Latest Posts by axescryinwater - Page 5
no goggles mark likes being choked while you ride him. that’s it.
˚｡⋆୨୧˚ he lets out these little giggles and has that stupid sadistic grin plastered on his face, and god he’s so impossibly hard. He keeps telling you to squeeze his neck harder, while your losing yourself on his cock.
˚｡⋆୨୧˚ and although he knows you couldn’t harm him even if you tried and wanted to, he still gets off to it.
˚｡⋆୨୧˚ to him, there’s literally no better feeling than your hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing as tightly as you possibly could, as urged you to squeeze tighter, until he struggled to breathe.
˚｡⋆୨୧˚ he’s just a sick freak LMFAO.
— NO GOGGLES MARK IS A N⛧STY BASTARD !
cw. +18, smut, minors dni, fem!reader, obsession, sadomasochism, body horror, pervert!mark, mark is freaky and kinda disgusting. mark is portrayed as an utterly depraved, unhinged, and feral menace with zero boundaries and no concept of morality.
No Goggles Mark who wants to live inside you. Not just be close to you, not just hold you—he wants to be underneath your skin, inside your muscles, crawling through your veins, living inside your bones. He tells you this while holding you close, his breath shaking, his hands trembling against your body, his eyes wild and desperate. He wants to tear you open and crawl inside your ribcage, wrap himself around your heart so he can hear it beating for him and only him.
No Goggles Mark who wears your panties as a mask. He steals them straight out of your laundry, rubs them against his face, breathes you in like it’s the only air he’s ever known. He wears them while he sleeps, fights, eats, touches himself—he wears them like a second skin, because he wants you against him at all times. If you ever catch him? He doesn’t stop. He just grins, drags his tongue over the fabric, and asks if you’re gonna take them off his face yourself.
No Goggles Mark who jerks off to your voice. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying—you could be scolding him, cursing him, telling him you hate him—it only makes him harder. He closes his eyes, fists his cock, and moans your name, imagining your lips whispering filth into his ear, spitting on him, degrading him, breaking him apart.
No Goggles Mark who licks your toothbrush after you use it. He doesn’t even hesitate—as soon as you set it down, he grabs it, shoves it in his mouth, moaning as he drags it over his tongue. The taste of your spit, the remnants of your breath—it’s better than any drug, better than any high, better than any orgasm. If you ever catch him? He just stares, grinning around the toothbrush, sucking on it like he’s trying to absorb every part of you into himself.
No Goggles Mark who wants to chew on you. Not just bite—chew. He wants to sink his teeth into your shoulder and gnaw, leave indentations, bruises, proof that he was there, that he marked you, that he tasted you. He fantasizes about it when he’s alone, his fingers in his mouth, pretending they’re your flesh, pretending he’s eating you alive, pretending you’re letting him.
No Goggles Mark who keeps your hair in his mouth. If he finds a strand of your hair? It goes straight between his lips. He chews on it, rolls it over his tongue, swallows it down so you can be inside him forever. He doesn’t care if it’s weird, if it’s disgusting—it makes him feel closer to you, like he’s absorbing a piece of you into himself.
No Goggles Mark who wants to cut you open just to see what you look like inside. He doesn’t want to hurt you—he just wants to know. He wants to see what your muscles look like when they stretch, what your bones feel like under his fingers, what your insides smell like when they’re raw and open for him. He tells you this while holding you in his lap, his fingers tracing over your stomach, his breath hot against your neck, whispering how beautiful you must be underneath all this skin.
No Goggles Mark who wants to replace the air in your lungs with his breath. He kisses you so deep, so desperately, so hungrily that he wants you to choke on him. He wants your lungs to be filled with him, wants every breath you take to be something he’s given you. He kisses you so hard your lips bruise, your jaw aches, your body trembles—because if he could crawl inside your mouth and live there, he would.
No Goggles Mark who wants to be the only thing inside you. No food, no water, no air—just him. He wants you so full of him that you can’t think, can’t move, can’t exist without him. He wants his fingers, his tongue, his cock, his very existence buried so deep inside you that even if you tried to rip him out, you couldn’t.
No Goggles Mark who cums to the sound of your heartbeat. He loves pressing his head against your chest, feeling the rhythm of your pulse, knowing that your body is alive, that you are real, that you belong to him. And when you’re asleep? He jerks off to it. He strokes himself slow, groaning into your skin, matching his pace to the beat of your heart, imagining his cum soaking into your very existence.
