#Private Transportation Near Me

[limorentalnyc101]

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SOURCE: https://newyorklimoservice1.blogspot.com/2024/06/Looking-for-Transportation-Services-Near-Me-Choose-Limo-Rental-NYC.html

[blackhatchauffeurs]

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[twinbee00]

Top Benefits of Toronto Airport Limo- Tequilimo

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[741852653]

Top Benefits of Toronto Airport Limo- Tequilimo

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[abtransportqatar]

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[drivine]

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[fortmyersprivatecars]

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[alexamartini]

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[6ebe]

find it sooo funny that there are 4 British f1 drivers and all of them live in Monaco to dodge Uk tax. And they’ll all be like “I’m so proud to be British 😁” WHAT ABT THE NHS THEN

[yandwlimos]

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[limorentalnyc101]

Looking for Transportation Services Near Me? Choose Limo Rental NYC

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[nolaridesllc]

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[dccarserviceandlimo]

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[wordsinhaled]

Charles has settled on Edwin's lap in the wingback chair in a comfortable sprawl, his knees on either side of Edwin's. He'd gone about it with a practiced ease, as though this is something he's done a million times; as though he belongs here; as though he could search out this spot in his sleep, if ghosts could sleep.

Yet Charles being so near to him, and with such deliberate and specific intent—that being their mutual enjoyment—is a relatively recent development, in the grand scheme. Edwin is... ablaze with the newness of it. He has to tip his head back just to get the full measure of Charles perched astride him, of the low lamplight diffused across Charles' face, of the fond, familiar mischief that glimmers in his eyes.

Port Townsend may have opened Edwin to his innermost desires, but if he is very, very honest he can admit that his private longing for Charles is of much older provenance. He would have given Charles an eternity to sort out the shape of his own feelings, if he needed it. And if it had meant Charles' continued happiness, he would have been content to live out their days alone in his regard, content with a cherished friendship that never included this.

By some miracle, he does not have to.

It had not taken Charles anywhere close to an eternity to figure out the rest, so to speak. What is a single year, after all, to a pair of ghosts? Falling in love, Charles had told him, felt like waking up in a strange bedroom which became, as you shook off sleep, suddenly as familiar as your own. "Oh... bit of a weird metaphor, that," he'd said, wrinkling his nose in the way Edwin privately found exceedingly endearing. Then: "Sorry, mate. I'd been building up to this, you know? What I was gonna say to you. Had it all planned in my head and now. Well. Can't get it out right, can I?"

But semantics didn't much matter, in the end.

In the end, being in love with one another had come to them as easily as it had to fall into step walking through the gates of St. Hilarion's, away from their shadowed past and towards their intertwined future.

It is dizzying to acknowledge that this is real—not a game, or a trick, or a trap. Just Charles Rowland, whom he adores, looking equally smitten as he steadies himself with his hands on Edwin's upper arms, the better to give an experimental shimmy of his hips against Edwin's. Like an anchorless ship Edwin drifts on the sweeping tide of pleasure their proximity brings. He relishes how Charles’ gaze rolls over him, terribly tender in its focus and promisingly molten.

"Charles," he says in unspooled wonder, simply because he can. Simply because happiness, in this moment, takes the shape of his best friend's name in his mouth. To his own ears he sounds strangled. Transported. Not himself whatsoever. It ought to scare him, the difference Charles can work through him so easily with the barest effort; it both does and doesn't. "I am certain you'll be the death of me."

"You're already dead, mate," says Charles, "live a little," and he actually giggles, like he's just said the funniest thing in all the world; like it pleases him immeasurably to know he can have this mad effect on Edwin. The giddy edge of his laughter vibrates through his chest, and into Edwin's. And Charles sounds breathless, even though ghosts do not need to breathe.

Edwin loves him so much, just then, that it genuinely aches. Not the agony of hell or the shocking burn of iron, but something new altogether, an incandescence that lances sharp beneath his breastbone. Something else to add to his running mental catalogue of sensations he shouldn't be able to feel, along with the beginnings of a flush spreading over his skin and the welcome heat of Charles' body through their clothes.

It is, all told, rather overwhelming.

Charles must read something of the enormity of his predicament writ plain on his face, for in the next second he reaches out to stroke careful, calloused thumbs over Edwin's burning cheeks. It's only a feather-light touch, back and forth and back again, one that might irk him were it to come from anyone else—but Charles has always been permitted certain liberties, so instead Edwin finds it... grounding. Or exhilarating. He isn't sure which. Possibly both.

"Hey," Charles says. "It's all right. It's fine. Still going slow, remember? This is brills, just this. We can st—"

"I do not wish us to stop," Edwin protests, before Charles can even finish the unthinkable suggestion. He could remain suspended in this precise millisecond for the next thirty years without complaint. "It is only that I... I can feel you. And everything. Everything we are doing. And it—you—you are so very...”

"Good?" Charles supplies, grinning Edwin’s favorite of his grins—the wide, unfettered one that shows his gums and lets a bit of his tongue peek between his teeth. He looks hopeful, impossibly bright in his joy, and just a little wicked.

“Yes,” Edwin says. "Better than good." He smiles up at Charles, some distant part of him registering that he must look utterly besotted.

Charles laughs, delighted.

And he tips forward to drop his forehead onto Edwin’s shoulder; to put his lips to Edwin’s neck, just below his ear. He presses a kiss there, so quick Edwin might think he’d imagined it, except that Charles does it a second time. And a third, this one open-mouthed and lingering, sending little shivers skittering down Edwin's spine and drawing a soft noise from his throat.

“I like this,” Charles whispers into Edwin's skin. His voice is raw-edged, confessional in a way Edwin hasn't quite heard him sound these three-odd decades. “So much. Being like this, with you. Didn't know how much I would, did I? 'Course you'd see it before me. Brilliant, you are, Edwin Payne."

[generalsdiary]

the spice will warm me from the inside

Jiaoqiu x Moze

warnings: description of injuries, mentions of the 2.5 events, Jiaoqiu’s history, Moze’s history, nightmares, anxiety, breakdowns, knives/weapons mentioned, one swear word, assassination attempt (dw)

word count: 5.5k

description: a hurt/comfort fic, angst & fluff, life after the events of 2.5, kinda found family trope as well. Jiaoqiu's life with his newfound trauma and disability, Jiaoqiu and Moze living life and communicating in healthy ways. As much as it goes over their "angsty" pasts and traumas it is very healing and focused on moving forward and learning to find a way to go on even when all has gone dark (pun not intended). Feixiao shows up a few times, Sushang comes to visit. As much as it is hurt/comfort, dw as soon as it hurts you, you will be comforted. One has to process through their past traumas and everything they have been through in order to start moving on. A realistic approach.

