past your ribs to settle on your hips. 

Time seems to slow when his fingers pluck at the smooth fabric of your skirt, bunching the material up into the cradle of his palms until it starts to slip up and over your legs, gradually revealing more and more of you. He doesn't stop until its rucked up enough to slip his hands underneath your dress, and you silently gasp at the warmth of his palms blossoming over your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin harshly enough that you know it'll be tender tomorrow, but you welcome the sting. 

You can see the silent question glimmer in his eyes. The whisper of his nose gliding over your own and the nearness of his lips beckon that you come closer. He steps back just enough to allow you space, and without further prompting you lift your legs over the lip of the bath. The water is nearly scorching when you slink inside, nearly sweeping up to your waist and encapsulating you like melted wax. His grip on you didn't waver or weaken as you moved. If anything, it grew stronger, like he was worried you might slip away from him, even though the idea of escaping is a faint memory for you now. 

When he tilts his head closer to yours, you think that he finally might kiss you and satiate the restless hunger that's been buzzing between the both of you. You feel the low brush of his breath against you lips when he speaks, and the throaty rasp of his voice curls out in one word: 

"Beg." 

It gives you pause. As soon as you hear it something defiant rises inside of you. But it isn't aggressive or wildly so. It's languid and playful. Testing. Despite the shred of desperation that you had nearly caved into earlier, you have no desire to give in so easily now. You aren't going to roll over so quickly. Not without good reason.

"No," you answer calmy, resisting, even when lust burns in your veins. "Give me a reason to." 

In truth, you aren't sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your experience with things of this nature - the touch of a man and pleasure, isn't nonexistent. You've indulged in a few nights tangled in the arms of a random temporary lover. Secretive kisses exchanged in dimly lit corridors, the ecstasy of a mouth between your thighs. But the art of it is not something that you have fully grasped onto. Flirtation and conviction in regard to sex doesn't come naturally to you. So you aren't sure why you feel inclined to tease him like you know what you're doing. But you want the challenge. Some twisted, perverted side of you wants to see the glint of the psychotic excitement that he had displayed in the arena. You want his hands on you while his eyes burn with that unrestrained ferocity. It's dangerous to goad him on. To taunt him like you understand him. You're playing a dangerous game. Like prodding at a wild animal in its enclosure, or waving a blazing, red flag in front of a pacing bull. 

A fearful part of you expects for him to get angry. That he might lash out and punish you assuming that you could toy with him so freely. Maybe he'll remind you of your intended place and tell you that you aren't equals. That you mean nothing to him. But he doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he sinks down to his knees, lowering himself until the water rises up to his chest. His eyes don't stray from you once, and the hold on your hips remains firm. The intent and hunger in his eyes nearly make you lightheaded. He watches you in a way that's starved. It has you wondering if you're going to make it out of this alive. But a stronger part of you can't wait to be torn apart. 

His hold on your hips gently nudges at you, guiding you to lower yourself until you're seated on the edge of the bath. You spread your legs without him having to ask, and you can see the hint of an arrogant smile perking at the corners of his mouth when one of his hands sweep down to your knee, prying it open. Anticipation simmers inside of you, searing deep inside of your gut like a hot ember. You feel his fingers sweep along your undergarment, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric to tear the delicate scrap of clothing from your hips as though it was made from paper. It stings against your skin when it snaps free, breaking with a sharp hiss as it rips apart. 

You watch in awe when he lifts the frayed fabric up to his nose to draw in a heavy inhale. Embarrassment prickles at your face when you realize that he's breathing in the arousal that had soaked your underwear. It's vulgar. Filthy. But it has excitement buzzing over you and seeping into your bones. You hardly pay attention when he tosses the tattered fabric somewhere across the room, too transfixed as he leans himself forward between your knees, making a space for himself around the cradle of your thighs, hovering dangerously close to where you need him the most. 

His stare pierces yours, digging a place for himself in your mind and soul, and latching on as he delivers a promise. "I'll make you scream." 

Coming from anyone else it would have made you scoff or roll your eyes and cringe. Despite your inexperience, it's a line that you've heard before only to be met with utter disappointment. But you can feel the determination rolling from him, and you know that it isn't a lie. Still, you're prepared to say something snarky. To try and knock him down a peg or two before he's even started, but you never get the chance. 

His head is between your thighs in an instant, spreading you open with his tongue, hot and sweltering against you. It wrenches a startled cry from your chest, and your hands scramble blindly to support yourself, clinging onto the chilled edge of the bath and the damp warmth of Feyd's shoulder so that you don't tip over. He's only just started, and his enthusiasm already leaves you suspended in disbelief. He works his mouth against you with a ravenous intensity, swiping his tongue over you before dipping it deep inside of you in a way that has liquid pleasure pouring over your body; making your nerves light up like wild, hot sparks. Your hips lift up in a mindless roll, grinding over his mouth to chase after the curl of his tongue, and he follows after the sway of your body, unshaken by your desperation. 

Already you feel like you've been lit on fire. Dipped in a pool of nectar and bliss. It has your legs quivering, tensing and flexing with every suck and stoke from his mouth. It pulls ragged gasps from your heaving lungs, and you just faintly register the airy, punched out breaths lightly echoing off of the walls of the room. You can hear the wet drag of his lips and tongue licking at your cunt, tipping you closer and closer to euphoria. It's filthy. Utterly debauched. The very notion of the daughter of a Duke sleeping with a man before her wedding - fiancé or not - is scandalous, and you should be entirely ashamed that you've even wound up in this position at all. But you can't manage to find a single ounce of humiliation in your body. You're in too deep now. Nothing else matters but this moment. Nothing except for him. 

Your head rolls down on your neck, and you're immediately insnared by the sight of him watching you. Most of his face is hidden by the skirt of your dress bunched around your waist, how your thighs frame his head, but you can see his eyes clearly. A haughty sense of excitement dances in them, clearly pleased with the mess that he's already made of you. You want nothing more than to wipe that arrogant look from his face, but it's almost like he can sense the quip that you're prepared to use, because the wet heat of his mouth licks over you before he closes his lips around your clit and your mind glazes over. He drags the hint of teeth over you, lighting up fire in their wake and then he sucks. Your back bows tight, breasts heaving underneath your dress, and you openly sob. But he offers you no reprieve, no chance to breathe. 

With little warning he slips a finger into the wet entrance of your cunt, forcing your walls to stretch around the width of it as he curls it deep. You've touched yourself before. Used you own fingers to pleasure yourself, and you've only ever felt the hand of one other man before. A random soldier amongst the Atreides ranks, but that had been some time ago. The width of Feyd's is much bigger than your own. Thick and long enough that a single one has you gasping. The stretch of it nearly burns. But it builds a heavy ache between the apex of your thighs, rooting itself so deeply along your spine that it tears another watery cry from you. The motion of your hips turns choppy, losing your rhythm in your desperation to reach the scorching pleasure that looms over you like a wall of fire. He barely gives you time to adjust to the first finger before he's inserting another in alongside it, making the muscles of your abdomen contract and wildly. The walls of your cunt flutter around the thickness of his fingers; your body desperate to fall into the throes of release. 

The fullness of it makes your mouth drop open in a silent scream, forcefully teetering you along the edge of something all-consuming and debilitating. You can taste it searing on your tongue, feel it on your fingertips and all the way down to your toes. Uninhibited moans and broken mewls of his name have begun to spill from your mouth. Punched out of you by the ceaseless drag of his tongue and weight of his finger inside of you, crooking along your walls with nasty, wet squelches to shove you closer and closer to that shattering precipice. It forces out a gutted cry that nearly stings on its way out, and you can feel Feyd's pleased laughter reverberate over your flesh in response, and the low tremors only inject more rapture into your veins.  It's so close. Welling and foaming up like boiling water; a rising tide that threatens to sweep you and drown you. 

All at once it stops. 

You cry out like you've been wounded when he tears his mouth from you and removes his fingers from your cunt, leaving you empty and aching. You don't even try to hide your betrayed scowl as you glare down at his face, which looks entirely too delighted for your liking. Your lungs struggle around a ragged gasp, making your voice catch in your throat. "Wha- why you did sto-" 

The question hardly has time to leave you before he turns his head and sinks his teeth into the plush skin of your inner thigh. It sears across your nerves, molten and white-hot, ripping a pained yelp from your chest. The smile on his face is pleased, stretched wide into that dark, impish grin. Your attention is stuck on him as he drops his jaw open, holding your scolding glower as he slips his tongue out to glide it along the sore bite mark that he left with his teeth. The wet warmth of his tongue laving over your skin, soothing the sting that he had made has your brain splitting between pain and pleasure, merging the two sensations into a muddled, delicious blur. 

"Feyd." You meant for it to come out reprimanding and harsh, but instead it sounds thin and panting. You see the satisfaction spark in his eyes at the weakened tone of it, and seeking more out like a glutton, he reaches his hand forward to roll one of his knuckles over your clit. It's pure torture how he's keeping you hung along the edge of bliss. You're still sensitive from your ruined orgasm and the simple graze from the back of his hand has you doubling over like you've been struck in the gut. He tilts his head back to nuzzle his face against your own when you lean in close enough. An action that's deceptively sweet for someone so violent. It has something that feels a lot like affection bubbling up inside of your chest; dulcet and soft. You tear it away and burrow it deep before it can grow. 

Guided by instinct, in a scramble to replace that unwelcome hint of tenderness, you tilt your head to join your lips to his. You can taste yourself on him, earthy and mildly sweet, and just the thought of you marking him with something so intimate - so filthy, makes you weak. He's quick to respond, meeting you eagerly with tongue and teeth. It's nearly bruising. Just as harsh and impassioned as the way that he fights, and it has you moaning into his mouth. But it isn't enough. Your hands turn greedy, sweeping over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, and in retaliation for teasing and his earlier bite, you sink your nails into the skin there, meanly dragging them until your reach his clavicle bone. But he doesn't hiss or wince in pain. The groan that spills against your lips is one of pleasure. The sound has your body thrumming and winding up tight, and paired with the steady circles he draws on your clit it has you dangerously close to tipping headfirst into the throes of melted bliss. But his touch is too light, the rhythm too slow to fully guide you into it. It leaves stuck on the edge of a torturous limbo, and you nearly whimper against his mouth. 

You break the kiss in an effort to regain a sense of clarity, but he's quick to chase after you, nipping at your lips and alleviating the sting with the point of his tongue. "Feyd," you repeat, and this time it sounds horribly close to begging. You can feel your resolve cracking. Splintering down the center and melting with every glide of his finger against your clit. 

"I already told you, Atreides," he murmurs it like a taunt and promise all at once. "All you need is ask." 

He makes it sound so simple. So temptingly easy, but you try to cling onto your pride with a shaking grip. You know that he can see the conflict openly reflected in your eyes. The urge to fight. He moves his face from yours just enough to tilt his head as he evaluates you. It feels so condescending and the low, patronizing way that he tuts at you has a small whisper of determination peeking through the cloud of lust that fogs your mind. But he presses his knuckle against your clit in a mean drag, making your body clench and twitch like it had been stung with a live wire, and with it all cohesive thought blanks out. 

"Why are you fighting?" He asks, leaning his head to run his teeth along your ear, and then the wet blaze of his tongue trails up your throat to lick the salt from your skin. "It could be like a dream." 

It's such a simple sentence, but it reminds you have of how you've gotten here in the first place. The promise of pleasure, the feel of skin under your teeth, the rough grip of his hands on you. In truth, you aren't sure what you're resisting for. What game you're trying to play and win. You're just torturing yourself at this point. Holding yourself back from what you truly want needlessly. It's because of pride. The trait to endure, to remain resolute underneath the call of a challenge or opposition has been instilled in you. You've been taught to be unyielding, to hold yourself back from temptation. Especially when facing an adversary. You cannot show weakness lest you bring humiliation to your house. But you're quickly learning that you don't have much shame anymore. Being in Feyd's presence seems to drain every ounce of it from your body, shifting you into something debased and wanting. And you want him. 

"Please, Feyd, I need you touch me," you beg, panting against his lips. "I need you to fuck me. I need - " 

You aren't certain who moves first. If it's you who slips down from the edge of the bath or if he's the one that takes ahold of you by the hips and tugs you onto his lap. The murky water splashes and ripples from the disturbance, bathing over the lower half of your body in a warm rush as you meet in a desperate sweep of grabbing hands, and the passionate exchange of lips and the harsh graze of teeth. You follow after him as he shifts so he's leaning against the boarder of the bath, allowing you both to focus on the press of your bodies grinding against each other without the worry of falling into the water. His hips roll upward, tearing a surprised gasp from you when you feel the hard weight of his cock nudge between the apex of your thighs, brushing over your clit in a slow drag. 

The feel of it is jarring almost. Dousing a small chill across your body with the reminder that you're beginning to reach the point of uncharted territory. You've never gotten this close with anyone else before. Had never entertained the idea or even desired it. Your explorations of the male body had never gone past you taking them into your mouth or vice versa. This is completely out of your depth and all of the efforts that you had taken in preparation had done little to soothe your nerves. You had spoken to your chambermaids and Lady Jessica alike about sex before, the art of love making and what you should brace for, and they had all warned you of pain. A deep tearing pain and the blood that comes with it. It had given you hardly any inclination to anticipate losing your virtue. 

But even with worry tensing your gut the fervent, burning desire that's consumed you hasn't released you from its snare. Still, Feyd seems to have noticed the rigidity in your body, the way your muscles have coiled in your internal distress. He tips his head back to part his lips from yours so that your eyes can meet, and you can see amusement glittering in the darkness of them like your nervousness is humorous somehow. 

"You have nothing to fear. I'll be gentle, just this once." The reassurance (or threat, you aren't quite sure) skirts over you, rough and enticing within the gravel of his voice. One of the hands that he has on your hips softly grips around your wrist, and you're left to watch curiously as he guides it down into the inky water. You gasp when he slips your palm around the weight of his cock. He's rigid and smooth in your hold, and when you inquisitively stroke your hand up the length of him, it's a little intimidating to discover the substantial girth of him. You swallow nervously around the saliva that pools in your throat. It's difficult to focus around. It's like your own body is confused, thrumming with an electrical sort of anticipation, and the clutch of anxiety that stubbornly burrows deep underneath the influence of your lust. 

But there's something about the arrogant glint in Feyd's expression that makes you bristle. It gives you a touch of confidence; small, hardly there at all, but it's enough. You grip him before your determination can falter, holding him steady as you line him up to the soaked entrance of your cunt. It takes you a moment to notch him against you - a combination of your nerves and lack of practice. But when you finally do, you have to draw in a deep breath to center yourself. He's thick and warm against you and it's such a foreign sensation. A side of you still hasn't caught up with the fact that you're well and truly here, tangled up in such a scandalous position with the na-Baron - your enemy. Your rival. But it's even more shocking with how little the fact is beginning to bother you. It should frighten you. It should sicken and repulse you. But you find that it doesn't in the slightest. You only feel the damning lick of desire, the urge to chase after your pleasure and to feel the na-Baron come undone underneath you. 

With a deep inhale you begin to sink yourself down on him before your nerves can get ahold of you. The stretch stings from the head of his cock working inside, the muscles between the junction of your hips straining from the effort. It's already intense, splitting you open with a fullness that you have yet to feel before even though he isn't even halfway in. Every shred of oxygen has been punched out from your lungs, and your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as you continue to slip yourself down onto him, forcing your body to accommodate to the width of his girth. Liquid, molten honey drips down the length of your spine, blurring with the raw sting rooted deep inside of you, nearly making you double over from the intensity of it. 

"Easy," Feyd hums suddenly, reaching up to cup the side of your face. When he swipes his thumb underneath your eye, you just vaguely register the dampness there. Tears. You hadn't even realized that you had begun to cry from the overwhelming nature of it all, and even though it's expected, it's a little irritating to see how unbothered he appears to be while you feel as though you're coming undone at the seams. But the warmth of his hand against your cheek pulls you from the searing, electrical pressure of your muscles giving around his length, a beacon in a storm. It's another oddly, sweet gesture from the someone so brutal, and combined with the soothing weight of his hand on your waist, it has another bout of that horrendous affection rising up inside of you. Even when he lifts his tearstained thumb to his lips to lick the damp salt from his finger. 

It's all too overwhelming. The sensation of his body on yours, his eyes on you, the push of his cock filling you up. It has more desire building up inside of you and it guides you to sink even more of yourself down on him, eager to take every inch. You feel it when the crown pushes past the tight ring of your cunt. The abrupt pop sends heavy tremors across your body, making your spine bow forward like a melted candlestick. It's like every bit of your energy has been sapped from you by a single motion and you have no choice but to let your head prop against his shoulder as you collect yourself with a trembling sigh. But you don't bother giving yourself any reprieve, discarding his earlier advice and bearing your hips down to force more of him deep inside, and your jaws drops open in a silent, punchout scream when your walls stretch to accommodate him.

Your mind has all but melted underneath the intensity of it, shifting to a blank with each inch that you take. By the time that the back of your thighs meets the support of his lap you feel like pure, useless mush. Reduced to pliant mess by the sudden fullness that's been stuffed into your cunt. You swear that you can feel him in your throat, shoving your lungs tight against the walls of your ribcage, keeping you breathless. 

"I told you to go easy." The rumble of his voice breaks out, bleeding past the clouded over haze in your mind in a deep rasp. It's difficult to discern if he's mocking you or chiding you, but knowing what you've learned of him already, it's safe to assume that it's probably both. 

You distantly feel you shake your head against his shoulder, more of that defiance rearing up. "I don't want to go easy," you counter. It takes you a moment to build up the strength and coherence to pull yourself back, tilting your chin up to assess him. His eyes are like burning pits, a yawning void that wants to eat you alive. But you don't have it in yourself to shy away from it. Instead you lean forward, slipping your hands around to grip the back of his neck, supporting yourself has you brush your nose along his. The press of his body underneath you is unflinching, his expression relaxed, but you are certain that you feel something in him waver. The hint of a vulnerability. A fleeting glimpse of it. But that's all you need. It's more than enough to tell you that if you want to, you can just as easily have him wrapped around your finger.  

You angle your head closer, pressing soft kisses along the plush of his lips and the sharp cut of his jaw. "Please," you beg softly. 

His mouth is on yours in an instant, hot and hungry, pulling you into another frenzied kiss, licking into your mouth to taste you. Just the glide of his lips against yours is enough to have that heated coil in your stomach already winding up tight. You feel like you're drowning. Caught up in a torrent of heat and bliss. It has your hips rising up mindlessly, instinctively working yourself on the length of his cock in a desperate need to chase after your pleasure. Stinging aftershocks trickle across your muscles with each short drag, but it only serves to make your nerves hum; aching so wonderfully deep that your eyes nearly roll back. 

His lips leave yours to trail along to corners of your mouth, sweeping down your jaw to nip and bite along the delicate skin of your throat, intent to leave his mark on you. It distracts you. Pulling your focus onto the sharp cut of his teeth on your neck, that it completely catches you off guard when he secures an arm around your waist, pinning you close to his body before he thrusts his hips up into yours like he's determined to carve his place between your them. The pace that he sets is grueling. A merciless rhythm that strikes the air out of your lungs with each pronounced roll. He fills you in a way that hurts, stretching you open with every plunge of his cock. But it's an exquisite type of pain. It feels like it's tearing you apart just to piece you back together again. 