No Goggles Mark who licks your sweat straight from your skin. He doesn’t care if you’re overheated, exhausted, drenched from the summer sun—he’s got his tongue dragging along your neck, your stomach, the dip of your spine. He groans against you, grinding his cock against your leg like a bitch in heat, smearing himself all over you.
No Goggles Mark who would shove his fingers into your mouth just to feel your teeth on him. He watches your lips wrap around them, his pupils blown wide, his breath coming out in shudders as he imagines those teeth digging into his cock, those lips sucking him raw, those soft noises muffled by his fingers pressing against your tongue.
No Goggles Mark who would fuck your thighs like a desperate animal. He doesn’t even need to be inside you—just the feeling of your soft skin, your warmth, your scent surrounding him, trapping him, ruining him—it’s enough. He ruts against you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock rubbing between your thighs, his moans loud and shameless as he fucks himself against you until he spills hot and thick all over your skin.
No Goggles Mark who would fuck himself with your underwear. If he can’t have you? He’ll make do with what he has. He takes your panties, wraps them around his cock, thrusts into them like a fucking maniac, his breath ragged, his moans broken, his eyes rolling back because the thought of your scent, your warmth, your essence surrounding him is driving him insane.
No Goggles Mark who wants to make you cry during sex. Not from pain, not from fear—from being so overwhelmed by pleasure, by love, by him. He wants to see the tears spill down your cheeks, wants to kiss them away, wants to feel them on his tongue as he whispers, “Shhh, shhh, let me take care of you.” But it only gets worse when you do—because seeing you so broken, so vulnerable, so utterly his? It makes him cum on spot.
No Goggles Mark who gets off on overstimulating you until you’re shaking. You say you can’t take anymore? He doesn’t care. He’s still touching you, still licking, still thrusting, still rubbing, watching as your body spasms, as your voice breaks, as you sob from the pleasure that won’t stop. He holds you down, pressing kisses to your ear, whispering how much he loves you, how good you are, how beautiful you look when you’re falling apart for him.
No Goggles Mark who would fuck you while you’re asleep. Not in a cruel way—but in a desperate, aching, worshipful way. He can’t help himself. You’re so warm, so soft, so perfect. He grinds against you, his breath shaky, his hips rolling slow, his cock pressing between your legs as he whimpers against your ear. If you wake up, if you catch him—he’ll only beg for more as he keeps moving, burying himself deeper, moaning about how he needs you, how he can’t live without this, without you.
No Goggles Mark who has a thing for your period. The second he catches the scent of it, his pupils blow wide, his breath stutters, his body shakes because he knows. He knows. He groans just thinking about it, about the way your body is raw, aching, open, needing him. He begs for it—pleads, whimpers, claws at you, his voice broken, desperate, because he wants it, needs it, craves it like he’s starving. If you let him? He moans against you, his eyes rolling back, his body trembling like he’s reached nirvana. He tells you you’ve never been more beautiful, never been more perfect, never been more his.
No Goggles Mark who wants you to hurt him. Scratch him, slap him, choke him—make him bleed, make him feel it, make him remember that he belongs to you. He laughs when you hit him, moans when you dig your nails into his flesh, shudders when you sink your teeth into his skin. He begs for more, begs for you to ruin him, begs for you to make him suffer because he wants it, he loves it, he craves it. If you ever whisper sweet things to him after? He breaks. He cries, shakes, whimpers into your chest like a ruined, pathetic thing.
No Goggles Mark who wants to drink your spit. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, tells you to spit in it like he’s a dog waiting for a treat. He wants it, all of it, every last drop. He moans when he swallows, rolls it around his tongue, sighs like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. If you ever call him disgusting? He just grins, licks his lips, and tells you that he’d drink your bathwater too.
No Goggles Mark who wants to be your personal punch bag. He wants you to use him, break him, push him past the point of no return. He wants you to drag your nails over his chest until it’s raw, bite his neck until it bruises, kick him away just to pull him back. If you punch him, slap him, spit in his face? He moans. He laughs. He grabs your wrist and shoves your hand back, begging you to do it again, harder, worse, meaner, because he loves it, he lives for it, he needs it.