Jiaoqiu's fingers pressed against the smooth surface of the window. Cold, smooth, glossy. Traveling between the ships of the Luofu wasn't something new to him, but the experience felt different. The darkness, the shadow didn't move no matter how wide he opened his eyes, hoping for light to seep in, for a picture to form. It was hopeless, the poison took its toll.

“Moze.” his voice was gentle as ever, trying his best to hide the tremble in it. The fear as every space feels unfamiliar. The small tremor in his hands that hasn't left since he was... rescued.

“Yes?” a deep-toned voice beside him makes his ears perk up, trying to pinpoint the location, to naturally turn to the man as he usually would. With the way he could before. He turns, hopefully towards Moze. A small crinkle in his eyes as he recalls how March corrected him twice because he wasn't facing her nor the others. Jiaoqiu expected his hearing to be better, to be a better aid, especially as a foxian.

“Describe the room for me. Please.” there's a small pause. A silence. The shadow guard was incredibly quiet, not even a rustle of his clothes.

“It is the same as the last time. Small room, red velvet seats, three across three, sliding glass door, warm light from the headlight, grey floors. The regular transportation.”

Jiaoqiu nods, bringing his fan out, hiding half his face and gently moving it creating a small whiff of air. He remembers some of it... such a mundane thing, he never paid it too much attention. It hurts. Leaning his head back against the soft seat he closes his eyes. They are straining him. an unfamiliar feeling this early in the day.

“Mhm, thank you, Moze... and. General Feixiao, where is she?”

“Arranging a private port for us three to exit at. to avoid crowds.” Moze keeps his answer concise.

The trio is still greeted by guards and some of the general’s usual caretakers. They have received the news, and a man eagerly approaches the trio. His hand is quickly gripping Jiaoqiu’s forearm, making him lose his balance, making him stumble. He desperately uses his tail to balance and tug his arm back. The irritation barely hidden in his voice, “You do not take my arm- one does not simply drag a blind man with them.”

Commotion. Calming words of the general. And a voice that cuts through the multiple voices talking. A low tone, beside him. “I’m on your right, half a step in front of you.” being taller than Jiaoqiu, Moze’s soothing voice is heard easily, mouth so near the foxian’s fluffy ears.

Jiaoqiu takes a calming breath. Another one. This is fine. No. It is not fine. He just has to get home. Home. Yes. Everything will be fine when he gets home.

His hand reaches out into the unknown, the rough fabric meets his fingertips, he gently rests his arm tucked into Moze’s and then grips his forearm. “Thank you. Please. ..Slowly. I can’t.-“ Jiaoqiu’s voice breaks, why did it- no he is fine. He is not breaking down in public. It has been years since has was able to cry. Not after he served in the military. Those tears have long dried up.

You don’t need to cry to break down. To feel the pain engulfing you. The war took most of his ability to taste away. The once lover of subtle, bland flavors, now chased the spiciest, hottest meals- no matter how much it burned his tongue or hurt his throat. It made him feel alive. The spice burned inside him, warming him up when all he could feel was an icy cold throughout his bones.

The familiar crack of the wooden floor beneath his feet lets him know he is finally home. Jiaoqiu immediately took his shoes off and let go of Moze. Stretching out his arms, feeling the smooth texture of the walls in his home. Navigating to his bedroom. Through many dark nights, he could move around his house effortlessly- but this wasn’t a dark night. No moonlight. No lamp. No candle. No soft lights coming off the electronics. He bumps into the couch, and a cabinet, until he finally sits down on the soft bed. Opening his eyes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Nothing? Jiaoqiu wants to rage, to throw furniture around. Hasn’t he done enough? Given enough? Deep breaths. He will not succumb to the anger that wants to drown him. Mindlessly caressing the cotton sheets beneath him.

“G-give me a scarf.”

Silence. Jiaoqiu cannot hear him. Moze was always someone he could see, even in his shadow form, he could always SEE him. he could not even smell him. the clean man. Not a single scent.

A fabric touches his hands, soft, strange patterns swirling on it. He drags his fingers across it. Deep breaths. Calm down. He folds it neatly and brings it over his eyes. Tying it up around his head.

“Why?” Moze asked quietly. The sound seems to be coming from below. He is… kneeling beside the bed?

“Every time I open my eyes I hope they will heal. That… that something maybe changed. And every single fucking time that hope is crushed. And I-“ his voice wavers, “I cannot deal with that. I cannot bear another time of my heart getting broken by my inability to see. … with this, I won’t be able to open them. Just. Just… until I get used to… things.”

“I can order a cane for you.”

“No,” Jiaoqiu says a bit too harshly. “I will not. I can’t. I… just. Please, I.” he stumbles over his words like he is falling down the stairs. Shaking his head. Hands trembling. Moze’s habit of not speaking is upsetting at this moment. The bed squeaks under the weight of the other man, strong arms encircle him. Firm chest pressed against the foxian’s back. Calm breathing on his shoulder and a strong steady heart beating against his own works wonders. Making him ground his own breathing in the pace he feels the other’s ribs expand and contract. Heartbeat soon enough coming into sync with Moze’s. A comfortable silence. Although to Jiaoqiu it isn’t a silence. The inhale, exhale, a reassuring sound in this abyss.

Jiaoqiu’s fingers gripped the peeled onion a bit too roughly. He worried it might roll away. Just have to tuck in his fingers, and it is okay. Chop, chop, chop.

Cooking is a big part of him. and his situation will not take it away from him. The last thing that makes him feel like himself. His hand hovers above the deep pan, warmth seeping in. It is hot enough. He chops more veggies and meat and puts it all on a low simmer. Doors open and close, and as per usual he turns towards the sound. It has to be Moze or Feixiao. A burglar wouldn’t enter that casually, right? These thoughts don’t ease his life. The constant worrying and anxiety-

“It’s me.” he doubts he is able to recognize everyone’s voice. Humanoid hearing is simply not suited for it. Expect that it is Moze. Jiaoqiu can recognize his voice. “I have brought you something” With a quick step he is beside him, warm hands holding his and handing him something… smooth. “You said no cane. This is a walking stick. Older people use it- I know, you maybe don’t want it, and it may cause more trouble. Simply put, at least it’s here to help you not fall. okay?”

