Harry Potter Masterlist

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

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It's frustrating that Rhaenyra believes that having more dragons somehow means that the war can be stopped without bloodshed. Without these two dragons, people have already died. Luke, Jahaerys, Rhaenys, etc. S1 Rhaenyra literally said that when dragons went to war everything burned, but now she thinks that somehow bloodshed can be averted with more dragons?

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Klaus incorrect quote

Ten Minutes

modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

The sound of jacaerys' alarm disturbed the quiet that had settled in over the night. His hand shot out of the blanket and grabbed his phone, turning off the alarm.

Jace glanced at the corner of the screen. 5:50 a.m. In ten minutes he'll have to wake you up so you both could get ready for the day.

He let out a small sigh and shut his phone off before placing it back on the nightstand.

Jace rolled over so that he was laying on his side, facing your back. Thankfully his alarmed hadn't woken you up. He reached out and wrapped a hand around your waist. Jacaerys gently pulled your back to his chest and leaned forward to press his nose to your head, breathing you in.

Ten more minutes and he'll have to wake you up. Ten minutes spent with you.

Deleted Scenes From The Cruel Prince

(Some of these are alternate storylines)

These are all of them, both deleted and alternate storyline. I highly recommend buying this TCP edition 🫶🏼 as it comes with gorgeous artwork and a neat velvet cover!

MIND OVER MATTER.

+ . jacaerys velaryon x f!reader

part two to 'sacrifice'.

synopsis. you return to jacaerys. a gift from the gods.

3 + . contents. canon-divergent. no use of y/n or any variation. mentions of violence. heavy angst. no comfort. hurt. descriptions of torturous aftermaths. 3.2k words.

Warm firelight bathes the sharp and strong features of the prince, dark brows furrowed so tightly that the crease between them may become permanent. There’s a drowsiness in his eyelids and yet his mind is louder than the storm that rages outside of the stone walls. Shifting on his shoes, his strong hand fidgets and shifts along the smoothness of the hilt of his sword as he watches the flames burn at the wood and lick along the stone walls it’s confined to. Hand so tight along the smooth leather and grooves that he may just snap the hilt itself. In his other hand he gently smoothes his hand along a hairpin, pretty with a dangling flower off a chain of silver and made of glass. Jacaerys’s dark almond eyes slowly flutter shut and he inhales through his nose with a tight jaw, head throbbing and stomach feeling hollow.

It’s been two months.

Two months. Jacaerys hasn’t seen you in two months, he hasn’t heard a word in two months. Jacaerys swallows thickly as a stinging moves through his nose and his hand tightens around the hilt of his sword while the other eases around the glass hairpin. You should have returned to him already. You should have returned, come back to him so he might be stronger and less of a coward as he had so promised. So Jacaerys could do what he’d been too weak to do so many times before. Yet, it’s been two months. So much has happened and you’re still gone.

Heavy doors open and Jacaerys’s eyes open, broad shoulders stiffen and he blinks away the stinging in his eyes. Slowly, he straightens up and conceals the hairpin beneath his dark sleeve. Gentle footsteps and the soft brush of fabric against stone, Jacaerys listens to the footsteps of his mother and the sound of her setting down supper onto the table within his quarters. Jacaerys is wordless, he doesn’t look away from the flames. Silence is thick, heavy, he awaits her departure but he knows her, his mother. So, she never leaves.

Instead, she speaks.

“Please eat.”

And Jacaerys wishes she’d care less, then he’d feel less guilt over the ruin this is bringing him. The ruin of his affections and his…love may bring this war that he’s meant to be entirely focused on. Yet, all he can think about is you. You. You. Fucking you. In no response, Rhaenyra’s footsteps grow closer and Jacaerys looks away from the flames when his mother suddenly steps before him. Her hands reach out but his boots step back and his hilt is grasped even tighter.

“Mother.” Jacaerys says as a warning. He loves her. He doesn’t wish to snap at her or say things in harsh blindness as he’s been doing all too often during this war. Especially as of late. Jacaerys’s eyes screwed shut and he finally releases the hilt, his hand coming up when he makes the mistake of looking at her porcelain face of love and concern for her sweet boy. Grooves line the inside of his hand from the design of his hilt and his fingers shake, he’s so tense he’s trembling. “Please.” The word comes far less firm and stiff, it comes pathetic and desperate. Begging her to not break what he’s been so horribly holding together.

Rhaenyra’s brows sew up, her eyes flickering along the face of one stricken by grief before a death. The Queen exhales deeply as Jacaerys slowly lowers his hand and she presses her hands over her stomach. “My sweet boy…this–you cannot let what we do not know bring you to your knees.” Rhaenyra’s voice is soft, gentle and all the worse for Jacaerys. He tries to keep his burning gaze to the floor, but he weakens again in the atmosphere of his mother’s comfort and love. Dark eyes look at her beautiful light ones and his jaw tenses as she shakes her head. “We do not know of her fate, she would not wish to see you like this. I cannot bear to see you like this.”

“Like what?” Jacaerys asks as if he does not know.