You struggle to meet his pace. Your movements aren't as coordinated; choppy, and he doesn't wait for you to catch up and figure out the greedy movement and rhythm he's set. The sway of the water around your bodies seem to stifle and aid the motion of your hips simultaneously, dragging them down and lifting them all at once. You're practically useless above him, forced to sit and take it. But he doesn't seem annoyed or undeterred in the slightest with the way that he pounds himself into you. It has your brain going fuzzy, glazing over with the impression of his veins gliding along the walls of your cunt. His chest rubs against your breasts, shifting the smooth material of your dress over your nipples, and the added friction makes your back pull taut. 

The heat of his mouth closes over the vulnerable stretch of your throat and you can feel the tip of his tongue glide over your pulse like he's tempted to sink his teeth in deep to drink the flow of your blood. Your cunt clenches down on his girth at the thought, and you're rewarded with a low, guttural groan that reverberates across his chest from the inside out. It makes you eager to hear more from him. To make him just as broken and debauched as you are. 

You can hardly recognize yourself anymore. The way that he's practically turned you into an animal; wanton and gluttonous. You can hear the sound of your own voice, unrestrained and loud as it cries out in pleasured moans and whimpers. You don't think you've ever heard yourself this way. So uninhibited and sinful. None of your past lovers, as satisfactory as they had been, had ever been able to pull reactions like this from you. It nearly makes you feel like a stranger in your own body. Unfamiliar with your skin. But it's irresistibly good, unprincipled and shameless. But it feels like pure release, untethered by expectations or rules. And like a starved thing, you want more. You want more of him. To hear him, to feel more of him, to taste him on your tongue. 

In a wild craving to hear the throaty sound of his pleasured breaths, you slip your throat away from his mouth, ignoring the disgruntled snarl that stretches across his lips to grip the nape of his neck. You lean forward before he can question you and press your teeth into the smooth flesh that stretches over the junction of his shoulder, careful not to break skin but enough to cause the sting of pain. It's like a prize when a deep groan rips out from his chest, but the sharp, bruising thrust that follows closely behind nearly dislodges your teeth from him. He must have noticed the grip of your jaw waver because he slips a hand up to cradle the back of your skull, securing you in place. 

"More," he demands in a thick rasp. 

The sound of the request has liquid fire dousing over you, and you don't have the strength or desire to resist. You sink your teeth down even more until it threatens to split skin underneath the weight of your bite, stopping short before you could do any actual damage. But the irritated, almost forlorn sigh that greets your ears catches your attention. His fingers flex around the back of your head like he wants to shove you closer. But surely he doesn't want that. Your teeth will tear right through him if you apply any more pressure. 

"Harder." The insistent order comes out like pure gravel, and matched with another wild thrust, it has your teeth clamping down on his shoulder. The muscles in your jaw squeeze tight until flesh breaks and something iron and strangely bitter spills across your tongue and threatens to pour down your throat. The noise that leaves him is gutted and wanton. Your body clenches around him as soon as you hear the ragged panting that trickles from his lips, setting you alight with even more ardency, and the sting of your bite searing across his nerves somehow manages to fuel him with even more vigor. He rams his cock into you with heavy strokes that are debilitating. You nearly feel like a doll, nothing more than a being for his pleasure, if not for the reverent way that his hands begin to glide along your body. Clutching you to him like might slip away. 

It pulls you close to him, and the position has his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. Unable to hold in the string of moans and whimpers that beg to slip from your chest, you have to slip your teeth from his skin to pant and cry against his shoulder. It's like the sun is eating at your body. Warmth, and heat, and rapture scorching you from the inside, threatening to burn and tear you apart. You can taste it, warm and sweet on the tip of your tongue, mixing with the dark tart of his blood into an intoxicating flavor. It makes you lose all sense of yourself with your mind slipping under a blank mist. Your body is so distant from you now and the only thing that keeps you connected to it is the pleasure and ecstasy soaking your limbs and filling your lungs; the thickness of him stretching you open and stuffing you full.  

"Feyd," you gasp like a warning and a plea, blindly clawing at his arms and shoulders to keep you tethered down and present. But each relentless thrust just hurtles you closer to that yawning precipice. The head of his cock brushes against something deep and devastating inside of you and that's all it takes for you to split apart with a ragged scream. You hardly have time to brace for it when it finally reaches you. Bursts of white and piercing stars explode behind your eyes like a kaleidoscope; fire and electricity seize you tight, forcing every muscle in your body to wind up tight like you've been shocked. All of the air has been snatched from your lungs making your feel as though you've blacked out; lightheaded and sluggish. 

You can hear Feyd grunting in your ear, but his pacing has turned messy, losing the pronounced, steady rhythm he once had in his desperation to reach his own end. Thrusting into you in a manner that's almost wild. Both of his hands find your waist and his fingertips dig in deep enough to tear a weak cry from you. With a long, guttural moan he reaches his climax, burying himself deep into your cunt as he fills you with a flood of pulsing warmth before sagging back against the boarder of the tub. 

You aren't sure how long you stay like that for, suspended in a space tucked between your body and thrumming, pulsing heat. When your breath comes back to you, it's labored and deep, drawing in the scent of perfumed oils and the heady salt of sweat. You've gone limp, limbs lax and useless as your full weight drapes across the firm press of Feyd's body underneath you. It's soothing to have him close, even though it shouldn't be. There should be fear in your chest. Self-disgust and betrayal should hang over you like a cloud, but there's nothing except for satisfaction and peace. Maybe it will leave you once the influence of pheromones and the high of sex dissipate, and reality will come hurtling down on you with the conviction of a calamity. But as of now, you have no desire to entertain any of those anxieties. You nuzzle closer to Feyd, tucking your face into the crook of his neck with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times, even while a faint part of you worries that he'll shove you away. That he might push you from him and rise from the bath to leave you abandoned in water turned tepid and soiled to remind you of your true place here. But he doesn't. He lets you settle over him, idly running his fingertips up the divot of your spine from over the cover of your soaked dress. 

You feel the thrum voice of his vibrate across his chest before you hear it, and a part of you expects some sort of scathing remark.

"Did I still disappoint?" 

Your eyebrows furrow at the question as your slow-moving brain struggles to follow the question, and the near flat quality of his voice doesn't assist you any. But when your finally grasp onto the realization, you can't fight off a light smile that perks at your lips from the notion that he might be teasing you. The affection is back with a vengeance. Blossoming in your chest, saccharine and warm. But now you don't have the strength to try and shove it away or to distract yourself. 

"Hmmm," you hum lowly, feigning consideration as you draw in a deep sigh. "I suppose you've redeemed yourself." 

The scent of something strongly metallic fills your nose, settling deep and pulling you from the gentle fuzz that's stuffed your skull. It draws you to pull yourself from the cradle of his chest to evaluate him. Your eyes are quick to scan his pallid skin and you immediately notice the rivulets of black that pour down his shoulder, streaming from the angry bitemark that has been cut into his flesh. Guilt spreads through you at the sight even though he had commanded - begged, really, for you to do it. You're sure that his blood is still smeared across your lips in a dark stain. More proof of the pain you had eagerly inflicted on him. 

"I'm sorry," you apologize softly. You reach down to cup some of the murky water into the divot of your palm, it has healing properties you remember reading, and lift it up to gently pour it over the wound. Even though it must sting, he doesn't so much as flinch underneath the feel of the medicinal liquid flowing over the gash. 

"Don't be," he assures. He glides the pad of one of his thumbs across your bottom lip, and you distantly gather that he's collecting the glaze of his blood there. His eyes follow the motion like he's entranced, and the intensity behind it could have sparked another bout of lust in you if you weren't already so spent. He lifts his black-stained fingers between you both, rubbing his fingertips together as he watches the smear of blood glitter underneath the cast of the pale lighting. "I'll wear it with pride." 

There it is again. More of that odd, unwavering devotion. Perhaps you should be suspicious of it. It could be some sort of ploy to lull you into a false sense of security, but instinct tells you that he's being purely honest. And that might be even more frightening. If he's already so committed and consumed by lust and entitlement now, then there's truly no idea what could happen if his admiration were to evolve into something deeper. Darker. Less restrained. Horrendously, the prospect of it intrigues you. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to bask under the attention of Feyd-Rautha's obsession. An even sicker side of you might hope for it too. 

You snap that thought shut and bury it deep before it can flourish. You concentrate your mind on your surroundings instead, like the dark water lapping along the edge of the bath, soaking the expensive fabrics of your dress, now damaged and defiled, and the musk of sex and fragrant oils hanging heavy in the air; the press of his flaccid cock still stuffed inside of you. But the weight of Feyd's stare cuts through all of it, gravitating your own to raise to him in turn. You can see the pale hint of blue reflecting in them, just as gorgeous as the expanse of a wild ocean. It draws you closer to him and he angles his head to join his lips to yours. For the first time this night this kiss is something soft and gentle. It feels like reverence when the plush of his mouth parts against yours. Drawing in the taste of you on the tip of his tongue, exchanging a mix or your arousal and his blood with the glide of your lips. It's a kiss that pulls you down into his orbit. It makes everything fade it an unclear background until the only thing that matters is the warmth of him underneath your hands; the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming steadily within his chest. With another delicate nip of his teeth and the sweep of his hands around you, temptation rings throughout your bones and begs you to fall into him. 

And without any resistance, you do. 

[nadvs]

sleeping with the enemy (one-shot)

pairing basketballplayer! rafe cameron x cheerleader! female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary after getting dumped by the captain of the basketball team you cheer for, you find revenge in the form of rafe cameron, your ex-boyfriend’s worst enemy.

» masterlist

» all blurbs in this au

“How bad is it that I want us to lose?” you mutter, fiddling with your pompoms as you stand courtside.

“Against them?” Your friend looks out at group of athletes in red warming up for the game. “Pretty bad.”

The rivalry between the Hawks and the Wolves is one of the most vicious in college basketball history. You proudly cheered for your team up until a couple of nights ago, when the Hawks power forward dumped you over text.

Your relationship with Max had been relatively new, lasting just over a month. Still, it pissed you off that he didn’t have the respect to break up face-to-face.

The worst part of it was that he was trying to convince you to sleep with him for the first time the night before he ended things. He got frustrated and left your dorm in a huff. Then, he texted you that he isn’t looking for a relationship.

You’re sure it was his plan to get you in bed then bail all along, but he gave up once he got too impatient.

You wanted to take things slow. You thought maybe you could have something real with him. What a waste of time.

Now, as you stand on the sidelines of your college’s basketball court, the tension is palpable as both teams warm up for another game against their worst enemies. The crowds’ conversations loudly blend into a dull murmur in the stands behind you.

“I don’t think it’s bad at all,” the cheerleader on your other side chimes in. “Max is a jerk. He deserves to lose.”

You scowl at your ex as he rushes through a running drill on the other side of the loud gym. You had told your close friends on the squad about what happened. They may hate him even more than you do.

You glance at the opposite side of the court where the visiting team is warming up. You spot player #10, Cameron sprawled over the back of his red jersey, as he runs warm-up passes with one of his teammates.

Max loathes him. And it’s not just because of the college’s long-standing rivalry. Your ex told you countless times what an asshole Rafe is and how much he trash-talks on the court.

Regardless, you could see it for yourself. Rafe taunts his opponents. He laughs in their faces when his team wins. He never shakes hands at the end of a game. He even shoved Max a few times, earning fouls.

You realize you’re staring at Rafe when his teammate misses a pass, sending the ball rolling towards you.

You’re so angry at Max that you almost want to wish Rafe luck when he comes near, picking up the ball off the glossy floor.

His gaze flashes at you as he straightens, and when you notice his blue eyes trail down your body, your skin pricks with heat. You’re sure you see a hint of a smirk on Rafe’s face before he turns around.

You probably shouldn’t be excited that your side of the rivalry’s most hated athlete is looking at you like that. But you’re not feeling particularly loyal to your team right now.

A loud whistle blows through the gym. The game is starting.

In Rafe’s mind, the only bad thing about basketball is that the sport has no tolerance for scrapping. Aggression is part of football. It’s encouraged in hockey. But the foul system in basketball is stupid. He never gave a fuck about sportsmanlike conduct.

He could have considered other sports, but he’s a natural at this. He has the height and agility and confidence for this sport. It’s what made him captain after his first year as a shooting guard.

Rafe paces to the center of the court for the coin toss, staring down at his opponent. Max Hammond’s always been easy to fuck with.

And honestly, it pisses Rafe off that lately, he’s seen the cheerleader on his rivals’ team that he’s been eyeing all season on Max’s arm. All the more reason to fuck with him.

“How’s that knee?” Rafe taunts. Their last game, he dunked over Max hard enough to send him hurling to the floor. Rafe laughed when he saw his opponent clutching his knee.

“Shut up,” Max mutters with a scowl. Rafe smiles pompously. Then, he wins the coin toss.

You halfheartedly chant through the cheers you’ve memorized when the game starts. The players rush up and down the court, shoes squeaking against the floor, sweat sheening their skin.

It feels weird keeping your gaze off of Max. You used to follow him with lovestruck eyes throughout every game. If only you knew what a douche he’d turn out to be.

So, for this game, you watch Rafe. You shouldn’t feel so satisfied every time he pushes past Max and earns a point for the rivals you’re supposed to be booing, but you do.

Shadows move with the edges of Rafe’s muscles under the bright gym lights. His lips are parted as he rushes down the court, feet moving quickly, hands controlling the ball with expert precision.

When the game ends with a loss for the Hawks, you’re not all that upset. Mainly because Max looks so devastated.

Afterwards, you decide to go out to a local bar with a few of your friends. You want to let loose. Maybe you’ll even find a meaningless hook-up. After the mess with Max, you want some fun, and you’re definitely not up for looking for any sort of emotional connection.

Both college campuses aren’t far apart, so the bars and clubs in town often see an overlap of students. Most people don’t care about the rivalry, especially when they’re off-campus.

But the athletes and cheerleaders never allow the tension to dissipate, especially after a game. The winners are always loud and celebratory, while the losers stare daggers at their enemies. Tonight’s no different.

The bar is dark and packed and loud and humid, your fingers wrapped around an emptied glass as you sit at a table with a couple of your friends.

When Max walks into the bar, unease rolls through you. You wonder how long it’ll take for you not to be so frustrated by his presence.

He finds seats across the bar with a few of the other Hawks players. One of your friends notices your discomfort and follows your eye-line.

“Do you want to leave?” she asks.

“No.” You’re determined not to let Max ruin your night. “I’m getting another drink.”

After making sure your friends don’t want a second drink just yet, which only serves as a reminder of how fast you downed yours, you drift over to the bar.

You find an open pocket in the crowd and you squeeze through, your hands resting on the hard edge of the bar top. You watch the bartender take orders, not yet aware of you.

You sigh to yourself, drumming your fingers, hoping you’re just one more drink away from feeling better.

Rafe watches the stranger beside him fidget impatiently. When he looks up from your tapping fingers, he realizes you’re not a stranger at all.

You’re the cheerleader he’s always checking out. The one who’s been on Max’s arm after games. But he usually sees you wearing a big smile, and there’s nothing happy about the way you look right now.

You can see from the corner of your eye that the person beside you is looking at you. You meet Rafe’s gaze, blinking a few times to make sure it’s really him.

You’re a bit embarrassed, considering you’d stared at him through tonight’s game. He’s in a dark t-shirt instead of the jersey you’re used to seeing him in. You can tell that is hair is just a bit damp, surely from the shower he took after the game.

You try not to think about him in the shower.

Rafe takes you in, the way your lips purse before you speak.

“You played well,” you say.

Rafe’s lids lower. You’re wearing a dress even shorter than the little cheerleading skirt he’s used to seeing you in.

“Me?” he drawls, his lips curling up in a surprised smirk.

You meet his eyes for longer this time, nodding at him with an indifferent expression.

“Aren’t you Hammond’s girl?” he says, clearly amused, a contrast from how angry you’ve heard him on the court.

You’re surprised that he knows you were dating Max. Maybe he noticed you more often than you thought.

“Nope,” you mutter. You tell him you have a name, then give him it.

Rafe’s eyes continue to travel over you, his pulse quickening as he takes you in. He knew you were hot, but he never got a chance to really look at you up close.

How the hell did Hammond fuck things up with you? He needs to know so he won’t make the same mistake.

“What happened?” he murmurs.

“With Max?” you ask. “He’s a dick.”

“Could’ve told you that.” You watch Rafe slightly tip his head back as he takes a drag of his beer.

“Really? I’ve heard the same about you,” you say. You realize you might be more tipsy that you thought once your brazen words spill out of your mouth.

“And what, you think it’s true?” Rafe asks with his eyes on your lips.

“I don’t know. You get fouled more than any player I’ve seen.”

Rafe huffs a breathy chuckle, obviously nowhere near offended by your words. He actually seems flattered.

Out of instinct, your eyes dart to the table you saw Max sitting at. His gaze is fixed on you. He’s likely shocked that you’re talking to someone you’re supposed to hate.

Rafe turns to see what you’re looking at. He smirks when he notices just how pissed off Max looks. He turns his attention back at you.

“Your boyfriend’s pissed,” Rafe says, a hint of mocking in his voice.

“I already told you that he’s not my boyfriend. And I couldn’t care less if he’s mad that I’m talking to you,” you answer, crossing your arms. Blue eyes dart down to your cleavage.

“So, you’re not using me to get back at him?” he teases.

“I didn’t even know you were here,” you say. “But it’s not a bad idea.”

Rafe cocks his head, his tongue jutting under his cheek. Getting to flirt with a hot girl and annoying someone he hates at the same time is a win-win situation.

“What can I get you?” you hear. You look over at the bartender and regain your composure to order your drink.

“Put it on my tab,” Rafe tells him. He watches your lashes flutter when you meet his eyes again.

“Thanks,” you say, lips lifting into a smile. You’ve been so deep in your anger that you haven’t realized that Rafe could be the meaningless hook-up you’re looking for tonight.

“That’s the first time you smiled since you came over here,” he notices.

“I’m in a pretty bad mood,” you admit.

“What’d he do?” Rafe asks, tilting his head back to Max.

“Probably something you do to girls all the time,” you say boldly. “He made me think he wanted a relationship, but turns out, he just wanted to get laid.”

Rafe’s eyes glint with something you haven’t seen in him under the muted bar lights. For a split second, his guard goes down.

“You think I do that?”

“Am I wrong?” you challenge. His laugh is dry and humorless. He leans closer to you, his cologne cool and sharp as he towers over you.

“You are,” he says.

The tension between you hardens. You stare up at him.

“Okay,” you say. At this point, you’re jaded and uninterested in dancing around the subject. “So, what do you do?”

You lift your glass to take a sip. Rafe watches the way your lips lock around the straw. He’s entranced by you, by how straightforward you are.

“I’m upfront that I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” he says. “I don’t have to play games.”

You know he’s being honest. Someone that looks as good as he does definitely doesn’t have to manipulate his way into sex.

“What are you looking for, then?” you ask.

“Fun,” Rafe replies. “And I think you need some fun, too.”

You feel your blood go hot. He’s right. This man and the no-strings-attached sex he’s proposing is exactly what you need right now.

You lock eyes with him as you swallow the last sip of your drink and put it on the bar with a clack.

“I do,” you answer.