That’s a lot of words for the shadow guard who prefers to stay silent. Jiaoqiu feels out the walking stick, tapping the ground with it a bit. “I appreciate the thought, I will. I will keep it near.” With that, he sets it against the kitchen counter and stirs the food. Sour and spicy notes hit his nose. Home. Breathing it in like smoke. Wishing it could take him back.

“Why are there green peppers in the trash? They appear fine.” Moze questions. Jiaoqiu exhales, his throat tightens. Opening his mouth to explain but the strain stops him from voicing anything. Why are they in the trash can? A perfectly good ingredient, still fresh, he is never wasteful. The everpresent tremble is his new companion, his imagination makes him feel the finger that pressed against his back causing immense pain so he may give away secrets about Feixiao. The claws that ripped his clothes apart and left rough textured scars- still wounds, they have yet to heal to become scars. The makeup that ran down his face. The tugged hair. Flashes of scent induced fear. The last thing he ever saw was that monster. Hoolay. Green peppers. No. It isn’t something he can see- … it isn’t something he can smell, eat, or feel again.

Moze quietly observes the way Jiaoqiu grips the counter, the way his breathing becomes shallow, the silence piercing his ears, worry coloring Moze’s face now that he doesn’t have to conceal his expressions anymore. “I will take the trash out.”

“Please, thank you.” Jiaoqiu answers in a shaky, broken voice. The voice one sounds like right before they will break down. With swift movements, Moze ties the bag and takes the trash out.

With a slow step and one hand on the walking stick, he carries the food to the table. Plate by plate. Chopsticks, spoons. Beverages. If it were any other normal day he’d carry the pan to the table. But it isn’t any other normal day. This is the new normal. And carrying a heavy, soup-filled pan is risky. Finally satisfied, he sits down and smiles gently. Like he used to. Small wins, little joys.

Moze returns and wishes to say how he could’ve helped. Those words die down in his throat. Would it be more condescending than helpful? Would he even care for his words? Moze lost his voice, his will to speak, from his “second family”. Where no one cared for what he said. He convinces himself that this time he isn’t speaking because it might be rude.

“Would you text the trailblazer for me?” Jiaoqiu inquires during the meal, once Moze returns from washing his hands.

“Now?”

“No, no. after we eat. And could you switch the settings to voice commands and audio-specific notifications?”

“Consider it done.”

Technology is another thing Moze has a great understanding of. Updating the phone and other digital items in their home poses no issue. “When I call you in the future, or anyone whose number you have saved this is how it will sound” Moze calls Jiaoqiu’s phone, and instead of making a pleasant melody, a robotic voice starts talking ‘Moze Moze Moze Moze…’ Jiaoqiu nods with a small smile. “That is helpful, I appreciate it.” “And you can text the trailblazer by giving voice commands to the phone. You don’t need my assistance.” Moze sounds proud, showing Jiaoqiu that he is perfectly capable of doing it alone, just a bit differently than what he is used to.

“I’m going to meet Suyi. You can take the time to clean, Moze” Jiaoqiu takes his cane and exits their home. Hopefully, by giving him obligations and keeping clear of the area, it will make Moze not follow him.

It has been a few weeks. He took an orientation and mobility class. Learning how to use an actual cane. It felt easier to exist. Jiaoqiu was once again mobile, he could go to the market, buy fresh produce, and go out to meet old friends. Tap tap taping his way to the café. Jiaoqiu had a preference for a nonfoldable cane. The subtle vibrations carried through much better. And concrete felt like hell so he tried to stick to the pavement the best he could. The Yaoqing, sadly, had no pathways adjusted to those with impaired vision. Tap tap tap. Jiaoqiu made do with what he had. Walking in public with his cane made him feel free again, akin to feeling in control again. There is a lingering hope in it. Reminiscent of a small candle’s light, not too strong, yet it may illuminate a whole room.

Another assassination attempt failed. Moze groans. The general suggested asking for advice from others, and the trailblazer, the first person he asked, had nothing useful to say in that regard. The silver shine of the knife glistened in the artificial sun. Like sharpening it will make the attempts successful. Feixiao killed his entire family. His family. His close ones, they healed him, gave him a roof over his head, they fed him… poisons under the claim he will live forever with it, his words ever only falling on deaf ears, mantras shoved down his throat like rose spikes. Intoxicating his insides even after he knew of the evil those same words caused. Not to mention the first family that abandoned him, the village that left him to die.

Is this what you call a family? Moze asks himself as the sharp blade lingers above Feixiao’s throat. There he stands. About to succeed. To win his freedom. Is he not already free tho? No, no, she killed his family. This was the agreement and the rightful vengeance. Moze outdid her. Snuck into her home, he won. Yet his hand is frozen. It stands still in the dead of the night. Unmoving. Static. Immobile. Eyes observing the resting face of the woman who saved him. Educated him, showed him kindness, and actual warmth. And in his adult years, she is the one who introduced him to his current partner. Be that as it may, what becomes of him if he let go of it all now? What is his worth? This was his goal, all this time. The driving force of his medically adjusted body. Is this what you call a family? Is this who has been his family all along? The general and the healer? The borisin and the foxian. The air is deathly still. His hand is calm, free from tremors. His brow furrows deeper, thinking through all of it. Until he comes to a decision.

“Feixiao.” Moze says in a normal tone. The knife was still against her neck. The general stirs awake, eyes widening at the surprise, however she makes no move to shove him away. Feixiao knows if he wanted to do something, it would have been done.

“I have won. … I shall remain your guard, General. Death will have to walk through me to get you.” in the blink of an eye he is gone. Feixiao exhales and returns to her sleep with a smile on his face. Moze finally, slowly, started to move on. Decades later, he managed to take small steps toward acceptance.

A few minutes later he is holding his partner in his arms. “Jiaoqiu” Moze whispers into the soft ear. The foxian stirs, “hm?” “I have succeeded in my revenge.” Small shuffle and a sharp inhale, Jiaoqiu turns towards him, “Hm?” sleep-driven hum. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. She is my family. I cannot. I would never bring harm upon the ones I care about. Never.” Moze speaks his vow aloud and nuzzles his head into Jiaoqiu’s neck. Nothing more had to be said, in his opinion, time to sleep. A gentle hand caresses his hair, “Good.” Jiaoqiu leaves a feathery kiss on the grey hair after which he continues sleeping.