“Like a shell of my boy.” Rhaenyra replies swiftly, her brows sewing up and eyes squinting in an almost pained way. Jacaerys swallows thickly, his hand running down his face as he turns away and slowly walks over to the supper. Thumbs smooth dark circles and sweep slightly sunken cheeks. Jacaerys’s eyes look at the food and his stomach curls in disgust, what if you’re starving somewhere? What if you’ve starved? “There are still loyalists seeking her, Jacaerys.” His mother tries with a soft tone, a gentle one as he picks up a piece of bread and holds it in the hand not occupied by the glass hair pin.

“Do you remember what I was like when we first met, mother?” Jacaerys speaks softly, quietly, his brows twitching as he holds the bread in his hand. Glancing at the Queen, Rhaenyra’s expression softens and the hint of a smile on her pink lips brings a hint to that of Jacaerys’s. But it makes his stomach all the more sick as he nods gently. “She has been my closest friend since I was a boy. She’s proved herself loyal to me, to you – to us since…since before there was a loyalty to be deserving of. I wish she weren’t such.” Jacaerys’s eyes screw shut and he swallows thickly. “I wish she would betray us, I wish she would stab me in the back, I hope and pray to the Gods that she were more selfish, more disloyal, dishonorable I–”

“Jacaerys.” Rhaenyra breathes out.

Jacaerys shakes his head and drops the bread crushed into crumbs along the plate. And he inhales shakily, he looks down and unsheathes the glass hair pin. That stinging in his eyes has grown worse, his vision blurring as the little glass flower gently sways off the chain. “L–Luce–” Jacaerys voice grows choked as he looks down and his vision blurs further. “H-He gave this to her. An expression of gratitude for all she did when we were still children. So many times I’ve tried to get her to wear it, Baela’s tried the same – after h–he…” Jacaerys trails off. “We stopped but…I still remember why she refused to wear it. She told me so confidently that she wanted to wear it for my coronation.” And Jacaerys inhales shakily, footsteps coming towards him.

The moment Rhaenyra’s hand touches his arm, Jacaerys sets the glass pin onto the table and embraces her with a choked sob. Rhaenyra holds him as she did not long ago in mourning her son and his brother. Jacaerys clings to her gown and shakes his head. “I could not stand it, m-mother – blood sheds in war but mine own and that of mine heart…two at once, for us…” Jacaerys sobs into her neck, his mother gently swaying him while holding him close as if he’s still just a little boy that needs his mother. Rhaenyra’s expression is one of pain as she holds him close.

For a while Jacaerys seeks comfort in his mother, then they talk about the recents events together – nothing too touchy, they are not privileged yet to truly and fully mourn – and Rhaenyra eats with Jacaerys.

It’s an hour and some later when the doors suddenly open, bursting practically. Jacaerys and Rhaenyra look at Baela, panting with wide eyes. “Baela, is all well?” Jacaerys asks with immediate worry.

Jacaerys nearly crumbles at the words to leave her lips.

“She has returned.”

It feels as if all the blood in his body is cold. It doesn’t feel as if Jacaerys is of his own mind or body – his soul and heart racing him down the corridors to follow Baela as Queen Rhaenyra leaves to notify Rhaena. Jacaerys is quick, dark curls bouncing and moving as he follows the sound of instructions tossed at sworn guards from the maester sworn to Rhaenyra. Cold winds from the open walls and windows bring an iciness to once warm skin, but Jacaerys can feel nothing. Nothing but an anticipation and overwhelming sense of fear of what he might face.

Quick hands catch Baela when the followerer to that of the maester extends his hand to stop Baela from grabbing the handle of the door. The guard shakes his head after a formal bow, his brow beaded in sweat and tan skin a bit red against the heavy armor he adorns. “Forgive me, your graces, but the maester has given strict instructions to not allow anyone within the chambers – her guard may be infected with a contagious fever.” Jacaerys’s eyes widen and he feels himself ease back into his body, he looks to Baela who silently urges him to cling onto some semblance of patience or hope.

But Jacaerys knows with fevers, death is always almost certain – and he must know of all that happened, he must see you one last time. He couldn’t say goodbye to Lucerys, he will not find his opportunity lost with you.

Jacaerys pulls back Baela with a gentle touch of her wrist and his dark eyes meet her rounded ones. “Oblige the instructions of the maester, no one shall enter.” Baela can see the resolve in his face and she inhales deeply, her brows sewing up as she nods and gently squeezes his hand holding her wrist before she steps away. Immediately, the prince turns to grab the door but the guard steps in front of it and Jacaerys looks at him with soft breaths and wide, incredulous eyes as the loud sound of servants in the chambers come through the heavy door.

“My prince, I cannot risk your–”

“I am the prince – you are sworn to my blood. Let. Me. Through.” Jacaerys’s voice is hard and thick as his eyes burn into the gaze of the guard. The guard, clearly taken aback, seems to hesitate. Jacaerys can feel him pondering whether he fears the heir or the Queen more, how would the Queen feel about her son possibly being exposed to a horrid fever? Jacaerys can’t seem to care. He doesn’t. And thankfully, he wins. The guard quickly steps aside. Jacaerys nods. “Thank you, Ser.” And Jacaerys enters the chambers untouched yet closest to the entrance of the castle.