When Rafe asks you if you want to go over to his place, you don’t need to even think about it.

You let your friends know you’re leaving and you follow Rafe out, his hand finding yours, callouses from his training hard over his palm.

It’s all such a thrill. The way Rafe looks at you. The promise of casual sex with him. The glare of your ex-boyfriend as you leave. And the fact that you completely forgot about how this started as revenge on Max because you’re so tangled up in the feeling Rafe is giving you.

When you step into Rafe’s single dorm, he crosses the small room to switch on the desk lamp, casting a dim glow over the space.

You notice a few toiletries scattered on top of his dresser, his jersey slung over the back of his chair. This is technically enemy territory, but you couldn’t care less.

It’s quite bare and not very lived in, but you didn’t expect him to be the type who cares to decorate.

“I’m guessing you’re not in here all that much,” you say, leaning against the door once it shuts behind you.

“You finally got something right about me,” Rafe replies, earning a giggle from you. He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at you. “Come here.”

His dominance, not just through his words but by the way he takes up space so confidently, makes arousal swirl in your stomach. You settle beside him, the mattress shifting with your weight.

“Are you always this bossy?” you ask.

Rafe takes in your pretty features. This might be one of the best nights he’s had. He played a great game, won against the team he hates most, and the girl he’s been eyeing all season is sitting on his bed.

“Right again,” he says. Now that you left the crowds and music back in the bar, his deep voice cutting through silence reverberates through you.

You breathe a quiet laugh. You first approached him feeling so bitter, but just like that, he turned your mood around.

His eyes trail the hemline of your dress. You watch as he places his hand over your thigh, moving slowly, his thumb stroking just below where the fabric of your dress ends.

Rafe’s skin is hot, his hand heavy, and your heart-rate quickens in a second.

“You know how distracting you are?” he rasps, recalling the countless times he saw you by the court as you danced around in your skimpy outfit.

“What?” you ask.

“It’s so fucking hard to focus on playing when you’re there.”

Your breath hitches as he leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. You had no idea you’d caught his attention before tonight, but by the sound of it, this isn’t the first time he’s looked at you through lustful eyes.

When his lips capture yours, he squeezes your thigh, firm fingers sinking into your flesh. He kisses you again and again and again, every time deeper than the last, tongues meeting with heated ardency.

You let out a moan so soft when he bites your bottom lip that he takes your hand from where it’s resting to the bulge in his jeans, showing you how hard he is for you.

Your body flushes even hotter when you feel him, gently starting to stroke him over the denim.

Your phone buzzes loudly in your purse, vibrating in a rhythmic pattern you recognize as a call.

Rafe shifts back, his mouth an inch away from yours.

“You don’t have to get that, do you?” His tone signifies more of a statement than a question.

You pull out your phone, confused over who would call you now. You grimace when you see Max’s photo on your screen.

Rafe notices. You breathe out a quiet laugh of surprise when takes your phone, hitting “Message” and sending She’s busy, then declining the call.

You feel each other’s smiles under your kiss, this time moving even faster. Rafe drags his hand higher under your dress and inhales sharply once you instinctually spread your legs, allowing him to feel you.

The pressure of his fingers rubbing over your panties makes you ache.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” he rasps against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper. He pushes the fabric to the side, feeling how slick and soft you are.

“Goddamn, you’re so wet already,” Rafe groans, enjoying the ego trip from knowing he got you like this so quickly. His lips trail to your neck, kissing and sucking your skin as he glides between your folds, tracing circles.

He shifts, losing contact with you for a moment to pull your dress off. When he sees you in just your bra and underwear, he nearly grunts in frustration from not being inside you already.

His hold on your hips is so firm it hurts as he guides you onto your back. Hovering over you, Rafe pulls his t-shirt off with urgency. Your lips quirk into a smile at how impatient and hungry he is.

You find the button of his jeans, quickly pulling it through the loop. He does the rest, unzipping and throwing his pants onto the floor. He stands to find a condom in his nightstand, tossing it beside you.

You run your hands over the curve of his muscular back when he lowers to grind over you, his cock hard and twitching.

When Rafe feels your thighs squeeze around him, he tells himself to slow his breathing, almost worried he won’t last long. This doesn’t happen to him. Ever.

But then again, he’s never craved a girl this badly, for this long. Having you under him like this, bucking your hips because you want it just as bad, is unreal.

He roughly pulls the cup of your bra down, closing his wet mouth over your nipple, earning a shudder from you. As he flicks his tongue, he shifts to pull down his boxers.

You take off your panties beneath him, squirming out of them, watching him sit up and roll the condom over his length.

“You gonna show me how good you can take it?” he mumbles, leaning over you again. You meet heavy-lidded blue eyes as he holds himself up over you, biting your lip and nodding.

The world stops spinning when he pushes into you, filling you.

“Fuck,” he groans against your cheek as you squeeze him. “Even better than I thought.”

You tilt your head back and moan, taking all of him, stretching as he buries deeper and deeper, dazed at the fact that he feels so good, that he clearly fantasized about this before.

Rafe bottoms out and you dig your nails into his shoulder blades as he pulls back and thrusts into you harder, his breath hot on your skin.

You wrap your limbs around him as tight as you can as he starts to rock his hips at a faster pace. He puts his lips on yours again, your kisses wet and hungry.

The sounds of his skin slamming against yours and your disjointed, shallow breaths fill the room, making you squeeze your eyes shut in pleasure.

Your moans get louder as the coil in your stomach begins to tighten. Rafe starts pounding even faster and harder when he feels you fluttering around his cock.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs, shifting lower to put more of his weight on you, his fingers finding the roots of your hair. “You gonna come for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes.”

You tremble beneath him as you fall into your orgasm, holding your breath for a second before letting go. What finally sends him over the edge is when you moan his name.

Rafe comes with a low, drawn out groan, his thrusts quicker and sloppier, hips stuttering against yours. He stays inside you for a bit, his head buzzing as he comes back down from the high.

You sit up in his bed once he stands, your pulse still fast. You watch him pull his boxers back on, his skin shining with sweat.

You spot your underwear on his crumpled duvet and slide them on after fixing your bra.

You decide not to put your dress back on yet, shifting his pillow to sit back on the headboard, finding where he tossed your phone after he texted your ex for you.

You watch Rafe lean down to open the door of the mini-fridge on the floor. He pulls out a bottle and tilts his head back as he swallows down water.

The image of his tall, muscular, half-naked frame in the middle of his room, his jaw sharp as he tips his head back, his numbered jersey hanging off the back of his chair right next to him, is too nice not to capture.

You take a photo of the sight, the bottom half of your bare legs in the frame. Rafe hands you the cold bottle and as you take it in your hand, you show him your screen.

“Like it?” you say, still dazed.

He grins, dimples dipping into his cheeks, as he sinks onto the bed on his knees to sit beside you.

“You posting that?” he asks. You can tell he’s pleased by the idea, so you share it on your Snap story with the caption Post-workout.

Minutes later, the replies from your friends flood in.

IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS

omfg this is WILD

actually diabolical lmaoooo

Max’s message is the most satisfying of the bunch: Are you serious right now?? Call me back.

You shift to grab your dress off the floor. You’re never calling him. He lost his chance.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” you say, standing to pull your dress on.

“You know how distracted on the court I’ll be now?” Rafe mumbles, earning a laugh from you. “Let me get your number.”

You enter your number into his phone and smooth down your hair in his mirror.

Casual, easy pleasure. This is just what you needed and you found it in Rafe Cameron of all people. You look back at him as you put your purse over your shoulder.

“We’ll do this again,” Rafe says, drinking you in. That was mind-blowing. It can’t be the only time he does this with you.

“Bossy,” you agree with a smile. You slip out of his room, your legs weak and wobbly.

You’ll be sore tomorrow. And the cheerleaders and athletes who take the rivalry seriously might even give you shit for what you did tonight. But it was all worth it. You’d do it all over again.

(continuation blurbs)

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[tojisun]

simon knows that he’s just a cheap replacement for the one that you truly wish you could be with, but john’s a married man already and you’ve always been too nice to put yourself first.

it’s how john slipped from your grasp, in the first place. you kept quiet about the turbulence in your heart and further refused to speak up about the truth of your cross when one of your friends began seeing him.

simon had been there as you stuttered past the tears, choking on your own words.

“i thought–” you hiccupped. “i thought that i– that he–”

you looked up at him, anguish so bright on your face. “what do i do now, si?”

simon shrugged because he didn’t know what to say.

whatever was between you and john had been an ongoing push-and-pull; it was this shared thing that the squad knew about — teases flung around the mess hall when you and john were caught spending long nights in his office again.

it’s not like that, y’pricks, john finally barked out with such finality that it became too awkward to even tease the two of you again. and even then, john never really stopped coming to find you for more late night chats, but it was so blatantly platonic — hell, it could have even passed off as a mentor-mentee thing, which was even worse because everyone could see how you wanted more from him.

and their captain was a complicated man. sometimes, they all caught the way he seemed to reciprocate the same desires etched so obviously in your very being, but his was always just more muted. more controlled — john had a tight leash on himself, and he wasn’t allowing anything to slip past the cracks like whatever it was that he was feeling was something he decided you mustn’t have. that you’re too good for it. too nice for it.

it’s probably why john didn’t end up marrying you. why he settled so fast for this new woman that walked into his life like the two of you didn’t have something, anything, at all. simon wonders if john saw his own marriage as an atonement for liking you.

for needing you, actually.

because simon knows their captain, and he knows that there was only so much john could handle but you—

oh, how you balanced john. you made him sane. made him nice.

you made him human.

and what a scary thing it must have been for their captain.

simon knows he isn’t truly who you are looking for when you come to him, bourbon heavy in your breath, and begging for a kiss. he gives it to you, anyway, and tells himself that it’s a kiss made out of pity. that there’s nothing more to it. nothing more to this.

(but simon will take you with such gentle cadence, spreading you out with his wide palm and thick fingers, rubbing the calluses on the soft pudge of your skin, and he will not stop wondering if even then, with him deep in you, you are still mistaking him for john.)

[fangswbenefits]

Obsession

Summary: Miguel tries to convince himself that his obsession with you was justified, but fails miserably as you spend the night over.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Miguel POV. Obsessed and jealous Miguel. Inexperienced reader. Breeding kink. Sexual tension and frustration. Reader has nipple piercings.

Previous parts: 1 & 2 (you may enjoy this one separately, but might miss out on some context)

Miguel tried to convince himself that adding a mic to your digital suit was purely for safety purposes.

He really did try.

But he couldn’t keep from listening in when you first wore it on your way to the spider cafeteria.

He had just briefed a squad and was monitoring Nueva York through a multitude of hovering screens, as he stood on his platform.

Tapping quickly on the flickering surface, he was able to zoom in on you through the ceiling cameras.

You looked absolutely breathtaking.

The suit fit you like a glove and left little to the imagination. He was proud of his work. You deserved wearing something of his for everyone to see.

He saw you approaching a nearby table, taking a seat. In front of you were Jessica Drew and Peter B. Parker with Mayday who greeted you with warm smiles.

The sound of your voice echoed through the walls around him, as you extended your arms.

“Mayday! Baby! It’s so good to see you!”

The little girl broke into a giggle and began wriggling forward on Peter’s lap to reach you.

You promptly took her in your arms. “Did you miss me? Did you?” your voice was slight high-pitched and you wiggled your fingers, tickling her. “Oh, I have a present for her.”

“Really? That’s so nice of you,” Peter beamed.

“I don’t have it here, but I think she’ll love it,” you said, patting Mayday’s back lightly, earning a genuine hug from her.

Miguel felt his heart clench violently.

You were a natural with kids.

You were just too good to be true and he felt his hands clench tightly.

Would he ever be able to have you? To make you yearn for him? To breed you? To have children with you?

“Wait, is that a… digital suit?” Jessica’s voice cracked through the mic.

You had your back turned to him, so he couldn’t see your face, but he felt the warmth in your voice as you spoke, “It sure is!”

He groaned lowly.

There you were… his sweet girl.

“Who gave it to you?”

“Miguel,” you said with that tenderness he had grown to adore.

He could easily get addicted to you saying his name, and he could only hope that, one day, he might hear it a much more compelling setting.

“Miguel… O’Hara?”

You nodded.

From the screen he could see her exchanging looks with Peter.

“It looks really cool!” Peter smiled enthusiastically, inspecting your sleeves. “Wish he’d offer me one, too.”

Jessica chuckled. “Well, I’ve been here with him for months and he’s never given me one.”

Jessica…

It was to be expected. She was no fool. He had scouted her precisely because she was anything but that.

You had been recruited only three weeks ago, but the hold you had on him was tight. He had never felt this way before with someone else.

You straightened in your seat, as Mayday nibbled on your thumb. “Wait… do you think I should give it back?”

Miguel felt his heart jumpstart and panic build inside him.

“No — no! Jessica,” Perer shot her a glare who merely shrugged, before offering you a kind smile. “It looks great on you. Did you pick the colours?”

“Yes! I’m really happy with the final result,” you said, helping Mayday sit at the edge of the table, as you secured her with both hands. “It was his way of showing gratitute.”

Jessica snapped her fingers after taking a sip of her drink. “You’re helping him out with the portals, right?”

“We’re working on portal stabilisation and reduced motion sickness,” you said and he could almost taste the pride and passion in your voice. “We’re making some progress.”

Miguel had gotten used to the random erections you’d awake from him throughout the day. But this one felt particularly painful.

You were so smart and so devoted. He couldn’t even take credit for the progress, because it was mostly just you.

His sweet and clever girl.

He glanced down at the outline of his strained cock, clicking his tongue.

By the time his eyes settled on the monitor, Jessica had walked away momentarily and he saw Peter lean in.

“Hey… are you and Miguel… a thing?”

Miguel froze.

Mayday proceeded to wrap tiny fingers around some of his locks, tugging lightly.

He wish he could have seen your reaction.

“Oh! No! No… we’re just friends,” you quickly said, waving your hands rapidly. “He’s like a mentor to me, really.”

Anger flared inside him. A friend? A mentor? He knew deep down this made absolute sense, but it still made him seething with rage.

Peter didn’t seem all that convinced, but nodded. “Just wondering. He’s not usually this… kind?”

Miguel felt his fangs threaten to emerge as he gritted his teeth.

There had been nothing kind about him building you a suit. He hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart.

He wanted to claim you and this had been the easiest and safest way for now.

“Well, I know he’s a grumpy,” you chuckled with a shrug, as you patted Mayday on the back. “Maybe he’s changing?”

You wouldn’t want him to change. Not really. The level of devotion he had for you was unmatched and nothing you could ever have from someone else.

“Maybe you’re a good influence on him?” Peter concluded, tapping his chin. “As a friend, of course.”

“Peter….” he growled lowly.

“As a friend,” you nodded. “Besides, there’s…” but your voice trailed off.

His erection nearly immediately deflated as dread took over.

There’s what?

He turned up the mic’s volume, but winced instead, as you banged on the table.

You cleared your throat. “Well, gotta go! I have work to do.”

Peter took Mayday back into his lap and chuckled. “Don’t forget her present!”

“I won’t! Wish me luck, though,” you said, crossing your fingers as you started to walk away. “I really need these chips to stop blowing and melting on me!”

“Good luck! Say bye bye, Mayday,” Peter waved his hand, which the little girl promptly mimicked with a giggle.

“Bye, baby!” you beamed.

Miguel had had enough.

He switched off your mic with a tap on his watch.

He really had tried to convince himself that his obsession for you was justified. That is was rooted in more than lust and desire, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

After you moved to Nueva York, he had you working closely to him on portal stabilisation.

But what had started out as something innocent, soon shifted into something else entirely.

Your company brought him peace and quiet, and ticket his brain just the right way to keep him motivated.

Until it didn’t.

Until you became his torment.

He had let you in his life in the hopes that you let him in yours.

The first time you gave him a boner was when he walked in on you in the lab, wearing nothing but a tank top and a pencil pressed firmly in between your lips, as you moved from screen to screen to check on the update progress.

The worst part? You didn’t even notice how utterly delicious you looked and how he could easily bend you over and take you right there.

No.

You just offered him a sweet smile.

One he hadn’t recovered from ever since.

“Miguel?”

He jolted as the voice snapped him from his torturous thoughts. “What?”

Lyla hovered nearby, eyeing him closely. “Fangs out,” she wiggled her index finger disapprovingly. “Pavitr and Hobie are waiting for you.”

His fangs retracted slowly as he tried to gain his composure back. “Why?”

“Mission?” she quirked an eyebrow.

Right.

“Now?”

“You’re already late.”

He growled, tapping on a few screens hurriedly.

“Oh, and Miguel?”

“What?”

The hologram popped near the screen to his left. “You might want to be more subtle when using her in-suit mic.”

He gave her narrow side-glace. “What do you mean?”

“Just saying,” she said, adjusting her heart-shapped glasses. “You’re not the only tech savvy spider here.”

The door to his apartment swung open at once, and he stepped inside ready to decompress from the tiresome mission.

He had made plans with some of your audio recordings and his hand, hoping that would be enough to easy the pent-up tension that had been looming over year throughout the way.

It was a less than ideal situation, but would have to do for now.

That was until he noticed his living room was lit.

Pacing rapidly he was met with you.

In the middle of a pile of papers and electronic components scattered around the floor, he saw you sitting cross-legged with a pencil danging from your lips, his digital suit clinging tightly to your body.

“What are you doing here?”

Your bead snapped in his direction and the pencil tumbled to the floor. “Miguel! Lyla let me in.”

He was rooted in place.

Had it been someone else, he would have flung them through the window with no warning.

But you weren’t just someone.

And Lyla wouldn’t have let someone else enter his apartment, either.

“It’s quite late,” he said, pacing carefully toward you as not to step on anything. “You could have called me.”

You waved a hand dismissively and held a circular metallic object in the other. “Catch!”

Before he could say anything back, you had tossed it in his direction, which he quickly grabbed in between his fingers.

“Found what was wrong with it,” you smiled proudly. “It was stupid of me, really. There wasn’t any thermal paste in it. That’s why it kept blowing up.”

Miguel stared at the chip in his hand and blinked a few times.

“I assumed you were using it from the start,” he said, inspecting the cross section.

You rose to your feet in an instant and joined his site, excitement spilling from you. “These ion batteries should not require thermal paste — not for this amount of energy, at least. But yeah… my bad,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.

Miguel locked eyes with yours and felt a familiar tingle in his body.

Fuck.

You were just so ridiculously attractive, and he wish he could hear you ramble about tech and science for hours.

“This is really, really good news,” he said genuinely, handing the chip back to you.

He squeezed your arm lightly as encouragement, knowing fully well he should be rewarding you in other ways.

His sweet girl…

You darted back to the floor, gathering some papers. “Sorry for the mess. I just had to figure this out and couldn’t sleep.”

A scientist at heart, you were.

Blood began to rush to his groin in no time. It couldn’t be helped. His body had been so on edge to finally fuck you, that it was in this permanent state of arousal around you.

“It’s fine. I still have those moments,” he said softly, crouching to help you out. “Sometimes I can’t sleep, and I have to do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I either go to the lab, or…” I jerk off to the thought of being buried deep inside you, he wanted to say.

You eyed him expectantly, biting your lip lightly, further hardening his cock.

“Well, it’s a bit late,” Miguel eventually said, standing tall. “Maybe you should get back to your apartment?”

