#Rest in fucking pieces Baron

[starcrossed-lov3rz]

An Equal

Feyd Rahtha x Fem!Reader

Warnings: MDNI, some violence (not very graphic), there is a moment where reader is touched without express consent (NOT FEYD THO)

Words: ~ 1.1K

Description: Feyd sees you as an exotic pet. Something to collect. Something to brag about. Until, one day, he finds out about human’s lethality. Being almost killed by you in a fit of rage, he realizes that you are not just an alien. You love him. - Based on this request

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“I feel like a fucking zoo exhibit.” You mutter, pulling at the ridiculous assortment of jewels and silks draped across your body. Zoo exhibit didn’t even remotely describe it….you were more like a piece of art on display. 

Every day, Feyd sent a darling to your rooms with the clothing he picked for you. They ranged from intricate to barely-there wisps of gauzy fabric. But today? He’d really outdone himself today. A silk skirt hung low on your hips, and the matching bra fit like a glove. A sheer shawl draped crossed your shoulders. Feyd spared no expense with jewels today. Delicate gold chains wound around your exposed waist. Your arms decorated in gold bands. 

“You look beautiful,” Feyd’s darling praised. “He will be pleased.”

You roll your eyes as the darling coils your hair into a loose updo. Of course Feyd would be pleased. His little pet is dolled up and ready to show off to every disgusting bureaucrat and diplomat here for the fight.

Feyd fought often, but you’d never seen him spar in the arena before. He insisted the darlings keep you away from the arena so he didn’t ‘break your weak earthling spirit’ too soon. You should be honored at how delicately Feyd treats you, given his awful temper and violent tendencies. You were anything but. It didn’t matter how often you tried to lash out and annoy him, Feyd always laughed at your antics. 

“Come with me, he wants to see you before the fight.”

Numbly, you follow the darling as she guides you through the maze of hallways. 

“My darlings,” Feyd greets you both. He’s standing amongst a group of diplomats, towering over most of them. 

“Is this her?!” One of the more brazen diplomats steps forward, examining you like some prized show animal. You grit your teeth in annoyance as he pokes and prods you, hands lingering suspiciously long. Looking to Feyd, it’s clear you’re not the only one upset with the display. Feyd’s eyes are glued to where the diplomat’s hands rest on your hip.

You roll your eyes, batting his hand away and moving to stand beside Feyd. “Where’s your leash, pet?” He asks, tilting your head up with a hand on your chin. Feyd’s fingers trail down your throat, toying with your delicate gold necklace.

“I left it next to yours,” you offer dryly. 

Feyd’s smirk dims, his hand instantly moving to grip your neck. The pressure is noticeable, but nowhere near the strength you know Feyd is capable of. “Watch your tongue, pet.” 

Sarcasm probably wasn’t the best move today. Normally, you would shy away from any behavior that could irritate Feyd. Not today. The lack of autonomy was wearing on you, slowly stripping whatever sense of self preservation you had left. Your eyes flick up to Feyd’s, choosing to stare him down rather than respond. 

The world melts away as you both refuse to back down from the silent challenge. The same diplomat from before breaks the tension. He bows quickly before addressing Feyd. “na-Baron, you were telling us earlier how well your earthling can play the baliset, I believe as our most gracious host that you should offer us so entertainme-”

“No.” 

You fight the urge to react, but you’re just as shocked as the diplomat. Feyd frequently made you perform for guests. 

“But, na-Baron-”

“No,” Feyd said. “The fight will begin soon. That will be entertainment enough.”

Of course. Feyd wasn’t refusing because the diplomat had mistreated you earlier. He just didn’t want to delay his precious fucking fight. You step back out of Feyd’s reach. “You should go prepare for your fight, na-Baron.” 

“You wound me,” Feyd smirks. “Are you not going to wish me well for this fight?”

“I believe the drugged slaves in the arena are luck enough, na-Baron.” Now you’re definitely playing with fire. Feyd’s fists clench and he reaches for the knife sheathed on his thigh. 

You brace yourself. This is it. You just couldn’t be satisfied with pretty dresses and Feyd’s condescending affection. The novelty has worn off, and he’s going to kill you. You shut your eyes, waiting for a blow that never comes. Instead, you hear the knife clatter against the floor.