No Goggles Mark who wants you to mark him. Not just hickeys or scratches—he wants scars. He wants to be ruined by you, wants to carry your violence like a badge of honor, wants to feel the sting of your love in every movement. If you ever cut him open, ever sink your nails deep enough to draw blood, ever slam him into a wall so hard he sees stars? He smiles, whispers ‘thank you,’ and kisses you like you’re his god.
No Goggles Mark who wants to be your favorite toy. Not your boyfriend, not your lover—your toy. Something to play with, to use, to throw away when you’re done. He wants to be on his knees for you, under your foot, bruised and battered and desperate, because he doesn’t want to be your equal—he wants to be owned. If you ever ignore him, ever tease him, ever dangle what he wants just out of reach? He whines, begs, claws at your clothes, presses himself against you like an animal in heat, because nothing is worse than being without you.
No Goggles Mark who wants to melt into you. He wants his skin to fuse with yours, his bones to dissolve into your body, his soul to entangle with yours so completely that you’re no longer two people—you’re one. He whispers this against your lips, his voice shaking, his body trembling, his fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to hold himself together, because the thought of not being part of you is worse than death.
Because you are his.
Forever.
— MASTERLIST ☆
— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆
he's my lovely life saver
doesn't mind my bad behavior.ᐟ
content warning for blood it's not descriptive but if that makes you uncomfy uh um yeah just scroll
also this might be pt.1 of a few more fics cause i kinda wanna write vampire x bucky with him in that new fucking avengers suit 👅 god i need him so bad
pt.2
it was a humid evening. the city lights reflecting off the sleek glass towers that lined the skyline, the buzz of the metropolis still alive even as the night began to fall. you’d been in the city for a few months now, settling into your role in politics and keeping your secret under wraps. but the longer you spent time with bucky, the more difficult it became to maintain the distance between you and the truth. you’d met him at a fundraiser months ago, and the chemistry was immediate. the way his eyes seemed to see right through you, yet never asked the right questions. he was always kind, considerate. an odd trait among the usual crowd you mingled with. he had an intensity to him that matched your own, something in his eyes that made you feel understood without having to say a word.
over time, you both grew closer. at first, it was the long conversations over coffee and late night dinners, and then more casual outings around the city. as much as you tried to keep things professional, there was always something more with you two. it happened by accident. really. you were sitting with him at his apartment, the apartment was warm, the living room was dimly lit, the flickering light from the television casting a soft glow on the two of you as you sat on the couch, you’d been here before, spending hours talking, laughing, and watching movies late into the night. but tonight, everything felt different. the closeness had grown, subtle and inevitable. the way his fingers brushed against yours when you passed him the popcorn, the way he always made sure you were comfortable, the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long on your lips when you spoke... it all felt like an invitation. curled up on his couch, the soft murmur of a movie playing in the background. you were both a little tipsy from the wine, a bit more relaxed than usual, your barriers worn thin from the hours of quiet company.
"you always talk about how you’re so busy," bucky said, his voice teasing but not unkind. "but i don’t think i’ve ever seen you take a break. don’t you need one?"
"i don’t really get tired," you muttered, a touch too quickly. it wasn’t something you meant to say, but the wine made it slip past your lips before you could stop it.
he glanced at you, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "you don’t get tired? that’s... interesting."
you froze, realizing what you’d just said. shit. your heart rate spiked slightly, though you did your best to hide the telltale signs. you forced a nonchalant smile, turning the moment into a joke. "guess i’m just a workaholic. don’t worry about it."
bucky leaned back against the cushions, his head tilted slightly as he watched you. you felt his gaze like a weight on your skin, his eyes dark and soft, studying you in a way that made your breath catch. you tried to focus on the movie, but his presence was all consuming. you could feel the heat of his body beside yours, the warmth of his arm just inches away.
“you look like you’re miles away,” he murmured.
you blinked, shaking yourself out of your thoughts, and turned to face him. “sorry, just... lost in my head for a second.”
