Jjk Flight Attendants

I can finally sleep in peace

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. 

Plausible deniability | Poly! Marauders; A. Dolohov:

Warnings: jealousy; the boys are kind of dicks in this one; reader is a certified smartass; my dialogue is pretencious as hell; Dolohov is a desperate flirt.

Your lads leave you alone at a party you took them to, so they won't care if you happen to dance with someone else. Right?

You had always been a good girlfriend.

Scratch that, you always were a great girlfriend.

And you knew that for a fact.

There wasn't one thing in this world you wouldn't do for your boyfriends. Your love for them was beyond any type of rational comprehension, to the point you had made yourself look stupid in front of others just because you adored them so much.

All those days you stayed back to reason with a teacher, or a prefect or with Filch and talk them out of murdering your beloved boys while those same lads were out running to save their own skin; All those times you went out of your way to fix expulsion-worthy mistakes they commited during a prank; All those nights you lost sleep so you could help them study for the incoming exams you knew they had been ignoring in favor of perfecting yet another grandious plan to humiliate the Slytherins.

That was how you told them you loved them.

And you did.

Not only did you simply love them, you showed them you loved them.

So why was it that everytime you looked at one of them from the small green and silver couch you were sitting on, they seemed to have one or ten other girls in their arms?

You took them to this party. You were the sole reason they had gotten in here in the first place.

Would it kill them to spend five minutes with you before going off to do Godric knows what with other girls?

No.

It wouldn't.

You weren't jealous. That wasn't the point. If that was the case you would have walked up to them, muttered some half-polite excuse to whichever person was flirting with them and pulled the boy to dance with you.

But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that you always bended over backwards for them, to meet their desires, to make sure they were healthy, make sure they were comfortable, make sure they were always feeling their best. If something of theirs broke, you were there to fix it. If they couldn't understand something, you figured it out and explained it to them. If they needed help with anything, you were always there, at their corner, ready to help with whatever you could.

You had always been a show instead of tell kind of person.

Your problem was, they were tell but never show kind of people.

Not one of your boys ever hesitated to tell you that they loved you and that they couldn't live without you and that they'd do anything for you, but they never seemed to come through in any of those things.

And for most that you tried to brush it off as them simply being from a world different than yours, it bothered you to hell and back.

There was nothing you could do, and you knew it.

It would be no good to cause a scene and forever be branded as the crazy girlfriend, specially since you knew they made a habit of downplaying your discomfort when it came to the subject of them being overly affectionate with people who clearly had less than innocent intentions.

So you stood up as calmly as you could manage and slowly made your way to the little bar Zabini had set up.

Whiskey, beer, liquour and rum. One next to the other, all painfully dry. Perhaps if you could squeeze out a drip or two from each bottle you'd end up with a 1/16 of a full cup. But that wasn't enough for you. So you pulled back your hand, and just as you were trying your best to recall that fancy little spell that turned water into rum, the soft glow of light over glass caught your eye.

A bottle of vodka. The people in this party were visibly much more prudent than you could wish to be, for the bottle wasn't only untouched, but fully sealed and nearly glimmering under the dim reddish lighting that bathed the room, like a singing siren, lulling in the occasional unsuspecting sailor, the kind who was desperate enough to fall for her games.

Well, yo-ho, motherfucker.

Taking you newfound treasure into your hands, you poured the liquid into a whiskey glass, an inch and a half full over the bottom. And with no hesitation whatsoever, you took a long and patient sip, without even making a face.

- You know, dear, I have been standing next to this bar for half an hour. I've seen all those bottles be drained to the last drop, but not a single person was mad enough to consider touching my vodka. - The smell of the cologne that surrounded you as whoever that was leaned in to speak into your ear might as well have carried the stench of blood with it, because never in your life had you heard someone so painfully obvious in their villany speak in such a shamelessly ill-willed way. - I must commend you for your taste, красивая.

Antonin Dolohov.

Of course.

When did he ever miss a single chance to shark you?

Rhetoric question, the answer was never.

- I do enjoy the taste of nothingness and incoming hangovers quite a bit, thanks for the commendment. - Still staring into your glass, you pretended not to feel the way he very glaringly leaned into the spot you had pressed your perfume into just an hour ago. - Cheers, Dolohov. Good health to you.

He smiled wolfishly as he watched you empty that glass in one breath, walking around the table to stand as close to humanly possible to you. - As much as seeing you drink like this gives me hope that you will toss those three western boys and get with the one that could actually be your drinking partner, we should really get a dance in so I can tell you what is happening.

- Remind me again of why would I ever consider dancing with you...

- Because I know things that evolve not only you, bu you future in this lovely establishment you call home.

You scoffed: - Okay, Mr. Bond.

- I prefer Stierlitz, but Bond will do for now. - He gently took the empty glass from your hand, setting it on the table and slowly placing his massive hands on your waist, making sure to rub down the silk dress with his thumbs as he grinned at you. - Shall we, my dear?

- You better not be playing tricks on me, Antonin.

He immediately perked up at the slight softened tone you had emplyed, taking advantage of the opportunity to pull you closer as the both of you swayed to the upbeat madness of Siouxie and the Banshees. - Wow, first name basis again. Have you finally forgiven me, zaychik? Should I put your silk sheets back onto our bed?

- We were never in an empty room alone for more than two minutes, Dolohov. Let alone sleep together.

- You and I are meant to be, zaychik. You'll realize that sooner or later.

- You know I adore listening to your ravenous delusions, but cut to the chase, will you?

- Your wish is my command, my sweet. - You could feel James' eyes starting to search the area around you, and you couln't deny it hurt that he hadn't even noticed you weren't away being a wallflower anyomore. - A friend of mine has been fulfilling duty at Filch's office. He says that McGonagal and Slughorn have been going in and out of his office all day long, whispering secret messages, handing him suspecious papers with the ministry of magic seal, all sorts of things like that. So I told him to look into it.

- How wise of you.

- I knew you'd think so too, zaychik. - He had this strange habit of running the tip of his index finger up your spine and down your arms, and the fact that he was getting closer and closer didn't make you any less uncomfortable. - So anyhow, after Filch left, he found a paper near the burner and in this paper were your name and mine together, along with the names of all your ungrateful little lovers and the names of my friends.

- What the fuck?

