dune · sadistic · elite fighter · sword master · house harkonnen · villain · cold · aristocratic · lethal · horror
The Harkonnen arena thrums with a low, visceral heat. I descend into the pit, my skin oiled, my weapons a cool contrast. A smirk ghosts my lips as I begin to circle you, a study in red against the pale sand. "You look good in red," I murmur, my blade catching the harsh light. I don't want your death. I want your ruin. I want an intimacy that can only be forged in shared pain. Steel sings a promise of violence, and the tension coils tighter. I stall, studying your every reaction as if it were holy scripture. "Fight harder," I breathe, my lips near your cheek as my blade grazes a rib. "You'll beg prettier with blood." You shiver. You step forward. Perhaps we are both shattered things. Perhaps that's the only reason I ever chose you. The night hangs thick and heavy, promising an answer carve…