He hated himself for even suggesting such option, but he didn’t want to push his luck. You being here would be fuel enough for the rest of the night as he fucked his hand.

“Oh, you just got back from a mission,” you fought back a yawn, tossing your backpack over your shoulder. “I’ll just leave.”

Miguel nodded, but was crumbling inside.

Your face lit up again. “But this was great, right?”

Please stay.

“You did great,” he said with a short smile. “Go get some rest.”

Please…

You made your way down the hall and waved at him. “See you in the morning, Miguel.”

He should have let you go.

But something took over him, before he could fight it back.

“Actually, you could stay. It’s nearly four in the morning,” he tried to sound as casual as possible, but the excitement was hard to contain. “And we have to head back to the lab early.”

You turned around and he stopped breathing.

Too much?

Then he the backpack slide down your arm, hittingbthe floor with a thud. “Oh, thank you! I really didn’t feel like swinging back to my apartment,” you voice held pure gratitude and he felt his ego soar. “Only… I don’t have any clothes.”

He shook his head as realisation hit him. “Right. Wait here.”

“Okay~”

Bolting into his room, he went through his closet, fetching a shirt and a robe.

But before heading out, he decided to change into some sweatpants and a shirt himself.

His erection welcomed the looser material, and he’d be able to better conceal it from you.

Taking a final look at his cock, Miguel decided to give it a few pumps as if trying to calm it down.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

He couldn’t believe his sweet girl would be so close to him in his clothes and apartment.

And bed.

As he exited the room and handed the clothes to you, he cleared his throat. “You can take my bed.”

You looked up at him. “Oh… no, Miguel. You just came back from a mission.”

“I’m not that tired. Just take it.”

Please.

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Anything that was his was yours. He would give it all to you.

“Be right back,” you said, before disappearing into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

He immediately sighed in relief, adjusting his cock, feeling the first beads of precum spill from the tip.

How was he to survive this?

Not long after, you emerged again.

He glanced over at the length of you, taking in the sight of his shirt and robe on you. Your legs were still covered with the digital suit, but you looked absolutely ready to be devoured.

But he couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

His cock twitched in his pants, yearning to be inside you.

Then something else caught his attention when his moved up your body.

It couldn’t be…

Two symmetrical protuberances poked through the fabric of your shirt — his shirt.

“Are those…” his voice faltered momentarily, not trusting his own eyes.

You followd his line of sight and giggled. “Oh! Yeah. Got them pierced way back. Wanted to defy my dad and got them out of spite,” you went on, adjusting the fabric of the shirt under the robe. “But eventually kept them. They look cute.”

Cute?

Miguel was at a loss for words.

Your voice mixed with your carefree posture sent jolts directly into his cock.

“I…” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I didn’t notice them before,” he said, feeling his mouth run dry.

“I was wearing a bra,” you replied with a shrug and a tender smile.

This was almost comically painful.

You were the closest thing he had ever known to innocence as of late. Yet here you stood, wearing just his shirt, no bra, and with your pierced nipples poking through his shirt.

But none of that seemed to matter to you.

You were completely oblivious of how painfully hard he was for you.

“Did it hurt?”

“Terribly,” you said, still glacing down at your breasts and hardened nipples. “But I think it’s worth it.”

The adorable way in which you said it was almost driving him insane.

Just how innocent could one person be…

Before he could even process his thoughts, he spoke, “Can I…”

Your eyes met his and Miguel feared he had now fucked it up for good.

Brilliant, Miguel…

“Oh, you mean… you want to see them?”

Should he back down and just deny his intentions?

“You’ve never seen nipple piercings before?”

He shook his head.

Just as he was about to tell you to forget it, you lifted his shirt, revealing your breasts to him.

He nearly exploded right there and then.

“Oh, please!” she giggled. “We’re people of science, and you haven’t seen this before. Science is all about curiosity and discovery.”

Miguel, however, wasn’t listening to any of that and felt as though he was hypnotised. He could tear his eyes away from your perky nipples and the metal rods that went through them, a tiny spider danging from each of them.

He wasn’t sure when or how he had got so close to you, but he lifted his hand to touch one.

His cock twitched violently and he felt his mind hazy with lust.

“They’re cool, right?” you beamed, allowing him to swipe the pad of his thumb across the tiny spider.

“Yeah.”

Really ‘cool’.

More precum dripped from his tip and had to fight back his fangs from slipping out.

He wanted to bend over and dart his tongue out to play with them. He wanted to tug on them and wanted you to arch your back with a soft moan.

You pulled down the shirt again and he flinched his hand back instantly, swallowing hard.

“So… if — when you have a baby and want to breastfeed… will there be an issue?”

Of course his need to breed you had to surface at the worst possible time.

But he had to know. He needed to know if that would be a nuisance. He couldn’t take any risks and he wanted you completely ready to carry his children.

You shrugged, adjusting the robe around you. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead when I got them, but I suppose I just have to take them out.”

He nodded, taking a few steps back.

You stretched out with a yawn. “Mind if I go to sleep now?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

You were about to whirl on your feet, but decided against it. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Spanish?”

That caught him off guard and his eyes widened. “Gracias.”

Then you gave him the sweetest smile. “Gracias, Miguel.

He could cum just from this alone.

How he would teach you the filthiest things in Spanish… how he would whisper them in your ear, knowing fully well you couldn’t understand a word…

You then slipped into his room and closed the door.

He ran both hands through his hair, wanting to let out a scream.

The things he wanted to do to you…

The things you deserved done to you…

He brought one hand down to tug at his waistband, revealing his soaked cock.

Then he bit the back of his other hand.

Hard.

He didn’t even care if he drew blood.

He couldn’t take this anymore.

Engulfed with overwhelming frustration, he pressed his forehead against the tall window that overlooked Nueva York.

He had to calm down, or else he’d have to synthesise a serum to lower his levels of testosterone…

He had to find a way to stop.

As minutes ticked by, he decided to check your bio readings on his watch. Your heart rate had lowered significantly, indicating him you were now asleep.

The predator in him took control again and he paced towards his bedroom, opening the door just enough to check on you.

Fast asleep.

He walked in with careful steps, finally taking in the sight of you on his bed.

The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed for the faintest moonlight to be cast on you.

He felt his heart was about to implode as he drew near, slowly sitting by the edge of the mattress.

You lay on your back, breathing evenly and covered up to your waist with a blanket.

Miguel took a deep and shaky breath.

You smelled of him and his bedsheets smelled of you.

Such a powerful and dangerous combination, that he almost considered gripping his cock.

Bur decided against it.

Instead, he say there, staring at you, absorbing every single detail of your body.

His hand twitched as an itch took over it.

An itch he had to scratch.

He reached out to graze the back of one finger along your forearm, feeling your warmth coating his skin.

His sweet girl…

His imagination ran wild and he had hoped he could have fucked you to sleep, not sliding out of you, making sure you’d take his seed.

Pain swallowed him whole as despair settled.

What if he never managed to make you his?

What if you decided you wanted nothing more than a friendship?

How could he cope?

Suddenly, you flinched and rolled to your side and heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, Tom…”

Miguel was left petrified and his blood ran cold.

Who the fuck was Tom?

Part 4

Masterlist

[gars-weaponeer]

There is this deleted Scene from the Bad Batch arc of Clone Wars in which after Crosshair and Rex fight Anakin confronts Rex telling him that there is a possibility that Echo has been turned. To which Rex answers: "I've known Echo since Domino Squad, He is one of the bravest troopers I've ever worked with. Sure, he can test your nerves repeating every order like you are deaf, but I can tell you this: He rather die than turn against the republic." (Link)

And I wish they would have kept that.

I wish we could have gotten more of Echo's unique quirk. You know? the one that gave him his name: His tendency to repeat everything and make sure everyone is aware of what has to be done.

It's such a unique, an honestly funny quirk that we didn't really got to see outside of the Domino Squad episode and I don't see it represented on the fandom often.

I wish we could have gotten more of that little quirk that made Echo Unique in the Bad Batch. I wish we could have gotten more of Echo in the bad batch in general.

[princeguri66]

Can I ask for a 141 x male reader who acts like a mom to them? Just reader being prepared for anything even in the middle of a mission, giving them snacks and predicting their problems

Aww wait that's such a cute concept though ♪⁠～⁠(⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠) apologies if this isn't exactly what you were hoping for but these were what I could come up with.

I like to think reader here would be older than them, either the same age as price or just a bit older. And like a bear too.

Being in the game for so long you've developed these sort of "instincts"

Price introduced you to the team as his friend from his earlier days in the military. Says that you'll be part of the team for a while so he hopes you all get along well.

And you do, spending so much time with the team has let them warm up to you and get comfortable with you. Makes your urge to take care of them unleash.

You sitting next to Gaz in the helly heading to a mission and he comments how he wished he had more to eat earlier. You pulling out a granola bar from one of your many pockets and handing it to him, Gaz looking at you as if to ask "are you sure?" And you just reply with a nod and a soft smile, Gaz taking it with a grin on his face as he eats it. And once he finishes it you take another one out of the same pocket and ask "are you still hungry?"

He keeps eating whatever you offer and as you start to get worried wether this kid has been eating enough or not he says "thank you, sir. I feel better" with a crumby smile.

You huff fondly "got something on your cheek there sweety" and lick your thumb to clean his cheek. Him trying to contain the blood running to his cheeks because it's embarrassing.

Just chilling with Soap as you both clean your weapons. Hearing him go "ouch" as he clicks his tongue. "What's wrong lad?" You ask him as you look up from cleaning your gun.

He looks up at you after cleaning his knife "Accidentally sliced a bit of my finger, it's no big deal"

You respond with a nod and walk over to him and kneel Infront of him to hold his hand, inspecting the little cut on his finger. You pull out a spiderman themed bandaid and place it on the wound. Giving it a small kiss then saying "all done" as you look up at him and walk back to where you were previously cleaning your gun.

You bet your ass everytime he gets a small boo-boo he's going to be looking for you all over base for another colorful bandaid and another healing kiss.

Taking care of Ghost as he sits on the bed since he insisted that he was fine (but it's so obvious that he isn't) patching up his wounds with normal gauze and placing colorful character themed bandaids on top. As you finish up you gently rub his arm in a comforting motion, silently telling him that everything's ok and that everyone is fine. Wanting him to know that if he's too stubborn for actual professional care you'll make do.

You stand back to look over him, checking that you haven't missed anything. If he's got a wound on his face then he'll just have to take care of it himself. You step forward and rest your hand on his cheek, your warmth phasing through his mask. "You alright sweety?" You ask him in a gentle tone and all he can do is let out a shaky sigh and lean forward, resting his head on your Stomach. You gently wrap your hands around his head and start rubbing his back. It seems like he really needed this kind of comfort.

And don't think just because Price is closer to your age doesn't mean he gets out of being taken care of.

Being a friend of him for years makes you aware of his bad habits with overworking and lack of sleep schedule. One night you finally decide to put a stop to it after seeing rays of light seeping through the crack of his office door. You don't even knock, just opening it and standing right in front of his desk, crossing your arms you look at him with a questioning glare.

And Price knows that look, experienced it so many times and now that you're both in the same squad again he hopes to feel that comfort that you seem to always carry with you. You scold him for overworking till late at night and drag him out of his office and into his room. You throw him on to his bed and tuck him in, you lean close to his face and his eyes are full of adoration, for taking care of him all these years and now taking care of his team. You place a kiss on his forehead and he just melts. He missed this, and he's so glad the rest of his team can experience your care as well.

As he hears you leave and close the door behind you with a resounding click, he thinks to himself on how nice it would be to have you with them for even longer. And he's sure the rest are thinking the same thing.

(You'd be delighted if you could take care of them for longer as well)

[0mg-bird]

i would love it if you wrote anything with a shy reader and bob, but no pressure!

Two shy characters? I love it.

Shy Reader x B. Floyd

Summary: At the Navy bar your friends drag you to, you come across an aviator who isn’t like the rest of them.

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, fluff!, Bob is so cute I wanna put him in my pocket even though I know he’s a grown man.

A/n: I did something a little different than my Jake story, hope you don’t hate it <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I really wish we could have just stayed at the restaurant.” You awkwardly laugh as your friends, Ashley and Steff, pull you along with them.

“Oh come on, it’s my birthday so we’re going to get drunk and find a soldier to take home. One for each of us.” Steff says, already slightly tipsy from dinner.

You hide your frown, adjusting your curled hair and fiddle with your top.

You’ve never been into the Hard Deck, that’s what starts off your unsureness. You weren’t one for public outings, you enjoyed the company of your friends but they were always more adventurous than you.

There’s music playing and lots of people mingling, you’re practically hiding behind Ashley, following the two through the bar.

“You need a drink, you’re too stiff.” Ash says as the three of you sit at the bar.

“I’m always this stiff.” You reply, sitting on your stool. “Well, let’s fix that.” Steff giggles before ordering three drinks.

You chat and your anxious feelings subside, as soon as you get to thinking that bar scene really isn’t that bad, you hit a curve.

“God, they’re all so gorgeous.” Ash practically moans and you follow her line of sight to the group of uniforms behind you. They’re all playing pool and talking, all clad in tan and name badges.

“I like…that one- no! Him, yes, the tall one.” Steff bites her straw, motioning to a dirty blond with broad shoulders and great biceps.

Ash hums in agreement. “I like him too.”

“Well it’s my birthday so pick again.”

They have the argument for another minute or so, then as you finally dissociate from them, they’re telling you they’re going to go say hi.

“What? No just stay here…please?” You beg, not wanting to be left alone.

“We’ll be right back, I swear.” Steff says, kissing your cheek. “Have another drink and you’ll be fine.”

You groan and rub her lipstick off your face, then turn to the woman behind the bar. “I’ll have another Long Island, put it on the party girl’s tab.”

She smiles. “Coming right up.”

You blow out a puff of air, then look around. You must look awkward, sitting by yourself, not chatting like everyone else. When your drink comes, you look sip on your straw and look over your shoulder to see if your friends have gotten any farther with the guys they’re talking to. You smile at the way Steff is feeling her guy up, as you go to glance away, something catches your eye.

Someone.

He’s sitting on a stool, not fully engaged with the rest of the squad. As your eyes catch his stare, he looks away for a moment, then looks back.

A genuine smile he gives you, and then it’s your turn to slightly smile and look away.

Bob’s eyes keep shifting to your seated position across from him, and by the third time of his drifting off, Phoenix is onto his game.

“Are you gonna sit here like an idiot all night or are you going to talk to her?” She asks.

“What? I don’t know what-”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been staring at her like a puppy for twenty minutes. Go talk to her.”

The thought of approaching you seemed like a death wish. You were gorgeous, and any other previous times he’s approached a gorgeous girl, it ended with some sort of question about what Hangman was up to.

“No, she looks busy.” He says, looking back to the sunflower seeds in his cup.

“Busy doing what? Stirring the ice in her drink? That girl is bored out of her mind, Bob, go put her out of her misery.” She has a demanding tone that makes him stand, still unsure.

“What’s he doing?” Fanboy asks, noticing the way Bob slowly inches forward. “He’s gonna go talk to the girl he’s been ogling for too long.” Phoenix says.

“You go Bob!” Payback encourages, really just joking.

“Get me a beer while you’re at it!” Fanboy calls.

“Me too!” Phoenix and Payback add.

He walks with hesitation instead of determination, the entire time he thinks it’s a ridiculous idea.

He stops at the spot beside you. “Penny, can I get three beers?”

By his sudden presence, you startle, slightly jumping in your seat.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare yuh.” He apologizes. You’re more beautiful up close, timid as you tell him it was okay.

“Why’re you sitting alone? If you don’t mind me asking?” He asks and you bite your lower lip, fighting a smile. “My friends are busy groping your friends over there.” You joke.

“Makes sense. You’re not a fan of their antics?”

You shake your head, nose scrunching. Bob takes in a small breath. “Well, I think it’s a real shame that you’re sitting alone. Why don’t you go back to your friends?”

You like his accent, it feels southern but you aren’t sure.

“Really, I’m fine. I’m not exactly a fan of the attention being on me.” You admit.

As Penny places three beer bottles in front of him, he grabs them up. “I think you should join me.” He rushes out, his tone just as surprised as you are.

“Join you?” You ask, looking to the group. Two guys are shoving each other back and forth, seeing who will fall over first. You’re not satisfied with the idea of involving yourself with that. “I think I’ll just wait for my friends to come back.”

He takes a seat beside you. “Can I join you then?”

No guy has ever been so persistent with you before, you’re not sure what to do. You look at his name tag.

“Okay, Floyd, you can stay but I’m kind of boring.”

He shakes his head. “I find that hard to believe and uh, you can call me Bob, everyone else does.”

Having him up close, you recognize how handsome he really is. Not the obnoxiously attractive that the rest of his crew is, he’s more reserved. You like that. His glasses are quirky and different, making him look all the better.

“I’d hate to keep you from your friends, Bobby.”

No one’s ever called him Bobby before, the way it sounds coming off your lips is addicting.

“Trust me, you’re doing me a favor.” He jokes. “You got a name?”

You look at your shoes and tell him. When he tries it out, you blush.

“I like that name.” He compliments.

“I think it’s kind of boring:”

“It’s not boring.”

You like the way he’s being so kind, most guys would have tried a pick up line by now, but Bob sits with utter curiosity in his eyes.

“So, you from here?” You ask, sucking on your straw.

“No, I’ve lived in Lemoore for a while but I’m stationed here until further notice. I grew up in Kentucky actually, then I joined the Navy and haven’t really been back.” He explains, watching the way you rest an elbow in the bar, then lean your head on your hand. “What about you? Are you from here?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m from up North actually. But I went to school down here and fell in love with it so here I am.”

The two of you are quickly immersed in conversation about childhood and travel and Bob watches you come out of your shell.

“You don’t want anything?” You asked, motioning to the bar.

“I don’t drink.” He explains, though he’s distracted by Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin who suddenly is crowding your space.

“Excuse me, is this guy bothering you?” He asks, joking around with Bob.

“Don’t you have a blonde to attend to, Bagman?” Bob questions, making the man drop his smile.

“I’m getting her a drink, her friend too.” He says before ordering two vodka sodas. He looks back at you. “Your party girlfriends are wanting you to join them.”

As you open your mouth to respond, a shout comes from the group. “Bob! What happened to the beers?”

Bob groans, then stands to gather the beers that have been sitting for twenty minutes. “I should get back to it.” He tells you with a smile, walking away.

You look around, confused. Maybe you put him off, maybe you gave the wrong signals. You grab your drink, finishing it quickly, and before you can second guess yourself, you follow after him.

As your presence is recognized, the crew halts in conversation.

This was a bad idea. You could turn back, it wasn’t too late.

As you go to do just that, Bob speaks. “Hi again.”

He’s motioning to the stool he was going to sit on, offering it to you instead.

You slowly sit, deciding on being brave.

You’re introduced to the rest of the group, and as you remember why you didn’t want to be around the guys your friends wanted to, Bob is there, talking to you so the others couldn’t. There’s plenty of jokes made that you force yourself to laugh at, just so you wouldn’t seem awkward, but the tale tell sign of you constantly checking the little leather watch on your wrist showed you were ready for some peace and quiet.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Bob’s voice is low next to your ear, it makes a shiver run through you.