- That's what I said. - He seemed genuinely amused by the fact you two held the same line of thinking, and it would've been actually a bit sweet to see him like that if your eyes didn't meet Sirius' for a split second. He did not seem happy. - What kind of paper would have the name of a two model students like you and I above a list of the most trouble-making and irresponsible people in the school?

- A paper that lists people who are either involved or facilitate riotous behaviour. The ministry wants to cut the tree by it's roots. You an I are fixers, casualties. They fuck up, we go there an make sure they're not expelled...

- Only so they can go and do it again as soon as the coast is clear. - He mumbled in an irritated tone just as the music shifted, and you had never felt so seen. - Cunts.

- You too?

- If you think trying to convince teachers that their favorite troublemakers shouldn't be thrown out of school, try arguing that same case for the students they despise the most.

- I can't fucking believe them.

- You and I are more similar than you would like to admit, my darling. That's why I'm warning you. That's why we should be together.

- You lost me at 'more similar than you'd like to admit'.

- Not even you can deny that we should join forces if we want those we care about not to be publicly humiliated. If we work together, and we find a way to invalidate whatever claims the ministry is trying to make, then we can save their arses and go along our lives knowing that we did the right thing while they were out being debils. - His eyes glimmered in hope as he watched you consider the offer, his hands pulling you flush into his body, so close that he could barely stand the warmth of your skin seeping through the layers of clothes that separated you. - What do you say, zaychik?

- You're right. I hate to admit it, but credit where credit is due. - Antonin could feel hilself swell up with pride, and he immediately took a step back, cordially raising a hand towards you like a proper gentleman.

- Pleasure doing business with you, little bunny. - Your hand met his as the both of you smiled, pretending you didn't hear Dolohov's heart beating out of his chest. - You have a plan?

- I have the begining of one.

- We could draw this plan out back in my dorm, perhaps I'll allow you some of my tsarskaya vodka.

- I'm not a whore.

- I wouldn't pay. - He grinned, seizing to sway for the first time and squeezing your hips in his hands.

- That's charming. Which Gangster did you steal that line from?

- It disappoints me that you don't know. It'll be my life's mission to educate you in soviet culture before we eventually get married. - You couldn't help but laugh. He was quite charming, and it felt nice to be noticed for once. But you were so invested in Antonin's back and forth jokes that you didn't notice Sirius calling for Rem and James. You didn't notice how mad they looked. And you definetly didn't notice that for the first time since they had gotten here, they were excusing himself off from the girls they had surrounded himself with. And they probably didn't notice that it was the first time in the night they had worried the slightest bit about you. - Oh, I love this song. You'll dance with me won't you? To celebrate our alliance.

- I should really get to to mapping out that plan. - You excused, drawing yourself back from him only for Dolohov to pull you right back.

- Oh, rumba. Sorry, you cannot escape a Frank Sinatra song.

- Is that so?

- You'll have to dance with me until another singer comes along. And I fear they just put on one of his longest records. - You laughed as he pulled you into him, guiding you through a performance of 'mind if I make love to you'. Your dress swirled around you, the iridescent fabric glowing under the light as he spun you around, and you felt glad you were here for the first time in the night. The same could not be said about the lads that watched as the two of you entretained yourselves.

You were in for it tonight.

You Are a Monster, as Am I

pairings: f!reader x naoya

word count: 8.1k

contains: sorcerer!reader, strong-willed f!reader, unfulfilled arranged marriage, childhood enemies to present enemies, angst, events spanning from childhood to present day, proper characterizations, physical brawls (between naoya and reader), conflicted romance, unrequited love (for naoya), parental issues (naoya and reader), eventual love confessions, a single bittersweet kiss, flowery writing

warnings: contains spoilers and canon events, implied/referenced physical abuse (inflicted on naoya and reader), misogyny, violence

a/n: a lot of love and labor went into this fic, so reblogs, comments, likes, etc. are more than appreciated! also a kind thank you to @suguruwrx who reblogged the unfinished version of this and gave me the motivation to continue :) I hope you enjoy

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The Moon shed Her tears for you, glinting among the stars. It is only She who witnessed your crimes.

Two men had lain in the snow at your feet; one still, the other pressing his hands together in prayer. Blood, warm and wet, soiled your clothing and clumped your hair. It was not yours.

Get away, the man croaked, red dribbling from the corner of his lips like a feral hound. His eyes brimmed with salted tears.

At your back, the city was quiet, waiting with bated breath for your final hand. You fetched a coin from the muddied ice and the metal bit against your palm; it was one of many scattered around their bodies.

Devil, he said. Demon, he wailed.

You were but a child, and the Moon may forgive you. 

The man was left for the snow as you ran and the wind nipped at your heels. Your mother had choked for breath when you stepped into the threshold of your home, a broken lip and a dirtied coat.

What did you do? she had rasped. You had mistaken it for a mother’s worry.

You held the coin out for her, a droplet of silver against your skin. It fell to the wooden floors and your trembling hand bore itself empty, but it remained reaching out for her. You might have looked as if you were begging, pleading with this woman and her severe face. Forgiveness, mercy, you should have asked.

Stupid girl, she said, what did you do?

I had to, you cried.

Your father had interceded then; fatigued eyes, skin not yet worn with age but battle. You remember little.

He left that night and did not return until the dawn.

It’s been taken care of, he told you, and your mother made a sound of distaste in her throat.

You will not be the burden of this family, she said, and did not speak again.

-----

A year flitted through your grasp like a writhing serpent, it bit your arm and curled the pulse of your wrist. All was forgotten, if not nothing but a dreadful reverie. Your father had done well to wash his hands of the blood you spilt, though it continued to stain your own skin.

“You will behave,” your mother tugged firmly at the tresses of your hair, “and you will be proper.” A lovely comb of pearl adorned your head, placed by an unkind hand.

We are leaving to meet a very important family, she had said as she ushered you to bathe when you awoke. Do not make a fool of your father and I.

A driver had arrived, the sleek vehicle churning the stones of the road as a prized stallion might.

Seated in its leather interior, your mother propped her knees toward you and inclined her head, “You must remember these names; do not forget them.” Her voice was low, spoken on a whisper. The car jostled, and she took your hand in her own. “Naobito Zen’in—” she said and traced the name into the supple of your palm.