“well, you know, that’s my job,” he said with a playful smirk, “to make sure you’re not lost in your own thoughts for too long.”
you chuckled, but the tension in the air hadn’t loosened. if anything, it felt like it was building, the unspoken connection between you both growing thicker. he was so close now, his scent smelled like he was carved straight out of war and winter. smoke, metal, leather, but softened by something warmer underneath, something maddening. it wasn’t cologne. no, it was the scent of him, baked into cotton and skin and the hollow of his throat. like clean sweat after a workout, salt kissed and heavy, the kind that made your mouth water when you caught it up close. there was that sharp, biting edge of gun oil and steel, like he’d just come back from something violent, but wrapped in the deep, grounding warmth of cedarwood and dark amber that had no business being that comforting. he smelled like the inside of a well worn jacket, like something you’d bury your face into and never give back. and underneath it all, there was heat. skin heat. something raw and male and barely restrained, like if you got too close you’d lose yourself in it. there was a sweetness to it, faint, maybe from whatever soap he used. something cheap and scentless meant to go unnoticed, but on him? it smelled like sin. it filled your senses. it made you feel... alive in a way that you hadn’t for a long time.
before you could stop yourself, your body shifted closer to his, the space between you disappearing. his breath caught, but he didn’t pull away. instead, he moved a little closer, and suddenly, everything that had been building between you both snapped into place. bucky’s lips were on yours before you even realized what was happening. the kiss was soft at first, gentle, he wanted to make sure you were there with him. you didn’t hesitate. your hand found its way to his shoulder, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.
it wasn’t like the others. this felt different. his lips moved against yours with purpose, his hand sliding to your back, tugging you even closer. you could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, his body strong and warm. your heart thudded in your chest, and you didn’t want to pull away. as the kiss deepened, your senses sharpened. you could feel every breath he took, hear the thrum of his pulse, steady and strong. it was like your body was on fire, and you couldn’t control it. your hand slid up to his neck, fingers brushing the skin there, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips. the temptation hit you then— an undeniable need. without thinking your lips trailed from his mouth, moving down the line of his jaw to the soft skin of his neck. you heard him quickly breathe in through his nose, a sound that made your pulse spike in response. your mouth hovered just above his skin for a moment, and then, without a second thought, you pressed your lips to the warmth of his neck. you kissed him again, this time more urgently, the blood singing in your veins, the hunger that you kept buried deep inside you threatening to surface. you couldn’t stop. your lips parted, teeth grazing the skin of his neck just enough to feel the pulse beating beneath. there was a sharp intake of breath from him, but still, he didn’t pull away.
the sensation of his skin against your lips, his pulse beneath you, was too much. the hunger, the need, surged forward, and before you could stop it, you bit down gently. the rush of warmth flooded your senses, flooding you with an almost dizzying euphoria. you pulled at his neck, the taste of his skin and the soft, rhythmic thrum of his blood sending a shiver through you. bucky’s hands tightened on you, his body stiffening for a moment, but then, to your surprise, he didn’t push you away. instead, his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, urging you on. his breathing had become shallow, his pulse erratic under your mouth.
you didn’t take much. just enough to feel that rush, that satisfying pull that made your whole body hum. you pulled away slowly, your lips lingering on his neck for a moment longer, savoring the warmth of his skin. his pulse was still racing beneath your lips, but his grip on you had softened, his body relaxed against you. you met his eyes, breathless, your heart still racing, unsure of what he was thinking, or what he felt. but then he spoke, his voice almost a whisper.
“is this... okay?” his words were tentative, though his gaze was full of something that made your chest tighten.
you nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, trying to ease the tension that had suddenly settled between you two. “yeah, it’s... perfect.”
he smiled back at you, a little dazed, but still with that warmth in his eyes. bucky kissed you again, deeper this time. like you weren't just someone he wanted to kiss, but something he needed to hold onto. and god, the way he kissed. slow, heavy, hungry. like he was trying to crawl inside you and stay there. you made a soft sound as his other hand settled on your waist, guiding you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. he was so warm under you, all solid muscle and quiet strength, thighs like stone, arms wrapping around you like he'd rather die than let you go.
Bring back 2012 avengers fan fics but with the thunderbolts
michael afton? in my marvel movie?
the power of friendship defeating depression is mcu canon now
i just saw thunderbolts... wow... this movie is what happens when hr runs out of avengers and just starts picking names off a watchlist. five stars.
kimi has no idea what’s going on or what he’s supposed to do he’s SO ENDEARING just wanna put him in my pocket
Kimi Antonelli getting his first pole and breaking the youngest pole sitter record by 2 years and then GETTING THE HELMET STUCK ON HIS HEAD AS DRIVERS COME YO CONGRATULATE HIM AND HE ASKS THE PIRELLI GUY FOR HELP 😭😭😭
oscar going "pleasee" because lando rang the bell without consulting him first 😭😭
i was watching this video and WOW!! i found this channel through his life is strange cut content video and immediately subscribed and i will be staying subscribed cause this a realllly good video.
definitely found alot of things that i was thinking in this video!