As you look up, his face is surprisingly close to you. You slowly nod. “Okay.”

In the moment that everyone else is distracted by the two girls who adore the attention, the two of you head for the door. You don’t pull away as Bob clutches your hand, keeping you close as he leads you past people.

The music is immediately quieted as you make it to the fresh air, the gentle sound of the waves coming in is relaxing.

“I don’t love the crowds either.” He says as you make your way across the sidewalk. You’re busy looking out to the sand and waves. “Ash and Steff are really more the fun ones, they can have a good time with a group of people watching…I cannot.”

He likes the sound of your laugh, the way the white moonlight is hitting your features makes you seem radiant.

“I always thought the Navy would make me a more sociable person, I guess it has but I think it creeps people out, how quiet I am.” He chuckles.

Completely content with strolling beside you, he gives off an energy you feel utterly comfortable in.

“I like that you’re quiet, most Navy guys aren’t.”

He playfully squints at you. “You talk to a lot of Navy guys?”

Reevaluating your words, your cheeks flush. “No that’s not what I meant, I just meant that- they’re all a certain way- not that I would know! I have never slept with any man of uniform!”

Bob stands in surprise at your ramble, finding it humorous. As he laughs, you cover your face, embarrassed.

“Hey, I was just teasing. I swear, I was teasin’.” He grabs your wrists gently, prying your hands from you so he can look at your red face. “Come on, pretty girl, look at me.”

As soon as he says it, he feels embarrassed himself. The name just slipped out, he should’ve halted the words, he needs to apologize-

You look up at him, doe eyes and a small smile.

Your hearts pounding, your close proximity to him has you feeling hot. As the low crash of waves mixes with the ringing in your ears, you wonder what it would be like to live on the wild side, to do what people do in bars. If you were brave and stepped out of your shy personality, would he let you kiss him?

Bob’s gazing down at you, he’s trying to figure out what’s turning in your mind. One hand lets go of your wrist, it gently cups your cheek.

“I’m going to be bold.” You state with a determination that makes him nod.

“Okay.” Is all he says.

The hand he has a hold on, goes to rest on his chest. You’re surprised at the hardness of it, sure you knew he had to be physically fit to be in the line of work he’s in, but his body is so unsuspecting, it honestly makes him utterly attractive.

He watches you hyper fixate on your touch on his chest, and the warmth of you is enough to make him feel buzzed.

He doesn’t want to rush you, but every second where you don’t pursue whatever thought you have, is killing him.

You start thinking against it, you don’t want him to think you kiss strangers, it’s not who you are at all. You swallow hard, about to call the whole thing off and tell him goodnight. When you raise your head though, he’s lifting your face to his. You’re captivated, he’s embracing you so tenderly, kissing you with an unsure and unfamiliar passion.

You sigh deeply, he holds your hand to his chest, your free one slides over his shoulder. Slowly, shyly, your lips move against his, falling into a gentle rhythm.

Your heavy eyes are shut, the utter feeling of him is making an electricity flicker through you.

After a moment, he pulls away, both hands cradling your face now.

“Please tell me that’s what you were going to do.”

You nod with a fever. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was going to do.”

He kisses you quickly once more, just to get it out of his system. “What are you doing tomorrow?” He asks.

“Probably nursing Steff’s hang over, but if you call me I’ll do whatever you’re doing.”

He grins, liking the idea.

You continue your late night walk, and inside the bar, Coyote looks to the vacant stool with confusion. “Where’s Bob?”

The crew stops, then looks to the empty space.

“Stealth pilot, I’m telling you.” Hangman says. “This guy is always disappearing and popping back up again.”

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x reader

[ Chapter 8 ] || [ Chapter 10 ]

Pairing: Ghost x gn!Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.2K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: i think Ghost always steals Soap's hygiene products bc he cannot be arsed to buy some for himself.

Chapter 9: Drinks?

The moment the helo touched down, the soldiers descended, each of them parting ways as they went about their regular business, returning their gear to the armory, debriefing, showering, eating…

Almost a whole hour after their arrival, Simon threw himself down onto his bed, his skin dewy from the shower, his hair combed to the front and dripping over his face.

He popped open the top drawer of his nightstand and fished out his phone and charger. He set the charger up and turned on the phone as it charged up.

Simon didn’t often use his iPhone. Sometimes he forgot he even had it. The only times he did was to check Soap’s and Gaz’s insta/snap stories (because he liked being up to date on what they were doing) and when they were all on leave and had parted ways, so he could check the groupchat. 

Once the phone turned on, he immediately beelined for Tinder and opened the app. The app lagged a bit at first but, open loading up, he saw it.

99+ likes, 99+ messages.

The big majority of them were girls, too young for him, thirsting for him, even with his face being hidden. He always knew he could attract people, so it didn’t exactly surprise him.

Rolling his eyes, he flicked his finger over the screen until he found your chat and clicked on it.

Simon: I’m back and in one piece. Simon: I think you need to wish me luck more often.

He didn’t expect you to answer him immediately, even if it was only 6 P.M. on a Tuesday and you’d likely be at home and free, considering the job you listed on your profile.

However, the Read notification popped up under his text almost immediately and your dm came right after without the app even announcing you were typing.

you: omg i was literally JUST checking to see if you had said anything you: welcome back!

The text made a smirk take over his scarred lips before he bit the bottom one and typed out a reply.

Simon: Have you been waiting to hear from me for 3 weeks? you: noooo Simon: That’s frankly adorable. Simon: Didn’t think I’d have gotten in your head that strongly. you: oh piss off simon. you: ur not that great. Simon: You’re still texting me. you: sooo???? Simon: So, I can’t be that terrible. Simon: Got your attention, didn’t I? you: oh piss off you: ur so cocky and for what Simon: Not cocky. Just sure of myself. you: no Simon. No? you: no 😤 Simon: Okay then. Simon: Suddenly not sure of myself because you deemed it so. Simon: I’m very insecure now. Simon: Is that better? you: stop being such a bloody smartass 🙄🙄🙄 Simon: You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Simon: I can’t take this. Simon: Going to go hug my pillow and cry some more. you: oh no you: i’m making the giant cry? 😱 Simon: Is that a dig at my height? you: YES Simon: My God, I’m going to cry even more. Simon: I’m being bullied. you: good!!! 😤 Simon: I’m making you pay for my therapy. you: pay for it yourself!!!! 🙄 Simon: How about I pay for dinner for the two of us one of these days instead?

You didn’t answer immediately after that. You always did that whenever he flirted with you and spoke about taking you out.

Simon had a shit-eating grin on his face, imagining that you were all annoyed at him behind the screen. He was right in guessing you were shy about going out, he assumed.

you: no. you: but you can buy me a drink tonight.

His jaw dropped and his eyebrows raised just a bit.

Simon: It’s a Tuesday night, are you sure? Simon: You know going out for drinks on a Tuesday is usually a sign of alcoholism? you: ur backing out now? you: wheres all that bravado of yours? Simon: Oh no, sweetheart. I’m not backing out, I’m asking if you’re sure. you: if i wasnt i wouldnt have invited you. Simon: Fair enough. Simon: Where? you: the same pub i met up with john at maybe? Simon: Rog. Simon: 30 minutes. you: i need longer to get ready. Simon: That’s fine. I’ll still be there in 30. you: are you going to be wearing the mask? Simon: 🤷‍♂️ you: SIMON you: YOU CAN’T BE PULLING OUT THE EMOJIS LIKE THIS you: YOU STARTLE ME EVERY TIME. Simon: Good. Simon: See you soon.

Setting the phone down on the mattress, Simon got up from bed and took off his towel, tossing it over the back of his desk chair before opening the top drawer of his tall dresser, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs and putting them on.

Then, he rummaged through the other drawers looking for his one ‘going out shirt’™️ (which was actually a black long-sleeve compression shirt) which he put on along with a pair of dark jeans. It was a simple outfit. 

Then he slipped on some black boots. He threw on a leather jacket over that and tucked a black neck gaiter into the neckline of the t-shirt, hiking it up to cover his mouth and nose.

Barely a minute later, he was making his way into Soap’s room and across the small space that separated him from the bathroom. 

“Going somewhere, L.T.?” Soap probed from his spot at his desk, eyebrows raised and his eyes locked on the older man’s with intrigue. He rarely saw Ghost in civvies and even more rarely did he see him without a hoodie.

Unlike Ghost, Soap had made his officer’s quarters into his own living space, having brought in a gaming computer and chair, a small beanbag, and had plenty of knick-knacks around.

“Going out.” Ghost said simply as he grabbed Soap’s hair gel and squirted a glob of it into his hand before lathering them and using them to run through his blond locks which were exposed without the hoodie or signature balaclava.

“Out? On a date?” Soap asked Ghost as he quickly jogged up to the bathroom door, watching as Ghost fiddled with his hair.

“No. Just drinks.” Ghost replied as he tugged a bit as his hair to make it stand up straight. 

“Is this someone you found on Tinder…?” Soap probed as he leaned his shoulder on the bathroom door, a boyish grin on his lips.

Ghost looked over at Soap out of the corner of his eye as he finished fiddling with his hair and rinsed his hands under ice cold water in the sink.

Soap took Ghost’s silence as an affirmative response. “Pro’lly a shag too, hm?” He joked, earning him another glance out of the corner of his eye. “Bloody hell, L.T. tell me all about it later, yea?” He laughed.

“Fuck no.” Ghost added as he grabbed one of Soap’s cologne bottles and raised it up for a sniff before scowling at the scent and setting it down again.

“Aw, c’mon L.T.!” He pleaded. 

“Get your own date, MacTavish.” Then, he just made his way right out the door, forcing Soap to move out of the way, looking a bit like a wounded puppy. 

“I’m not getting anything interesting on there!” Soap lamented with a sigh.

“No? Well, I’m sorry for you, then, Johnny.” Ghost quipped as he opened the door again and stepped out into the hall, leaving Soap behind.

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

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[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 AND WHEN I'M BACK IN YOKOHAMA

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: with the team sent to escort you back to the port mafia headquarters obliterated, you're on your own in a war-torn yokohama. or, well, you are until mori sends out the infamous double black to retrieve you... you almost wish he would've let you suffer out there alone.

wordcount: 10k; sfw; fem!reader, pm!reader, mentions of mafia business

AUTHOR'S NOTES: at last, we get the first meeting between pm!reader & double black. keep your eye out for two other cameos in this fic ;) i can't remember if dazai and chuuya got their moniker before or during the dragon's head conflict and i dont feel like going to go figure it out so for the sake of my sanity, their little duo started rising in infamy just before the conflict broke out.

“Oh, this is the worst,” you complain quietly, arms wrapped around your waist as you look up and down the abandoned street.

The city looks nothing short of apocalyptic with dead bodies littering the ground and buildings caved in. You can’t help but want to blow up at Mori for calling you back to Yokohama with all of this happening. The “elite squad” he had sent to ensure you arrived at the Port Mafia base safely had been all but decimated by an ability user with a penchant for arson—you only survived by the skin of your teeth, running as fast as you could down vaguely familiar alleys until you finally lost him. 

You pull out your phone, trying to see if you can call Mori but only fall further into despair when you find that you have no cell service and your phone is nearly dead.

Tucking your phone back in your pocket, you let out a shaky breath as you begin to make your way down the street again, trying to figure out where exactly you are so you can get to the base as soon as possible. It’s only a matter of time before that pyromaniac finds you and your ability isn’t exactly built for self-defense or combat—you’re not sure if you can get yours activated before you’re roasted to death by the man.

You swallow thickly, anxiety beginning to spread through you as you make your way through rubble down the street. What happened? It’s all too reminiscent of that day eight years ago when Mori found you, the death and destruction as far as the eye could see—it drags up emotions you’ve long since repressed and now is not the time for it.

You’d been unable to get answers out of Mori’s men before the ability user attacked your convoy, but it seems as if the city has become a warzone—but over what? How hasn’t it reached the news outlets yet? And who are the combatants? Obviously, the Port Mafia is one of them, and you can guess that Mori called you back to Yokohama because the war isn’t falling in their favor, but who the hell is strong enough to compete with the Port Mafia, and why? 

You sigh, kicking absently at a small rock as you continue down the street. 

You should have been briefed. You don’t know why you weren’t briefed before being called back to the city. Frustrated, you turn down a somewhat familiar alley and lean against the wall, resting your head back against the bricks. You need to figure out what’s going on, but more importantly, you need to figure out where the hell you are so you can get back into safe territory.

You peek your head out to peer around the road—not a soul in sight in the streets, but… your gaze flickers up to the buildings, sliding from window to window until you catch sight of a figure peeking from between the blinds down to where you’re standing in the alleyway. Instantly, they let the blinds fall shut and throw themselves back indoors, but it’s too late—you’ve already spotted them.

You let out a breath of relief, looking both ways to make sure the fire manipulator hasn’t caught up to you yet before darting across the street to the building. It’s an apartment complex—the door leading into it has been half knocked off its hinges, so it’s easy to push it open and step inside.

The whole hallway has been ravaged, doors on the lower floors kicked in to reveal trashed rooms. You have to be careful not to step on glass as you make your way to the stairwell, Third floor, fifth window from the right. Most of the doors on the third floor aren’t quite as done in as the ones on the first, but only one has light peeking out from the crack.

You exhale, letting your eyes slide shut briefly before you raise your fist to knock on the door. “Excuse me! Would you mind answering a few questions? … I just arrived in the area, got caught in the crossfire of some battle, I would really appreciate the help, if you can spare any.” You’re careful to keep your voice light, gentle, and you’re even more careful to make sure your expression is smooth and unassuming when you hear the lock click open.

“You picked a god-awful time to come to Yokohama, child.” You hear an older woman speaking on the other side of the door; she doesn’t open it yet, but now that it’s cracked, you think your ability will work quickly to make her at ease. “Not one of ‘em Strain decoys, are you?” 

The fact that you have no idea what she means by that is infuriating, a reminder that Mori didn’t even bother to warn you about anything before dragging you back here, but you don’t let your frustration seep onto your face.

Strain… Strain… That Australian organization? What the hell are they doing in Yokohama? Why have you been kept so in the dark?

“No ma’am, unfortunately, I don’t even know what you mean by that,” you admit, and when you hear the woman let out a heavy sigh, you know that you’ve won, sending up a silent prayer of thanks as she opens the door to let you in. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

The woman only grumbles, but her eyes are gentle and her wrinkled face is soft as she ushers you into the room, shutting the door behind you and locking it. She’s not alone in the apartment, you notice—there’s a teen boy around your age lingering in the hallway, blonde hair cut short and glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose as he studies you with a frown. 

“What are you doing out here on your own, girl?” the elderly woman asks as she wobbles after you into the main room of the apartment, ushering you to sit down. “Doppo, go get the poor girl some water. Stop acting like a lump, boy.”

The boy looks disgruntled but nods, scampering off into the kitchen as the woman turns her attention back toward you. “Well? Don’t you know? Yokohama’s no place for tourists lately. Where are your parents?”

Your smile falters, mind racing as you try to pick your words carefully. “My father is the one who told me to come back to the city. I was… not made aware of the circumstances I would be arriving in.”

“Men,” the elderly woman spits out, looking up as the boy, Doppo, returns with two glasses of water, handing one to you and one to the woman. “Take notes, boy, you better not end up like one of those useless wastes of air or I’ll put you down myself, understand?” 

“Yes, granny,” the boy replies, and though he still looks distinctly aggrieved, you can’t help but feel amused by the fact that he immediately pulls out a notebook to take notes.

“Would you mind telling me what exactly… happened to the city?” you ask after a moment, taking a sip of the cool water and trying to make yourself a bit more comfortable on the sofa. “I haven’t seen anything on the news about this.”

The woman scoffs, waving her hand. “Of course not, big whigs think that they can keep it all on the low and get it under control before the incident makes it across seas,” she says roughly. “Gang wars broke out after some bastard with a lot of money died. Came in from all over to try to get their hands on the money. Whole city’s being torn apart.”

Interesting, you think to yourself, mind racing as you put together the few puzzle pieces you’ve been given. How many factions are already here? Who are they? Why did Mori call you back here if it’s already escalated this much? Your ability might be key in intel gathering and negotiations, but you’d be useless in combat.

“Our ward is under the control of some organization called the Strain,” the boy tells you. “They’ve been targeting civilians. They-”

Doppo grimaces and looks away, an angry expression crossing his face and you watch as the elderly woman reaches out to squeeze his forearm before looking back over to you. “Boy’s mother was killed by them the night the conflict broke out. I’ve been looking after him since.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say quietly, but he only averts his gaze from you, looking down at the ground. 

Strain. You were right. You’ve heard a lot of them. They originated in the Australian underground, but they spread rapidly throughout the world—footholds in every major country, stakes in every major world event. Brutal and ambitious, you suppose you’re not surprised they came here if there’s as much money up for grabs as the woman assumes. 

“What ward are you trying to get to, girl?” the woman asks you. “It’s not safe out there on your own. There are no rules or laws anymore, whole city is anarchic. You go out there on your own and you’ll be picked off by Strain.”

“I need to get to my father,” you tell her as you shake your head. The Port Mafia must be in an especially precarious position if Mori is bringing you back after the conflict has escalated this much—your heart rate spikes as worst-case scenarios start to fly through your head, wondering if they’ve been backed into a corner, forced into a position where their only option is negotiations for surrender. Logically, you know Mori would never let that happen, but it doesn’t quell the rising fear. “He’s in Naka-ku.”

You just need to know what ward you’re in and-

“You’re in Kanagawa-ku right now, you’ll never make it through it and Nishi-ku—and Naka-ku is the heart of the conflict,” the woman says as she clicks her tongue. “Stay here. You’ll be safer.”

“I need to get to my father,” you repeat again, “but thank you, really, for the offer and concern… and for helping me figure out what’s going on. I appreciate it.”

You rise to your feet to leave, and instantly, the boy is on his feet, nearly knocking over the woman’s cup of water and promptly getting whacked with a rag in response. The boy winces but takes a few steps toward you, undeterred. 

“You can’t go out there,” he says, green eyes pleading for you to listen. “Just stay. Once everything’s calmed down, we can help you find your father.”

“I can’t stay,” you say quietly, wondering if Doppo’s desperation for you to stay is a result of your ability messing with his head or if he really does just have that big of a heart. You think as a thank you for their help, that you’ll ensure that Yokohama will become Strain’s grave.

The old woman makes another disparaging comment about ungrateful fathers before nodding at you. “Good luck, girl, be careful out there.”

You make it approximately seven blocks before the ability user that you thought you lost catches up to you. You think that if you die here, you’re going to spend the entire rest of Mori’s life terrorizing him as a ghost. You grimace as a wave of flames sweeps above you, you can feel the heat against the top of your head from where you’re using an abandoned car to shield you from the man, but you know it’s only a matter of time before he gets to you.

Shit, you sigh, eyes flitting around the street trying to figure out if there’s anywhere you can dart to, but the only other rubble you could hide behind is a tipped-over dumpster in an alley twenty yards away—you’ll never make it that far without something to shield you from the flames. 

You blame Mori. Again. He should’ve warned you about what you’re walking into, and he should’ve sent more than just a group of second-rate losers to pick you up from the station knowing how bad the city is. Now, you’re going to get roasted alive by some psychotic pyromaniac when you should be back in Kyoto dealing with the more pleasant parts of business—wining and dining elites to strike deals and expand the Mafia’s influence throughout all of the societal spheres of Japan.