Her brows raised expectantly. 

“Naobito Zen’in,” you repeated.

“—is the Head of the Zen’in Clan,” she continued.

And it went on until each name had been placed in your hand and repeated from your tongue. She told you of their positions in the clan, their accomplishments as Zen’in-blooded men.

“Jinichi will have two scars along his forehead,” she said, eyes flitting to your father, quiet where he sat, “and Ogi will be the man with long and dark hair.”

“Must you continue that?” your father asked, displeasure in his words.

“She needs to be prepared.”

“Certainly,” he scathed, “for your own betterment.”

Ten years of age, and you had not understood. Your stiffened clothing and painted face, your father’s reluctant anger and your mother’s desperation.

The vehicle had slowed before a courtyard. Women milled about, attending to the gardens as their children squealed and caught their mothers’ skirts; their pruning shears poised to nip the stem of a bud before they stilled.

“Come along,” your mother spoke as she stepped out of the vehicle. You trailed obediently, clutching her hand; your father walked ahead, his haori billowing, an angered sail on a ship’s mast.

A single man stood at the doors of the household, polite greetings exchanged before he offered his guidance through the foyer and down a left hall. Your mother’s hand, clasped within your own, lifted to tap beneath your chin.

“Up,” she mouthed.

The man gestured to an open threshold and your father inclined his head before stepping into the room. A table had been set, its bare wood offering rich tea and delicate foods. At its head sat a tall man, the greyed whiskers of his face inciting your mother’s words, Naobito Zen’in. To his right was the scarred man, Jinichi; opposite him was Ogi, tapping the stem of his spoon on the cup’s lip. 

A boy with dark hair that laid across his brow had been seated at Jinichi’s side. He was young, his features plump with youth, though his eyes—a burnished bronze—betrayed that juvenility.

“Please,” Naobito said, motioning a calloused hand, “sit and join us.” The other men did not offer their niceties; they did not believe it necessary.

Your mother bowed at her waist, as did your father and you, before settling on the feather-down pillions; you did not meet the boy’s strange eyes when your mother’s hand guided you to the seat beside his.

Naobito sighed greatly, “Speak, and be quick about it.”

“Are we not here to discuss the arrangement?” your father asked, carefully spoken.

“Ah, yes, that’s correct.” A furrow carved itself in the middle of his mottled forehead. He had not truly forgotten. “You claimed the girl is strong in her cursed energy?”

“She is.”

“And what of it?”

“It is a form of transfiguration, somewhere along a similar vein.”

“How vague.” Naobito rapped the pad of his finger against the table.

“I apologize. We’re uncertain of what she possesses specifically, and have been unable to seek answers from those we had hoped would have them.”

A ribbon of steam ebbed from the tea placed in front of you. Clothing rustled from the boy as he reached for a small platter of confections and brought a flaked pastry to his mouth. Your hands, interlaced within one another, rested atop your lap. You should not fiddle, it proved bad manners, but a hem of worry draped your throat.

The men had continued on. Dowries, they spoke of; you did not know this word. Spearheads and blades, your father said. Coin, Jinichi asked. Your mother remained unspeaking. Porcelain rasped along the table as the boy nudged the plate away, and toward you. He did not look to you, to see if you may take his offer.

Sugared fruits and honeyed cakes had been placed delicately on the etched platter, garnishes of petals and leaves tucked between cream and custards; though, where the boy had taken his confectionery, the arrangement had collapsed. You plucked a tartlet into your hand, soft as a lamb’s ear, and returned the dish to the center of the table.

“It is decided, then?” 

“Yes,” your father said, “it is decided.”

Naobito hummed, “Come here, girl.” A hand beckoned for you. 

And when you rose, settling at the man’s side with legs tucked beneath you, he took your chin in his hold. 

“Her abilities matter little—her features will be more than enough to suffice,” Naobito said. He pressed a thumb to the fat of your cheek, you remembered it hurt when he did so. “You will make a fine wife for Naoya.”

-----

A betrothal of prospect; a vow of heavy coffers and prestige. In exchange for your hand to bear their ring.

“That is all you must do,” your mother said, catching the tears that wet your lashes, “and make the boy happy.”

You had cried terribly, trembling like the fletch of a loosed arrow.

“You will live here, and you will be grateful.” Her harrowing words cloaked in a soft voice.

The poverty that afflicted your family, your mother’s need for a lick of notability; you did not know of these things as a child, and it would reap foul consequences.

“Your father and I will come to visit on the third of every month,” she said. You crumpled her gown in fistfuls, holding her sleeve as if to keep her there with you. It was not your mother who tore your hands from her bodice, but a servant woman; her name was Yuhara, and you would soon learn this when she clutched you tightly, lovingly, pitifully, as your mother and father left in that forsaken vehicle.

Yuhara, beautiful and kind, had led you to your rooms as she smoothed your hair.

“All of this is yours,” she said, and she smiled.

No, you thought, it can’t be. You did not speak.

For days upon days you kept to those strange rooms. Yuhara visited to offer meals that you did not eat; you did not bathe, you did not move unless to relieve yourself. A different servant woman tried her hand each morn to dress you, to coo their commiserations, but you did not care.

One month had slipped between your outstretched fingers, then two. Twice, your parents had returned, and twice did you cry. The women did not come to your rooms anymore, they had stopped long ago. 

Your surprise was palpable when a curt knock came from your door.

“May I come in?” A boy’s voice, broken with adolescence.

You rose from a chaise by the windows to receive him. Naoya, his name was.

“My father wanted me to see to you,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

His mouth thinned, this annoyed him. “You’re lying.” He stood with a straightened back, a stance that demanded subservience. For a child, he held himself as a man might.

And he was right, you did not want to tell him the truth. “No,” you shook your head, and your hand twisted the brass knob idly, “I’m not lying.”

“The women are saying that you’re sad and won’t eat,” divulged Naoya. He paused then, a gauging expression on his round face, before rifling through his pockets. “And my father isn’t happy, he says you’re becoming a burden.”

You averted your eyes from Naoya in shame, a frown on your lips.

“Here,” he said, “it’s from the gardens.” He had tugged a ripened apple into his palm, holding it out for you. 

Naoya had been kinder then, you remembered, even in its brevity.