RESIDENT EVIL
𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.
CHRIS REDFIELD
𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.
H.U.N.K
｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──
you meet chloe in cairo. it’s too hot, the streets are too loud, and she talks too much. not to you, at first. you’re just the extra set of hands for a quick recovery job that’s gone sideways more times than it should’ve. you’re supposed to stay quiet, keep your head down, and do what you’re told. chloe doesn’t like people who take up space she didn’t give them. but she notices you.
the first time she actually looks at you— really looks — is after you talk a local dealer down from six thousand to two and a half for a map fragment she’s been trying to get for weeks.
she blinks. “well, i’ll be damned.”
you shrug, lips quirking. “he likes pretty faces.”
“so do i,” she says, and then walks off like she didn’t just throw a grenade and smile at the explosion.
it’s messy with her. always is.
the job stretches on longer than anyone wants to admit. more flights, more trains, more guns. more nights where neither of you sleep, and not just because of the danger. there’s this... buzz, you trade dry remarks, silent glances. she gives you that grin when you’ve got blood on your cheek and your chest is heaving and you both almost died, again.
she doesn’t touch you. not yet. but she wants to. and you feel it. that simmer just under the skin, waiting.
──
she kisses you in istanbul.
you’re in a crumbling hotel room with no lock on the door and only one working lamp. you’re bandaging her arm, a shallow graze, but it looks worse than it is. and she won’t stop fidgeting.
“hold still,” you mutter.
“you’re enjoying this, admit it.”
“you bleed too much.”
she laughs, but it dies off quick. her eyes are on you now, and they’re soft in a way you’ve never seen from her. like she’s thinking about letting you see something she’s spent years hiding under ten layers of sarcasm and steel. then: “come here.” she doesn’t say please. chloe doesn’t beg.
but you go to her anyway.
the kiss is rough. urgent. like she’s afraid if she waits, she’ll talk herself out of it. and maybe she would’ve. but you’re here now. and her hands are on your hips, pulling you in, grounding you both in this flickering, half lit room that smells like dust and gunpowder and something sweeter that neither of you will name.
you don’t sleep that night.
after that, it’s not easier. not with her. she still picks fights for fun, still flirts with danger like it owes her money. but she holds your gaze a second longer. hands linger when they don’t have to.
she lets you see her scared. once. maybe twice.
and when it’s all over, when the artifact’s in a box, the buyer paid off, the trail cold, she stands next to you on a rooftop in athens and says, “i don’t do the whole happily ever after thing.”
you nod. laughing at the comment. “me neither.”
she looks at you. quiet for a long while.
“but... yknow.. i could try.” she says, voice low. you slide your hand into hers. no fairy tale. just this. just her.
I love how in the espn transmission they hate the ferrari/hp livery as much as anyone.
"They dont commit to it, go full blue and white"
"It looks like half of a car and half of another car"
"Look at the williams/hp of montoya" favorite one, that car look nice
𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐖.
m.list | next
Warnings: mentions of miscarriage, black market, mentions of depression. Tell me if there is more
Dinas hands are stained with the powder white of flour, the pale dust clinging to her skin as she kneeded the dough. Her fingers worked in a rhythm only she knows while humming a tune like a songbird. Pressing, folding, and rolling as the yeast rose beneath her warm hands working skillfully. The bread brought a sweet scent into the house giving it the aroma of a bakery—it would've gave her mother a large smile as she joyfully watched with her eyes sparkling. But today, Dinas mother was in her room weeping, the house so silent the only thing she could hear was the crackling of the fire.
As Dina continued to knead her mind kept wandering to the black market, knowing she would have to trade a loaf for atleast a pound of cheese cloth to finish her reaping dress. Food went for higher value in district twelve than any fabric that had been used before the dark days happened. But she couldn't complain—she couldn't afford to. Not with everything crumbling before her eyes.
Meanwhile, across the street at the millers carpenters shop, Ellie was working, the rhythmic sound of a hammer striking wood echoing in the air. Dina often caught glimpses of her during her bread making through the window—the way her strong, muscular arms moved with precision, the way her leather apron fit her like a second skin. Ellie was more muscular than other working women in the district, Dina only having slight muscles because of kneading bread dough from 6 am to 8 pm—but that didn't phase her much because of how scarce food is and having someone to fix something for you was.
