Yes Baby, Pls Become Real 😩

Adstrum in ruinas. | part one.

General Marcus Acacius × F ! Reader

• summary: After your father’s sudden death, the general starts spending more time with you. At first, it feels strange, but as you come to learn, he isn't that big a brute everyone thinks he is.

• kind of slow burn ??, age gap (unspecified), forbidden love, marcus is pretty positive and in love, and he's cute, mutual pining, mentions of death, lmk if i missed anything.

• tokkis note: This is the first part of a little fic i wanted to write. the nsfw smut part will be in part two since this part already has almost 4k words. i just wanted a little backstory, so who knows... if you guys enjoy this part, maybe i will make it into a short series. i have lots of ideas. anyways, enjoy!!!

The palace felt colder after your father’s death. Though the sun still danced across the walls, nothing could have warmed you.

He had always been a quiet man, steady in his craft and in his love for you. You had grown up watching his hands work leather as though it were clay, each stitch meticulous, each touch with purpose. He had poured his life into the emperor’s court, shaping beauty out of necessity, and yet, when his time had come, they had discarded him without hesitation.

Accused of theft, he had been taken swiftly, the charges flimsy, the judgment quick. You had not been allowed to speak on his behalf. No one had. And when his life ended on the blade of the emperor’s justice, the world moved on as though he had never existed. You had not cried when they took him. There had been no time, no space for grief within the stone walls of the palace. Instead, you swallowed it whole, the ache settling deep within your chest, cold and unforgiving. You could not cry. In a way, crying was admitting to the gods that he was no longer, so you did not dare slip one tear. Let the pain seethe.

No one spoke his name. To your face, at least. Not until General Marcus Acacius.

You had known his name long before you ever knew his face. The empire’s greatest general, a man whose victories had carved Rome’s borders, who had spilled oceans of blood in the emperor’s name. He was the kind of man you had only seen from afar—untouchable, his presence a thing of myths whispered amongst men. To you, he was just that: a man. A cruel one.

So when he first appeared in the apothecary, you almost did not believe it was him. “The town speaks of… you,” he said, voice filling the room like the low roll of thunder. You turned sharply, the pestle slipping from your grasp. He stood in the doorway, tall and broad, his figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the corridor. His tunic was torn, a gash running across his arm where blood had soaked through. “So I heard,” he continued, stepping inside, “if it is true—”

“Oh, yes, I—yes, it is true,” you stammered, fumbling for words. His presence unsettled you, though you could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered or faint something in his tone. It was different this time. “I understand. You have my condolences,” he said. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Something in your heart fluttered. “Thank you, General.” He was not a monster. Not here with you, not now, at least. It seemed sincere enough. You looked him up and down. Why did the blood keep on trickling? For a moment, you thought he might say more, but he simply gestured to his arm. “May I trouble you for assistance?” No monster.

At first, you thought nothing of his visits.

They were sporadic, a few days apart—always under the pretense of some new injury. A cut from a sparring match. A dislocated shoulder. The aches and pains of a soldier’s life. He came to you because it was easier than seeking the palace’s physicians, or so you told yourself. But then the days stretched into weeks, and his appearances grew more frequent.

You noticed the small ways in which he lingered. The way his eyes followed you as you moved about the room, the way his voice softened when he addressed you. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but as the days passed, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

For even when he was far, his touch still lingered, you were still drunken on his smell, and his eyes still loved yours.

One evening, as you prepared a salve by the fire, he spoke. “Your father was a great man.” You froze, your hands stilling over the mortar. “I remember his work,” Marcus continued, his voice low. “He made my first pair of riding boots. I was just a young man then.” You swallowed dry, willing your voice to remain steady. “He never spoke of you.”

“No, I suppose he would not have.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because he deserved better,” Marcus said simply. The words struck something deep within you. You looked away, vision blurring as the firelight flickered. Better.

He was all you could think about. Each night, from the first, you would sing sweet, mournful songs to the moon. Maybe it was because you missed your father dearly, and he filled that space up almost perfectly. Or maybe because, when he was with you, he did not seem to be the seven-headed monster all saw him as. Maybe pretending was his virtue.

But you were not the last judgment.

“Why are you always here?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Do you not want me here?” A smile played on his lips. “That is not what I said.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I do not understand.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You never cared before. Why now?” His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It is nothing,” he said at last.

“It is not nothing,” you pressed. “You are avoiding the truth.”

He looked at you then, his expression guarded but not unkind. “And if I told you the truth, would you thank me for it? Or curse me for what I know?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “What is it that you mean?” Marcus hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “Your father,” he said finally. “He did not die because of the charges. He died because they needed a scapegoat. The emperor needed to remind the court what happens when you step out of line.” The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around you. “You knew?”

“I tried to stop it,” he said quietly. “But there are things even I cannot change.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. “I do not need your protection, Marcus. I do not need anyone’s.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was something raw in his eyes. “But you have it anyway.”

You wanted to be angry with him. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, you stood there, frozen, as he reached for you. His hands were rough, calloused from years of battle, but they cradled your face with a tenderness that left you breathless. You craved it. And you will crave it until the day you are no more.

“I care for you more than I have ever cared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that terrifies me.”

Whatever happened to honor and victory? It was brutal. He was brutal. Raw, bloody, and utterly inhuman. But how could he also be the quiet after the storm? The wind that travels over still waters, the sound of dawn over mountains of dead people? You had to treat him many times, but the wounds he had inside his heart came well over the ones on his skin, you think.

You didn’t want to think of him—Marcus, with his dark eyes and the way they seemed to unravel you each time they met your own. But he lingered, even when he wasn’t here. He lingered in the soft creak of the door, the faint scent of leather and iron that clung to the air after he’d gone. It wasn’t fair, how much space he took in your thoughts. How much warmth he brought into this cold, empty life. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more.

“You work too hard.” You glanced up, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was seated by the fire, his armor stripped away, leaving only the simple tunic beneath. His shoulders were broad, his posture commanding even in repose. “You say that as though there’s an alternative,” you replied, turning back to the herbs in your hands.

“You could rest,” he said simply. “And do what? Dream of better days?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you. Marcus leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You deserve better days.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, you set the pestle down and met his gaze. “Better days won’t bring my father back.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they might give you something to hope for.” You shook your head, unwilling to let yourself be drawn into his optimism. “Hope is for fools, General.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it’s all we have.”

He wanted to hold you, to let his body meld with yours, ask you to run away to far lands. Let him take care of you, make you have his babies. Love you until there's nothing left.

but he couldn't.

“What would you do with better days?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Marcus’s gaze lifted, startled by the question. He leaned back in his chair, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dim room.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. he did know. he'd spend them with you. oh, silly it all felt. “I stopped imagining them a long time ago.” You paused, your fingers stilling over a jar. “You must have thought about it. When you were younger, before…” You trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Before the blood?” he supplied, his tone sharper than you expected. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. Once.” still.