Misty rain soaked his clothes and the small boat rocked along the smooth surface of the Rainsoar lake. Jiaoqiu used to come here often. Alone he’d collect herbs and fruit in the herbal basket on his back.

“You didn’t have to come with me, one of the locals could’ve taken me.”

“It is not a problem for me, Jiaoqiu. I’m glad to be in your company, we see each other less… and it brings me joy to be beside you.” Feixiao answers, slowly rowing the boat through the lake covered with heart-shaped foliage, blossoms, water chestnuts, and the occasional fish jumping out. A beautiful sight, a tranquil atmosphere surrounding the two.

Jiaoqiu reaches out beyond the small boat, dipping his fingers into the icy cold water to collect the lotus flowers and floating heart plants. An old tradition for him, one he did even before he joined the army as a doctor. The cold fingers pluck a wild rice stem and open it up. Bringing the fresh rice to his mouth.

Years before it had a wonderful sweet and refreshing taste. His taste changed after he came back from war. Jiaoqiu’s taste buds were the price he paid in the war. A renowned chef, and healer, lost his delicate sense of taste. The gaze of an Aeon who looked down upon the thousand-year war, and their choice to end it, burned everyone involved. Jiaoqiu’s tongue was the price he paid for running into the white light to save the young kid. Feixiao. The cold region was something he got accustomed to. Nonetheless, when the almighty power sliced down the battlefield, Jiaoqiu felt a cold unlike any other. Freezing him from the inside. With the leftover survivors, he decided to cook a stew. A warm flame. Some spice. More spice. Chili peppers. Not enough. All the spice he had in his pouch. Until he finally felt a taste on his tongue. A burning sensation. The last flavor he can actually taste. For it made him feel alive despite everything that happened, everything around him, the cold air, the cold insides, the tasteless tongue. And the heat… it sent a jitter down his body. So alive. … the sensation bordered on pain. As spice tolerance grows, surely his grew as well. And he might today very well be dancing with pain every bite. After he returned from the war the rice stems tasted too bland. No flavor to them. He reaped the consequences of his actions. Of choosing to save the girl. His scars from the war.

Years later, at the same lake, with the woman he saved during the war, the boat rocks with her movements. The second time he saved her he paid with his sight. Jiaoqiu never blamed her, why would he? It was his choice the whole way and his goal. The jump to save her from the Aeon. To drink… Tumbledust. To give everyone a fighting chance and to heal Feixiao’s moon rage. Jiaoqiu is an adult and he made his decisions to the best of his judgment in the circumstances that were given to him.

The wild rice lands on his tongue. For a sacred moment, he feels a tinge of sweetness, however, it is only for one moment. And gone with the wind. Even so, for one moment it was there. Is it because he lost his vision that his other senses have enhanced the tiniest bit giving him a single second, less than a second of something that used to bring him joy? The foxian could cry at that moment if his eyes had not dried from any tears while he was still in the army. A moment is still a moment. It is enough. Enough to give him more hope. To keep him moving forward. To have faith in the future. To even dare to look into the future.

For a man to willingly drink poison, deadly poison, he had to give up all hope. Any faith toward the future, any life he thought he had left. Jiaoqiu had to make peace with the fact that no one was coming to recuse him- that he would not be saved. So what was the last thing he could do? After Hoolay drained him of any secrets about the general, humiliated him, treated him less than the ground they walk on, and broke his ego and pride by allowing him to walk around knowing he will “always return to his master”. The only thing he could do was give the others a fighting chance, somehow use the knowledge he acquired; to save Feixiao and sacrifice himself.

The sweet flavor of rice on his tongue. A small flame of a candle, a hope. Hope for the future, he gets to live in. as he slowly finds his self-worth again, his self-respect, and his hopefulness for the oncoming days.

“We may return. I got what I came for.”

“Hm- I’m still-“ Feixiao speaks with her mouth full and Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit analyzing the sound, and a chuckle is ready to part his lips. “You are eating?”

“-mh, hey the water chestnuts are really good!” Feixiao probably has her mouth full of food. The general likely got bored and hungry. Jiaoqiu’s warm laugh cuts the silence of the lake. He hasn’t laughed in a long time. It makes his tummy hurt and he has to stop to not make the boat flip over. Feixiao laughs with him… after she chews down the food in her mouth.

How does one make noise when one walks? A question Moze never thought he’d ask himself. Hence, doing his best, it sounds like a child purposefully stomping the heel of their feet onto the floor. Heavy steps. It is ridiculous. Moze finds himself hilarious, ironic even. His stoic front breaks down when he hears his partner laughing from the couch. The sole reason why he is doing this. To fill the void Jiaoqiu sees. Moze will not move like a shadow in their home. He shall make noise. Even if it sounds like an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum.

“I’m trying!” Moze voices between bursts of laughter.

“Ooh, I can hear that indeed~” Jiaoqiu nods and giggles.

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. Jiaoqiu stands up, slowly making his way to the door, while Moze opens it.

A girl with a cloud knight uniform on and long dark brown hair with a big bright smile stands in the doorway. “Hello!” she says cheerfully, “It has been so long, I thought I’d come to visit, how are you, Uncle J?”

Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit, the voice not ringing any bells. “I’m sorry, you-“ Moze quickly buts in, “It is Sushang.” “Yeah, and I brought a gift!” Sushang happily stretches out her hands, handing Jiaoqiu a small box. There’s a few seconds of silence. Moze once again says, “She is handing you a small box, approximately the size of a human head, and by the looks of it not too heavy.”

“Ah, thank you, Sushang. Your presence is unexpected but I’m glad you came over, are you hungry?” Jiaoqiu carefully takes the gift in his hands and smiles. “I mean, I could never say no to your cooking Uncle J! Also... I’m sorry, you are..?” Moze sighs. This is the third time he has seen her and she fails to remember him. The shadow guard, proficient in remaining hidden, wonders why she never remembers him. Jiaoqiu speaks in his stead as he slowly walks to the kitchen, “This is Moze, my partner.” “oh! Hi there, Uncle Moze!” Sushang flashes him a bright smile and moves past him to sit at the kitchen island, ready to yap a whole storm about her life and catch her uncle up with it all. Starting with her best friend, Guinaifen. Once she finishes her stories, Sushang is more than happy to sit in a slump position, stuff her face full of dumplings while Jiaoqiu shares some new stories of his life (the happy ones). In her eyes, he tells them better than the storyteller at Sleepless Earl.