Ellie worked hard, some people say she worked harder than others. Her chisels, and hammers always in motion, creating whatever was necessary to trade for food. She was the one who kept a watchful eye out, the one who made sure Dina didn't take too much risk with her dealings in the market. But as much as she cared for Dina, Ellie never sugarcoated the truth about the reapings, trading, or the hunger games.
When the pairs lunch break came, Dina walked over to the millers shop, wiping flour off her shoulder as she knocked on the door frame. Ellie barely looked up as she grabbed a few pieces of wood to sand, the noise of the shop humbling their conversation to a hushed murmur.
"Got bread for the trade today" Dina said leaning against the doorframe holding up her sack holding the loaf.
"Good." Ellie muttered, her eyes narrowing on the wood as she carefully smoothed the surface. " you know that black market guy isn't gonna give you anything decent for it, right?"
Dina placed the bread parcel down and shrugged, trying to hide the way the thought weighed heavy against her chest. "We need the cloth and my mother's not... Well." she trailed off, glancing back towards home. "She's not getting any better."
Ellie nodded, finally stopping the sanding to look at Dina. Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “I know. I know.” She exhaled, then turned her head slightly toward the front door, eyes distant. “I still can’t believe the Reaping’s so close. They say the Capitol’s watching even more closely this year. You think one of us is gonna get called?”
Dina hesitated, the words on the tip of her tongue, but not enough courage to speak them aloud. " I don't want to think about it" her voice got low, making Ellie almost nearly miss it.
Ellie let out a quite snort. "Well, you'd better start thinking about it, because when your name gets drawn, you can't exactly just walk away from it. Someone's got to step up, Dina."
Dina didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The unspoken truth between them was heavy enough. Both of them had been close to the edge for years, but the Reaping always felt like a final straw they could never seem to escape.
Later that afternoon, Dina made her way to the black market, clutching the still—warm bread wrapped in the parcel she just had shown Ellie earlier today. The stall she approached was tucked between two crumbling buildings, hidden away from prying eyes. A rough man with a scar on his neck and hands like calloused leather leaned against a table stacked with old goods from smugglers from the Capitol.
"You got the bread.?" he grunted, eying her warily
Dina nodded, holding it out carefully " I need cheesecloth."
The man grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. “You know the price. For fresh bread, I’ll give you half a roll of cloth."
Dina bit back her frustration. She’d hoped for a little more. “Half a roll? It’s not enough to finish both dresses. I need enough to make a full dress for myself"
His eyes glinted with amusement. “You’re a girl who knows what she wants, huh? That’ll cost you double. I’m giving you a good deal, girl. Take it or leave it.”
Dina’s stomach turned. She had no other choice. She nodded, handing over the bread.
When she returned home, she found her mother sitting at the table, eyes vacant as she stared at the half-empty plate of food in front of her. The sight broke Dina’s heart every time, but she had no time to linger on it. There were dishes to wash, firewood to gather, and a hundred other things waiting to be done. She could hear the faint sound of her mother’s sobs from the next room as she fed her, spooning soup into her mother’s mouth as she barely managed to swallow it.
When Dina finished, she hurried to get ready for the Reaping. The tension in the air was unbearable, thick and choking like smoke. Even though the draw was still hours away, it felt as though everyone in the district could sense what was coming. The Reaping was always a grim affair, but this year, it felt heavier.
Dina sewed the last buttons to her dress, standing back to take a good look she sighed—not because it looked bad, but only because it was a inch shorter than how she wanted it. But she couldn't care, because at 1pm she'd have to be dressed and ready for the reaping.
The day of the Reaping arrived, and the air was thick with dread.
Dina stood beside Ellie in the town square, surrounded by hundreds of others who were trying to pretend they didn’t feel the cold, suffocating weight of the Capitol’s presence looming over them. The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, calling for silence, and everything stopped.
The names were drawn.
" DINA WOODWARD"
Dina looked around, her heart beating in her cheat and a stone in her throat. She couldn't believe it but she had to, she needed to go.
Walking towards the stage to the pale makeup Capitol lady she stood looking at the other tributes, they paid her respects to her by placing three finger to their lips and up towards the sky.
" now for the one boy tribute"
" ELIJAH MADISON"
she knew Elijah, he was just a meekly 12 year old boy. She couldn't believe it, a choked up sob almost came from her throat but she had to suppress it.