“And?”

He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And it doesn’t matter. The man I am now... he has no place in better days.” Something in your chest ached at his words, though you couldn’t say why. You wanted to reach for him, to close the distance between you and tell him he was wrong. But you didn’t. Instead, you lowered your gaze and returned to your work, your voice quiet. “That’s a pity.”

The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to resist, the threads of your lives intertwined in ways you couldn’t untangle. Marcus became a constant presence, his visits no longer marked by the pretense of injuries. He came for you, though neither of you dared to speak it aloud.

Each touch, each glance, was a betrayal of the barriers you had built around yourself. Yet, you let him break them piece by piece, unable to deny the pull that drew you closer.

One night, as the apothecary lay bathed in moonlight, he found you humming an old melody—a song your father had sung on quiet nights. The tune was bittersweet, a memory wrapped in longing. Marcus lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said softly.

You turned, startled. “My father used to sing it.” He nodded, stepping closer. “It suits you. Beautiful and haunting.” You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t sing much anymore.”

“You should.”

He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the one you’d traced with your eyes so many times but never dared to touch. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s part of you,” he said simply. “And I want to know all of you.” His words left you breathless, the weight of them settling in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to guard the fragile thing that was growing between you, but you couldn’t.

But people talk.

They talk in whispers that snake through the palace walls, slithering through cracks and beneath doors. Whispers of his visits, of his presence in the apothecary, of the time he lingers where he should not. They do not speak to you directly, but you can feel their words coiling around your throat, tightening with every passing day.

You hear them behind you when you walk through the halls: the sharp staccato of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of voices that stop the moment you turn. You catch glimpses of knowing glances, the way the maids shift their eyes when you enter a room, how the guards avert their gazes.

They all know, and yet they know nothing.

Because what is there to know? You have not touched him beyond necessity, have not dared to let your hand linger when you tend his wounds. And yet, the air between you is thick, suffused with something that neither of you has the courage to name.

“You should not come here anymore,” It was late. The apothecary was empty, save for the two of you. You stood with your back to him, arranging jars on the shelves in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the weight of his presence.

“I will decide what I should or should not do,” Marcus replied, his voice steady. You turned to face him, exasperation rising in your chest. “They talk, Marcus. Do you not see the danger in that? For you— for me?” His expression changed fast. “I cannot stop them from speaking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And I will not stop coming.”

“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you risk so much just to be here?”

He did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked over your face, searching for something, though you could not say what. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy. “Because you deserve better than this,” he said. “Better than what the court has given you. Just... better." You shook your head, chest tightening. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give you,” he said, stepping closer. “For now." But deep down, you knew better.

And you hated him for it, too.

“I see the way you look at me,” he said one night, his voice breaking the silence. You froze, your hands stilling over the poultice you were preparing. “What?”

“Do not deny it,” Marcus said, his tone softer now. “I know that look. I have seen it on too many faces not to recognize it.” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “And what look is that?”

“The one that says you hate me as much as you try to fight it." The words struck you like a blow, and you turned to face him, your cheeks burning. “I do not—”

“You do,” he said simply, cutting you off. “And I do not blame you for it.”

His gaze was steady, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against your arm. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I hope for it, all the same.” You did not hate him. you wish you could, because falling in love wasn't what you wanted right now.

“I think about you,” Marcus admitted, his voice raw. “More than I should. More than is safe.” Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as his words sank in. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “I know.”

The silence between you stretched.

“But why?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why do you care now, after all this time? You never gave me an answer, Marcus..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I see you,” he said finally. “And I see myself in you—the parts of me I thought were dead. The parts I’ve tried to bury.” You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’tㅡ Marcus, if this is all a game to you, of things you want to rediscover within you..."

"It is not. I do not intend to play with your heart."

So why does the blood keep on trickling?

They were wildflowers, clearly gathered from the edges of the palace gardens, and they looked out of place in his calloused hands. He held them out awkwardly, his expression somewhere between defiance and vulnerability, as though he expected you to scold him for the gesture. “For you,” he said simply. You stared at them for a moment, then at him. “Why?” you couldn’t help but smile. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was defensive, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him. No monster.

Your fingers brushed against his as you took the flowers, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, as if the touch burned him. “They’re beautiful,” you said. He didn’t reply, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch— an almost-smile, there and gone in an instant.

“Are you trying to court me, General?” you asked, half-joking. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at you with something close to panic in his eyes. “No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” But the truth was, you didn’t hate the thought.

He started threatening the others after that.

The first time, you hadn’t been there to see it, but you heard about it from one of the maids who whispered to you in passing. “The general,” she said, her eyes wide. “He nearly broke Marcellus’s arm. All because he said something about you.”

He didn’t deny it. “He should not have said what he did,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “What did he say?”

“It does not matter.”

“Marcus—”

“It does not matter,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “What matters is that he will not say it again.”

You wanted to argue with him, to tell him he couldn’t go around threatening people in your name. But the truth was, a part of you was glad. A part of you wanted him to protect you. He didn’t just watch over you—he hovered, his presence a constant shadow that both comforted and unnerved you. When he wasn’t by your side, you found yourself looking for him, craving his presence like air. And when he was with you, you felt safer than you had since your father’s death.

Days passed, and though you told yourself you should push him away, you could not.

He was always there, like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, impossible to ignore. You felt his presence even when he was not near, his voice echoing in your mind, his touch lingering on your skin.

You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your heart leapt when you heard his footsteps, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed yours. You tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, that it was a passing infatuation born of grief and the fact that he so happened to be there. You tried to convince yourself that the soft yearning in your chest was fleeting. A passing fancy, born of loneliness and the way Marcus had carved out a space in your world so effortlessly.

But as the days turned to weeks, the intensity of your feelings betrayed you. Every glance he cast your way lingered. Every word he spoke seemed to reverberate in your mind long after it had been said.

And every time his hand brushed against yours—whether by accident or intent—it felt as if the earth shifted beneath your feet.

It was one of those moments now. The two of you stood side by side in the apothecary, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. He was reaching for a jar of herbs on the shelf above, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned closer.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back quickly, your movements too sharp, too sudden. “Am I in your way?” Marcus asked, his voice low and amused. “No,” you said hastily, turning to busy yourself with a mortar and pestle. “Not at all.” He did not move, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering. “You always do that,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.

“Do what?”

“Step away.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle insistence. “You step away as if the space will make it easier. But it does not, does it?” Your fingers tightened around the pestle. “Marcus—”

“I feel it too,” he said, cutting you off. The words hung between you, raw and unvarnished. You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You should not say that.”

“Why not? Because it is the truth?” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Because I look at you and I can think of nothing else? Because when I leave here, all I want is to come back?”