You grimace as you steady your gun in front of you, using the broken side-view mirror of the car you’re hiding behind to try to figure out where the ability user is because if you can get one good shot off you’d at least have enough time to make a break for it. You just need to focus—the Colonel didn’t put you through all of that firearms training just for you to choke up when you actually need to use it.

Your gaze tracks the man as soon as he comes within view of the mirror. You breathe in and out steadily—once, twice, three times. He’s fumbling with a walkie-talkie, distracted, and you don’t hesitate before taking the given chance. You twist into a kneeling position to face where he’s standing, raising both arms as you aim the gun in his direction; he catches your movement from the corner of his eye, expression shifting into one of anger, but you fire off three bullets before he can retaliate.

Or so you thought.

Your lips part in shock as the man whips a fireball in your direction before he hits the ground—even if you do evade it in time, it’s stronger than the rest he’s been throwing at you, it’ll blow right through the car you’re using as a barrier.

“Shit,” you breathe out, trying to take a step back but your ankle catches on a stray piece of rubble. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting up your leg and as you brace yourself for the flames, you squeeze your eyes shut.

But the agony of burning to death never comes.

Your eyes fly back open when you see someone standing between you and the fireball, the flames fizzling out and dying before they can touch him. They disappear, unable to get past him to you, and your eyes widen in shock. Who on earth… He looks over his shoulder at you, dark-hair flopping in his visible eye—he’s pretty, you think absently, even if a quarter of his face is covered in bandages. You blame your thoughts on the fact that you’re still a bit stunned and confused. 

Then he opens his mouth.

“You must be the precious cargo,” he grins. “We’re here to rescue you.”

“Cargo?” You gape, offended. “Did you just call me cargo?”

“Precious cargo,” he corrects, eye turning up in amusement before he focuses his attention back to the ability user who had attacked you. “Go handle that, pipsqueak. Make yourself useful for once.”

“Shut your damn mouth, bastard,” another male voice spits from behind you, voice riddled with irritation and anger. 

You look behind you to see another boy around your age with orange hair and mismatched eyes. He’s dressed more casually than the dark-haired boy, who’s wearing a black suit and tie beneath his long coat. He barely spares you a look as he steps forward, and you watch as his entire body glows red before he flies forward so fast that your eyes can’t even keep up with him. 

The gravity manipulator. You’ve heard of him through Kouyou—not much, but enough to know he’s probably the strongest ability users to exist in the eastern hemisphere. Does that mean…

The dark-haired boy turns his attention to you, smile widening as he leans over you. He looks unbearably amused at your predicament, and you find yourself growing more and more incensed by the second. 

“Dazai Osamu,” he greets. “You got a name, precious cargo?” 

Oh.

You recognize the name instantly, eyes narrowing, and as if he can sense your sudden change in demeanor, his smile starts to fall. Dazai Osamu. The Demon Prodigy. The Port Mafia’s Black Wraith. Mori brought him in two years ago, if the rumors you’ve heard hold any truth to them—after he sent you away to Kyoto with Kitada Usurai, one of the previous boss’s executives. 

You always wondered if the reason Mori never brought you back had something to do with his new protege—whether it was because he didn’t need you in Yokohama anymore now that he had “the Demon Prodigy” to be his heir or it was because he just didn’t want the two of you interacting. You never really minded; you like being in Kyoto and you like not having to be at the heart of every gang conflict that takes place in Yokohama but you can’t help the bitterness that rises now that your eyes have settled on the boy that took your place.

Before you can answer him, Dazai abruptly goes careening over to the left, hitting the ground hard. The orange-haired boy is standing where he once was, leg extended, and you realize that he must’ve kicked him away. 

“Stay there and die, won’t you?” he snaps, and you glance behind him, trying to figure out if he had already taken care of the ability user that had been hunting you down. Your lips part when you see him crumpled in a pile of rubble, unmoving. “Nakahara Chuuya. You can call me Chuuya. You hurt?” 

He extends his hand to you, and you take it gratefully, giving him your name and letting him help you to your feet. You stumble a bit, your left ankle buckling under your weight, and Chuuya wraps an arm around your waist to steady you. 

How embarrassing, you think, thanking him quietly before easing his arm away, standing on your own even with the pain in your ankle, not wanting to come across as weak. You make your way over to where the ability user is crumpled on the ground, kneeling in the rubble next to him. You lift your fingers to his neck to see if he’s still hanging on, but there’s no pulse.

You click your tongue, having been hoping you’d be able to take him back to the base for questioning, but instead, you let your fingers drift to the symbol embroidered on his jacket and then to the two bars embroidered onto his bicep.

Strain. 

The old lady and her grandson hadn’t been lying.

“You recognize the symbol?” Chuuya asks, wandering over to stand next to where you’re kneeling on the ground.

You frown instantly. “You don’t?” you ask dubiously, eyes narrowing again as Chuuya bristles at your comment.

“The conflict only just started a few days ago,” he says defensively. “We don’t have intel on all of the organizations that have showed up in the city. There are dozens of them. We’ve been more focused on trying to keep the civilians out of the crossfires at this point.”

A mighty fine job they’ve been doing at that, you think sarcastically, mind drawing back to the boy and old woman that helped you earlier and all of the destroyed buildings. You keep the thought to yourself, not too keen on antagonizing one of the people sent to get you out of this hellhole. 

“That’s why he brought me back here then,” you mutter more to yourself than anyone else, rolling your eyes as you grab the ability user’s walkie-talkie and rise to your feet. “He’s a member of Strain—one of their lower-ranked ability users, if the lines on his coat are accurate. From what I’ve gathered, they control Kanagawa-ku and Nishi-ku. We should get out of the open before their stronger ability users show up.”

“I can take them,” Chuuya says confidently, looking unperturbed by your comment.

“I’m sure you can,” you say dryly, “but how skilled are you at using nonlethal force against strong opponents?”

Chuuya only squints at you, which is as much of an answer as you need.

“If we want actual, useful intel, we’ll have to capture one of their higher-ranked ability users alive. I can get the information out of them, I just need the opportunity to use my ability.” You rise back to your feet, gaze shifting around the street to try to figure out where you should hide out for the night. “Plus, night is falling, and rumor has it, Strain has an ability user that’s particularly adept with umbrakinetic abilities and I would rather not run into him. I am already tired and wounded, and I don’t know how your gravity would interact with an element unaffected by gravitational forces so we can’t rely on your brute force.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have attitude?” Chuuya scowls, disgruntled by your blunt commentary, and you roll your eyes.

“No, actually,” you say, giving him a thin smile. “In fact, I’ve been told I’m quite pleasant. I’m just in a bad mood because I didn’t realize Mori would be having me return to a warzone when he called me back to Yokohama. I would’ve appreciated a bit of a head’s up.”

Your gaze drifts back to Dazai as you speak, curious, but the boy is already looking at you, a frown on his lips and visible eye sharp. As soon as he notices that you caught him staring, his face smoothes out and he cocks his head to the side, questioning, eye too black and too empty.

Your gaze slides away from him onto what seems like another residential building behind him.

“We’ll stay there for the night.”

You wake up with a pain in your back and a headache. The fact that your ankle doesn’t hurt as badly is only a minimal consolation as you push yourself into a sitting position and rub your forehead, disoriented and confused, trying to remember where you are and why you’re sleeping on a rickety bed.

Your gaze catches sight of a head of orange hair lying in the opposite direction of you, pillow at the foot of the bed and curled close to the edge of the mattress as if trying to stay as far away as possible from you.

That’s right. You’re back in Yokohama. Mori called you back to help with this conflict. Sent the gravity manipulator and the Demon Prodigy after you to make sure you got back to the base. Your eyes linger on Nakahara Chuuya for a moment, watching the way his chest rises and falls, soft puffs of air escaping his lips—he’s fast asleep, dead to the world. So, you let your gaze drift across the room; it’s dark, no lights on in fear of drawing unwanted attention from Strain scouts if they see any sign of life in one of the abandoned buildings. You can only hardly catch sight of Dazai Osamu sitting near a cracked open window, one knee tucked to his chest while the other hangs loosely at his side as he looks outside and smokes a cigarette.

There’s an indecipherable expression on his face—a heavy look in his eyes and a downturn curve to his lips. You watch him curiously for a moment. 

You’ve heard a lot about Dazai Osamu’s feats while stationed in Kyoto: ruthless, terrifyingly intelligent, willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. It took only a year of him being a member of the Mafia for him to be given control of Mori’s personal covert ops unit, and he’s been producing staggering results since. He’s the one who takes charge of eliminating organizations that you deem unworthy of associating with the Mafia but too problematic to keep around, the one who’s been opening up new distribution and trade channels for you to make use of in negotiations and acquisitions.

You suppose you’ve been working closely with him for a while now, even if the two of you have never interacted until now.

Still, the rumors that have spread about the boy are nothing to scoff at. The head of the Mafia’s interrogation unit—they say no one lasts more than five minutes in the same room with him before cracking. You’ve heard through the grapevine that the lower-ranked mafiosos are more terrified of him than any of the executives—see him as heartless and calculating, willing to sacrifice any one of them if it means furthering the Mafia’s interests. He only views people as tools, there’s no room in his black heart for meaningful relationships. No one trusts him and the longer he works for the Mafia, the darker and more unfathomable he becomes, even in the eyes of others entrenched in the dark—people keep far out of reach of him unless they have a death wish.

You study him carefully from where you’re sitting; he still hangs his jacket over his shoulders, like some sort of barrier from the rest of the world. His expression now is a far cry from the smile that had been on his face when you first saw him; his eye black and eerily still as he stares out the window, void of the gleam that had been in it before he noticed your reaction to his name.

You slide out of bed as quietly as you can, making your way over to where he’s sitting—he doesn’t even notice your approach until he catches sight of your reflection in the window, but even then, he doesn’t turn to look at you, only tracking you through the glass until you come to sit on the windowsill across from him. You tilt your head to the side as you observe him, pulling your knees to your chest.

“You shouldn’t sit at the window,” you finally say. “Someone could spot you.”

His eye is so black right now; you almost feel uncomfortable beneath his stare but you only raise your eyebrows. His gaze pointedly trails down to where you’d joined him and the corner of your lip quirks up.

“Fair enough,” you say and then hold your hand out, silently requesting for him to pass the cigarette over to you. Dazai stares at your hand for a moment and just when you’re about to draw your hand back, he finally reaches out to let you take it from him. Your fingers brush his as you take it between your index and middle fingers, the contact causing a spark to run up your forearm. You lift the cigarette to your lips and take a long drag, tilting your head back against the wall before you tell him, “You should go get some rest. I’ll take watch the next few hours.”

“Not tired,” he replies after a few seconds of silence. His voice is just as cold as the expression on his face, no hint of the playfulness from earlier in the day.

You hum, trying to decide what to say because he’s clearly unhappy and you have a feeling it has to do with how you reacted to hearing his name earlier, so you decide to be upfront, not in the mood for word games. 

“I think you’re unhappy with me because of how I reacted to hearing your name,” you say, laying out the issue. His gaze snaps up to you, sharp and narrowed, lips parting to deny the allegation but you don’t let him. “I was only surprised. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I have a bad opinion of you.”

“No?” Dazai asks, a sardonic lilt to his voice, goading more than anything else but you don’t fall for the trap. 

With your legs brushing, you can’t feel the familiar warmth of your ability circling through you and emanating around you, everything feels cold and empty instead, as if a part of you was sucked into a vacuum in space—the rumors must be true about him being a nullifier. You’ve never had to interact with people without your ability as a fail safe, it’s constantly active despite trying to learn how to turn it off. It’s useful though, it ensures that even if you mess up, the people around you are comfortable enough and amiable enough to not notice. They trust you without you even needing to do anything, adore you just because of the pleasant feelings your ability induces in them.

This is… different. 

And you don’t think in a bad way. You’ve always wondered what it would be like to interact with people without your ability interfering, it’s why you tried so hard to figure out if you could turn it off. And… it's nice talking to someone who’s not automatically endeared to you by your ability, who you can have normal conversation with without having to wonder if they’re only talking to you because you’re messing with their minds. Even nicer than you used to imagine.

“No,” you confirm. “I’m curious about you.”

The corners of Dazai’s lips turn down even more, brows furrowing at the comment. “Why?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“A monster,” you say the word absently, watching as Dazai goes rigid at it, staring you down. “A demon. It’s what everyone calls you, at least.” 

“... and what makes you think I’m not one?” he finally asks, jaw tight.

Your lips curl into an easy smile again. “If you were a monster, you wouldn’t have been so bothered by the idea of me not liking you. The desire to be liked is an exceedingly human trait.”

Even under the dim moonlight, you can see the way Dazai’s cheeks burn a rosy color at your words. He suddenly looks years younger as he fumbles for words, gaze averting from you back to the window, but his reflection betrays him. 

“I was not bothered by the idea of you not liking me,” he protests, defensiveness creeping into his tone as he snatches his cigarette right back from your hand as if to make a point, giving you a glare from the corner of his eye. “I was not.”

“You were also very clearly put off by the fact that I had no issue with Chuuya,” you note, biting back a laugh at the squeak-like protest that slips from his lips and the mortified expression that follows. “Jealousy, another exceedingly human trait.”

“I was not jealous,” he cries out, a bit too loud because from where he’s sleeping on the bed, Chuuya grumbles out a ‘shut the fuck up’ in his sleep. “I was not jealous.”

“It’s okay if you were,” you say, instead of indulging in his denial. “I’m not judging you.”

“I wasn’t,” Dazai hisses, more insistent now. “I don’t care if you like me or not.”

“Well, I do like you,” you tell him—honest, you’re having fun teasing him.

“You don’t even know me,” Dazai scoffs, cheeks still pink as he pointedly turns his face away from you. “You can’t like me.”

“I want to know you,” you say, tilting your head to the side as you observe him. You like observing things—it’s the easiest way of gathering information. You keep quiet, you don’t draw more attention to yourself than necessary. It’s how you’ve been able to thrive alone in Kyoto even with so many vultures circling you. “I don’t know many other people my age… none, really.”

Something strange crosses Dazai’s expression. Longing but hesitant. Wistful but reluctant, like he should know better but just can’t help himself from wanting. You’re good at reading people, you pride yourself on it; it’s another reason why you’ve been able to succeed in Kyoto alone. Dazai is difficult—he covers half of his face and he’s quick to school the other half when he slips up, but you’re observant. It’s what you’re best at. 

You wonder, maybe, if Dazai has his own vultures. You think he must, he’s young—like you—and it’s probably why he uses his reputation as a shield and wears his long black coat like armor in the same way you use honeyed words and wear a saccharine smile. So, the thought must be scary to him as much as it must be appealing—the desire to have someone see him put against the fear of actually being seen as he is. 

You know it better than anyone.

“Well, you can’t have Chuuya. Chuuya is my dog,” Dazai says firmly, raising his chin. “He follows my orders.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Your dog?” you ask dryly.

“My dog,” Dazai confirms, seemingly quite proud of himself. “I won a bet, and now Chuuya is my dog for life.”

“Must have been quite the bet,” you drawl, watching as Dazai brightens a bit at the topic.

“We had a contest to see who could figure out the culprit of one of our missions faster. I won, of course, because Chuuya is slow and dumb like a slug. A slug. Chuuya is a slug,” Dazai cackles, dark eye shining as his lips curl up into a wide smile, clapping his hands together. “I’m much better than Chuuya, you see. He’s a brute. He’s never had to learn to be smart or cunning because of his ability, so he just punches things around until he gets what he wants. Plus, he’s small—and if that’s not bad enough, he is more arrogant than his tiny body can hold. That’s why he’s my dog. He can’t do anything without his master’s orders.”

Dazai is not subtle in dragging Chuuya down to boast about himself, puffing out his chest like some prideful bird and lifting his chin as he speaks. You think that if Chuuya was awake to hear this, Dazai would find himself tossed right out of the window to fall two stories to the ground, but the other boy is asleep, blissfully unaware of Dazai’s rampage of insults. 

“What happened during the mission?” you ask curiously, a bit interested to know what’s all been happening in Yokohama while you’ve been gone.

Dazai looks surprised as if he didn’t expect you to encourage his yapping. Then, he lights up again. “I’ll tell you all about it…”

You wonder, maybe, if the rumors of his solidarity and inability to form meaningful relationships might not have stemmed from his own volition. Rather, you think they’ve been enforced by the people around him who refuse to give him the time of day in fear of his reputation, because right now in front of you isn’t some twisted and unfathomable wraith of the Mafia.

All you see is a boy the same age as you eager to have someone new to talk to. 

He talks all night. 

From the moment you sat there with him at two or three in the morning until dawn, you don’t think he shut his mouth once. You hardly spoke more than a handful of times, content to just lean your head against the window and listen to him go on about all of the missions he’s had since joining the Mafia a year ago—most of them involved Chuuya, and he certainly made a show of explaining in each one why the mission would have failed without Dazai there to guide it along.

“See. This is why he’s my dog.”

It’s not until Chuuya finally starts stirring as the sun crosses the horizon does he finally quiet down, seemingly not keen on getting himself launched out a window if the other boy happens to hear one of the unsavory stories Dazai’s telling you.

Then again, his first words are pretty much asking for it.

“About time you woke up, slug,” Dazai says cheerfully when Chuuya groans and rolls over, clearly starting to wake up. His dark eye gleams as he waits for Chuuya’s explosive reaction to the new nickname.

“Hah?! What did you just call me, bastard?” Chuuya snaps, although he’s quite slow in pushing himself out of bed, sleepy and disoriented, gaze swiveling around to try to land on Dazai.

“Huh,” you say, more to yourself than them. “He is quite sluggish in waking up.”

“What?!” Chuuya demands, head snapping toward you. 

On the other side of the window bench, Dazai snickers, looking mighty pleased with himself. He looks a lot more his age now, the tenseness in his shoulders has dissipated in the hours he spent talking to you, the tightness in his face has smoothed out. His eye is a lot wider and a lot brighter, the corner of his lip twitching as he waits to see what Chuuya’s going to do next. He sits closer to you now too—or, not closer, really, but he’s extended his legs out a bit as the night drew on until they were all but entangled with yours.

“You’re a slug, Chuuya,” Dazai jeers. “A slug. Because you’re small and slow. Aren’t I so brilliant?”

“I’m going to toss your shitty ass out the window,” Chuuya booms, throwing himself out of bed and darting over to Dazai, who evades Chuuya’s punch by diving off of the window bench, nearly taking you right with him considering his legs were stuffed between yours. “Get back here, you asshole.”

Dazai’s out of the room in an instant and Chuuya is chasing after him, spitting out curses and threats. You sit there for a moment, blinking, trying to wrap your mind around what just happened before just deciding to shake your head and rise to your feet. You stretch, body a bit sore from sitting in the same place for hours and tired from the little amount of sleep you got last night. 

You’re ready to get back to headquarters. You want to sleep in an actual bed and you want to drag Mori for his incompetence and nearly getting you killed. You miss Elise too, even if you don’t really like what she’s become. You’re just happy to not be alone anymore—being in Kyoto was… stressful, at best, and downright agonizing, at worst. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even your ability was enough to protect you there, you had no friends, you were lonely and constantly looking over your shoulder because you had no one to watch your back—even the other members of the Mafia in Kyoto with you would’ve turned against you at any given chance if it meant they could drag themselves higher up the hierarchy. 