“You know I care about your thoughts, opinions, even random comments with not a single thought behind them, right?” Jiaoqiu’s hand effortlessly treaded through Moze’s silver hair, facing him on the couch. “I will try. I have learned differently and… despite it being a bad habit, those are even harder to let go of.” Moze’s eyes are closed, melting under his lover’s touch. Jiaoqiu’s voice is smooth like butter, continuing, “I know, Moze. When it gets hard, just remember that I care about you and what you have to say. I always have. I love you.” Moze leans forward, pressing his forehead against Jiaoqiu’s, “I love you too. I will do my best.” Moze softly kisses the bridge of his nose, where the cotton scarf lays across his eyes.

Jiaoqiu reached behind his head, untangling the scarf. Weeks, months have passed since he started wearing it. Taking it off only when he bathes or sleeps. He opens his eyes. “I missed seeing them. Such beautiful golden glow, Jiaoqiu.” Moze muses, enjoying the view of bright orange eyes. “Thank you. I feel finally… strong enough mentally to exist and move without it. I have gathered… hope and mental strength.” Jiaoqiu nods, the darkness beyond his eyes unchanged. “They still look beautiful to you, Tumbledust didn’t affect them?” “Even if it did, the fact would not change. To answer your question your eyes are unchanged. They cannot meet mine, but I was never big on eye contact.” The simplicity and honesty in his answer made Jiaoqiu feel secure and loved. The foxian smiles, and their home feels warm. So warm with them together, kind, loving, patient. Healing through their traumas and pain. One thoughtful word at a time.

In the peaceful moment, Jiaoqiu caresses Moze’s cheek and leans in to kiss him. One of the moments where darkness is welcomed… because of the way Moze makes him feel during the kiss, it makes Jiaoqiu feel like he can taste colors.

 “The divine traces of Abundance shall heal your body... quick. Drink this...” Moze’s body was covered with sweat, his breathing was shallow. Hooded figures surrounded him.

“I don’t… don’t make drink… no…no” he mumbles helplessly, the thick liquid forced down his throat again. Goosebumps rose on his skin, “Drink child. You will… immortal… save… others…” Moze’s throat closed up, drowning on dry land and his mind disconnected from his body in an all too familiar way. Dying and fighting in the same breath. Half a second away from a silent scream or spitting the medicine back out. “Please… please… I…” his voice trembled, powerless against any of them. Once more his voice is ignored. His yelps and pleading for help, his begging for mercy shushed, ignored… put aside. Nothing more than a good test subject, convinced this is what family does. This is how it must be. Others live like this too, right? This is completely normal, right? He is cared for and nourished here, right? He will survive this, right? I will survive this…right?

A hushed voice hummed in the distance. The worn down building, cold and exposed cement his everyday environment, and the sound he didn’t recognize. “shh, shh, shh.” Rhythmical, paced… soothing? No one ever soothed him. Then he feels it. A delicate tender touch. Fingers brushing his hair. Moze’s breathing sped up as his surroundings changed, he inhaled sharply, his vision going black, all sound stopping into a painful echo of silence, a deafening sound, his lungs moving up and down with irregular breathing until there was none of him left. Abyss. Darkness. Black dots of midnight oil. A window. A window? Moonlight vaguely illuminated the space. A bed. And… “shh, shh, shh. There you go… back with me.”

Moze’s face felt wet, his vision blurry and his eyelashes stuck together, a salty taste on his lips. The sight of his partner holding him so carefully, gingerly, and taking care of him… Moze had no words. The nightmare swallowed him up again. He hated the feeling. Immediately he turns to press himself fully into his partner, to hide his face away from the shadows in the room, “Jiaoqiu” he whispers. “Yes, my precious. I’m here. You’re here. In our home. In our bed. Safe. With me.” For the next few minutes, Jiaoqiu keeps murmuring comforting words and hushed hums until Moze grounds himself in the present moment.

“I hate them. I hate my nightmares.”

“May I offer my healing abilities? A nine-squared grid hotpot will surely have a pleasurable effect on this, and help out.”

“I… that sounds good. If you say it will help, then I’ll take it.”

Jiaoqiu starts sitting up, “Very well.”

“Wait,” Moze utters, squinting his eyes to look at the clock, “it is 3 am, you don’t have to cook now.”

“Then when am I supposed to cook, Moze?” Jiaoqiu replies with a smile, “It isn’t hard. It doesn’t bother me.” He stands up and faces somewhat in the direction of the bed. “I’m happy to take care of you, Moze.” Jiaoqiu sits back on the bed and finds his partner’s face, cupping it in his hands. The texture of Moze’s unshaven face against his fingers feels rough but familiar, and in that familiarity, he feels safe. His home. He presses his lips against the younger man’s forehead and stands back up, already on his way to the kitchen.

Approximately half an hour later, a freshly bathed Moze sits across Jiaoqiu for a late night or an early morning meal. The warm liquid filled with various vegetables and spices feels good as it goes down his throat. It isn’t poison. It doesn’t hurt. It isn’t a threat.

“Thank you, Jiaoqiu. It tastes amazing.”

“Always a pleasure.” He answers with an all-knowing smile. “I could add a little more chili oil next time…”

“eh- I… it is spicy enough, darling.” Moze voices his thoughts hesitantly, which makes Jiaoqiu softly laugh and add a few drops of chili pepper flakes to his own bowl.

On the other hand, Jiaoqiu’s nightmares didn’t stop. Many nights he wakes up in fear of where he is. Is he still captive? Still kidnapped? Still surrounded by borisin and under the effect of lupitoxin? Jiaoqiu wakes up with heavy breathing every time, sitting up quickly, feeling the space around him- more often than not, waking Moze in his desperate attempt to gather where he is whether he is home or there. There’s a phantom pain where Hoolay pressed his finger onto his back to drain information from him. An itch on his chest where the wounds will form into dark pink scar tissue. In the beginning, it was every night. Every night for weeks, months. Jiaoqiu started relying on afternoon naps. Time has passed but his nightmares are still often. On the rare nights when Moze isn’t in bed, he has a good sleep schedule- most likely went to drink some water, Jiaoqiu is quick to spiral and clumsily get out of bed. Moze usually finds him kneeling on the floor, hanging onto the wall, mumbling, “No, no, no, no, no, no. I am not. This is home. This is home. It is. My walls. M-moze…Moze”

The curse of a doctor, a healer, they cannot heal themselves. The trauma he has been through, the scars from it that he carries still with him, most of them not even visible, it isn’t something that passes overnight. Healing is a long and slow process. It will take time. Sometimes he has no nightmares for weeks, only for them to torment his peaceful night’s rest for days on end. Some days, Jiaoqiu will have a bit more anxiety while walking around. What if everyone and anyone he talks to once again is under a guarantee of a death filled with fangs and claws?