“Marcus, stop.” Your voice was trembling now, a plea more than a command. “I cannot stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I do not think you can, either.” The room seemed to shrink around you, the air charged with something that felt too big for your soul to understand. “Tell me to leave,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “If this is too much, if I have crossed a line, say the word, and I will go.” You opened your mouth, the words on the tip of your tongue. But they would not come. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was dangerous, reckless, wrong. you did not want him to go.

You did not step back this time. “I cannot,” you whispered, the words breaking free like a confession. His breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I do not know how to do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “I do not know what happens now.”

what is this pandora box you have opened?

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw and consuming, as though he’d been holding back a storm and now it was unleashed. His hands slid to frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips claimed yours. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. And, oh, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your hands found his tunic, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His scent filling your lungs, his warmth, the feel of him, it was too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t…”

“You did,” you whispered, your own voice shaky. “And I didn’t stop you.” His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. But then you shook your head, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “I wil not say it.” His eyes closed briefly, as though your words had physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were softer, full of something you couldn’t name but felt in every corner of your soul.

“Then I am yours,” he murmured. “For as long as you’ll have me.” You leaned up, your lips brushing against his once more. A promise, a surrender, a beginning.

i love you 😚

grades are important

grades are importan

grades are importa

grades are import

grades are impor

grades are impo

grades are imp

grades are im

grades are i

grades are

grades ar

grades a

grades

grade

grad

gra

gr

g

go

goj

gojo

gojo s

gojo sa

gojo sat

gojo sato

gojo sator

gojo satoru

gojo satoru my love

ughhh this is so cute 🤧

Ice Skating With Zoro

A/N: This was written for a trade in my server for the lovely @levi-supreme I had the absolute best time writing this <3<3 Pairing: Zoro x Reader CW: none WC: 1.4k

The crisp, cold air embraced the ice rink, giving way to an exciting ambiance for the date to come. Overhead, stars dotted across the night sky, and a luminescent moon cast its silvery glow upon the surface of the outdoor rink. The soft glow of hanging lights lent a gentle radiance to the ice, transforming it into the  shimmering spot that awaited the couple's presence.

The ice rink, nestled in a secluded corner of the city, was a hidden gem. Surrounded by snow-laden trees, their branches delicately dusted with powdery snow, the rink felt like a magical escape from the world. The emptiness of the rink allowed them the freedom to lose themselves, surrounded by the beauty of the winter night. The only sounds present were the rustling of clothing as You and Zoro put on your skates. 

With skates securely laced, you gracefully glided onto the ice, and Zoro followed suit. The difference in your skating skills became immediately apparent as Zoro clung to the rink's edge, a look of uncertainty on his face. Observing his hesitant attempts, you couldn't resist skating over with a teasing smile.

"Need a little help there?" you asked, your voice playful.

"I got this, just need a minute to get used to it," Zoro replied, attempting to push off the wall. However, his bravado lasted only a second before he found refuge on the barrier once again, fingers tightly gripping the cold wall.

You chuckled, closing the distance and reaching for Zoro's larger hands. "Come on, I got you," you reassured, guiding him away from the safety of the wall. You guided him slowly, hand-in-hand as you taught him how to skate. As you moved together, Zoro's initial wobbles transformed into a more confident glide, guided by your encouragement.

With growing confidence, Zoro decided it was time to venture off on his own, to circle the rink without your guidance. You watched with a big smile as he looped around the rink, occasionally letting out cheers of encouragement as he did so. However, this seemingly simple action took an unexpected turn when he realized he had never learned the crucial art of stopping. His confident grin shifted into wide-eyed panic as he hurtled back towards you.

Zoro's arms flailed in a desperate attempt to slow down, but his efforts proved futile. The collision was inevitable, and you let out a surprised squeal as your paths met. The two of you tumbled together, laughter and shouts of surprise filling the air as you guys met the ground. In the midst of the chaos, Zoro found himself in an unexpectedly comfortable position—on top of you. His hands were planted on each side of your face, holding most of his weight up. 

Your laughter softened into an awkward silence, and a subtle heat flushing your faces. Inches apart, Zoro's gaze met yours, and a hush fell between the two of you. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips as he realized just how close his lips are to yours. It’s as if one subtle nudge could make your lips collide. His confidence wavered as he did not know what to do from there. You were equally as flustered and you could feel her heart race as you too realized how close his lips were to yours. 

The trance you were seemingly in was abruptly shattered as you two simultaneously realized the intimacy of your position. Zoro quickly pushed himself up, stumbling over his words in an attempt to break the tension. "I, uh, sorry about that. Didn't mean to—"

Your cheeks heated up even more as you tried to hide your own embarrassment with a nervous laugh. "No, no, it's okay. I mean, it happens, right?" Your attempt at nonchalance only made the atmosphere more awkward.

You both scrambled to your feet, avoiding eye contact as you two brushed off imaginary ice crystals from your clothes. You spoke up once again, attempting to ease the tension, “Hey, I saw this cafe on the way here, it looked good. Did you want to check it out?” You asked with a sheepish smile. 

Zoro looked over at you and offered her a grin as he nodded in response. “Yeah, actually that sounds wonderful.”

The two of you took off your skates and made your way to the cafe nearby. The walk there was silent, the embarrassment of the near kiss still occupied your minds. You two entered the cafe and sat across from each other. You and Zoro perused the dessert menu and as he scanned the menu, his eyes widened with intrigue as he spotted something on the menu. "Peppermint mocha cheesecake? That sounds interesting," he remarked, his curiosity evident.

You, looking equally interested, grinned. “I was actually just looking at that! I love peppermint mocha!”

“Then you wouldn’t mind sharing a piece with me, would you?” Zoro asked, the lingering embarrassment now replaced with a newfound confidence.

You nodded eagerly, and you placed your orders for some drinks and a slice of peppermint mocha cheesecake. The delectable treats arrived, and you both indulged. The conversation flowed effortlessly over the cheesecake, a sense of ease enveloping you two as the night progressed.

You couldn't help but notice a smudge of cheesecake on the corner of Zoro's lips. "Hey Zoro, you got a little cheesecake right there," you said, gesturing towards the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, thanks," he replied, attempting to wipe his face. However, in his efforts, he managed to miss the spot entirely. You, finding amusement in his unsuccessful attempt, took matters into your own hands. You grabbed a napkin, leaned over the table, and gently wiped the cheesecake off his mouth. This seemed to fluster him for the second time that night, and you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh at the pink tint that graced his cheeks. He muttered a quick 'thanks' as he continued to savor the cheesecake, using the moment to gather himself.

The two of you eventually finished and paid the bill. As you and Zoro stepped out into the cold winter air, his larger hand instinctively sought yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as you strolled through the empty streets.

Zoro broke the silence with a soft chuckle, “You know, I’ve never been ice skating before.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the way you nearly killed me.” You responded playfully.