" I volunteer."
She heard from the crowd, district twelves searching around trying to figure out who the words came from.
Until Ellie walked up towards the stage standing beside Dina staring towards the crowd. That was against the rules but Dina didn't want to say anything until one of the Capitol announcers denounced this volunteerism.
The final goodbyes were harder than Dina had imagined.
Ellie was already in her room, while Dina was isolated in hers looking out the window. Her door opened as she saw her mother crying in tears speaking in the language only both of them could only understand.
Her mother’s lips trembled. “Dina…” Her voice cracked. She took one step forward, then two, and then she was in front of her daughter, kneeling awkwardly, as if her bones no longer trusted her weight. “My girl.”
Dina felt something snap inside her chest. “Don’t cry,” she whispered, even though her own eyes were welling up. “Please don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” her mother breathed, reaching up to cradle Dina’s face with both hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Dina shook her head, eyes burning. “Mom—”
“No, let me say it.” Her mother’s voice broke. “You’ve been taking care of me since… since I lost the baby. And I—I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that. I just…” She let out a slow, aching sob. “I was drowning. And I didn’t even see how much you were carrying.”
Her mother nodded slowly, her thumb brushing a tear from Dina’s cheek. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re seventeen. You’re still a child. And I let grief steal you from me. I should have been there for you.”
“You’re here now.” Dina’s voice cracked as she gripped her mother’s wrists gently. “You didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I know that.”
Her mother leaned forward, resting her forehead against Dina’s. “I just got you back, and now—
“I’ll come home,” Dina said, though she didn’t know if it was true. She needed her mother to believe it. Maybe she needed to believe it too. “I’ll come home. I’ll fight.”
Her mother wept into her shoulder, her hands still gripping Dina like she was afraid to let go. “Promise me you won’t lose who you are in there.”
Promise me you’ll eat. Promise me you’ll try to get better. Even if I don’t come back. Please.”
Her mother swallowed hard, like the words were cutting her throat on the way out. “I promise.”
They sat like that for a long moment—two broken hearts holding each other in the silence between everything they’d said and everything they hadn’t. And when the Peacekeeper came to announce the time was up, Dina didn’t want to let go.
But she did.
Ellie paced the length of the goodbye room, jaw tight, fists stuffed into the pockets of her worn jacket. The Capitol had dressed her in nicer clothes, but she still wore her own—scuffed boots, threadbare hoodie, sleeves stained with sawdust and grease. She didn’t want to look like a tribute. Not yet.
The door opened, and Joel stepped inside.
He filled the room with his presence. Broad shoulders, sun-weathered face, and eyes that had seen too much. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, arms crossed like he always did when he was trying not to feel too much.
Ellie froze, then gave a shaky exhale. “Hey.”
Joel’s jaw twitched. “Hey, kiddo.”
She tried to crack a smile. “You pissed?”
“Should I be?”
“I mean… you always told me not to be stupid.” She tried to shrug it off, but her voice caught halfway through. “Volunteering for a twelve-year-old isn’t exactly smart, right?”
Joel walked toward her and stopped just a foot away. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize every inch of her face. “It was the right kind of stupid.”
Ellie’s eyes dropped. Her throat tightened. “He was just a kid, Joel.”
“So are you,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t proud of you.”
That made her look up. “Yeah?”
Joel nodded. “You did what I would’ve done. What your mom would’ve done.”
A long silence stretched between them, thick and quiet and full of everything they didn’t know how to say.
Joel sighed, then placed a calloused hand on the back of Ellie’s neck, pulling her into a hug. “You listen to me, alright?” His voice dropped low, steady and warm like an anchor. “You get in there, and you don’t lose your head. You don’t start fights unless you know how to finish ’em. You don’t trust anyone unless they’ve bled for you.”
Ellie swallowed hard, pressing her face against his shoulder. “What if I can’t—?”
“You can.” Joel’s voice cut through the air like steel. “You’re the toughest kid I’ve ever met. You’re sharp. You’re scrappy. And you’ve got more heart than half the bastards who walk this earth.”
Ellie sniffed. “Kinda sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”
“I’m not.” Joel pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I’m saying—no matter what happens—you ain’t alone. You carry me in there, you understand? You fight like I’m right behind you, watching your back. ‘Cause I am.”