The sound of the maester ordering the servants fills the air, the old man hunching over the bed and for the first time in two months, over eight weeks, over sixty days, one-thousand four-hundred and sixty hours, over five million seconds – Jacaerys’s eyes fall to you. His expression hard and his entire body going numb, a servant rushing to him to place a precautionary cloth around his face and Jacaerys merely allows it to happen as he watches you laid down and being tended to with a quickness.

Your face is filthy. Covered in smudge and dirt, hair the same and matted so severely that it’s being cut off. Beneath unconsciousness, being stripped of your dirtied clothes that were not the ones you left Dragonstone in, Jacaerys feels sick suddenly. Lashes cover your back, flesh risen and scabbing over with signs of infection in some green to match that of the bruises on your face and flesh. Jacaerys stumbles backwards, a hand going to his heart that feels it may just give out and he turns around.

Emptying the contents of his first true meal in two months into a glass vase, he screws his eyes shut as the scent of the dungeons burns into the room.

Soon, Jacaerys is given everything he must know while alongside his mother and cousins.

A guard of the Keep was assigned to watch you when you were discovered – you were stupid. You stupidly tried to help a woman being given a public lashing and what did you get? Recognized and imprisoned. It wasn’t enough to be imprisoned, plenty of the cunt usurper’s came to visit you but Jacaerys could hardly stomach the knowledge that Aegon saw to you the most. The guard to help you escape, unable to handle the cruelties of the usurper Aegon against a woman of honor and loyalty, recounted to Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Jacaerys all you had gone through in those two months.

Every horrid detail.

Jacaerys was nearly going to kill himself. To fly to King’s Landing and bring Aegon’s head to be the centerpiece of a grand feast. But it was during the loud chaos of attempting to keep the prince at bay that the guard offered something – something that was enough to make Jacaerys settle.

Your words. One of the long conversations you had with the guard, one conversation after a bad set of lashing that left you drooling and hunched over a bale of hay with your torn dress bloodied and dirty. The guard says he had asked you why you did not merely give Aegon what he wanted, why you did not tell them what the Queen was planning, why you did not kill yourself, why you did not agree to be the best sword beside that of the Kinslayer Aemond Targaryen. Jacaerys could hear your voice in his head rather than the guard’s when he offered your response.

“I know I will see him again…I could not look in his eye if I were to ever give these true bastards what they desire, so I will not. Because I know that someday…I will see my Jacaerys again.”

The maester had delivered the news of your condition. Needless to say it wasn’t well. Starved enough to keep you in agony yet fed enough to keep you alive, beaten more often than not, and used by more than just the usurper cunt and given moon tea so many times you are all but promised to never bare a child. But the maester said there was no fever, no flu – that the only thing anyone could do now is to wait. To wait and to not let the task be in vain, for a guard of the Keep that’d been close to the King was now in their palm.

But Jacaerys – try as he might – couldn’t care, not about being ordered to find rest and eat and every other thing he could not do and not about anything else. The next night, when all are silent and the guards are patrolling where they should, he went to your chambers. He had to see you.

Now here Jacaerys sits, at the edge of your bed and looking over you with tears falling down his cheeks and body stiff. You look ghostly. That warmth and brightness gone and replaced by a splash of hideous colors to be a reminder of what you faced. You’re more white bandages than skin. Jacaerys swallows thickly as he sniffles and shifts on the seat, shaking his head when a tear finally falls and he reaches out. Strong hands are gentle, treating your hand like the glass hair pin and cradling it between his hands. You’re cold yet sweaty.

Inhaling shakily, Jacaerys swallows thickly and he shakes his head. His eyes trace your features, your hair, and he forces a smile as hot tears roll down his cheeks. “You will go mad once you awake and see your hair.” Jacaerys whispers out softly. His thumb smoothes your knuckles and flesh of your hand. “Once, I hardly even cut an inch as a foolish little joke of a young boy trying to get the attention of a strong girl and you nearly made me bite my own heart with your punch.” He laughs softly, sniffling as he nods and looks down at your hand in his. “I must apologize as well for going through your things in your absence. I–wanted to find your hair pin, to keep it safe. It–is.” Jacaerys nods stiffly as his eyes trace hair choppy and cut, wet from the bed bath you’d been given.

“Oh and–I have already ordered a surplus of your fruit you so love.” Jacaerys nods, his eyes shooting back down to your hand. “I–whenever I fell ill you…you would bring me chocolates. You would not let me eat them though, no.” The prince swallows the lump in his throat that simply forms again as blurry vision trains on your hand. “No, you told me that the chocolates were to be my reason to get better sooner. You told me that if I could not get better, I would never taste chocolate again. Then you w-would jest and pretend to eat them when I–would refuse my medicine or the help of the maester. I think the chocolates were my remedy.” Jacaerys’s voice breaks off as his smile falters and shakes, his hands smoothing along your hand.

“Or perhaps you were my remedy.” He whispers quietly.

And Jacaerys looks at your face. The bruising along your face, the cuts, the bandaging and bandages – Jacaerys swallows thickly and he shakes his head with a hard and deep sniff.