He laughed louder, his hand gripping hers tighter as he responded, “Well, when you ignore that part, I was a damn good skater. You could’ve confused me with a professional.” He looked over at her with a grin.

You returned his gaze with an affectionate one, a smile spreading across your face as you responded, “Yeah, you definitely fooled me.”

"Good," he responded. Your hands swung between them in a moment of shared contentment before he abruptly halted, turning to face you. Entranced by the way your eyes seemed to radiate with each smile, and how your lips appeared irresistibly tempting beneath the moonlight, he couldn't resist the pull.

His free hand tenderly cradled her your, his thumb delicately brushing against your cheek as he leaned in. In that moment, he breathed deeply, capturing the captivating gaze of yours. His voice, with a slight quiver, broke the quiet night air as he posed the question, "Can I kiss you?"

Your heart skipped a beat, her gaze locking onto his. The air around them seemed to shimmer with a quiet intensity. "Yes," you replied, your voice soft.

With that affirmation, Zoro closed the distance. His lips met yours in a slow, gentle kiss—a moment suspended in time. His warm lips moved tenderly against yours, the kiss carrying the subtle taste of peppermint mocha. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet rustle of the night and the occasional jingle of Zoro's earrings. His hand cradled your face in a protective and intimate manner, while your hands reached up, grasping his shirt as his lips continued to move against yours.

When you finally pulled away, a soft smile played on Zoro's lips, mirroring the warmth in your eyes. He looked at you with a playful glint as he added “How about this: I’ll be the one deciding what we do on our next date.”

You arched an eyebrow, a smile peeking as you responded. "Oh, really? And what exciting plans do you have in mind?”

Zoro's smirk hinted at the mysterious possibilities as he replied, "You'll just have to wait and find out."

aww

Ultraman holding Emi's little hand and she squeezed it when they fixed her arm 😭

i like this sukuna...

ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

featuring: protective!heian!sukuna, kindhearted!servant!reader. slight angst/hurt -> comfort. synopsis: you're sick. to your surprise, you're rescued by the man second closest to death himself. masterlist

you should've known he wouldn't come. sukuna has never set foot in the servant's headquarters in his life, let alone to chase after a sick servant. you lower your head, trying to ease the headache that has plagued you through the day.

sukuna loves his bloodshed and his gore. him and death would be good friends, you think to yourself. he wouldn't care if your body was burnt or buried, you think to yourself; wouldn't care if you died at all.

the room the others put you in is empty. ash spreads neatly over the cold floor. the scent of kibble haunts the atmosphere. it's where they put the dogs before sukuna killed them.

ever since you took care of the king of curses while he was sick, the other servants had been careful in keeping a distance from you. not in ill of heart; they're simply terrified at what you must've done to survive in your week long stay with the monster. honestly, you don't blame them.

but now when you're laying on the freezing ground, struggling to breathe, it's hard not to.

'this is where you live?'

your eyes look up. shock. then, with all the strength you can muster, you heave yourself one step away from the man at the doorway, which only serves to piss him off more.

sukuna ryomen, in all his glory, looks down at you. bending down to pick you up like a limp doll to be seated against the wall, he seems to revel in his regained strength. you can't help but feel happy for him, to have survived this fatal disease. not many men can attest to that...

then again, he is no ordinary man.

'i asked you a question.'

you nod, a small thing, barely a movement. he seems to clench his teeth.

he takes off his long white coat, flaunting a layer of dried blood, and drapes it over your shoulders.

yet it doesn't end there. he retrieves from his pocket a bottle of what looks to be a golden syrup.

you know exactly what it is.

he takes your hand and wraps it around the flask, making you hold it, sparing, not one, but two of his eyes, to stare at you, making sure you do as he commands.

'swallow.'

you shake your head. you know he's asking you to do. this is a medication is so rare for your disease that no sorcerer has found in over a hundred years. he's brought this thing of myth right to your very lips. now he's asking you to drink it, and thus take away any chance of it saving anyone else's life.

you scowl, but the tickling sensation in your throat grows stronger, eventually erupting out of your mouth in a harsh cough. you look away from sukuna.

'leave,' you whisper, weakly. 'don't wanna infect you.'

'i survived the illness already. i've developed an immunity.'

you shake your head again. you couldn't threaten your king's health with your own weakness. you just couldn't.

'i can't take this.'

he growls. without any notice, he swallows your lips in a kiss. in the momentary haze, you could hardly resist, fisting the front of his kimono to ground yourself. then, you feel something sweet, honey-ish, hit your tongue.

with his hand locked on your chin, it forces you to swallow.

you pull back, pushing him away. he groans.

he wipes his mouth, still with two eyes staring.

no... no, why did he do that?

'y-you- how? no... why did you waste it on me?' you whisper, desperately searching his face for an answer. 'i'm just a servant. you could've given it to a princess, or a scholar, or priest-'

he grabs you by the arm and forces you into his arms. its heat astounds you, and you find yourself crawling closer. a vague thumping sound seems to press against your ear-

oh. you calm your breathing.

it's his heartbeat.

alive.

'sleep in my room tonight,' he demands.

what did he say? you strain your mind, trying to replay what he said earlier. no... maybe you heard correctly.

'but i'm no concubine,' you respond, instantly.

his arm supports your waist, helping you up effortlessly to your feet. he then directs two of his eyes to the doorway, his cadence low and domineering.

'it doesn't matter.'

he leads you placidly through the servant's quarters. you notice all conversation cease at your entry, bodies dropping into a low bow. a small voice in you whispers that it's where you should be too. you tug at sukuna's arm.

'i'm only a servant, sukuna.'

you know what it looks like, a servant clutching onto a man, more god than human. a man who has slaughtered villages, blood staining the base of his kimono crimson, and turned half a province on its head, just to save you.

'whatever you are in my eyes is what you are to the world,' he states, his expression unchanging. 'if i deem you a queen, that is who you are.'

exiting the servant compound, you know you can't say no- not like you wanted to. the wide expanse of his chest is comforting.

yet however sweet this feeling remains, you can't help but gulp. perhaps this is the closest a human has ever come to courting death.

the art style is refreshing, the characters are great, the story is brilliant, and okarun is such a sweetheart *i want him*

i want more okarun fics 😚

how guilty my baby gumi must feel

mentor

🤌🤌🤌

1am thoughts, thinking about Gojo introducing kid Megumi to his newborn baby and Megumi being protective of them and even calling them his little sister/brother at one point and gojo is running LAPS he's just overwhelmed and happy over a small yet powerful phrase.

to protect — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this is so cute i am gonna cry also megumi is like 11-12 here

you’re finally back home, after a long day at the hospital. you’re finally engulfed in the comfort of your bed while your husband is still sat up with his little girl bundled in his arms.

he hasn’t let go of her since you have been discharged.