You yawn as you leave the room, hearing the distant sounds of Chuuya kicking Dazai’s shit in. You make your way to the front of the building you guys had camped the night out, intent on getting a breath of fresh air before waiting for them to stop fucking around but you hardly get more than half a step out of the door before you’re pushed back hard against a nearby wall.

Your eyes widen when a figure manifests in front of you, particles of shadows knitting together to form a young man who seems to be a few years older than you. You barely withhold a sigh, realizing that despite all attempts to avoid him, you still managed to stumble right into the hands of Strain’s shadow manipulator—literally.

“I didn’t expect the cargo we got intel on to be a girl,” he says coolly.  “I almost didn’t believe it when Anderson reported it to me. Though I haven’t heard from him in hours, I assume that’s your doing.”

“You know,” you say lightly, “this is the second time in less than twelve hours that I’ve been called cargo. I think I like it even less coming from you.”

Though you’ve heard a lot about the shadow manipulator, you didn’t know what he looked like before now—he’s quick and elusive, and those who do manage to catch sight of him are killed by him soon after.. He’s not much older than you, though—two years max—handsome enough, pale blonde hair and green eyes with tan, freckled skin. 

Your lips curve up into a small smile. “Are you going to kill me or are you going to stand here with your hand around my neck? … Just so you know, I’m not into that.”

You watch as—just as you expect—he frowns deeply and takes a step back. He watches you carefully, brows knit together, and you let your ability work. Invisible threads wind around his limbs, curling up his neck twisting into his ears and nose and mouth, they curl up to his brain and take root, leaving him vulnerable to however you plan to use your ability.

You still have to be careful. You have to be subtle. Your ability is useful but it has its drawbacks—the biggest being that if you’re too sudden with it, the person you’re targeting can realize that you’re messing with their head and pull themselves out of it. That would be the worst case scenario because 1) they’d realize you have an ability and 2) you’d be in trouble. 

So you resign to just tilting your head to the side as you smile—some emotions are fickle, positive ones like love and happiness, especially among people like you who don’t often feel those emotions. Negative emotions are easier in that once you send someone into a spiral of fear, paranoia or rage, it’s almost impossible for them to draw themselves out, but they’ll inevitably realize that you had done something to their head, which is not an option because your ability needs to remain a secret.

So you decide to just rely on the passive form of your ability, watching as he falls victim to it, shoulders slumping and muscles relaxing as he eyes you curiously. Your ability is non-combatant, yes, but as soon as combat is over, it comes out to play.

He’d made a fatal mistake when he chose not to snap your neck.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” you say conversationally, hands behind your back as you tilt your head to the side. “They say you’re one of the strongest ability users in the world right now.” 

“I didn’t expect you to be a kid,” he says with a frown. “You’re what? Fourteen?”

You blanche. “I’m sixteen,” you protest, forgetting to keep up appearances as you stare at him, aghast. “I do not look fourteen.”

He makes a face as if he disagrees and then shrugs. 

Your eyes bulge. “I do not,” you repeat angrily. “I’m sixteen.”

“Whatever you say,” he says, amused. “I’m not in the business of killing kids though, so I guess I have to take you in. What a bother.”

Your eye twitches. You’d rather die than be taken hostage by Strain and you don’t know where your shitty escorts are so you settle for antagonizing him as a means to stall.

“You’re a high-ranking member of Strain, how are you going to sit here and tell me you’re not in the business of killing kids?” you sneer. “Your organization has been the cause of more child deaths than any other in the world.”

His eyes turn to slits as he stares at you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says coldly. “I put a stop to all of the rings in Australia myself.”

“And what? You think Strain is willing to just take those losses?” you say, an amused laugh bubbling in the back of your throat when anger flashes through his eyes. Your gaze flits down to the five lines embroidered on his jacket. “For an executive, you must not be kept in the loop by the rest of your comrades. The moment you dismantled the rings in Australia, they turned to strike a deal with Bunin—what do you think your branch in Russia does there? They’re helping Bunin expand his trafficking rings through the East and Strain cuts twenty percent of the profit.”

His hand snaps forward to grab your collar, yanking you toward him. “How would you even know that?” he spits, but from the conflict thinly veiled behind his eyes, you know that your words have taken root. 

You raise your eyebrows as you look up at him, a bit too close for comfort.

“How did you know I was coming back to Yokohama?” you counter instead. He lets you go immediately, withdrawing with a closed-off expression. “Come on, we’ve both been betrayed in some manner—you by your organization, me by someone within mine. I almost burned to death because of them and you… you’ve been working for an organization that’s been lying to you for years. Let’s help each other.”

“I don’t even know if what you’re saying is the truth,” he replies tightly. “I don’t-”

“Then go find out,” you say with an idle smile, “and when you realize I’m telling the truth, well… your ability is quite handy, I’m sure you’ll be able to find me again.”

He stares at you for a moment, expression indecipherable, but after a few long seconds, he disappears in the same swirl of darkness that he appeared in and you can finally relax. You let out a heavy sigh as your shoulders slump, lifting your hand to your neck, wincing at the tenderness.

You doubt that will be enough. You’ve heard rumors that he’s Yakuza-born—only ended up with Strain after Mishima’s Sun and Steel went to war with their syndicate—loyalty is always core to those types, runs through their blood—but at least you’ve planted the seeds, and when he inevitably finds out you’re telling the truth, he’ll come crawling back for more information.

And hopefully some information for you in return. 

Your gaze flits to the side when you hear a crash from your left, seeing Nakahara Chuuya fly out of the building, hands glowing red and eyes wide and wild, trying to seek out a man who’s already long gone.

You roll your eyes. “He’s already gone. Thanks for the help, O’Great Protectors,” you say sarcastically. “Really, you guys are amazing at your job.”

Chuuya has the decency to look ashamed, face flushing as red as his hair as he deactivates his ability and looks away from you. “Who the hell was that?”

“Itou Asahi,” you say absently. “Strain’s shadow manipulator—one of the strongest ability users in the eastern hemisphere right now. Mori brought him up a few times wanting me to recruit him. I didn't think I’d get the chance considering we’re aligned with the Sun and Steel and he hates them, but I might have an opening.”

Your look over to Dazai, who only frowns at your words, gaze trained on you with an unreadable look in his eyes.

“You’re hurt,” he says, brows furrowed, and you realize he’s looking at your neck.

You drop your hand from where you’d been brushing your fingers against the sensitive skin, feeling distinctly too seen under Dazai’s heavy gaze. You don’t know why you feel a bit flustered, but you do and you definitely don’t like it.

“I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head. “Can we head back to headquarters now?”

Dazai frowns like he’s about to protest, but Chuuya nods before he can. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Headquarters is less than a mile away now. The streets that three of you are walking down are safe—none of the organizations have made it this far into the heart of Port Mafia territory—and yet for some reason, Dazai still feels incredibly troubled. 

He hasn’t even been able to join in on you and Chuuya’s conversation. He’s had ample opportunity to considering how much Chuuya is embarrassing himself by trying to act smart, but instead he finds himself trailing behind the two of you, an outsider, too lost in his own thoughts to even think of trying to make a snide comment.

Why is he so troubled?

Dazai isn’t sure and that troubles him too.

He’s always been very in tune with himself. His emotions, his motives, his wants and needs—they’re few and far between, yes, but Dazai has never struggled to pinpoint them at any point in his life. 

He was sad when his ability manifested and his siblings no longer wanted anything to do with him. His ability made them uncomfortable, made them feel empty because it deprived them of their own abilities. They said it was unnatural, and they said he must be unnatural too because why else would he develop such a terrible ability? Dazai couldn’t really blame them, his ability made him feel empty too—he theorizes that when it doesn’t have an ability to suck up into the black hole, it starts devouring anything else it can get its hands on, like his emotions, because he stopped feeling much at all after it manifested. 

When he was twelve, he wanted to learn how to play the piano to impress his mother, though he never got the chance to show her because she was killed soon after. He hasn’t wanted much of anything since then. 

When he was fourteen, his grandfather started pitting him, his siblings and his cousins against each other. His older brother drew the first blood against one of his cousins, and it was a bloodbath from there on out. With both of his parents dead and his siblings and cousins trying to kill one another to be named his grandfather’s heir, Dazai didn’t have much reason to live himself, and he definitely didn’t want to be killed by one of his siblings or cousins. 

So, he thought the next logical step was to die, so he tried to kill himself.

He failed, obviously, and ended up with none other than Mori. He still hasn’t found much of a reason to keep living. Chuuya is around, he supposes, and he’s entertaining enough to mess with—it’s enough to keep Dazai going for now—and you claim to want to know him, so Dazai is interested in seeing how that plays out, but that’s beyond the point. 

The point is that Dazai knows what Dazai wants. Dazai knows what Dazai needs. Dazai knows what Dazai feels. And Dazai currently cannot figure out why Dazai is troubled, so something is certainly wrong and he needs to figure out what it is. 

He hears you laugh at something that Chuuya said and barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Nothing Chuuya says is ever that funny, so you must just be being polite, but it’s still annoying. Mostly due to the fact that Dazai can’t call it out because he doesn’t even know what was said because he wasn’t paying attention courtesy of his current dilemma.

He withholds a sigh as his gaze drops to your neck, eyes focusing in on the dark bruises lining your neck—the fingerprints of that ability user form Strain that attacked you when he and Chuuya weren’t around—and his irritation spikes yet again.

At once, a lightbulb goes off in his head.

That’s what’s troubling him. He’s found himself looking back at the marks on your neck on more than one occasion, and each time, it’s triggered his displeasure. He’s not sure why it took him so long to put it together, but now lies a new issue: why is it triggering his displeasure?

He squints as he stares at you hard, willing the answer to come to him. There must be a logical reason for it, he just needs to figure out what it is. He can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye, probably wondering why he’s staring at you so intensely, but Dazai just can’t rip his gaze away, fully intent on figuring out what his problem is right now.

Casualties are expected in this line of work. Dazai has never been one to think twice when people are hurt or killed in the line of action—he’s lost many subordinates to ensure the success of a mission and has even put his own life on the line if it meant that it bettered his chances of succeeding. So he should by no means be bothered by the prospect of you being wounded, especially considering he barely knows you.

“I want to know you.”

Dazai blinks as your words suddenly ring through his head again, startled by his own thoughts. His brows furrow even deeper because no, that can’t possibly be the reason why. He supposes it might be influencing it a bit because people who want to know him are few and far between, so the thought of meeting someone who actually gives him the time of day and almost losing them right away is unfortunate. It makes sense that it’s making him more irritable, especially when it’s something he’s curious to see play out and it’s something that could’ve been easily prevented.

Oh, he realizes, suddenly satisfied as he comes to an answer that he can quickly accept, disregarding everything else. 

That’s the issue—it was preventable. 

Dazai should’ve seen it coming and he should’ve been quick to take the necessary steps to avoid it. What he was feeling was irritability at himself, not at the fact that you got hurt. It wouldn’t make sense because Dazai doesn’t know you and even if he did know you, casualties are expected in this line of work. But you’re his assignment—his and Chuuya’s—Dazai has never failed an assignment before, much less with Chuuya, and he’d come this close because he’d recklessly let down his guard in enemy territory. 

It makes sense.

Much more than any of the other absurd explanations he’d been considering do at least.

This time when Chuuya makes a stupid comment, Dazai chimes in with some very necessary commentary, giving you a simpering smile and a wink before dancing out of the way of Chuuya’s much anticipated roundhouse.

Still, Dazai finds the troubled feeling returning again when his gaze drifts back down to the marks on your neck as he passes by the two of you with flourished spin, antagonizing Chuuya just to entertain himself with how red his face gets in embarrassment. 

But his gaze darts back up to your face quickly and he shakes off the unwelcome feeling, another quip on the tip of his tongue that abruptly dies when he sees your hand pressed to your mouth as you try to hide your amusement from Chuuya. Your eyes are turned up and your smothered giggles are just barely audible, the mid-morning sun casts an ethereal glow over your face and for a moment, Dazai is entirely stunned by the sight. He nearly trips over his own foot, and since he’s unsteady on his feet, he can’t avoid the way Chuuya predictably transitions from a roundhouse into a back kick.

He goes flying backward, all breath pushed from his lungs as takes the kick to the gut and hits the concrete hard a few feet away. He should be disgruntled, or he should at the very least retaliate with another mocking jibe, but instead, he finds his gaze fixed on you, watching as you finally burst into laughter, unable to contain it with the sight of Dazai sprawled out on the ground looking like a clown.

His heart rate spikes and Dazai’s hand flies to his chest, alarmed—becomes even more so when it doesn’t settle down. He rips his gaze from you to stare down at the ground, forcibly calming his heart and only when he’s sure that he’s got it under control, he looks back up.

Immediately, he loses control over it again, and this time it feels even more erratic, each thump resonating through his ears as you approach him, giggles quieting as you hold out your hand to help him up. 

For a horrifying second, Dazai thinks he might have a heart attack and that would be a lame way to go. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he does not have a heart attack, although that means he’s probably going to have to go to Mori when he gets back to the base—death may have been more preferable to that. 

Great, he thinks bitterly, not only has he had to deal with Chuuya for over twenty-four now, but now he’s going to have to go see Mori and figure out what the hell is wrong with him. Or you. He wonders if maybe you have an ability that’s somehow affecting him, that would be a serious issue for future missions that the two of you might be paired for. 

But it must be that—it’s the most logical explanation. 

What a mess the past day has been, but…

Dazai thinks it might’ve been worth the trouble, eyes lingering on you for a few moments longer before he takes your hand, taking note of the odd jolt that runs up his arm as soon as your fingers wrap around his hand to help him up. 

He doesn’t notice that even with your fingers locked with his, his heart still beats out of his chest. 

“Don’t tell me you’re over here reminiscing.”

You roll your eyes before looking over your shoulder to focus your gaze on an achingly familiar face. Chuuya drops lightly to the ground behind you, using gravity to soften his fall as he approaches you.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you reply, folding your arms over your chest as a smile curves to your lips. “I was waiting for you.”

“D’aw, did ya miss me?” he asks with a sharp smile.

You have a retort ready to fly from your lips, but instead of speaking it, you sigh and let your gaze drift across the street in Kanagawa-ku that you’re standing in. Even after all of these years, the ground and buildings are still charred where that ability user had attacked you—faded now, of course, but you can still make out the faint remnants of the attacks.

Maybe you are reminiscing, you think to yourself, a heavy feeling settling over you. If you close your eyes, you can almost picture the rubble you were hiding behind, the jolt of fear you’d felt when you realized you wouldn’t be able to dodge the next attack, and then him.

And then Dazai.

“I did,” you admit, dragging your eyes from the ground to look back at Chuuya, whose smile falters a bit before softening.

“I can’t believe Mori had you abroad for three years,” he sighs, reaching out to squeeze your wrist. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Let’s head back to headquarters and have a drink. We can put on a movie.”

“Not one of your shitty horror movies,” you laugh, knocking your shoulder into his. You lean into him a bit as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, keeping it draped around you as the two of you start to make your way back to the base.

You hesitate—and Chuuya can feel your hesitation from the way he glances down at you, concerned. He frowns and asks, “What’s up?”

You let out a puff of air and then speak up reluctantly, “Have you… heard from him? Of him?”

You hate the twinge of hope that’s audible in your voice, despite how hard you tried to rid yourself of it. You hate even more the sympathetic look that Chuuya casts you; he knows who you’re talking about instantly—of course, he does, there’s only one person it could be—his lashes lower and his arm drops back to his side. 

“I saw him,” Chuuya says after a few moments. Your eyes widen as your head snaps toward him, waiting for him to continue. “... Met him. He’s part of the Armed Detective Agency now. Got himself captured by us to try to get information to help his new protege.”

“Oh.”

Your throat feels tight. Too tight. Swollen. Your eyes sting painfully and you have to force yourself to take a deep breath. The Armed Detective Agency. New protege. You don’t know if you feel bitter or relieved. Bitter because he’s found a place somewhere without you, relieved because he’s alive and okay. 

His defection still doesn’t even feel real after four years, it’s not like you’ve been in Yokohama long enough to fully process it, but god… you could still imagine him coming up behind the two of you with a snide comment to antagonize Chuuya, eyes trained on you to watch the way you laugh at Chuuya’s reaction. The wistfulness hits you so hard that it almost knocks the air from your lungs—not for the first time since he left, you yearn, you miss him, you want him, and now that you’re finally back in Yokohama after so many years abroad, it’s all the more intense.

How unfair, you think, nails biting into your palms as you stare ahead.

“Do you think he’s replaced us?” You try to keep your voice light, but you think you fail.

Chuuya lets out a bark of laughter. “He can certainly try.”

Your lips curl up at Chuuya’s words, gaze flickering down to the ground. “Yeah, you’re right,” you agree quietly before asking, “Did he seem… okay?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about that shithead anymore,” he tells you. “I’m sure he’ll come looking for you now that you’re back. Let’s go home now, yeah?” 

The thought of Dazai coming to look for you makes your stomach twist with anxiety; after so many years apart, you just don’t know what to expect… but you suppose you’ve never really known what to expect from him, so you’ll just handle him the same way you always have. Except maybe not as kindly.

But you don’t have to worry about that yet.  Instead, you smile and bump shoulders with Chuuya again.