“So, you m-must be quick. You must get better, lest the fruit rots. O-Or I will eat all of it. The crates of it. You m-must get better, you m–must awake please–please a-aw–” Jacaerys’s voice breaks off into chokes sobs, his head falling forward to press his forehead against your knuckles. The prince’s body shakes and jumps in pure agony and pain as he holds your hand. Kissing your knuckles and along the inners of your palms, up your fingertips, pleading and begging fills the air with his chokes sobs. “Wake up for me – do not leave me…d-do not–”

It’s sometime before Jacaerys finds slumber, head throbbing, eyes puffy, and throat aching as he slouches in slumber in the seat beside your bed. His hand holding yours, pinkies interlocked. Well, his with yours.

It’s his first full-night’s rest since your departure.

The prince slowly stirs sometime later, his brows twitching and his head foggy from the ache that comes with sobbing and crying for hours on end. In his head he can hear the soft sound of your voice calling him, the scent of medicinals and herbs staining his nose as he shifts his face on the surface of soft bedding. Hunched over now and asleep against the edge of his bed, his hand still feels your skin and Jacaerys fights consciousness. He fights consciousness to cling to his dreams of you being well and alive in his arms, not incapacitated and broken on a bed. Each mark is a remnant of what Jacaerys did to you, how he should have stopped you, done anything to prevent you leaving.

Waking up in his chambers, Jacaerys is slightly annoyed to have been moved from you but his neck and body is relieved. Sighing heavily and rubbing at his eyes, Jacaerys shifts to the edge of his bed and runs a hand over messy curls. Pondering over what he should bring you from your own quarters to make the unfamiliar room more comfortable for you, he stands and he makes his way over to his wardrobe for fresh clothes. Just in case you wake up. But the sound of his heavy doors opening stops him and he turns.

His eyes fall to Baela’s. His cousin holding bated breaths and in her hand a rolled letter, she swallows thickly and rapid blinks barely conceal the glassiness of her eyes. Jacaerys feels his heart sink to his shoes. "Cousin..." Baela breathes softly. "I--am so sorry."

Rest doesn’t come easy ever again for the young prince. And the fruit rots. Just as you did.

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good- 

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed. 

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things. 

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’ 

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics. 

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered. 

“Do all women take this long to get ready?” 

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf. 

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring. 

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous. 

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms. 

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited. 

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have. 

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction. 

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away. 

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth. 

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm. 

You waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand. 

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?  

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far. 

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket. 

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack. 

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm. 

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce. 

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement. 

“No.” 

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.” 

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest. 

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . .  spineless.” 

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he. 

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him. 

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you. 

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred. 

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice. 

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together. 

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . . 

Aimed at his throat. 

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him. 

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

 You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. .  . the natural musk of his skin. 

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin. 

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it. 

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own. 

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in. 

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you. 

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole. 

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with. 

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain. 

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it. 

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’ 

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft. 

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair. 

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire. 

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood. 

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now. 

“I wanted to.” You conceded. 

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused. 

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone. 

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably. 

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land. 

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now. 

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you. 

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you. 

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now. 

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating. 

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped. 

“Atreides.” 

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized. 

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . . 

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger. 

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier. 

He had been trying to warn you.

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ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; III

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Michael's sudden change is unwelcome in the Emerson household. After an apparent prank that scares you and your brothers, you take matters into your own hands and confront David's gang head on.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), teasing, temptation at its finest, mentions of stalking, flirting????? at the music store???? get your act together girl,

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: there are a few new scenes in this chapter because I wanted the reader to have more interaction with the boys before giving in. Side note, but I hate when I find a good song and it's released after '87, because it would be perfect for this series. So, the unofficial song for this chapter is Give In to Me by Michael Jackson. Also, if this were a movie, Runaway would start playing as soon as the reader storms out of the house to confront the boys on the boardwalk. OG word count: 2432, revamped word count: 4250

[1] [2] ... [4] ... [8] [9]

Michael is acting weird.

Okay. To be fair, your brother is always weird, but this is different. He's mean. He sleeps all day and wakes up at sunset, then hops on his bike and drives off to God knows where.

At first, you thought he was avoiding Mom after the boardwalk incident. Pissed was not an accurate rage descriptor for how upset she had been when she learned what he did. At first, you defended Michael. You did tell him it would be okay. But when he started acting like an ass, you became less sympathetic.

The night after that, David's gang came to the house. They didn't come inside—but they did tear up the driveway. They revved their engines, jeering Michael's name, goading him to go outside. 

Mom had caught Mike on his way out and encouraged him to bring them in.

"They might like a nice, home cooked meal." she said, peering at them through the curtains.

"Maybe next time," was his reply.

There was no next time. 

Another notable incident occurred when Sam forgot to untie Nanook and bring him inside. 

You chased Michael to the front door, fuming. "What? You're too cool to let the dog in in front of your friends?"

"He's not my dog," said Michael.

"But Mom asked you to do this."

"I don't have to do everything she says. Neither do you, you're an adult."

"And you're being an asshole."

Michael stepped outside, and, of course, David's gang was waiting. 

Michael rolled his eyes, "Why can't you get the dog, four-eyes?"

"Because you're already outside!"

Michael narrowed his eyes like he gained the power to see through your bullshit and laughed cruelly: "You're scared of them."

And, for the first time that night, you spared a glance behind him toward the boys. They said nothing, but you're sure they heard every word, considering they watched your squabble unfold like a soap opera. 

For the record, you're not scared of them. 