“’toru, honey, you have to sleep soon; you can hold her tomorrow,” you sleepily murmur to your husband.

he nods and whispers, “I know. It’s just I—I can’t believe it’s real,” he kisses her forehead softly, “that she is finally here, our little princess.”

a tired smile makes its way to your lips. you hum in understanding, gently caressing his cheek. he sighs happily, before looking at you, “but you, missy, actually need to rest. you’ve had a long day.”

you frown and he chuckles, and his hand moves to stroke your hair, “rest, pretty. you were a champion today,” you move to nuzzle closer to his side and your arm wraps around his torso.

and so his little girl is comfortably nestled in one of his arms, while the other is wrapped around you so his hand can pet your head lovingly.

satoru truly feels like he is holding the world in his hands right now.

suddenly, the door slowly creaks open and a very familiar face peaks from it. satoru chuckles, “come in, megumi; they’re both asleep anyway.”

the boy carefully pads his way to gojo.

he is so used to seeing him being all goofy and unserious, so it catches him a bit off-guard how serene and quiet he is being right now. megumi looks at the sleeping baby then whispers, “what’s her name?”

“d/n,” satoru answers fondly.

megumi nods then observes her for a small while, “she really is a perfect mix between the both of you.”

a soft and quiet laugh escapes satoru’s lips, “you’re right,” he looks up at megumi with a grin, “you wanna hold her?”

the boy is taken back and his expression betrays him as nervousness takes over his face. his eyes don’t leave the girl and his gaze is more than troubled, “…what if I hurt her?”

satoru shakes his head, “you scared? she is my daughter; she is the strongest baby ever,” he grins, “no one can hurt her.”

megumi rolls his eyes, but quickly directs his focus to the little girl. he takes a moment, before he extends his arms. satoru gently places her in his arms. megumi’s hold on her is protective, and he doesn’t look as awkward as satoru thought he would.

actually, he is quite the natural.

he gently rocks her, and he can’t help but smile at her sleeping face. megumi whispers to her, “hi there.”

she coos at him, and starts swaying his arms around. she slowly opens her eyes, and a tiny smile appears on her chubby face. megumi’s eyes widen a little, and he immediately looks at gojo, “she is smiling.”

satoru laughs, “she is a very smiley baby, but i think she likes you a lot. she only smiled at y/n and me,” he feels you stir a bit in your sleep.

he pulls you closer and rubs your shoulder then he giggles at how quickly you fall back asleep. while satoru is occupied by you, megumi is staring in awe at little miss gojo.

later, satoru wakes up in the middle of the night to check on his little girl in the adjacent room. he groggily gets up, after kissing your forehead. he walks there, and when he finally reaches the room, he notices the lights are already on, and the door is left a bit open.

he peaks a little into the room, and sees megumi standing by the crib. he is fondly looking at d/n, and gently petting her head. he is whispering something to her, but satoru is still able to hear it all the same.

“don’t grow up to be annoying like your dad, please.”

satoru scowls, and contemplates bursting into the room, and bullying the hell out of megumi. however, he ultimately decides against it. he doesn’t end up regretting the decision.

megumi gently boops her nose, “you’re like a little sister to me now, so I promise to protect you.”

she squeals and makes grabby hands at him, and he chuckles, “you believe me, huh?”

satoru slowly backs away from the door and walks away. when he is a safe distance from the door, he starts running and bursts into your shared room.

he dramatically falls to the ground, “that was… the cutest thing ever! after d/n and y/n’s smiles, of course.”

he stands up, proudly. his heart is at ease as he now knows that there is yet another person to look after his baby girl, if something happens. a content grin is on his face as he enjoys the silence and comfort. it’s short lived, as always.

a pillow is thrown at his face, and he stumbles to the ground.

“that’s for waking me up, satoru!”

“noooo, baby, I am sorry!”

“uh—,” megumi awkwardly stands at the door, holding d/n up, “guys, she pooped.”

satoru grins, and excitedly stands up—with a camera that he got out of nowhere to take photos of her—he coos, “aww! your first shit, pretty girl? what a good girl!”

megumi places her on the changing table beside your bed. the smell of her great ‘achievement’ fills the door, and he takes the chance of gojo being distracted to run out of the room, before another nuclear explosion drops.

the girl is gleefully clapping upon seeing her dad, and he reciprocates the smile tenfold. he gently holds her feet and sways them slightly, “such a big girl, already pooping!”

“want daddy to change your diapers for you?” he coos and the girl just puts her thumb in her mouth and starts kicking her feet. he chuckles and slowly opens the diaper. he is met with the vilest smell, and he can’t believe his sweet daughter can produce such smells.

however, he quickly composes himself, and tries to make his way through the travail of changing the diaper. he proves to be too weak because he, after a moment, looks at you, “uh, babe, teamwork makes the dream work?”

you groan, falling back to the bed.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

it's so sweet tbh. very like understated, gentle romance.

Me & My Husband

PAIRING feyd-rautha harkonnen/f!atreides!reader

SUMMARY when you propose the idea of marrying the harkonnen boy around your age to encourage peace between the houses to your father, he's reluctantly willing to oblige you. to everyone's surprise, you both seem to like each other.

WARNINGS incest (they don't know they're related, but technically they are. is that first cousin removed or something?), a lot of mentions of sex, smut, death, and violence (obviously, it's feyd), mentions of pregnancy

WORD COUNT 5.3k words

NOTES i just yapped for two and a half hours. girl who is 'taking a break' and then needs to write about feyd-rautha instead. this is named after the mitski song but they're probably happier than that, this isn't an angst fic like they're both kinda fucked up you just don't realize it yet. either way, it's left open-ended and alludes to the issues that their marriage will confront during the storyline of dune part one and two so just let me know if you want that continuation. i'll add a gif to the post tomorrow i'm like half asleep tho four melatonin deep rn. that's all. bed time :)

The familiar sound of light yet rhythmic rain beating against your bedroom window did nothing to ease the nerves that overtook you as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring down at the floor as if it could absorb you. As if pretending that everything was normal would make it so. 

Today was the last day that you would spend in your home on Caladan unless something unforeseen sent you back home. The last day in which you would wake up every morning to have breakfast with your brother and mother - though, sometimes, your father would depart from his meetings and eat with the three of you. It was rare, but it had happened this morning for the first time in a while. 

It wasn’t just that you were growing up, it was where you were going. The thing was, you had a choice. There was nothing forcing you to do something that you didn’t want to do. Your father had asked you about two years ago what path you wanted to go down. You had ruled out Bene Gesserit a while ago, though you were the daughter that your mother promised, your mind and body resisted the training. You had considered fighting, you had trained with Duncan and Gurney so you would know how to protect yourself. But you weren’t sure about that either.

Yet, you were well-read. You could hold your own in a fight, as you had been trained by the best. You were head-strong and knew what you wanted, so when you were confronted with the idea of diplomacy, you agreed. For a while, up until these past few months, you had worked on diplomatic relations with your father. If he wanted to figure out if something was a good idea, he would involve you in the conversation. As a woman, you had no true belief that you were the first in line to take over for him, which was why the next option for you was less of an offer and more of something that you had suggested. 