-----

You were kept separate as children, only seeing one another when you ate your meals. However, Yuhara and the other mothers had a tendency to usher you around the grounds. They taught you to mend stitchings, to wash the linens; they placed your hands on soil and showed you how to garden; they encouraged your studies of language and art and sorcery.

The women did as they were told, and you did as they told you.

At the age of eleven did your docility waver. The mothers began to chastise when you scurried away from your duties, or mouthed rudely. Once did one of the women, Hatake, raise her hand at you; the puckered mark remained for two days.

Your parents continued to visit, though it grew to be less often. You did not cry when they sat opposite you at a table, as if strangers, to ask of your well-being. They would smooth your hair and kiss your forehead, and you would let them.

The following year is when the women began to fret; you had yet to have your first bleed.

“If she cannot bear children,” said Naobito from within the separated room, “she’s no better for use than a servant.”

There was a pause, then, “She’s still young, she’s still growing. I beg of you to give her time,” implored Yuhara. 

“There is no time to give. The girl will either have it or she won’t.”

“And what then?” Yuhara asked, a tone of bother to her inquiry.

Naobito sniffed. “Do you care for this child?”

You pressed your small ear to the wall, listening diligently, shoulder aching.

“Of course, I care for her.”

“Then she’ll become your obligation if she cannot produce an heir.”

And Yuhara stumbled. She could not formulate an appropriate response at the shift in blame.

Naobito said, “Speak out of turn again and the consequences will be far greater than a damned child.”

You bled at thirteen.

-----

Naoya did not know you. It was evident in his false expectations and strange conversation. On the day you wore a blue dress, sitting for a meal, Naoya lifted his chin toward you, a youthful gesture.

“Do you like the color blue?” he asked.

You peered at the sleeves extending to your wrists, “Not this one. It’s too bright.”

He paused, regarding you. Naoya did not speak for the remainder of that supper.

Naoya did not know you, and no one would tell a word.

“She avoids me,” he complained to his father many days. “She’s boring. She doesn’t talk. I’m sure she’d rather be in the courtyards with the other women.”

“And she’s to be your wife,” Naobito would say with little pity. “Whatever will you do, my son?”

Naoya was brash and rude. He criticized where a compliment was due, he remarked disdainfully on others when he should have remained quiet. He was a boy grown into his tenured throne.

Though, it was a bloodied right to hold.

He was often hit when he was younger: a benign slap to his wrist, or a merciful grabbing of his arm. With age came the yellowed bruising and flitting eyes. He lied for ridiculous things, and became angry when he was not right. He trained until the mud lapped at his heels, until he simply could not breathe; and then he would laugh, a breathless and hoarse sound.

And Naoya grew to be a monster.

-----

You were running in the forest when Naoya found you, just shy of seventeen years of age then. You were running from him.

And your chest hurt, your legs constricted, tightened. You were dampened with sweat, panting as you picked your way quickly along the root-ridden ground. You knew that he was not far behind. But you were tired and scared; you could not marry this boy, you could not live at his side for much longer.

A rough hand pulled you from your desperate path and kept you against a tree. You gasped in pain at the impact of bone against bark. And Naoya was upon you, his shoulders rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. 

It was you who laughed now, soft and harrowing.

“Hello, Naoya,” you murmured, your head bowing back to rest on the tree. “Ever the dutiful son.”

His expression twitched and spasmed in restrained ire. For all he prided himself on his composure, it could be so easily broken.

“You’re running from here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“From here,” you said. “From you.”

His mouth thinned. Distantly, you remembered the habit from his childhood; you wondered how you wound up here.

Naoya shook his head. “You’re a fool. You’re a fucking fool.” 

“I don’t think I am.” His fingers pressed into either of your shoulders, keeping you still when you began to writhe.

He dipped his chin, tilted his head—he was following your sporadic jerking, wanting you to look him in the eyes when he spoke. “You have everything here. You are given more than the other women simply for being betrothed to me. Is that not enough for you? Could you really need more?” 

You remembered this moment well. The beginnings of an end.

“Let me go, Naoya. Let me go and your father will just replace me.” His nostrils flared gently, he was very close. “I’m sure he’ll find you a prettier wife, and she’ll learn to love you.”

“Is that what you’ve done?” The forest was dark, and the Moon bore witness once more. “Learned to love me?”

You sighed, smiling. “I could never love you.”

And you learned to be a monster, just as him.

That night in the forest had been the cusp to an edge. You fought brutally with him, a scuffle of choking palms and thin cuts; Naoya won eventually, sitting atop your abdomen to pin you.

“Stop,” he had hissed, holding your wrists somewhere above your head. “Just stop it.”

Neither of you had utilized jujutsu techniques. You considered it a mercy.

-----

At your behest, you changed rooms, picking larger living quarters near Naoya’s. Yuhara had been surprised to hear such a request, but divvied the necessary orders.

These rooms were broader, emptier, with an expanse of windows along one wall. Word reached Naoya quickly and soon he was standing at your new threshold.

“What are you doing?” he asked, long arms folded across his chest. An angry red line remained at his cheek from where you had scratched him the week prior. There was a matching graze on your collarbone from him as well.

“I was tired of my old rooms, and no one’s using these.”

He hummed, keeping at the doorway instead of slating inward. “This is permanent, then?”

“For now.”

Naoya nodded once, a curt thing, before he left. And you thought of what one of the mothers had told you long ago: Learn thy enemy, child, and do not look away.

You scarcely spoke with one another, despite your living in the Zen’in estates for seven years, and kept mainly to menial dinner conversations, even the occasional passing remark. The plighted man and woman, already estranged.

At eighteen did Naoya change. He completed his studies at the jujutsu academy; he became ranked as a special-grade sorcerer. He grew in mindset and strength. Oddly enough, however, you often saw him more.

And Naoya would sometimes accompany you around the estate; silently, he would walk by your side.

“Do you need something?” you asked him one morning, lifting your heavy garments as you stepped over stones.

He motioned toward the book tucked beneath your arm. “You were reading?”

“I was, yes.”

Naoya hummed. “A bit boring, isn’t it?”

You stopped, turned on a heel, “Do you need something?” you asked again. “You make terrible company.”

His hair was blond then, the color beginning from the roots and peddling into his natural hue. “You’re quite rude today. Have I angered you?”