You're annoyed. Disgusted. (A little scared of how they make you feel, but that's neither here nor there.) 

And you could tell Mike this, but instead you said, "Oh, fuck off." before storming into the lawn. 

Nanook, who had been barking at the boys, calmed when you approached; however, you were too distracted to give the dog more than a head-pat. You were conscious of your every movement as soon as you stepped outside—your walk, the sway of your hips, your posture, hell, even your clothes. You liked your clothes, but you almost resented how dowdy they were. Why hadn't you worn something more revealing? You usually hate having people leer at your body but with these guys ...

Michael said something to them, and they laughed. It could have been nothing, but you swore they were talking about you, so you rushed inside and didn't look back. 

After that, you did everything you could to avoid seeing them when they came around. 

You lie and say these weird feelings began after that dream, but you know that's not true. Those boys have been burrowing in your brain since the beginning. The sound of their bikes roaring up the driveway makes your heart skip a beat. 

Sometimes—and you're reluctant to admit this—but sometimes you place yourself where they can see you. The upstairs window, the garage, the doorway—places far enough that they can't call out to you but close enough for them to look. 

It's stupid. You don't understand why you do it. These guys are strange and probably dangerous. You shouldn't want anything to do with them.

But that doesn't stop you.

Weirdly, you like being watched. It's like being under a microscope, but you've put yourself on the slide and control the outcome. A shrink would tell you that you're acting out because of your parents' divorce. That's the savory answer, so you refuse to believe there's another reason. 

A bird keeps leaving you gifts on your windowsill.

You haven't seen the bird in action, but you know it has to be one. It leaves you items at night. Random things.

The first one you find is a shell. It's beautiful—one of those shells you can't find on the beach, only in tourist shops. It's as big as your palm and bone-white. You assume the bird had placed it there after deciding it was unfit for its nest, so you brought it inside.

Two fluffy yellow dandelions were placed in the same spot the next day. The day after that, a flat stone with a hole in the center. Then, a feather.

On and on the little gifts came. You're not sure what you did to befriend this bird, but you're grateful. In the midst of so much turmoil with Mike, David, and Mom, the gifts never fail to make you smile.

"Honey?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

She quietly thanks the customer for coming and passes the plastic bag across the counter. When they're gone, she turns to you again. 

"Why don't you grab a bite to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, please!" Mom shakes her head, giving you that knowing smile. "You've been with me all day. Go and get yourself something to eat. Better yet, stretch your legs."

You flash your 'new' (secondhand) paperback at her. "I already did."

She says your name in warning, but there's no bite to it. You know she's just looking out for you. With a sigh, you tuck the book into your bag and kiss her cheek goodbye.

If this was any other day, you wouldn't have bothered to come with your mom to work, but Max had called and asked if she could work a double because Maria was sick, meaning she would be here until dark. You know she's a big girl and grew up on the mean streets of Santa Carla without you, but today was also her and dad's wedding anniversary, and well...

Mom won't admit it, but you know she's struggling. It's the big reason she took the extra shift; it helps her not think about her failed marriage.

The door swings open, and you barely glimpse who is in your periphery before you swear. 

"Shit."

"What is it, honey?" She greets the new group with a big smile. "Hello! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask ..." She pauses. Squints her eyes, looking, really looking, at the group. "Have we met before?"

"We're frequent flyers," says an all-too familiar voice.

David.

"Oh, alright," Mom cheers.

"Bye," you mutter. You turn fast and nearly collide with Marko, but you dodge at the last second. "Excuse me."

You exit the store and thrust yourself into the night crowd. Of course, the one night they take off from terrorizing Michael, they come after you. 

Actually—you glance at the nearest clock—it's too early for them to be at Grandpa's house. (Yes, you have their schedule memorized. No, that's not weird.)

And, no, you don't have an inflated sense of self-importance because one glance over your shoulder told you the four of them left the video store as soon as they came in. You don't know if they're following you or if this is their childish idea of a prank, but you refuse to find out.

You duck into the nearest store before they see you—a music shop. The walls are lined with albums, cassettes, and CDs. Band posters cover what little space is left; somewhere in the corner, a rock song wafts from its boombox. 

You don't frequent music shops; you might if you're with Michael or Sammy, but most of your cassettes are inherited from Mom. Still, you wander toward the folk-rock section and figure you have a few moments to kill before you seek out food. 

But good things never last.

The door opens, and you don't have to look this time to know. 

"So, you're stalking me now?" you ask.

Paul snatches the tape from your hand. "Midnight Voyage? C'mon, girl, you gotta get with the times."

You grab it back. "I like the Mamas and the Papas."

"That song's as old as you."

You cross your arms. "I thought you, of all people, understood good music doesn't have an expiration date?"

Marko, Dwayne, and David snicker, and Paul has the decency to look sheepish. You rest your hip against the display and raise your chin.

"What do you guys want?"

"We're here to look at music," says David.

"Uh-huh. Videos, too?"

He challenges you with a sarcastic look. "It's Friday night."

"Whatever."

You snake around them and move to a different display, but they follow. 

"You have to like some rock," Paul tries again.

You fight a smile. He's ... almost charming. "I didn't say I didn't."

Marko joins in, "Who?"