There had always been a great divide between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. From the moment you were born, you were raised to hate them. However, your father was rising in the ranks. He was beloved, powerful, your family was one of the great houses that made a real impact on what was happening in the known universe. When you mentioned to your father, albeit half-asleep, that a marriage between a Harkonnen and an Atreides could put a metaphorical salve on the wound, he scoffed at it.

While there were a good number of Harkonnen’s, marriage between two great houses needed to be strategic. The two partners didn’t necessarily have to be close in age, but if they were to foster in a new generation and bring peace, it would be better if they were; not just close in age, but a young age, too. That meant they would need to be around your age, as Paul was too young still. The only Harkonnen that Leto could think of was Feyd-Rautha, and Feyd had a reputation. You wouldn’t like him, and even if you grew to like him, he was a fighter - whether or not the Baron would even allow the boy to settle down in the name of peace was another question. Even getting the two houses in one room was a difficult task.

The topic was dropped after that night. It wouldn’t be until about two weeks later that it was mentioned again. Your father had a particularly heated dealing with one of the great houses. He was aggravated, but he was mainly concerned with the fact that the man he was conducting business with continually cited the fighting between the Atreides’ and Harkonnen’s as one of his major apprehensions. Leto asked you if you had genuinely meant what you said, and you, considering it for no longer than a minute, asked if a meeting could be arranged between yourself and the boy he had mentioned. 

It was a challenge getting the Baron to agree to even meet your father, let alone allowing you to be alone with his nephew. But he noted that there was some sort of sincerity in your eyes when you were there. You weren’t being forced into this, you were the one that had requested a meeting with Feyd. Something about that appealed to him, as he had expected this to have been a proposal initiated by your father.

When you finally did meet Feyd, he was nothing vastly different from what your father had explained. His voice was gruff, his eyes dark, his skin pale and hairless. He had the ghastly skin color of everyone else in his family, and the dark demeanor to match. But he wasn’t overly rude with you, nor was he incredibly aggressive with his… sexual desires. He, really, should not have been as touchy as he was. But he liked the way you smelled, was what he said. He claimed that he could smell the rain from your planet on your skin, lingering in your hair. Whether he was telling the truth, or just trying to find an excuse to invade your personal space, you were unsure.

Regardless, you weren’t complaining about it. It was strange. You wanted to dislike him, you knew about the horrific things that he did. You knew that he was someone that many men and women alike feared, and that he could grow into being a near-replica in terms of terror and inhumanity that his uncle was. If anything, that was the goal. Still, you couldn’t help but find yourself fascinated by him. He was a fascinating man. The way he carried himself, the way he acted, even the way he spoke. It was wholly different from anyone whom you had ever met, and it was intoxicating. He was dangerous, you knew that. But that danger was a drawing point for you even though it should have repulsed you. 

Clearly, Feyd had enjoyed your company as well as he was the one to request you return to Giedi Prime the following week. Your father was apprehensive, though your calmness about the situation calmed those nerves. Things progressed over the course of a few months in a rather consistent manner.

You continued to meet Feyd in his home, as he drew too much attention when he was on Caladan. The second time you saw him, your relationship could only be defined as ‘courting’. Though you were slow to tell your brother that you were being courted by a Harkonnen, you were quick to report the news back to your father. Throughout the process, he made sure that you were okay with things happening as they were, but he was also called to lead. He knew that this could bring peace between the houses if done correctly. Of course, if done incorrectly, it could end with you both married while your houses continued to fight each other. However, that would be going against everything that this relationship was built on.

After about a month, Feyd’s sexual urges got the better of him. He knew, just as well as you did, that you would be expected to remain virginal unless you were married to him already. You both understood that if you were to have sex, your mother would more likely than not be able to tell. However, you were both young. He was sexually motivated in general, and you were beyond excited by the feeling of his hand on your thigh. So, you did what you both knew you shouldn’t have.

Thankfully, your continued sexual relations had yet to result in a pregnancy - though that was wholly because you did everything in your power to avoid there being a pregnancy. It was about two months after your first meeting that the Baron and your father met again to discuss your relationship, this time in the company of your mother. Neither of you were privy to the conversation, but you both knew what it entailed. Your assumptions were correct, as you were both approached with the idea of marriage on separate occasions. Both of you consented to it, and the following months were spent planning the event. 

The other great houses were just as stunned by the news as your brother had been when you had told him, yet everyone seemingly came to accept it. If this wedding were to happen, perhaps there could be more unification. Perhaps the Harkonnen’s would be less brutal if there was something keeping someone as demented as Feyd-Rautha at bay. People wanted to be hopeful, even if there was very little hope to be had. So, they supported the wedding.

That wedding was a few days ago, you had spent the following day with Feyd, before returning home to get the rest of your affairs in order. Finishing up any projects that you had left unfinished, enjoying some time with the people you would likely only see once in a while, coping with the end of your younger life as you came to term with this wedding. You weren’t opposed to being married to Feyd, you rather enjoyed his company even if you didn’t think that you would have.

He was, beyond a doubt, brutal. He was brutal, and he did horrific things both in front of you and when you were not present. His way of living was entirely different from yours. He could kill without remorse, kill for pleasure. He liked to see the life drain from someone’s eyes, he liked to be the one to have taken it. He was sadistic, and cruel, and he seemed to have very little love for humanity. There was no part of you that was under the impression that your presence, your marriage to him, was going to make him a good man; nor did you believe that he was a good man underneath all of that brutality. 

Feyd was who he was, and you never had any expectation that you could change that. Yet, there was something about the way that he was that you enjoyed. He was different from everyone that you knew on Caladan, different from every man that had ever approached you in the hopes of gaining some sort of power by being with you. He was different in bad ways, sure, but good ways in the sense that it all excited you. Perhaps it shouldn’t have excited you. But really, was it not a good thing that you seemed to enjoy being with your husband? The only issue was the change, the fact that it was all happening so fast, that you knew that any number of things could happen.

This marriage was initially proposed as a way to bring peace, but what if peace could never be reached. You, to your shock and horror, liked Feyd. He, seemingly to his own shock and horror, liked you in his own little way. He enjoyed your company, he enjoyed how different you were from him, and he enjoyed that you actually seemed to be okay with a majority of the things that he did. At least, okay enough to say nothing about them. If this were to work out, it could bring peace. It could bring a genuine peace, and not one reached through arranged marriage since you were the one who had arranged it. 

Peace, though, can only be reached if your families both agree with it. The wedding itself had been fine. No fighting, nothing physical though you were sure there were some verbal altercations. However, this was a centuries long affair. The Harkonnen’s and the Atreides’ had been fighting since long before you were born, and you couldn’t be sure that marrying this man was going to even the the salve that you thought it would be. If you both liked each other, which you did, and this ended up poorly, you would both be left to deal with the damages and neither of you would seemingly be very keen on ending your entire relationship just because of some fighting between your families. 