Hence, he takes it slowly. When the world feels like it is crushing him, he takes a deep breath and eats spicy food. He grounds himself in his environment. Reminds himself that he is safe, Hoolay is dead, the borisin are under control, he isn’t being targeted, and everything is fine. Everything is fine. He will be fine. With time. One deep breath at a time.

The tremor in his hands never left him.

A breeze rustled various branches and leaves, providing a lovely melody of an artificial autumn on the Yaoqing. The scent of cooked apples dipped in caramel and baked cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“I see no threat in my retainers. The man you cannot see is my guard, and the foxian is my personal doctor. Surely, we don’t pose a problem?” Feixiao questioned the men in front of her, attempting to enter a highly secure space, on a very important and very secret mission.

Moze appears by her side, “I shall leave all my weapons with you.” he takes his time to slowly strip himself of his hidden knives and make a full scene out of it.

Jiaoqiu stands still with a small smile and his cane in his hands. “I do not carry weapons. I am a healer, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” If at all possible, his smile widens subtly with the honey-dripped words that coat the actual truth. “Moreover, I am retired. I’m here on the general’s command to accompany her to this… wonderful occasion.”

Rustling, murmuring, quiet chats, “…what could a blind man do…” “…the guard left all of his weapons…” “….yeah, we can let them through..” “You may come.”

Feixiao slowly walks towards the entrance with a confident stride, Jiaoqiu steadily taps his cane following her with the same smirk on his face, Moze soundlessly steps last, with at least, still 32 weapons on him.

[lackingspace]

Admonish(Feyd-RauthaXReader)

Chapter 2

Rated: M Word Count: 3.7K Summary: A summons from House Harkonnen is unlikely but never improbable. Warnings: More exposition. Nothing other than talking shit about the Harkonnen. Author Note: Feyd's still bothering me, so take this. ✧

Prev Ch: Pernicious

AO3 link: Admonish

Next Ch: Scurrilous

The transport was surprisingly warm. Which came as a surprise because that was an unnecessarily expensive add-on amenity. Space was cold. There was no way around that fact. The Guild kept the standard transport temperature above freezing, but not by much. 

It wasn't comfortable for most, but with proper clothing, it was generally tolerable for the few hours trip. The other option available— at an exorbitant upcharge— was the use of our thermostabilizing technology.

As a general rule, Ezhariens never purchased the upgrade. Travel to and from Erif IV was already surcharged when leaving your House's compound port. The only exception was the tropics near the equator. The temperate weather didn't require the fee, but leaving ports anywhere else on your planet caused ships to work harder– which meant more frequent maintenance and a more expensive trip. 

Adding insult to injury of stacking surcharge onto surcharge wasn't cost-effective in the Jarl’s eyes. So we all forgo heat.

Ice was our birthright after all and the low temperature was still bearable. You disliked the practice of charging for heat, but you understood the guild was a business and it cared little for humanity beyond what it could squeeze out of it.

The Baron had seen fit to add it to your passage. It wasn't the only amenity either— a meal and drink service were waiting upon your arrival. Another splurge you were happy for, but typically went without. 

The journey would take half a solar cycle and you were going to enjoy the transit for all its worth. This may be one of the last moments of secured peace you had. Giedi Prime was capricious, just like its ruler. And you weren't stupid enough to believe he'd done this out of the goodness of his heart. 

A snigger left you at that idea. The Baron and goodness in the same sentence was a naive notion. There would have to be good in there to begin with. 

No, this wasn't actually about your comfort. This was another move in politically courting you. If you were weaker-willed the idea would have caused bile to make an appearance.

But you weren't a stranger to how people such as him played the game. This was an attempt to place you in a favorable mood– win your good graces. Whatever reason he had for requesting your presence, he wanted to do everything to ensure your answer was yes. 

Your father's instinct had been right. 

As you sat in the spacious accommodations afforded to you, sipping a Corelian wine and picking at the assortment of dishes, your father's reaction came to mind. Desil hadn't been wrong about your father being displeased either.

Slipping off into a daydream of remembrance was a good distraction to fill the time. Leaning into the plush seating you thought back to why you were sitting here alone. 

He'd called you to his study even before dinner. The look painting Desil's face was grim when he told you of the bidding. There was no protest from you as your earlier annoyance had significantly subsided— replaced by anxious thoughts of what the Harkonnen, the Baron, could possibly want. 

As you walked the dark halls with Desil, your eyes stared down at the lilac carpet runner. Its lightness provided a nice contrast against the hall's heated black stone. The walk was a mindless muscle memory as your thoughts were preoccupied with your anxiety and what your father would have to say. 

If he was calling you before the family meal, either he was more angry with the development than you'd anticipated or he had pressing questions. Questions that needed to be kept private. Away from the prying ears and gossipping mouths of your mother and aunt. 

After rounding another corner, the office door seemed to taunt you at the end of the hall. The black paneling of the door itself blended in with the rest of the compound walls. It was only distinguished by the decorative embossing of three silver roses– our heraldic symbol marking it as a room of import. 

Whatever mood you found him in, you would need to steel yourself for the unpleasant possibility of some plot that's been kept from you until now. You weren't unknown to Bene Gesserit workings and there would be little shock to hear they had a hand in something such as this.

Though, it was common knowledge the Baron had not taken one for concubine nor did he keep one for truthsayer– unusual for a Great House to say the least. Your own house had a Bene Gesserit Truthsayer on retainer. 

Her name was Niamh, a calculating woman with deep sienna skin and golden eyes. You always found her pleasant to be around, but truthsayers could be unnerving to some. 

‘Maybe that's why the Baron refused one?’ the thought was dismissed as soon as it had formed, ‘Unlikely. It's probably simply that if anyone could manipulate the Baron, it'd be one of the sisterhood.’ your lips pursed as you were almost upon the door, ‘That possibility is controlled if he refuses their presence.’ 

Desil turned about-face when you were within distance for the door to be opened, “I'm instructed to wait until you're dismissed. No one will disrupt.” 

The worry was clear in his green eyes. So expressive in their concern for you that a small pang in your chest cut through the fog of anxiety. Reaching a hand towards his nervously wringing ones, cupping the top of his with gentle pressure, “Desil, it'll be fine.” 