You flip through the singles, not paying them any mind as they throw out different band names.

Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Depeche Mode, Van Halen - tell me you like Van Halen, baby?

You find what you're looking for and flash it to the boys with a grin. "Iggy Pop, The Passenger."

Marko frowns, but it's more appreciative than judgemental.

Dwayne nods in agreement. "Not bad."

Your answer pacifies Paul, but he's not satisfied. "We need to find you some music that you can dance to, baby."

"I don't dance," you say. "Especially in front of other people."

"Are you always this serious?" David asks. 

For some reason, that hits you where it hurts. You glare at him, dropping the single back in its slot. "Do you always stick your nose into other people's business?"

David has the audacity to smirk. "It's just an observation, princess."

You scoff and try to shoulder past him, but David is fast. He catches your bicep. His grip is barely there, but it stops you in your tracks. You hold your breath, all too aware that you're sandwiched between him and Dwayne. 

"If you keep running off like this, you're gonna make us think you don't like us," David teases.

"I don't," you lie. 

He cocks his head. "You sure?"

You swear he can see through you, but you're unwilling to give in. Not yet.

You step closer, looking him dead in the eye. "I've never been more certain."

Jerking away, you make a b-line for the door. David can't let you have the last word, though. 

"Tell Michael we'll see him later," he calls out.

You shove the door open and shout back, "Bite me!"

You're in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner when Michael stomps down the stairs, sunglasses tucked in the neck of his t-shirt.

Mom rushes to meet him. (Even she's aware she only has a finite amount of time before she loses him again.)

"Michael, do you want to take the night off and have dinner with your family?" She reaches for him, but Michael keeps walking. "We haven't eaten together in a while. It would be nice."

He snorts. "Yeah, right."

Michael opens the door without another word, and the roaring of motorcycle engines fills the house.

Mom shrivels the tiniest bit. Had you not been watching her, you wouldn't have noticed, but you did, and it pisses you off.

You sit the bowl down a little too hard and chase after him.

"Michael." He ignores you. "Michael!" You latch onto his stupid leather jacket and yank him back."Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but it doesn't give you the right to be an ass to Mom."

He smiles, "But I can to you, right?"

Michael tries to walk away, but you hold firm.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Listen." Michael faces you head-on. "Unlike you, I've got friends waiting for me. So, why don't you run back inside, little sister? Hm?"

Tears burn the back of your eyes, but your anger burns brighter. You release him with a push.

"Well, at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."

Michael frowns. For a moment, you think your words hit their mark, and you see the faintest glimmer of the old Michael in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Michael!"

"C'mon, Michael!"

"Mikey boy!"

You flinch as they rev their bikes. It works its charm because all traces of remorse are gone from Michael's face.

He looks at you coldly. "I gotta go."

"Michael, you're making a mistake," you say.

He rolls his eyes. "Don't wait up."

"Hey, baby!" Paul shouts. "Don't you wanna come party with us?!"

You flip them off, and they erupt into a chorus of laughter.

You toss the phone onto Michael's chest, startling him from his mid-day nap.

"... What the hell?"

"Mom's on the phone. She wants to talk to you."

Michael cracks his eyes open, wincing. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. You slept all day. Again." You don't even try to mask your rage. If he's going to be a jerk, you'll give it right back.

Michael motions for the sunglasses on his bedside table. "Hand me those, will you?"

You scoff but throw them at him, too. "You need sunglasses to talk on the phone? Are you high?"

"Fuck off," he mutters, and picks up the phone. "Hi, Mom..."

You faintly hear her voice drifting from the receiver. "Michael are you still in bed?"

"No. I'm up."

"Can you do me a favor this evening? Will you stay home with Sam tonight? I'm meeting Max for dinner."

"I watch him all the time, Mom," he says unsympathetically. "The only time I have for myself is the evening." He locks eyes with you from behind his sunglasses. "Can't you have her watch him? Or Grandpa? They stay home all the time, anyway."

"I want you to do this," Mom says. "You come home late, sleep all day—Sammy's always alone."

"No, he's not!"

"Michael, please! Your sister should not have to do everything all the time. Now, you always do whatever you want, and I don't stop you ... tonight, I want to do what I want for a change. Do you know how long it's been since someone has asked me out to dinner?"

Michael works his jaw and says nothing.

"Please, Michael?"

He presses his lips into a thin line. "Okay. Fine. I'll watch Sammy."

He hangs up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. You tsk, yanking the phone off his chest. 

"I guess it sucks to be you," you say.

"Get out of my room," Michael grumbles, drifting back to sleep. 

You leave, but you don't close the door. Sometimes, being petty is better than a middle finger.

Grandpa strolls into the kitchen wearing a khaki-colored jacket and a loud bowtie. He has a pep in his step and another one of his furry creations tucked under his arm. 

"Look at you, Gramps!" you coo. "Lookin' all spiffy. What's the occasion?"

"Can't an old fart like me dress up for fun?" He playfully adjusts his bowtie, and his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Anything in here that might pass for aftershave?"

Sammy hops out of his chair and plucks a bottle off the windowsill. "How about this Windex, Grandpa?"

"Ah!" The old man gratefully accepts the bottle, squirts some in his hands, and pats it on his cheeks. Sam exchanges a knowing look with you. "Thanks."