“Pick it up.” Feyd orders.

“What-”

“Pick it up.”

“I-”

“Pick it up or you will take my place fighting those ‘drugged slaves’ in the arena.” Feyd’s tone is even, no hint of humor or whatever passes as a sick joke for him.

You crouch slowly, your face heating in anger and shame as you hear laughs from the group of guests. 

“na-Baron, she would be better suited as a prize for the victor.” Your hand tightens around the handle, and you see red. You recognize that voice. The disgusting diplomat. With the wandering hands. 

Trying to calm down, you force yourself to breathe evenly. Feyd’s eyes never drift away from you, his calculating stare watching your every move. As you straight up, you feel a hand grope your ass. “Let me take her place in the arena, na-Baron. I should have her cunt as a reward when I win.”

You snap, letting instinct and rage take over. Pivoting your stance, you drive Feyd’s knife into the stomach of the diplomat behind you. His hand drops from you as he screams in pain. “You bit-”

Feyd is silent. He hasn’t moved a muscle to help his guest. 

The diplomat scrambles back, tripping over his robes and falling to the ground. You can hear screaming from the onlookers, but everything sounds as if it’s underwater. You drop on top of the diplomat, stabbing him again and again. You let it all out. The anger. The frustration. The embarrassment. You pour everything you’ve bottled up from months of captivity into every stab. 

The knife slips from your hand, dropping to the floor. 

Your gaze focuses again.

He’s dead.

You look up.

Everyone but Feyd has fled.

He’s leaning against a pillar. Arms crossed as he watches the display with an unreadable expression.

Feyd pushes off of the pillar, walking towards you. He kneels beside you, picking the blade up and offering it to you. 

“Keep it.”

You laugh through the tears. Somehow those two words meant more to you than all the empty praise and gifts. In that moment, you're more than some pampered pet. 

An equal.

NOTE: Two uploads in two days? Is this Christmas? No, it's a request I finally completed!!! Sorry, no smut here! I was really feeling this prompt and it didn't organically develop into smut. Serious writing isn't something I normally do, so I hope it did your prompt justice!! ~ Lacie <3

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[psycheetamore]

Punish me (part 2 of 3): Feyd-Rautha’s lessons for virgins

Notes: “Have no fear. I remember you have never been fucked before. No woman leaves my patronage a virgin” he said, sounding deceitfully considerate. “It is not becoming to my name, nor my role as a tutor.”

“You will need to replenish your energy, before we can commence our next lesson” pointing at a new spread of food on the table. He withdrew a chair and allowed you to sit. While you tugged in, he watched you with amusement. You did not try to hide your nakedness, as hunger had overtaken you. He touched the marks he had left on your neck, your shoulder, your hips, causing you to shudder.

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha is his own trigger warning, manipulative Feyd, talkative Feyd, dominant Feyd, physically imposing Feyd, humiliating Feyd, oral demanding Feyd (as a tool of near-daily conditioning), nutritious black cum giving/weaponizing cum Feyd, food depriving Feyd, attention depriving Feyd, drugging Feyd, dubcon/noncon Feyd, no beta we die like duke leto. The author may actually start to have regrets looking at the tags - I trust I do not need to add ‘dead dove don’t eat’ with all these tags. Tbh, this is absolute fey foul filth no-one should read. Please note additional tags for this chapter: deflowering Feyd, ‘idk what aftercare is’-Feyd, powerplay Feyd, despite all of this still being able to make women (you) horny & cum-Feyd

Word count: 6k

Link to Punish me (part 1 of 3) – learning how to succumb to Feyd-Rautha’s process of redemption

+++

The na-Baron did not bring a basket, yet you stayed on your knees. You took what he had to give to you. He replenished your thirst, he gave you a bit of energy. Whether it was due to the nutritional properties of his cum or due to nourishing properties of his approval, you did not know. Perhaps both.

And you were rewarded for it, as he took you to a nearby room, where a table was set up with a wide array of foods.

“Before you can sit here, I need to wash you. You have started to smell foul” he said, with a diminishing voice and disdain on his face. It felt like a slap in your face, as you had done your best to keep clean using the tools you had been familiar with.

He brought you to his private bathroom, where a small bowl with water stood on a counter.

“Strip” he ordered, “for me” was added with desire in his voice.