His shoulders dropped if only slightly, “My lady,” he paused searching for the right words, “I'm worried.”

That pulled a huff of laughter from you. It was clear from his demeanor, he hadn't needed to voice it. With the chuckles still chasing your words, you agreed, “So am I.”

They echoed in your mind with more severity as you dropped his hands in favor of turning towards the door and pushing it open, ‘So am I.’

The moment you saw your father, trepidation returned. He sat in front of the crackling fireplace with the message capsule gripped tightly in one hand while a glass of liquor was clutched in the other.

Anger, refracted by the crackling flames, shone bright in his eyes. You could see his jaw clenching as his teeth ground. He was clearly agitated by something, either the letter or the meeting with the Jarl. More likely a combination of both. 

When he saw you, his head began to shake. The action caused the weight of anxiety to settle in your chest. What did that gesture mean? Was he trying to deny something or did the sight of you cause such general disappointment?

Clarification was unlikely without prompting if he was in a mood. Opening your mouth to speak, but he lifted the message in a gesture you did understand. One that meant silence.

His lips curled in disgust as he began to shake the cylinder, “Why do you do this to me?” the weight in your chest became heavier, would have been rib-crushing if it wasn't intangible. Brow crinkling in confusion, you took a hesitant step forward, “Father?”

He threw the message into the flames while tipping his head back in a deep pull from the glass. That was the clearest thing he'd done so far. It was standard practice for missives to be cleaned after their contents served their purpose. He'd gotten what he'd needed from it.

The flames wouldn't be enough to melt the capsule itself, only destroying the seal and the ink would slough off into the flames. The metal would remain with no trace of what’d been sent. Ready to be penned again. 

You wished he hadn't done that in an enclosed space though. It wouldn't shock you if the ink Harkonnen used became toxic upon combustion.

But that wasn't important right now. You wanted answers to his reason behind the question. Desperately so because you didn't quite like the feeling of being assaulted by confusion.

Gulping a few pulls of the bronzy liquid before righting himself only to curl the now free hand into a fist and slammed it into the arm of the chair. His voice was vehement as he questioned, “Do I not give you everything?” 

To hear him so strained and full of anguish had a self-loathing heat rise from the pit of your stomach to stain your cheeks. What were these questions about? It wasn't making sense to the bubbling pit in your mind. Feet gained a mind of their own as you stepped closer. Starting again, “Father?” 

The only answer you received was him knocking back the rest of his drink. Setting the glass on the glossy marble table next to his seat, then in a voice cracked with emotion, “Are you not happy here? Is that it?” 

Surprise ate at the self-loathing. He would believe such a thing? Was this about something other than the missive? Heard some false rumor? Did the Jarl know something? Or give an order Father isn't amenable to? Is that what prompted these strange accusations? 

The last question sank to the bottom of your stomach like you'd plunged into your planet's icy seas. Cold and paralyzing. 

Father rarely became emotional about anything, but something was causing him distress. You couldn't let your own emotions match his if you were to gain anything more than a headache from this.

‘Fortify yourself.’ A reminder to calm was your inner mantra. With a slow steady blink and a deep inhale you thought further, ‘Make yourself arduous. Truth does not ring when impetuous.’ Just breathe. 

Locking eyes with your father the turmoil was clear– the anger that still clung to his demeanor was quickly losing the battle with the desperation on his brow. The fire crackled as the cylinder heated within. The sound added to your calm as you stood straighter than before. 

“Father, I am grateful for all that you give me and perfectly content here with you,” your forceful tone was almost a contradiction, but you continued before he could speak, “Which is why I'm unsure of whatever it is you're alluding to. Could you please be kind enough to enlighten me?” If there was one thing he taught you, it was to be direct if you wanted a direct answer. 

His lips released a heavy sigh, “If you are so happy, then why is that psychopathic Baron threatening to steal you away?” He spat the title like it left a bad taste in his mouth. It probably did. Father wasn't fond of Harkonnen beyond business. He didn't like the carelessness or callousness they treated their own people with.

Then his wording dawned on you and everything clicked.

This wasn't some plot– not one your father was privy to– or an order, rumor, or anything else. This was simply your father perceiving the summons as a threat to your safety from a house he knew gave visceral meaning to the word abuse. 

He had always been protective, sometimes invasively so, but it had never bothered you before— you couldn't really blame him now either. Safety and Giedi Prime were never said in the same sentence. 

Just as well, there was some validity to viewing it as a subtle threat. This wasn't a social function where multiple houses were in attendance, people wouldn't be on their best behavior, and you would not be well guarded.

It would be you and Harkonnen. Their house, their word against yours, their rules. Not to mention the Baron had already breached standard protocol if he was seeking your Suk skills. That didn't exactly inspire confidence.

Father's anger made sense. It wasn't towards you— only that you seemed to be the sought-after prize— but at the Baron for the position he'd placed you in. A sigh of relief as the self-loathing constriction, confusion, and pit in your stomach finally let up. 

As a high-ranking Great House member, the Suk school mediated requests from other Great Houses for your services. A way to maintain social etiquette and boost their claims of imperial conditioning and house neutrality. It had worked just fine…until now.

The Baron saw fit to circumvent that bureaucratic process and use the method more convenient and binding to him. That put your back to the wall so to speak. No wiggle room to refuse.

The seal made it an official ask in the political sphere. The vague request for your ‘skills’ was another clever maneuver on his part. Any backlash he might receive from the Suk School was avoided as the missive didn't explicitly state medical services. But realistically, there was little else that your presence in particular would be warranted for.

‘Something he no doubt knew and took great pleasure in.’ The thought was devoid of the usual bubbling maliciousness as you stared at your father. The only thing registering was resignation of how the Baron played the game. ‘And I'm about to be at his leisure.’

Rapidly closing the small distance, you dropped to your knees in front of your father and placed your hands atop his clenched one. The care he had for you was something you cherished. He might be strict, but he respected you. Only wanting for your safety and happiness. Compassion tugged at your heart as you sighed wearily against his hand, “Oh, Father.”

That was everything he needed for his composure to fully break. With his free hand he leaned forward to stroke your hair, “Not my daughter,” shaking his head as he spoke, “Not my daughter. If it is a Suk doctor the Baron wishes for, he can seek an unaligned one.”

Firelight bounced off his black locks deepening the shadows on his face. He must have shaved that morning because the edges of his beard were uniform. The anger still clinging in his eyes fizzled to embers as your thumb rubbed his wrist. There would be no qualms from you about sending a polite reply of, ‘No, thank you.’ If only it were possible.