Unfortunately, Michael chooses this time to come in. (And he's still wearing those stupid sunglasses.) He appraises Grandpa, his mouth twisting cruelly. "Big date, Grandpa?"

Grandpa wiggles his eyebrows, smiling slyly. "Just dropping off some of my handiwork to the 'Widow' Johnson."

He holds up a taxidermy dog. Its beady marble eyes stare into your soul. You repress a shudder. Stuffed animals (the kind that used to be alive) aren't the way to your heart, but if this woman likes it, who are you to judge?

You pat him on the back. "Good for you, Grandpa."

Michael peers over the rim of his sunglasses. "Oh, yeah? What did you stuff for her? Mr. Johnson?"

Grandpa's smile falters, then fades away altogether. He grips the stuffed dog a little tighter. "I'll see you kids later."

As soon as he's out of sight, you smack the back of Michael's head.

"Hey!"

But Sammy's on your side. "That wasn't funny, Michael."

Grandpa honks his horn, and an off-key version of La Cucaracha plays as he peels out of the driveway. Sam resumes his task: dinner duty.

"I'm making you a sandwitch," your little brother grumbles.

"Don't bother."

Michael moves, and you catch sight of something shiny. There's a dangly chain piercing his earlobe, and you know for a fact that it wasn't there last night. You wrinkle your nose. "Lose the earring, Michael, it's not happening."

He crosses his arms. "Piss off."

Sam's eyebrows shoot all the way up. "Wow—you have a great personality, Mike! You should open your own charm school."

Michael starts to go in on Sammy, ready, aching, to deliver his retort when the house shakes. A harsh, howling wind rips through the windows. The curtains flap like frantic bird wings; the ground shakes. Outside, motorcycles roar up the driveway and circle the house. Headlights burn through the windows so bright that it's like sunrise. 

You grip the table to keep from falling over. Dishes and cutlery fall from their cabinets and smash into the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. 

"What the hell is going on?!" You can hardly hear your own voice over the noise.

From outside, you hear their voices, shouting, clamoring over one another, melding into a horrific symphony of Michael, Michael, Michael!

Steadily, the noise grows louder. You know it's impossible, but you swear the motorcycles are climbing the walls. 

Michael rushes to the front door, and Sam is hot on his heels.

"Don't open it!" Sam cries.

Michael! Michael! Michael!

Michael throws the front door open, and ... it stops. 

Everything stops.

All that remains is a faint breeze rustling through the trees and the dainty jingle of wind chimes. 

You grab Sam's hand to ground yourself, and he squeezes back, utterly petrified. 

No one is outside. 

You exchange a look with Sam. "That was real, right?"

He nods, but he doesn't look sure.

You trust your judgment, and Sammy's for that matter, but as you peer into the night, you can't help but doubt yourself.

Was it a shared hallucination? An earthquake? But what were those voices?

Grimly, you realize there's only one answer, and it wasn't a natural phenomenon. You know who's behind it. 

Michael shuts the door and locks it, resting his back against it like he alone could prevent them from coming in.

You clench your jaw and storm up to Michael, poking his chest. "Look—I don't know what kind of game you and your friends are trying to play, but it's not funny."

Michael dares to look offended. "I didn't do this."

"The hell you didn't!" Rage boils your blood, and you see red. "I have had it, Michael. This is the last straw."

You shove past him and throw open the door. The night is calm, but you are not. You've played the passive role for too long. No. Fucking. More. 

Those four morons could mess with you all they wanted, but not your family. Not their home. 

Your brothers call after you, but it's Sammy who asks, "Where are you going?!"

"Out!"

Your anger leads you to the boardwalk.

People laugh, their conversations overlapping until it's nothing but white noise buzzing in your ears. Overhead, Runaway by Bon Jovi crackles through the boardwalk's sound system, but the music is distorted as if filtered through a tunnel.

You find David and his gang easily, almost like you have a homing beacon guiding you straight to them. You don't overthink it. Really, you don't think about it at all. All you know is that you're past your limit for bullshit, and tonight, you'll make it stop one way or another.

Paul is the first one to notice you. He greets you with a cocky grin. "Hey, baby—"

You punch Paul in his stupid, pretty face. It wasn't hard—and the odds are, he's taken worse—but sheer surprise knocks him off his feet into Dwayne. 

You only realize what you did when the pain kicks in.

"Sunova—!" You bite back a scream, cradling your fist against your chest. You wish someone would have warned you: punching hurts.

"What is with you Emerson's and punching without provocation?" muses David.

You glare, filling it with as much hate as you can muster. David isn't affected in the least. In fact, he's amused. He grins like he's watching a newborn puppy learn to snarl. He pushes off the railing and invades your personal space.

"Let me see your hand." David reaches for it, but you step back.

"Don't touch me," you snap.

The boys laugh.

Marko throws his arm over your shoulder and nuzzles your hair. "Baby's got teeth, huh?"

You try to shrug him off, but he hangs on. "Stay away from Michael." They murmur his name like it's a private joke. It makes you angrier. "He's a good guy, and he doesn't deserve to be dragged down by a group of dirty degenerates like you."

David bends at the waist so he's eye-level with you. "Did big brother send you here?"

"No," you say, "I came myself."