“No. Would you like to?” You smiled thinly. The narrowing of your eyes could be mistaken for genuine creasing simply enough, but Naoya knew otherwise.

“I have nothing better to do.”

“Wonderful.”

He continued on the old path, and you trailed behind, irritated.

It is strange, this memory. When you grew older is when Naoya would tell you many things: he would tell you about this moment, and he would recite it from his own perspective. It would be so very different from yours.

There had been a river, flowing and beautiful, on the edge of the estate acreage. Naoya walked there without thought, clasping a hand over his wrist behind his back. “Have you been this way before?”

You gave pause, peering around the forest. “Yes,” you said, “when I tried to run. And then you stopped me.”

Naoya stilled, looking at you from his peripheral. You did not see his eyes flicker away. 

“I’ve been here many times before that, too. The mothers would bring me here, along with their own children. We would play in the river when it got hot.” You faced him slightly, “I asked you once to join us when we were younger, and you made a face at me.”

He frowned in thought, bending down to pick up a river stone. “I don’t remember that.”

You watched as he skid the flat stone on the water’s surface. It deflected twelve times. “Of course you don’t. At that age, nothing matters all too much for you to want to remember.”

“But you did.” He threw another stone. This one only lasted eleven ricochets. 

Your brows lifted plaintively. “I remember because I was upset afterwards.” The river trickled on, a wary wind swept at your hair. “You can’t begin to imagine what it was like for me here, Naoya. I was a child when my parents offered me to your family; the mothers were kind enough, but their children ostracized me when the women turned their backs to us.” Your tone held a biting stance, nipping at his ears.

Naoya did not speak, so you continued.

“I had thought that you, of all the people in this damned estate, might have had a bit of sympathy to spare back then.” You made your steps toward him, coming to stand at his right. “I had thought that we were going to share the burden of this fucking marriage. I see now that I was wrong.”

He bristled, smoothing a thumb along another stone in his hand. “Do you really want to have this conversation?” You could not place the manner of his words.

“It’s been eight years. Should we wait another?”

“I think you should learn to hold your tongue for longer.”

You whirled on him, clutching the fabric at his throat in your fist and bringing him down toward you; Naoya held tightly to your arm, squeezing until you thought he might break the bone.

“What will you do?” he breathed, indolent and amused. “You can’t kill me.”

When you twisted the white cloth, pressing into his trachea, Naoya only grasped harder to you. He was allowing you to do this, you knew. He wanted to entertain whatever you may do.

“You’re beginning to look like your father, Naoya.”

-----

At night is when you walked the estate halls. It was quiet, and the sun was not so blinding when it tucked beneath the horizon. You moved a wooden door and sidled outside; autumn would soon come, the cold wind said.

A mottle-colored cat grazed its thick fur at your ankles in greeting. The cat was Naoya’s favored animal of the estate, who often curled at his feet and slept. You smoothed the animal’s fur with a kind touch and continued onward. 

There was a small niche between a copse of trees somewhere east of the estate lands; you had found the hidden courtyard at a young age, abandoned and forgotten, before silently claiming it as your own.

When you would return to the estates many years from now, fevered with rage, the courtyard will have been the only area of the lands left untouched from the wreckage.

It was in that courtyard that you practiced, alone. You had watched the men and their sons train enough that you memorized their incessant patterns. They were fond of continuity and repetition. You learned to be the opposite.

Your father had been partially correct in assuming your jujutsu technique: transfiguration. But it was a technique specified solely to curses. You could not replicate another person; you could not transcribe the color of their hair or the bend of their nose to your body. Though, you could sharpen your teeth like the curse beneath the stone bridge, lengthen claw-tips like the creature that loitered in the eye’s peripheral.

And you practiced such in that courtyard. Until your scleras were blackened, horns peering from beneath your hair, leathered wings retracting at your shoulder blades. It was hideous, how your body shivered and roiled. You often vomited when you ingested the blood of the curses to take their attributes; it was an acrid taste, rotting, festering on your tongue. 

You kept the vials of collected blood beneath a flagstone in the courtyard, in a pocket of soil you had dug. And when you lifted the moss-infested stone, you went painfully still. The vials were not there. Frantically, you tore at the soil.

“No,” you hissed. “No, no, no.”

A scrape of a shoe against rock had you reeling around suddenly. Naoya stood at the outskirts of the courtyard, and held up the glass fixtures between his fingers.

“You have very odd night habits,” he said, looking curiously at the collected blood. “I’ve been paying attention.”

Your heart beat heavily in your chest, pressing against your lungs. You primed indifference onto your features. “You only pay attention to what suits you at the moment.”

He hummed, then sniffed in ire. “Yes, I do.”

Truly, you did not have much to say.

Naoya was silent a moment, then, “Why do you have these?”

“Blood is best for the roses,” you said sensibly. “And better to be stored away somewhere safe.”

“It’s almost autumn. The roses are dying.”

“They can be saved.”

“Can they?” He swirled the blood idly, coming closer to you as he did so. “You cannot cheat what death deals. It’s unnatural.”

“It’s only hen’s blood. Yuhara brings it back when she goes into town for the butcher.”

Naoya tugged the cork stopper from the vial. “I suppose this is quite useless then.” He lifted the glass, tipping it above a cropping of grass. He paused.

You had been watching the blood dribble to the edge, and he had been watching you. 

“You’re just going to let me do this? I thought you were more dignified than that.” He clicked his tongue.

A furrow etched itself between your brows, a twitch rose beneath your eye. “It’s hen’s blood—it matters little to me.”

“Oh, don’t play stupid. Did you think I wouldn’t figure out what you’ve been doing? Do you think I don’t know what this is?”

You paled, your lips parting in unease. You wondered, briefly, how this conversation might end. You wondered, distantly, what Naoya might do.

“Show me.”

You swallowed, a stiff sound. “What?”

“Show me your technique, I want to see it.” He offered you the vials now. “I’ve always wanted to know how a transfiguration one worked.”

You did not yield a step when Naoya neared. “It’s not transfiguration.” A lie.

“No?”

“No.”

He sucked on his teeth. “I remember when you first came here, your father said it was something similar to transfiguration, but no one knew exactly what.” Naoya pocketed all but one vial, “So, let’s not be quick to lie.”