It would be both an immense personal and House offense, without answering his call. Once the Jarl heard of this– assuming he hadn't already– you'd be forced to go anyway. 

Ezharien would not risk snubbing Harkonnen.

Lifting your gaze back to your father's blue eyes, attempting a smile, but it was just a sad tugging at your lips, “You know that's not how it works. The call must be answered.”

That stoked the fire back to life and you felt his hand tighten beneath yours, “Absolutely not! The Harkonnen have done us no favors. We should respond in kind.” 

It was an odd turn to be the diplomat between the two of you, “Father,” smoothing your hands over his, willing it to relax, “This is likely nothing more than a request of my profession. It is known the Baron requires frequent procedures and I've been called by other Great Houses in the past. I must go.” 

His fist only balled tighter. He didn't acknowledge you were right aloud, but the next sentence he spat confirmed he knew it was inevitable, “That tyrant thinks he's above due process! And he presumes too much. Already he's made arrangements for your transport– only your transport.” 

With nothing short of a growl he shook his head, “I am not condemning you to suffer a man such as him— or that entire house— unattended. You will take Cleo and the guardsmen.” 

Arrangements? Arrogance or self-assuredness? How smug of the old bastard to dictate when and where I leave.

You couldn't focus on that now however, you needed to reason with your father. Dissuade him from making a smaller, but still egregious error. “I will not be taking them.” You amended. 

Thumping his free hand against the chair, “Do not test me, girl. If there is nothing to be done of your departure, you shall take the protection I can afford you!” 

As aggressive as the gesture was, you weren't moved by it, “Please, Father, be reasonable.” He sneered in response, “This is reasonable.” 

Clicking your tongue in disapproval, you had to contain the amusement that wanted to rise from your chest. Laughter would be extremely inappropriate, but the irony of the situation was not lost on you. How many times have you said that exact thing to him in past disagreements? 

This must be what your father felt arguing with you. Stamping down the feeling in favor of asserting your opinion.

“If I take them, we are insinuating that they cannot protect me or that I need protection from them. Either case leads to a perceived insult that they will no doubt capitalize on.” Father's silent huffs and clenched jaw told you that he knew you were right. 

“We can afford a small faux pas if the Baron can do away with etiquette entirely.” The sharp edge in his voice bespoke his lingering ire. It was your turn to shake your head at him, “We cannot. The Baron is not an idiot and we should do well to avoid giving him any advantage. Our name is protection enough.” 

He lifted his free hand to smooth across his brow, “That is not satisfactory protection.” You purse your lips at his admission in silent agreement, ‘no…it's not....but I must make due.' 

“If I bring Cleo and the guardsmen, it will be taken as a slight and will likely result in their death. They will be collateral I don't want on either of our hands. They don't deserve that death. The Harkonnen cannot harm me the same way.” 

His eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “You speak reason.” The begrudging admittance was clear in his voice. Soothing his hand beneath yours as you argued further, “If I'm not mistaken, you said we purchase large quantities of spice from them every month for our attractions in the isles?”

His eyes opened as a brow raised. A slight nod his only confirmation.

“If that's true, why would Harkonnen risk such easy business? They certainly can't afford kanly with Ezharien and Atreides.” your prodding paid off in the form of a frown on his lips, “They're unpredictable. Harm to you could be a risk they think acceptable if there’s some ulterior scheme.”

“Father, we cannot factor the unknowable. A hidden plot is not inconceivable, but we must formulate a response with what we know to be true.” 

Lifting your hands to count upon your fingers as a means to illustrate each point, “I know that if I do not go, politically it is scandalous. I know that if they do harm to me, it has the same result for them. I know it is also grounds for Kanly,” your father was nodding along with each point, “That would certainly be your uncle's response.” 

“I know of Harkonnen propensity to manipulate things to their advantage, but in doing so he reveals part of his hand.” Resting a curled hand beneath his chin your father said in a clipped tone, “Elaborate.”

“There is something he requires that can't be found within his own House. He believes that I have the answers or skills he needs. That provides me another advantage beyond politics or our name.” his face became unreadable for a second before simply saying, “Very good.”

Smiling at his praise, you continued, “Until that purpose is served, I should be relatively immune to their proclivities. If that purpose is quickly completed and I'm detained, I at least know who I'm dealing with. Yes, the Baron is unpredictable– they're all unpredictable, violent, and volatile– but I'm well aware of that. And it's not as if I don't know them.”

The anger and despair had left your father completely, instead, he was gazing at you contemplatively, “If you are detained for anything other than a guild delay, there will be repercussions.” 

“I'm sure the Baron is well aware of that. Which is why I expect things will stay amenable if we don't commit any unnecessary offenses.”

Resignation wasn't something that oft entered your father's demeanor, but the way he sagged back into the chair spoke volumes, “I suppose the youngest nephew has always been courteous enough towards you.” 

The admission all but sealed your victory, “Yes, Feyd-Rautha and I have always been amicable acquaintances.” You couldn't contain the roll of your eyes as you thought of the older brother, “Glossu is benign for the most part. He might forget his courtesies, but Feyd has enough intelligence to correct it.” 

“You shouldn't heckle him that way– you know he prefers Rabban.” The subtle shift of your lips into a smirk was immediate at his chiding and he rolled his own eyes in response to your look, “Daughter, if I'm to send you there, do not harass the Na-Baron. For my own peace of mind, please.” 

You gave him a long look of your own before you caved, “Fine. But I’ve always called him Glossu. It'll be strange.” You would try for his sake though. If it provided him some comfort, it was the least you could promise him.

There was still lingering tension within his jaw and shoulders. The only other thing you could think to do to set his mind at ease was to remind him you could take care of yourself, “Should it come down to it, I'm not defenseless. You made sure of that.” 

The groan he made was pained, “Don't remind me. But should that happen, I'll destroy the Harkonnen myself.” The image that birthed in your mind made you chuckle. Murder wasn't your father's forte, but if there was ever a reason to push him to it, your death would be it. 

You couldn't help but voice the old Erifian threat, “The direwolves will not go hungry.”

A smile graced his lips as he leaned forward to grasp your hands, “When did you become so tactful?”

That finally brought a true smile to your own lips, “It may come as a surprise, but I do listen when you speak.” The laugh he let out was free of his previous worries, “Perhaps it's time I listen more closely to when you speak.” His hand gently squeezed yours as you echoed back, “Perhaps.”