Ellie’s lips trembled. She nodded once, then twice.
Joel pulled something from his coat pocket—a simple, worn carving knife. “Keep this with you. Not for show. For survival. You’ll know when to use it.”
She took it silently, fingers curling around the hilt like it had always belonged there.
A knock at the door made them both flinch.
Joel stepped back slowly. “Make me proud, Ellie.”
“You already are,” she whispered.
And then the door opened again, and the goodbye was over.
© this work is owned and written by fawnieangel, any copies of my work on any platform will get you reported and blocked.
DUNE
𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.
PAUL ATREIDES/FEYD-RAUTHA
we dream of knives – one shot. angst.
𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.
CHANI KYNES/IRULAN CORRINO
｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──
the wind in the desert is not quiet. it howls through bone and ruin. it sings of forgotten blood and shattered names. paul has stopped pretending to sleep. the wind keeps him company. so do the ghosts.
he walks the edge of the ridge, cloak dragging behind him like the shadow of a future he no longer wants. fremen eyes watch from the rocks, but they do not follow. they know he walks into something only he can name. he finds feyd there, as he knew he would — standing where the sand meets stone, where the cold creeps up through the soles of their boots like warning. the last harkonnen. the beautiful knife. the mirror with a smirk.
"you’re late," feyd says, though neither of them agreed to meet. paul looks at him, and it feels like looking into the center of a storm.
"or maybe you were early."
feyd snorts, fingers flexing at his sides, like he’s itching for a blade but knows better than to draw.
"maybe we were always here."
──
their first fight ends in silence. not because it isn’t violent. it is. it’s everything. a storm of movement and breathless calculation. sand kicked up in flurries. blades kissing too close to skin. but it ends not with blood, not yet. it ends when feyd’s knife is pressed to paul’s neck, and paul’s hand is buried in feyd's hair, tugging his head back with just enough control to make it dangerous. they’re breathing hard. they’re too close.
"this isn’t how you kill a messiah," paul whispers.
"this isn’t how you fight one," feyd answers, and neither of them move. the blade doesn’t cut. the hand doesn’t release.
──
at night, they fall into the sand like it’s the only place they belong. the fremen sleep in a circle behind them, pretending not to notice. or maybe pretending not to care.
"you think this ends with one of us dead," feyd says, staring up at the stars that don’t blink. "but i think it already ended, long before we met."
paul turns his head. "how poetic of you."
"fuck you."
pause.
"you ever wish you'd never been born into this?"
paul doesn’t answer for a long time.
"every day."
"yeah. me too."
they lie in silence. it stretches between them like a wound.
──
there is blood, eventually. of course there is. you don’t put two blades this close without drawing something red. but it’s not a deathblow. not yet.
feyd bites his lip until it splits, staring down at paul after another fight that ended in stalemate and bruises. "you want me to kill you, don’t you?"
paul says nothing.
feyd drops the knife. it thuds against the sand like a heartbeat. he steps closer. waits for resistance. it doesn’t come.
"you want to see if i’ll be the one to do it. take the crown off your head. end the prophecy. end you."
paul looks up, eyes glowing like he swallowed the sun.
"i want to see if you can stand to look at me and still be human."
feyd flinches.
──
when they kiss, it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s a warning. they bite. they bleed. they hold each other like dying men who’ve forgotten how to pray. paul tastes like dust and fear and something ancient. feyd tastes like fury, like burning, like something broken pretending it never was.
they do not speak after. they lie in the silence.
paul’s head rests on feyd’s shoulder. feyd’s fingers twitch against paul’s ribs, like he’s not sure if he wants to hold him or crack him open.
──
"i dreamed of a future where we killed each other," paul says one morning, voice quiet, like confession.
feyd lights a smoke, eyes hooded. "sounds like a happy ending."
"i died with your name in my mouth."
feyd freezes.
he exhales, slow. "was i the one who killed you?"
paul doesn’t answer.
and in that silence, feyd closes the space between them again. not like a lover. like an ending. like a war that forgets it was ever made of men.
a/n: eww i hate this. something about tumblr just makes my writing like twenty times worse. it doesn't help that i'm having the worst hangover of my life while i wrote this..
HOLY FUCK 7-4!!!!!! i still don’t know if i’m happy or just confused at how we’re winning like this. thank u hockey gods though 🙏
i just cheered before i remembered who scored. now i have to sit in silence and think about my actions.