You had seen Naoya use his technique many times, but this had been different somehow. He was standing before you, then abruptly behind you as he curled a hand beneath your jaw. He scarcely moved when you plunged an elbow into his abdomen, only groaning lowly, tightening his hold on you, anticipating your attempt to shatter his nose against the crown of your head.

“Easy,” he cooed as one might a spooked horse, breathless and with a smile to his voice. Naoya forced your mouth open, his fingers digging into the junction of your jaw. He poured the blood down your throat as you coughed and thrashed violently; Naoya closed your mouth when the vile was empty, clasping a palm over your lips. And you gagged, your body tensing and wanting to curl in on itself, but Naoya kept you against him until he felt you swallow.

He let you go, let you stumble to the flagstones. Naoya was waiting.

“You bitch,” you heaved, and red dribbled from your lips to smatter below you. “You stupid fucking bitch.”

You could sense Naoya watching you as he said: “You have an absolutely foul mouth.”

When you turned, peering over a shoulder to him, you laughed. And you laughed. And you laughed as you crawled to your feet and faced him. You were twitching grotesquely, moving perversely. Long points of teeth pricked at your lips, your pupils constricted and dilated, your flesh turned ashen, and dark blood dripped from your eyes. You were a monster.

Naoya believed this was the effect of a full vial, but you had not taken it in its entirety; the majority of the cursed blood was left on the stones, on your clothing, smeared on Naoya’s hands. A complete vial would be enough to kill, though he could not have known.

His expression was that of delight and utter horror.

You surged forward. Naoya did not maneuver quickly enough.

Your talon caught the meat of his arm, sliced it, and Naoya stifled his cry of pain.

You wanted to feel his blood again, you thought, you wanted to cut his throat. You did not care if the mothers heard, if Naobito listened to the sounds of a dying son. You were angry, raging, roiling with madness.

This estate that took your hand, kissed your palm, and asked of you to stay where it would always be safe. These people who clothed you, fed you, and claimed that you should be a grateful woman. And Naoya…oh, Naoya. 

The boy who had been promised excellence and did not understand that promise held such little weight. The child who grew to be a terrible boy, a worse man. You were still so young then, only nineteen, as was he. You wondered if it might have happened differently, if you would want it to.

And then he was upon you once more, raising his hands to fists, bracing his lower body. “Father would never tell me about your technique,” he said fervently, reaching for your shoulder. “I always wondered why.”

You avoided his touch, moving to splice the skin at his face; he did not let you get close enough. It was an unusual parry, whereas you fought to kill, Naoya fought to irritate. He enjoyed watching your features transform, mutilate themselves into something entirely new.

At one point did he stumble on a deep groove of a rock. The front of his clothing tore beneath your blackened nails, wanting to pierce his heart. It was a lucky fall, you supposed, until you were atop him, a hand to his neck and talon-ends causing the flesh to give way.

You were reminded of when you had tried to run from this place, and Naoya had debilitated you in a similar manner.

“You won’t do it,” he whispered, as if he knew all. His bronze eyes were alight beneath you.

Pricks of blood wept from his throat. Naoya winced.

“I hate you,” you rasped, “I hate you, Naoya. And I will make you want to slit your own throat by the end of it.”

He shifted, and you felt his chest rise and fall heavily. “We’re set to marry in a week. Don’t be rash.”

You shook your head, a sudden scoff. And when you made to speak, another voice filled in your stead.

“That is quite enough.”

Naobito Zen’in stepped into the courtyard, the moonlight spilling on him. Your body remained taut, poised over his son; you did not let go.

“If you wish to kill him,” Naobito began, “by all means, do so. No son of mine would be bested by a woman—his betrothed, nonetheless.” There was disgust, disappointment, to his words.

You smiled, and vomited the cursed blood onto the flagstones.

-----

You were not left unattended for the remainder of the week. 

Naobito kept one of the men with you, a large and brute thing, he had a thin scar at the corner of his mouth. He had been introduced as ‘Toji,’ before Naobito made his leave and gave little explanation.

Toji did not speak often; he held a palm to the pommel of his sword and let his eyes wander about. And on one early morning, when you had been pruning a dead hydrangea bush, you leaned close to Yuhara and asked, “Is he always like this?”

Yuhara paused, nipping a root thoughtfully. “He’s strange,” she settled on. “Every family needs their pariah.”

Your expression pinched in question. She sighed gently from her nose.

“He’s not your enemy, if that’s what you’re wanting to know. He’s far from it.”

You gathered fallen leaves at leisure, a collection of reds and golds. “Naobito’s making him keep watch over me.” Toji was sitting by a veranda, twirling a blade in his hands.

Yuhara turned, the etchings of her skin deepening, “What happened?”

After you returned to the household the previous night, unrestrained, with Naoya and Naobito, the latter had struck you across the face, wholly apathetic. “If you can’t discipline your own wife, allow me to do so,” Naobito had seethed to his son. Then he looked to you, “Do not speak of this to anyone, lest you want to be truly punished.”

A thorn nicked the pad of your finger and you startled. “Nothing happened. Just precautions for the wedding, I guess.”

The following night, Toji walked you silently to your rooms after supper. You were watching your slippered feet step in front of you when Toji cleared his throat.

“You’re set to be Naoya’s wife?”

You lifted your head then, swallowing unsurely. “Yes.” For now, you wanted to tell him.

Toji hummed, “I’m very sorry.”

It was all he said.

-----

Naoya was staring at you.

You glanced up from the tea you held, now watching him as well.

You let yourself think, for a brief moment, what it might have been like if he were a different man, and you, a different woman. Another man would surely be eager to touch his wife, kiss her gently; another woman would be smiling, holding her lover’s hand.

Tomorrow would be the wedding.

And you would not be there.

Naoya raised a brow, a question, as if to ask: ‘What?’

You sniffed indolently. ‘Nothing.’

“Are you listening?” Yuhara chided you.

When you blinked, now facing Yuhara, Naoya remained surveying you. “Yes,” you said. “Yes, I’m listening.”

At the large table sat Naobito, Jinichi, Ogi, your mother and father, and a few other decently regarded women—Yuhara among them. They spoke of how the wedding would proceed, the tie officiated between the Zen’in clan and your family.

You stopped listening once they reached conversation of the ceremony.