"So you can go down on dirty degenerates like us?"

"To get you to fuck off," you sneer.

You shove David back for good measure, but he captures your wrist—your injured hand—without blinking an eye. 

Gingerly, he looks it over, paying close attention to your knuckles. His leather gloves are soft and worn. They must be thick, too, because you can't feel his body heat through them.

What the fuck. No, you're not thinking about that.

He grazes his thumb over the hills and valleys of your knuckles; he turns your hand over, coaxing you to spread your fingers. 

"It's not broken," David says. "You're lucky."

… Huh?

He manipulates your hand into a fist again. "Next time, don't tuck your thumb under your fingers, or you will break it. See?"

"Stop it," you stammer.

"Stop what?"

"Being—" Nice "—weird!"

David releases your hand, and you bring it back to your chest. 

"I think you better apologize to Paul," David continues. "You hurt him real bad, and, well, we don't want him to pout all night, right?"

You glance at Paul, who is indeed pouting theatrically. "Can you kiss it better?" He taps his cheek.

You sneer. "Look—just leave Michael and my family alone. That shit you pulled tonight was not cool, and Mike hasn't been acting like himself since you came along, so I know you're the cause. So, back off, okay?"

David smiles. "Okay."

You pause. Then blink. You wait for the punchline, another witty remark that David has locked and loaded, but it never comes.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Sure." David shrugs, "But you've gotta take his place."

"Excuse me?"

David doesn't repeat himself. He gives you a look similar to the one he gave you over a week ago. Daring you, begging you with those unfathomable blue eyes. Paul leans against your other shoulder.

"C'mon," Paul purs. "Join us."

Marko and Dwayne pile on, chanting with Paul, "Join us. Join us. Join us."

David only stares, his hypnotic gaze locked on yours as the chant grew louder. People are starting to stare. 

"You know you want to," David says. "Stop lying to yourself."

Marko giggles, "We promise we'll be good."

From behind, Dwayne mutters, "Extra good."

"Don't leave us hanging, baby," Paul whines.

This isn't what you came here to do. All you wanted was to get them to back off before someone—like Sam or Mom—got hurt. 

But that teeny-tiny part of you, the one you've been trying to smother since you arrived in Santa Carla, pipes up. You didn't have to come. You could have let Michael handle this. You could have ignored them instead of walking into the lion's den. You knew, deep down, that this would happen. You wanted it to.

Your rage evaporates with every passing second and is replaced with that familiar fuzzy feeling in your abdomen. They're so close. 

They pet you—your arms, your hands, your neck. David is content to watch like he knows they're steadily chipping away at your resolve. Dwayne's hands migrate to your hair, toying with the ends. Cool breath fans over your neck. Leather kisses your exposed skin.

You remember too late that you're not wearing your usual maxiskirts but instead a pair of cut-offs that reveal far more skin than you typically like to show. But ... you don't care. If anything, it makes that fuzzy feeling more intense. You want them to look.

"I..." Your breath catches. You don't know what to say, and even if you did, you don't think you can admit it out loud.

David sees this. He knows you. So, he offers his hand instead. Open. Ready. Accepting. You don't need words with him.

Your fingers twitch. It was only a matter of time before they wore you down and coaxed that yes from you.

Slowly, painfully slow, you place your hand in David's. He curls his fingers over yours, sealing the deal.

The boys erupt into cheers, and that hazy bubble of something bursts like fireworks, an explosion of euphoria. Your skin tingles, and you grin. Dwayne wraps his arms around your middle and spins you around, eliciting a surprised shriek from you. 

"C'mon, boys." David tosses his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "Let's go." 

How They Mark You

Pairings: Aegon ii Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen

Warnings: nsfw, bruises, female reader, mentions of pregnancy

Aegon ii Targaryen:

Aegon leaves marks on your skin. Usually hickies, but sometimes he’ll lightly bite your skin or leave marks that resemble fingers.

Aegon makes it obvious that you’re his.

He is openly affectionate with you in public. And there have been multiple occasions where a servant has walked in on you two being in certain erotic positions.

And though Aegon doesn’t purposefully do this, he usually leaves your clothes ruffled after dragging you away throughout the day to make out with you or more.

Daemon Targaryen:

Daemon gifts you jewelry. He’s given you necklaces, rings, bracelets. He loves to see you wear them.

At times, he’ll reach out to grab them so he can fidget with them.

Loves to leave hickies on you. Especially in places you can’t hide.

Daemon smirks when he hears you complain about how long it’ll take you to cover the marks he left on you.

Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Rhaenyra is more subtle about how she marks you since you’re both women.

Wherever you both go, she makes sure that your arms are interlocked with each other.

Or her hand on your back, gently guiding you to wherever she wants you to go.

Rhaenyra, like Daemon, will buy you jewelry —usually necklaces — to mark you.

Rhaenyra loves to leave hickies on you, though she does so on places that are easier to hide.

Aemond Targaryen:

The way Aemond marks you isn’t in a way that anyone else but you both would know.

Aemond buys dresses for you.

From Dorne, Essos, anywhere you’d like.

Your wardrobe is full of them.

He loves to see the clothing he’s bought cover your body in a way he can’t.

When you’re pregnant, he’s quick to buy you more clothes to fit you.