The issue was not with leaving to be with him, but leaving in general. And as the rain that you had grown so accustomed to continued to fall, as it always had, you knew that it was time for you to get up. You could see the carrier outside, waiting to transport you to your new home. Any apprehension that you had been feeling had to be wiped off of your face, because you knew that would reflect poorly upon your marriage. The change itself was a challenge, but you could not give away the impression that you were being challenged by the idea of leaving your home to be married. Afterall, this was your choice. Your arrangement. 

“The ship is here.” You were unsure how long Jessica had been standing in the doorway, but you were startled to hear her and to see her in front of you as your head jolted up from staring down at the floor. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“About Feyd? No.” You responded, though your honesty shocked you just as much as it did her. “I like him, I’ll just miss home.” 

“I struggle to understand how you like him, but if he makes you happy, you’ll find peace with him.” The idea of peace was the foundation of your relationship, but the idea of finding it in your own life wasn’t something that you had considered. “Coming here, being with your father, got me scrutinized endlessly by the Bene Gesserit. It is difficult, but you’ll be okay.” 

“I know, I-”

“And being married doesn’t mean you can’t come see your family, your father is too prideful to admit it but he would be heartbroken if you didn’t visit.” Finally, you stood up from your spot on the bed. She was right, as she typically was. You could still see your family, even if your new family was Feyd in a sense. You didn’t have to distance yourself from them just because your circumstances were changing. 

“I’ll be okay.” You were saying it to her, but you were confirming it to yourself. It almost felt as though she had done one of her mind tricks on you, but she hadn’t. An overwhelming feeling of calmness was taking over, because you knew why you made this choice. And, despite the fact that you’d rather not, you quite liked your husband even though he was a psychopath. 

“If he becomes violent-”

“He won’t become violent with me.” The clarification was needed, as you knew that he would become violent with others. It was in his nature to be violent with others, yet he had never done so with you. Partially, probably, because he knew that you were trained. But, again, he did like you. Unless you gave him a reason to become violent, he wouldn’t. He might expose you to violence, expose you to more death and gore than you could have ever dreamed of seeing, but he would never get violent with you. “We’ll be okay.” 

The conversations that you held with Paul and Leto were predominantly similar to the one that you had with your mother. You were welcome to visit whenever you wanted, Giedi Prime was vastly different from Caladan and you may need to come home for some normalcy once in a while, even at that Leto would make sure that people didn’t draw too much attention or crowd to a Harkonnen walking through their planet if you both decided to visit together. Everyone seemed concerned that you were bound to be unhappy, that you were walking into some sort of death-trap. But you were okay with it.

Everything that had happened had happened because you set it in motion. When you got onto the ship, you felt more at-ease than you had earlier. You knew that this was going to be a massive change, that you were now fully vested in a different side of humanity and culture than what you had known for your entire life. But, you also knew that you were going to be fine. You never wanted to like Feyd-Rautha, some part of you still wanted to be repulsed by him because you knew that you should be. For some reason, though. You were inexplicably drawn to the man.

Upon landing, you were ushered to your room by a small group of young women. The clothing that they were wearing wasn’t too dissimilar to what you had seen Feyd wear. Black, leather, somewhat sustainable if they were to get into some sort of a fight. You wondered if the women here knew how to fight, or if they simply existed to serve the men. Given the circumstances and the culture that you were engaging in, you were certain that it was the latter. they may know how to defend themselves if need-be, but you can’t help but doubt that they actually know anything other than upholding the system that supports the Baron and the other men that he has in power in his reign. 

“Wife.” A very formal greeting from the same rough voice that you had gotten to know over the last few months. Still, you knew him well enough to note the slight smile in the undertones of his voice. Violence made him smile, this was something new entirely. 

“Husband.” The women who had been around you removed the bag you had been carrying from your arm, bringing it to your room as you moved to stand in front of Feyd. He looked excited, but you weren’t sure if it was because you were moving in or because he could finally have sex with you after not seeing you for a few days. He was somewhat needy when it came to his sexual urges, but you would rather him be needy with you than sleeping with someone else. Besides, the urges were new for you too. It was fun to experiment. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Not late, no. My uncle is expecting us for dinner.” 

“Now?”

“Yes, as soon as we can arrive.” 

“But I just got here.” You complained, resting a hand on his arm as he watched you. He looked both amused and fascinated. 

“We can make up for missed time later, but for now, we have to go.” He leaned over to kiss you regardless, his lips lingering for a moment to long as your fingers tightened their grip on him. Finally, he pulled back and took your arm so he could lead you the grand table you would be eating at. You were unsure if this was something that happened every night, or if it as just because you were here for the first time. 

To say that you were intimidated was an understatement. Despite marring Feyd, you had still only met the Baron himself less than a number of times than what you could count on two hands. He was a large figure, both in physical presence and emotional presence. He towered over everyone, obscured them with his height and heft, and that physical being was almost like a manifestation of the terror that he made a majority of people that he came across feel. You knew enough about him to know that he was never a particularly good person, and that you were going to be in danger around him if you didn’t play your cards right.

Sensing your discomfort, Feyd was quick to bring you to your seat. He let you hold his hand, even though he wasn’t overly emotional. He was at ease, but this was his family. He was used to the behaviors of his uncle, the way that he spoke and the way that he interacted with the world in general. You weren’t used to anything about this place, but that much you knew going into things. 

“My nephew has taken a liking to you.” The man before you didn’t seem to mind that he was speaking with food still in his mouth, chewing while he made comments about your marriage as though it was a polite thing to do. Maybe it was polite here, maybe you were the odd-one-out because that wasn’t the type of etiquette that you typically followed when you were at home on Caladan.

“I should hope, since we’re married.” You responded, your nervous laughter seemingly doing nothing to diffuse the tension. The feeling of Feyd running a finger over the back of your hand was a nice distraction through, sending a slight shiver up your spine at the feeling of his touch. 

“Yes, but married doesn’t mean that you have to like each other.” He wasn’t entirely wrong. This entire marriage had been based on the idea of you wanting to bring peace between your houses, and that didn’t intrinsically mean that you were going to like the person that you were married to. “You both seem to like each other, he speaks highly of you.” 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out where this was going. Though you were already married, you were in his home now. You were eating his food, enjoying the amenities hat he provided to you. You were living a life that was being provided by the man sitting in front of you, as a result of your marriage to Feyd. you needed to make it clear that you liked him as well, it was a test. Thankfully, it was a test that you would have no trouble passing even though you hadn’t studied for it. 