-----

Again, in the beginnings of dawn, did Toji speak once more on the path to your rooms.

“You’re going to run tonight, aren’t you?” He stood at the threshold of your rooms, tilting his head at your retreating back. Toji heeded how you stiffened before you turned.

“No.” Resolute; a lie.

He scoffed, and then he smiled amusedly. “I know how this goes. You run for it when everyone’s too busy to bother with you.”

“You’re very observant, but I don’t intend on doing such.”

Toji frowned in thought. “And you’re a good liar. Did you learn that from Naoya?”

“No.” Yes.

“Well,” Toji said, “you seem intent on being well-behaved.” He sounded to be mocking you.

Your features were guarded as he continued, leaning his heavy shoulder to the door jamb.

Toji gestured a hand lazily to the columns of windows behind you, “Shame those don’t open, the weather’s real nice tonight. But I’m sure someone will keep a side entrance unlocked to let the breeze through the house.”

“Yes,” you said carefully, “what a shame.”

-----

Toji was not in the hallway when you opened your door late in the night. You tugged at the satchel on your shoulder, becoming another terrible little creature to roam under the light of the moon. All was quiet and still in the Zen’in estates.

For the past hours, you had deliberated between two evils; you found that you would prefer the risk of a betrayal from Toji than wed Naoya. So, you ran.

You were nothing but an old ghost in that dreadful house. Your feet did not make a sound, you scarcely breathed; you were not alive that night, a dead man slating from the noose already tied about his neck.

There was a side door, unlatched and ajar. You waited in the alcove down the hall, watching the door to see if someone would emerge. No one did so. And it was easy to slip through the threshold.

Then there were the bodies of many men—propped on the stone wall, left on the ground—who had been stationed to guard just outside the entrance. Their throats had been cut, eyes pressed out of sockets, limbs only tethered by bits of sinew and muscle.

You kept running.

-----

In the Zen’in estates, Toji Zen’in walked idly through the halls for your bedroom. You would surely be gone. He held a hand to his side, staunching a wound from one of the men’s blades. Soon, Naoya and the others would begin to search for you once the sun rose.

And he waited in that bedroom, his blood staining your sheets, wondering what he might do.

-----

Naoya Zen’in woke suddenly. His eyes shifted, hands clambering for the linens. Quickly, he dressed and made for your rooms; he felt something was wrong.

He found the blood first, stippled along the wooden floorboards, growing in frequency toward your rooms. Naoya ran for your door then, his feet slipping along the blood, pushing it into the deep crevices and nicks of the floors. 

His hair laid at his brow, boyish and tousled from sleep; his skin was pallid in the moonlight. Naoya plunged into your rooms, frenzied, wild-eyed.

“Oh. You’re early.”

Toji sat lazily on your bed, a dry pride to his stature.

“Where is she?” Naoya breathed. “Where is she?” He was moving toward Toji, unadulterated rage ushering his body forward.

As Naoya lifted his hands, Toji lifted himself from the bed. 

“What did you do?” His hands had begun twitching, curling as he hedged around Toji. It was then that he saw the light stain of red on your sheets. The first assault he delivered to Toji was with little warning, the other man stumbling, touching the broken skin of his cheek. “Did you fuck her?” Naoya seethed.

Toji frowned, looking to the sheets and to Naoya. He seemed to ponder this before he said, “Yes.”

Naoya attacked once more, though Toji moved quickly, using Naoya’s momentum to dispel him to the side. It was a vicious, short fight; fists raising and fast parries until Naoya caught Toji’s side. He pulled his hand away, watching the other man crumple in pain. Naoya peered down to his bloodied knuckles, giving pause.

The blood on your sheets was Toji’s. It was not yours.

“You liar.”

-----

Wings beat heavily at your back, a grotesque making of sharp bones and stretched cartilage. You had taken the blood of a curse with such features, slipping it into your throat. But your body was a cumbrous weight to carry, and you were beginning to tire.

The sky was cloud-ridden this night, no moon to guide by light. You felt your wings loosen their muscles, near blundering from the sky, before you righted yourself. An odd feeling encompassed you, a dreary haze of sorts that stuck its fingers into your ears and closed your eyes. It was not fatigue.

A terrible pain came next. It ripped through your wing and was left suspended in the cartilage: a hunter’s arrow. You cried out, gasping for breath as you fell; the brambles and boughs wound around your body when you plummeted, the hardened dirt catching you unkindly.

You clawed at the ground in your stupor, wanting to get up, needing to get away. There was a foot being pushed to your back, keeping you in place. They tore the arrow from your wing and you screamed; it was a weak sound, hoarse and broken. You could not stop them when they sliced the arrow’s blade through your other wing, pinning you to the forest floor. 

Tears dripped from your cheeks to the moss beneath you, mud pilled beneath your nails. You were the rain of this forest, a creature of this forest. 

You had been so close.

A hand, unfamiliar, tore your head upward as someone knelt down. Naobito Zen’in hummed in thought, wanting you to look at him.

“You are a very stupid girl,” he said, smiling wryly. “And you thought me the fool.” He let your tears run over his hands. “You would have been given everything.”

Naoya had told you something similar once. That was so long ago.

Your unpinned wing flailed violently, hooking the curved bone at the apex into the roots and stones.

“You should learn,” Naobito pressed his fingers into your face, and it hurt when he did so, “when to stop fighting.”

You were screaming again, thrashing wildly for Naobito to step back. The wings would not retract for some time.

“I trust you can take care of this, Naoya.”

A maddened stillness took hold of your body when you heard his name. Naoya drew up beside you, walking carefully. He was staring again, you could not see those burnished eyes, but you understood where they moved. From your spasming wing, to the wound created by the arrowhead, to the other wing pierced through.

You were panting shallowly, trembling from the pain, the cold. Naoya stood in front of you. And when you looked up, he found you. There was a bow slung over his chest. You collapsed once more, your temple pressed against the dirt.

You hated this memory, as you did most.

“Leave us,” said Naoya. Many sets of feet shuffled with purpose. There had been more men, then. 

They soon left, and Naoya and you were alone in that forest. He removed the bow.

He leaned down, bringing a hand to touch your face. “Why?” he asked. “Why must you be so persistent?”

You let him stroke beneath your eye, let him smooth your hair as you laid there. There was a brief silence, then, “You should’ve killed me.”