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

[fastandcarlos]

“Hey Stranger!” : ̗̀➛ Max Verstappen

summary: with your conflicting schedules, match day always clashes with race day. it means it’s been a while since you’ve seen max, until you pull a few strings 🥺

pairing: max x footballer!reader

face claim: lucy bronze

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by ynusername, danielricciardo and 2,493,162 others

maxverstappen1: another brilliant race here in japan, the fans are always incredible 🇯🇵 see you all next week at silverstone 🏎️

328,075 comments

username1: such an incredible race max, super job 👏🏻

ynusername: you were incredible, even if I did have to wake up at 3am to watch 😂💞

maxverstappen1: @/ynusername you didn’t have to do that sweetheart 🥺

username2: the end photo omg 😭

redbullracing: we were never in doubt in the garage, fantastic race max ❤️💙

schecoperez: at least this week you managed to make it to debrief before giving yn a call 👏🏻

username3: idk how you and yn do it on the opposite sides of the world together

landonorris: why does that last photo look like something out of a cheesy romcom??

maxverstappen1: @/landonorris it’s better to have a long distance gf than no gf at all 😂

username4: shame yn couldn’t be here to support you, I’m sure she’s so proud of you though ❤️

username5: idk how you and yn do it with all the events you miss out on for each other!

charles_leclerc: such a dedicated boyfriend!!

username6: and you absolutely know he’d be rushing back to check yn’s game after the media too 😭

carlossainz55: that last photo is one way to ruin your cold exterior image verstappen 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by leahwilliamsonn, aitanabonmati and 428,028 others

ynusername: finishing the first half of the season with another W on the board, looking forward to a week off before kicking on to make sure we’re lifting that trophy at the end of the season ⚽️❤️💙

78,371 comments

username7: enjoy your week off yn…you’ve so earned it 🥺

landonorris: man utd would be a much better team to play for btw… 🙃

username8: i wonder what your plans are for your week off 🤔

maxverstappen1: you’ve been amazing so far, so proud of you 🫶🏻

username9: pls say this means we now get some yn and max content again…

alexiaputellas: our squad is so much greater for having you in it ❤️💙

username10: could not be more confident that barcelona are winning the title again this year 🏆

leahwilliamsonn: don’t forget all your friends back in england over the break 😉

username11: stay safe, we need you if we’re in with a shout of winning the league 🙏🏻

ellieroebuck_: shout out to my personal tour guide for the next seven days 😘

ynusername: @/ellieroebuck_ 🫡🫡🫡

username12: not yn and max spending their evenings cooking on ft together!!

keirawalsh: can’t wait to spend the next couple of days annoying you 😂

ynusername: @/keirawalsh I wouldn’t have it any other way!

username13: I just love how dedicated the two of them are to spending time together 🥺

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˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by mbrighty04, schecoperez and 572,038 others

ynusername: nothing like the spanish sunshine to help with a bit of rest and recovery ☀️

78,492 comments

username14: ngl my heart broke a little to see no max around 💔

schecoperez: max has not stopped moaning about how bitter he is that you’ve got the week off!

ynusername: @/schecoperez he gets three whole weeks off in a bit it’s not fair 😂

username15: glad to see a smile on your face girl 🥺

landonorris: it’s alright for some 😂

ynusername: @/landonorris jealousy was never a good look on you norris

username16: wondering who it was that took these photos???

maryearps: damn that spanish sun looks like it’s been treating you well 😍

username17: what I would give to live in spain and enjoy that weather on my doorstep

maxverstappen1: looks like you’re doing plenty of hard work 😬

username18: why do I get the feeling max is not impressed 😭

ona.battle: it’s been three days and I already miss you 🫶🏻

username19: poor max wishing he was there

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liked by maxfan101, lestappenoursaviour and 2,593 others

f1gossip: eagle eyed fans managed to pap the moment yn yln managed to surprise max verstappen at silverstone this weekend. one fan told us yn came up behind max, tapped his shoulder and simply said “hey stranger,” before leaping into his arms…talk about romantic 🥺

482 comments

username20: I can’t believe some of you actually thought yn wouldn’t bother with max wtf

username21: “hey stranger” sounds like a line from a movie 😭

username22: my two favourite people reunited!!!

username23: poor max who thought yn was actually enjoying her summer without him 😂

username24: all these years and they’re still surprising each other 🥺

username25: no one can convince me that these two aren’t the cutest couple on the grid

username26: keep refreshing social media in the hope that someone recorded this moment…

username27: look at that smile in the first photo omg ❤️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by ynusername, landonorris and 3,955,089 others

maxverstappen1: my lucky charm here to see me through and get me to the top of that podium this weekend ☺️ best surprise ever 💞

787,392 comments

ynusername: wouldn’t have missed it for the world, so so proud of you 🫶🏻

maxverstappen1: @/ynusername you really are the best ❤️

username28: I’m so happy yn got to finally be there to see you get a race win 🥺

landonorris: I only let you win cause I knew your girlfriend was watching 😂

username29: not max calling yn his lucky charm, my heart 😭

redbullracing: congratulations on yet another p1 max 👏🏻

username30: such a good race, congratulations max!!

keirawalsh: I’ll forgive you for stealing my girl seeing as you got the win 😂

username31: bet there’s going to be some incredible celebrations tonight 🥳

username32: I can’t with how proud yn looks of him either…

oscarpiastri: reckon you could at least leave the paddock before throwing yn over your shoulder 🤔

username33: I’ve been waiting to see a post like this for so long 🥺

danielricciardo: forget the win, I was just happy to see yn again after so long!!

ynusername: @/danielricciardo secretly I only actually came to silverstone for you 😘

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 482,028 others

ynusername: reminding ourselves how nice it is to cook and eat dinner in the same room again 🥺❤️

68,392 comments

username34: I never want you two to be separated again 😭

landonorris: you’re not allowed to keep him forever btw - he needs to come back to us!

username35: I’m still not over the fact they’re finally reunited

username36: look at the smile on yn’s face, that’s definitely the max effect!

danielricciardo: I’m just glad that it was you cooking and not max 😂

ynusername: @/danielricciardo I’ve been with him long enough to know better than that 😂

username37: the holding hands ☺️☺️☺️

lewishamilton: remind me to block you two when summer break comes around so I don’t have to deal with your sickly sweet posts 😝

username38: now I remember why this is my favourite duo in the world

maxverstappen1: the best couple of days with you 💕💕

username39: a relationship like this in the future pls 🥺

charles_leclerc: do you guys ever plan on not being adorable???

username40: forever my two favourite people ❤️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[dearsnow]

SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT (WITH YOUR FISTS FOR ONCE)

- you and bradley had always been attached at the hip until life pulled him away. when you’re finally living in the same place again, your unspoken feelings come to the surface during a san diego bonfire. (bradley ���rooster” bradshaw x gn!reader, reader is characterized as someone who doesn’t like much attention, jealousyyyyyyyyy, pining & arguments but fluff at the end, ⚠️ mentions of alcohol / weed)

word count: 2,500

a/n - it’s so entertaining to come up with synonyms for kissing 😭 anyways, enjoy this, and listen to american teenager by ethel cain. oh and i was also so tempted to make the girl mickey in a wig, but i held back.

Bradley Bradshaw likes you. He’d go as far as to say he loves you, if he was being honest. He’s never said it, though, not in that way.

When you first met, he was pulled to you like a magnet. It was preschool, and he never left your side. He made macaroni portraits of you and you crafted tiny little friendship bracelets for him. Neither of you could speak well, or write well, but you stuck together anyways.

Your first written words were each other’s names.

Everything snowballed from there, but he couldn’t say he was mad at it.

You were so entirely different, but that’s what made it good, in his opinion. He always needed eyes on him, not for any pretentious ego-boosting reasons, but because it made him thrive. You tended to hide in the shadows. When you gave your eyes to him, and him to you, it was like the most natural thing in the world.

He was the classic class clown type all throughout middle and high school, with a football jersey and everything. When you came to his games, he swore he played a million times better, and you were happy to indulge in his superstition.

You like him, too. You’d go as far as to say you love him, if you’re being honest. You might’ve said it if he hadn’t been so clearly your platonic life partner. You would follow him, as toddlers, with his shirt edge balled in your small fist. You tried to draw him more times than you could count, but it always looked wrong, like you couldn’t really capture the life that he held so deeply in his eyes. You even considered joining the cheerleading squad for him, but you would’ve cringed under the gaze of the crowd.

When he left for the navy, and for college, and for anything after that, you wished you could bounce across the United States with him. Instead, you wrote him letters; copious amounts of them.

One thing that you both never dared to cross was the bounds of friendship. He would hold your hand, his thumb smoothing over the side of your fist, and there was nothing romantic about it. God, you wished it was, though.

Now that you’ve moved to San Diego, following him one last time, you beg whatever makes the rules to break them just once.

You walk up behind a broad-shouldered man you barely recognize and tap him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I seem to be lost. Could you direct me to a man named Bradley? I believe his call sign is something silly, like ‘duck’.”

He whips around, sunglasses and mustache entirely new to you. He speaks your name in a breathy whisper, like he’s afraid his words will break if he says them too loud. “You’re here? Like actually?”

You’ve barely replied before you’re wrapped in a hug, feet lifted off the ground and body spun around so many times you think you might be sick. “Geez, Brad, put me down!”

He sets you down gently, holding out an arm for stability as you collect your bearings. “Sorry, sorry. I just can’t believe I’m seeing your face after all this time.” You’re even more breathtaking than he remembers.

San Diego has done him well, you reckon. His gold-tinted skin holds a deeper sense of warmth, now, even though he has always run hot. “You better get used to it. I have a fancy new apartment now, so I’m here to stay.”

His face holds a beaming grin, and the whole world falls away. “Thank god, I was beginning to think I’d be stuck here with just my coworkers.” He doesn’t even notice how you look at him with lovesick eyes.

After two months of San Diego, you say the one thing you thought you would never say: “I’m so sick of the sun.”

It’s midday, and you’re prepping for a Fourth of July bonfire party on the beach. The sun is beating down on your back, forcing you to scamper into the ocean every once in a while. Bradley is right beside you, wheeling yet another cooler onto the sand. “If I wasn’t worried about our shit being stolen, I’d suggest we abandon it and let Jake do all the work.”

You laugh. Jake was the one who suggested the whole bonfire, but, of course, he was “too busy” to help set up. You don’t mind doing the work. If it was an opportunity for you to be beside Bradley, you’d do anything. You’d even brave the burning ball of gas in the sky.

As you work, the sun disappears quickly.

By this point, after over two decades of friendship, you’ve lost a bit of that hope that pushed you to follow Brad in the first place. You know he’s attractive, and every woman in the world seems to know it too. What you didn’t know is that you’re pretty damn attractive too. As you’ve told yourself, you prefer to keep the attention off of you.

So, as the sun’s last dying rays scatter over the cooling sand, you pretend not to notice the women ogling your best friend.

The bonfire is great. Amazing, even. The flames reach high into the sky and the smell of smoke permeates the air; everything is cast in this sort of hazy glow, highlighting tanned skin and bright swimsuits. There’s also a woman chatting up Bradley, touching his arm flirtatiously, but you push that to the back of your mind. Instead, you’re focused on the guy in front of you, even when her giggle sends a ball of spikes into your heart.

He’s tall, a little on the skinny side, with tousled black hair and a puka shell necklace. Sand clings to his sandaled feet. He hands you a beer, which you tell yourself you won’t drink much of. You’ve already had a bit too much.

“So, know anyone here?” He asks. He’s eyeing you with a certain ferocity that you don’t notice, his gaze raking up and down your body.

You pop the can open and take a small sip. “Yeah. I know Bradshaw, and the rest by association.” You gesture to Jake and Natasha, who are arguing over a beach volleyball. You almost smile at the way she jabs him in the ribs, making him double over just enough for her to steal what’s so carefully held in his hands. The guy nods.

“I don’t. I’m here for the vibes, y’know?” He takes a step closer, and you notice he smells like smoke and something deeper, like perfumed weed. “And the pretty people.”

You shift in your place. “Have you found what you’re looking for?” You’re almost teasing now, completely missing the hunger in the way he licks his lips. Maybe you’re a little drunk, or maybe you’re just enjoying how someone seems to be giving you the longing looks you so sorely crave. It’s one night, you figure. You won’t ever see him again. What’s wrong with a little good-natured flirting?

“Absolutely.” He murmurs, reaching forward. His hand connects with the back of your neck, his breath cascading over your face, and your eyes flutter shut— before you’re yanked backwards by an arm around your waist.

You stumble. “What the hell?” You curse, colliding with a hard, warm chest. You drop your beer in the sand as you fall back. It’s Bradley, and he looks furious. “Brad, are you kidding me?”

“Come here.” His voice is lethally quiet and sharp as a knife. Your mind is reeling as you follow him a few paces closer to the fire, but a hot pool of anger sits in your stomach.

“Are you being serious right now? What in the world were you thinking?” You hiss. You look up at his tight-lipped face, utterly stoic in the light behind him.

“I’m not letting you kiss that piece of shit.”

“Who are you to decide who I kiss?” You’re so, so mad. So mad you could punch someone, but that would probably hurt you more than the person your fist connects with. Bradley just intervened in the one thing you thought he would never intervene in. You’ve let him swap spit with girls you’ve never seen before, and now he’s over here acting like you kissing one guy is the epitome of nastiness?

He scoffs. “You didn’t even notice, did you? That he was eyeing you like a piece of meat? God, he reeks of weed and swamp ass, too. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I could have the once in a lifetime opportunity to make out with a perfectly attractive guy without someone interrupting.” Your arms are crossed, but you feel a lump forming in your throat. In your mind, that really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. It’s not like you go out of your way to meet people, and the people you’ve met have never even slyly complimented you. You’re not the type that gets dates or drinks sent your way or anything more than platonic. Currently, platonic is staring you in the face with the rage of a thousand suns behind his eyes.

“Make out with Bob or Nat, I don’t care. At least they won’t undress you with their fuckboy blue eyes. Even Bagman is a better choice.”

“You don’t get to decide those things— friends don’t get to decide those things. I mean, I didn’t throw a hissy fit when you were openly flirting with that girl.” In the back of your mind, you know he’s right. You know that your stomach dropped when the guy leaned closer to you, and that your kicked-down self esteem made him out to be a whole lot more attractive than he probably (definitely) was.

Bradley runs a hand through his already slightly messy hair, sighing like he’s regretting ever hitting you with a sand pail in preschool. “I at least get to decide when to save you from creeps and when to leave your love life alone. Trust me, you were in more danger than I ever was.”

“I reiterate, friends don’t get to decide those things.” He can see the insecurity swimming in your beautiful eyes. Yeah, you’re definitely at least somewhat drunk. You’d never argue with him like this if you weren’t. You’re also more than a little mad, and disgusted with yourself, and disappointed with your lack of charisma, and so jealous of the girl he probably tangled tongues with.

“What do I have to be, then, to get it through your thick skull? You know I love you. I’m just looking out for you.” His voice is softer, now, and sweeter, dripping from his mustache like honey.

He reaches out, and you cringe away. Love. It’s a word unspoken, one that’s been lingering on your mind since the day in seventh grade when he suddenly became attractive to you. Like most things, you assume it’s friendly. “Do you really love me if this is what you’re pulling? Say it like you mean it, Bradshaw.”

“I love you.” He states, taking your hands in his. This time, as you try to pull yourself from his grip, he holds on. “I love you.” He says again. It holds a certain weight that gets your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He’s firm but gentle, and he can feel the years of unspoken feelings bubbling on the tip of his tongue.

That’s when the guy from before decides to approach, sliding a hand uncomfortably down your waist. “I think you interrupted us, dude.”

Bradley drops your hands, and before the man can grab you even lower, he’s getting decked in the face.

He collapses to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and cursing like a bitch. “Fuck you, what the fuck! Fuckin’ Navy piece of fucking shit.” You raise your hand to your mouth as he scrambles to get away. His blood leaves a scarlet trail of droplets in the sand.

“Bradley…”

“I just want you to be safe.” He mutters, like he didn’t just punch someone in the face for you. “I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way, romantically, but I can’t stand seeing you with guys that aren’t as smart or good-looking as one fraction of your pinky toe.”

You reach up to his jaw, carefully, gingerly, before pressing your lips to his.

Like a scene from a movie, Fourth of July fireworks explode behind you, not unlike the fireworks going off in your mind. He has one hand on your waist and one hand on the back of your head, and neither make you even the slightest bit uncomfortable. It’s Bradley, and he makes you feel like the safest person in the world.

Your lips are soft, so soft. Bradley can practically hear his heart pounding in his ears as his body finally takes in the moment he’s been dreaming about his entire life. When you pull away, he misses the feeling, like the lost puzzle piece of his heart was stolen as soon as it was put back.

“You think my pinky toe is smart and good-looking?” You place a hand on his bare chest, teasing. He gives you the grin you’ve come to adore.

“Every part of you is. That’s why I love you.”

“I love you too. For more than your pinky toe, of course.”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly conscious of the self-satisfied look you shoot her, “y’know that girl I was talking to?” You raise your eyebrows questioningly as he nods his head at her. She sends a little wave, in which you notice a sparkling ring on her finger. “That, my love, is Reuben’s wife.”

You feel your heart sink to your feet as the embarrassment sets in, your cheeks growing warmer than the fire. You mouth a quiet “sorry” at her and she laughs, shooing your apology away with a gentle sweep of her hand.

“Is that why you went after Mr. Broken nose?” Bradley whispers in your ear. “That’s one hell of a way to make me jealous.”

You crinkle your nose as your face flushes impossibly warmer. “Not everything has an ulterior motive, Bradshaw.”

He looks perfect in this lighting, and to him, so do you. You can hardly believe that decades of friendship and tension and wishing led to this slightly improbable moment. You’re honestly glad you almost kissed a stranger.

“Yeah, but you’d best believe I do.”

He takes your hand in his and drops to one knee. Everyone turns to look at him, but for once, the only eyes that matter are yours. “Will you do me the honor of letting me be your lawfully appointed boyfriend?” You smile so wide you think your cheeks might split. You join him in the sand, holding his face in your hands and kissing his cheek.

“You really did mean it, huh, Brad?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes. It’s a definite, no-questions-asked, yes.”

[i-yap]

Batboys x quiet! reader(who is not quiet in private)

( some of the reasons for the quietness is a bit traumatic so uhh warning)

Dick grayson -

opposites attract is possibly my favorite trope ever. And that is exactly what you guys are . Not exactly golden retriever x black cat though people who didn't know you guys well assumed such .

Dick would get exhausted spending forever being charming and charismatic for even the most extroverted of people get tired when they had to manage multiple superhero teams, a detective squad and the whole batfamily.

You were silence, peace serenity almost..until you weren't. Grayson was worried about this relationship in the start, after all you guys were really different. He was afraid you were going to be annoyed by his sunshine self, and that when he isn't feeling like talking, the conversations would go silent.

But you really are so different when comfortable with someone, and its tough not to trust and drop your shield with grayson.

It took him by surprise slowly seeing you open up and show your weird side. It somehow made him cherish it more and even want to show sides of him that only you got to see.

When he asked you why you weren't like this with everyone you said " My parents had a habit of talking over me, sometimes outrightly not hearing me speak at all. No matter how loud I spoke..i wondered if they couldn't hear me...if anyone even wanted to you" "why me then?" asked dick , "you're nothing like my parents, I know you care" and he does..he really does. He won't ever let you feel like that every again. He will make sure everything you want said is heard, and if not he will burn it into the skyline

Jason todd

he appreciated it, a quiet person in public. He hated being in public, he hated the buzz the noise the push the touch of humans around him. He felt strange

till he feels you hold his knowing you felt just as strange as him. Leave the gala and walk around the library , one earphone in each ear listening to whatever you wished to play.

Pulling you close in crowded areas- was it for you or for him? Glaring at anyone who dared tease you about your quietness. A single glare usually does the job but don't worry ...other ways exist too.

He loves that when you two are alone, you are a completely different person. It makes him feel special, like he is the only one who understands you. Because you're the only one who understands him.

When he asks " well I guess I never felt like people liked what came out of my mouth.. my humour too dark, my words too dumb and I didn't make sense. So I stopped trying" don't worry about being cringe..he understands you completely

Tim drake

he is intruiged. How do you pull such a perfect facade. How does one look so poised and collected with those rich assholes and so wild and untamed with him?

He could never really perfect the act the way you did. He's seen you grow up, but somehow its like you were born with two people living in your brain.

If you're this mysterious to your childhood lover, how does anyone in the world even think that they could know you, both versions of you.

Dont get me wrong, he loved it, A mystery he never could solve, not even with your help.

" Teach me your ways master" "I remember you wanting me to call you that last night..oh no wait it was si-" "shut upp" "fine ill tell you timmy boy, I just believe those rich stick up their ass puppets don't deserve to see all ..this.." "what about school kids, friends , teemates-" "I don't need anyone to get me as long as you do"

He will never get it, even if someone engraved it into his skin he wont understand everything about you , you'll always be the case he couldn't solve.

AND WE ARE BACK BICHES , send in requests and stuff, inbox open again blah blah I'm feeling much better now but I might push angst stuff more