“I like Feyd very much, I had no idea he was speaking about me though.” You responded, turning to watch him. He was good at never displaying emotions, even if he was feeling them. The only emotion you had ever seen on his face was rage and lust (whether it be bloodlust or sexual lust was a different question, but you tended to fit it into the same category). Still, he looked a bit nervous - like he didn’t want to have a conversation where his uncle exposed the times that he spoke about you when you weren’t around for everyone to hear. 

“He speaks about you frequently, he’s just too proud of himself to admit it.” The Baron continued eating his meal, moving on to speak to some of the other men at the table and frequently bringing his attention back to the two of you. For the most part, you were both in your own little world. Discussing your plans for the next day, discussing what side of the bed you liked to sleep on, whether or not you were going to be able to sleep properly without the sound of rain hitting your window. Feyd seemed to want to experience one of the big storms that you got frequently on Calandan, where you were interested in seeing one of the gladiator fights that he had mentioned so you could see the fireworks that he had been describing to you. 

Each time any attention was paid to you both, you were busy. Talking about something else, paying no mind to anyone else. If there was some sort of test that you were being subjected to, you were sure that you passed with flying colors. 

After a moment, the Baron cleared his throat and you turned back to look at him. “Have you given any consideration to your heirs?”

“A bit.” 

Not really, was the actual answer. 

“We’ve been hard at work.” 

Was the answer that came out of your husband’s mouth, though you couldn’t be surprised by his crass nature of his response. His uncle found it amusing, even though you were sure that you looked at least moderately humiliated by the comment. Technically, he wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t considered or thought about having children, but you were having sex just about every time you saw each other. The night of your wedding, you had made no effort to use any sort of protection. 

“A lot of action, not a lot of conversation about… a family.” You responded, not knowing how else to phrase it. But, this answer definitely got some sort of stamp of approval. You weren’t as uncomfortable as you had been before, and the challenge of openly talking about something like sex when you weren’t really supposed to discuss that back home was enough to get his uncle to ease back a bit. You did get along well with each other, and you were going to fit in fine. There was really nothing more that he needed to question for the time being, which allowed you both to settle in. 

By the time you had made your way back to your room, you could feel a bit of burning in your eyes. Still, you tried to keep yourself awake as you were pushed against the wall. Feyd’s kisses were rough, demanding, almost as demanding as his hands as they groped and explored your hips. It wasn’t until he kissed your neck, until he worked on marking your flesh and felt your head lolling against his that he finally pulled back to hold your face in his hands. Your eyes were fluttering back open, but it was clear that you were falling asleep.

“How much did you sleep last night?”

“I had to finish packing my things.” 

He hummed in response, before bringing you over to the bed. He had remembered what side that you mentioned preferring, but you had only just told him a little bit ago. Still, it was nice to think that he had made enough of an effort to consider that as he helped get you out of your clothing. He had made a promise to make up for lost time with you, but for right now, he seemed mainly focused on getting you to bed.

“I thought we were… making a heir?” 

“If there’s not one inside of you already, I’m sure we’ll have time.” You weren’t going to push him to explain himself further. The fact that he wanted to go to bed with you was enough. “Besides, I promised you a fight. I’ll let you see a fight. But I need proper rest.” 

“They can be arranged that quickly?”

“When my wife requests of one shortly after our wedding? Yes.” You were sure he could arrange whatever he wanted to arrange on any given day, but on such short notice, you were also sure that he was doing this as a favor for you. He wanted to do this because you wanted to see that part of him, because you wanted to know what he looked like in real, professional combat and not just the fights that you had seen him engage in with enemies that he needed to fight. 

Besides, there was something personal in it for him. You had seen him kill before, you knew he was capable. But, you were asking him to see it again. You were asking to see a side of him that should have made you cower in shame, but instead, it intrigued you. It wasn’t that you had a newly formed desire for violence, but that you wanted to see every part of him even if you probably should have something against the idea of seeing him get into a battle and murder someone for sport - really, though, for fun. 

He knew he made the right choice in marrying you because you weren’t in it to try and change him, you were fascinated by every bit of him. that fascination bordered on him being some sort of experiment in some ways, but it was mainly just you being interested in him and everything that he had to offer you. 

For now, though, the only thing he had to offer you was his presence in bed as you laid beside him. He let you lay your head against him, let you run your fingers along the curves and ridges of his tones stomach. You were nicer to him than what he deserved, and even you didn’t understand why. Maybe it was just the feeling of freedom that came along with being with him. Afterall, you were incredibly safe. You held your cards close to your chest back on Caladan, and every move you made was incredibly calculated. With Feyd, everything was new and different and risky. He was a danger and a risk, a fearsome warrior to almost everyone he came across. Yet, here you were, laying against him and falling deeper into a slumber that you wanted so badly to deny. 

“My uncle likes you.” 

“I don’t know if my family likes you.” You admitted, but the honesty made him laugh. It was likely that your family does not like him, in fact, it was more likely than any other option. But the fact that you so readily volunteered that information was probably just because you were tired. Still, it was amusing how easily it spilled from your lips. “I like you though, and they’re not the ones married to you.” 

“Just you.”

“Hmm?”

“My only wife.”

“Mhm, my only husband.” You replied, your voice muffled as you grew closer to falling asleep. Feyd kept an arm wrapped around you as you fell asleep against him, predominantly thinking about the implications of everything going on here. You were both young, young enough that this marriage was going to last a long time. But, you were also both matured enough that you knew about the political ramifications of it. If something did go wrong, you could only hope that you would stick together no matter the consequence - after all, that was the function of a husband and wife.

Some part of you truly believed that, if something did go awry, you would remain by each other’s sides. But, for now, you just needed to worry about your futures in the sense of things you could control. You could control how quickly (or not quickly) you got pregnant. You could control the nature of your relationship. You could control anything that had nothing to do with war or bloodshed, but even that you had no control over.

You knew, from the beginning of this, that you weren’t going to have a relationship with the most loving man in the world. Feyd-Rautha was not the man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you fell asleep. He didn’t tell you that he loved you, not until well after you uttered the words to him in a fit of passion. Even then, he said it first to someone who wasn’t you. Someone he was in an argument with, someone he was defending his need to spend time with you to. But it didn’t matter, not really. 

There was nothing normal about Feyd, or your relationship with him, or the fact that you were okay with all of the horrid things that he got up to. But after a while, the abnormalities became common-place for you. You can make no real promises to unify the Atreides and Harkonnen houses through your marriage, through your bloodline. The only thing you can truly do is enjoy what you have; truly, you enjoy your marriage more than you could ever explain. You shouldn’t enjoy the presence of someone like Feyd, but you do. He feels as though he shouldn’t enjoy anyone’s presence at all, and yet he does. 

Everything about it was abnormal in every way, and it worked. In some way, it worked. Whether you knew it would from the moment you proposed the idea late one night was a question that you couldn’t (or, wouldn’t) answer. but you didn’t need to - at least, not for the time being.