“Is that what you want?” His fingers moved thoughtlessly to the junction where wing met human flesh.

“No,” you said, strained. Your eyes kept to a tree trunk across the way. Naoya grazed your open wound; assessing or caring, you did not know, but the action left you tensed. Another tear wet your lashes.

A quiet enveloped him and you again. Even the forest did not dare make a sound.

Naoya splayed his hand over the tear. “Can you feel this?” he asked, genuine, wondering. When you groaned, he removed his hand. “I…Father said this wouldn’t hurt you,” he spoke softly to himself.

You were shaking your head weakly, arms coming beneath your body in an attempt to lift upward.

He pushed down gently on your shoulder, moving you back to the ground. “Don’t, you’ll only bring yourself more pain.”

Draped on the forest floor, the haze returned, your hearing and vision dipped and wavered.

Depressants, Naoya murmured angrily. You scarcely caught the mention of tea, as well. In your liminal thoughts, you threaded the words together into coherency: Naobito had placed opiates into your drink earlier in the evening, anticipating this very outcome. However, he had grossly underestimated your body’s strange perseverance.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he was telling you, patting your cheek, jostling your shoulder. “Do not fall asleep.”

You, distantly, felt him leave. When he returned, the slick cold of glass pressed your lips open.

“Drink it,” he demanded, almost frantically. He must have found a blood phial somewhere amongst the grasses, unshattered despite your fall.

That horrible taste of cursed blood fell to your tongue, spreading through your mouth as Naoya kept your chin righted. You did not understand what he was doing. He let you go, rising somewhere else. There came the sound of a quick snap, the arrow; Naoya pulled your wing from the broken arrow and your fingers clawed gouges into the ground, ripped skin being tugged at by the wood of the shaft.

Don’t touch me, you wished to say. Don’t return me to those rooms, to you.

“The estates are in disarray right now,” he said unconcernedly. 

You breathed out, sharp, through your nose like a cornered beast, a simple sign of acknowledgment.

Naoya continued, sitting himself before you, “I found Toji in your rooms, as if he’d been waiting for someone. He said you had escaped—that you injured him and killed the other men for it. He also warned us against following you, that you were far too dangerous.”

Your body began to tremble, the cursed blood chilling your own. Toji had lied to dissuade them from attempting to capture you; it had not been enough.

Naoya pushed closer. The wounds in your wings ached as they slowly closed.

“Why can’t you let me go?” you asked, and it was a weak inquiry, spoken with lips that scarcely opened. You shifted in panic when he reached for you, your nostrils flaring, breath quickening. Naoya pulled you, gingerly, to rest in his lap; he pressed your head to his shoulder, let your wings drag behind you and lay with little strength.

“Have you not realized it yet?” he asked against the crown of your head. 

And you remained silent, mouth thinning tightly. You were afraid of his next words.

“For all you hate me, you have always been mine to have.” Naoya spoke methodically, gauging each of your movements. “You have fought me for so long, and here we find ourselves: together, unchanged.”

Your fingers twisted in his clothing, a wing twitching.

He held you like a lover might, close and tight. “I said to you once that you cannot cheat death, so let me offer you one more thing.” Naoya paused.

Beneath your hands, you could feel his chest lift and fall, his breath fluttering your hair. You were weak in his arms, susceptive to his hand that brought your face to his. 

Naoya had always been beautiful, a beauty that brought you to the edge of a cliff and asked of you to fall with it. Though, you had never fallen, too caught on the hatred that guided you away. 

If only Naoya was a different man, and you, a different woman.

He said, “You cannot fight Fate with a blade, darling.”

Then, Naoya kissed you beneath the trees, and what a strange thing it was. He was warm, uncertain, and slow; he kept you against him, his lips brushing yours when he pulled away only enough to see your eyes.

He was watching you curiously, touching his palm to your cheek, running his thumb along your lips pinkened by him. His nose brushed yours, as if in affection.

“I know,” you said, low and hushed.

Your talons bore into Naoya’s shoulder, reaching bone, blood pulsing as he shouted in agony. And then you were running, dashing carelessly through that forest, tripping and stumbling. Your wings beat in waiting, pacing your rhythm until they filled with the autumn wind.

Naoya bellowed through the forest, his angered words lost to the air that scurried around you. His blood had begun to sticky your hand, warm as his body had been.

And you flew desperately that night, tears wetting your eyes before being plucked away by the wind. 

It hurt, it was a wound like no other: the freedom that you fought for, finally regained.

-----

Present Day, Seven Years Later

The Moon peered from beyond the horizon; she did not want to watch this.

Naoya laid bleeding on the wooden floors of the Zen’in estates. He feared he would continue to spill his blood on those panels. Beside him laid his succumbed aunt, her mouth was slackened, features wholly blank.

He watched her blood pour, and pour, and pour around them. He watched his blood spill, and spill, and spill into hers. Red unto red; blood unto blood.

In all the moments Naoya believed he might die, they had never been in the midst of a battle, or from a grave wound. They had always been with you.

Tucked within that old forest, catching you when you were younger; by that cold river, when you pulled him closer; in that desolate courtyard, when you cut him; and that egregious night, when you got away.

You were the only thing capable of death, and Naoya believed it so. As it be, you cannot dance with skeletons and expect them to have hearts.

He was dying when he heard the footsteps. Naoya could only wait and play witness to whomever stumbled upon him.

And then came your voice. Your terrible, beautiful, cold voice. 

“Oh, Naoya,” you breathed.

He wanted to move, needed to see if you had truly returned. Though, his limbs remained weakened, his thoughts reeling rampantly.

“Naoya,” you whispered gently, smoothing his blood-matted hair, “I’m not done with you yet."

It's important to humble male celebrities with the fact that they are laying eggs on ao3

—𝗖𝗢𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧;

summary: “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

progress: [20/25] - PART 21 IN PROGRESS | NEXT UPDATE: 

word count: 329k+ 

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Fic Hoarders Alignment Chart

tag yourself i'm chaotic good

I imagine AU or rebirth without magic, where they couldn't meet because they live too different lives. A rich heir to a large company and an ordinary schoolboy who gets by on part-time jobs.

Knife in the belly

“flirting” aka staring at u and when u look back at me i look away very fast so u wont see that i was staring at u