You could not remember the last time a man had seen you fully unclothed. Combined with additional shame he had just introduced and the suggestion of lustfulness, you were fearful.

“My lord… if I may. You have been so benevolent in your gracious hospitality. I would not want to burden you. Please let me clean myself, while you take a moment to rest” you tried to argue. “Please.”

He must have heard the panic in your voice. The tremble. He must have seen the vibrations in your limbs, as he grabbed you by your hair and violently pushed you with your chest against the wall: “never. Never do that again. Never contradict me” he nearly burned in your ear. You could feel the spit flowing from his mouth to the side of your head.

With his free hand he grabbed a knife from his belt and pushed it against the seam of your trousers. It did not take a lot of effort to have it fall down in pieces to your ankles. You heard his knife be sheathed in his belt again, as he dragged you to the counter and forced you to extend your arms by placing your hands on it.

With this foot he motioned you to spread your legs apart, exposing you in all your vulnerability to him.

You had no clue what he was about to do, but you were already regretting your attempt to maintain your honour.

An open hand adjourned with rings found your buttock in full speed. And another. And another. Between slaps he spoke: “never”, “ever”, “contradict”, “ME”, “again”, “if”, “you”, “want”, “a”, “chance”, “for”, “salvation.” For good measure, a few were added.

Your knees trembled from pain. Your skin must have been opened by now. You wanted to curl up like a little ball. But he did not allow you: “stay still. You have lost your privilege to undress yourself.” His knife cut through your remaining clothes like butter.

Bend over in front of him, you stood there. Naked. Vulnerable. Hurt.

He grabbed a scrubbing cloth, dipped it in the water, and started to work on you. He pushed hard. Harder than necessary. Your entire skin started to feel tender, while your buttocks felt like they were on fire as he subjected them to this cleansing.

By the time he had done nearly your entire body, only your nether regions - still on full display - were left. He had even taken the time to cleanse your hair.

“Hmm” he muttered. “Shall I use the same scrub on your pussy?” Moving up to your head, he grabbed your hair to have you face him: “what shall I do? Have you learned your lesson already, or not?” His face was dark.

“Yes sir, lord Harkonnen. Please. Yes, I have learned your lessons. Please don’t use it there” you pleaded desperately.

“But how do I know you will remember your lesson?” as he gripped your skull with more force.

“Please, please na-Baron, please” as your face started to transform with the desire to cry. “Please” you pleaded again. “I cannot take it. It is too much. Too painful.”

“Hmm” he muttered again. “I am still not done. But I am getting hungry. Let me finish cleaning you quickly.”

Relief washed over you as he removed the scrub and threw it in the sink. Only then did you realise that you did not know what he would use as replacement. But you would find out soon enough.

He dipped his hand into the bowl, made a little cup and brought the water to your pussy. He started to wash it, quite delicately. Over your hilt, in the loins, on the outside of your folds. He repeated this a few times. It was a relief from the harsh touches you had undergone. It cooled you off. It deflected your attention. Your body, treacherously full of desire to live, bucked against his hand, ever so slightly.

“Impatient little cunt you have” the observant man replied nearly immediately, having caught the smallest of movements. “Don’t worry, I will come to you shortly, as he abruptly pushed one finger inside of you.

A squeal escaped you again. “Have no fear. I remember you have never been fucked before. No woman leaves my patronage a virgin” he said, sounding deceitfully considerate. “It is not becoming to my name, nor my role as a tutor.” He laughed: “what would my subjects think?”

You were biting your tongue not to say: ‘like you care what we think.’

He removed his finger with a curled motion, to bring his hand to the bowl again and collect more water. Now he started to clean your inner folds, his fingers hovering over your entrance repeatedly.

Your body started to take over from your stubborn mind, as you let your head fall down and a moan escaped.

“Hmm” he muttered. “Is my little Fremen guest already eager enough to attend this lesson from me?” as his fingers continued to work near your core. “Tell me. What is it you want?”

The feeling of hunger and thirst, combined with the humiliation, had left your mind going astray. It was increasingly difficult to fully comprehend what was going on, causing you to think less and respond purely based on your initial feelings.

“Whatever pleases you, my lord” was your response to his ministrations.

“That is the only right answer. You are starting to learn” he said, as he was petting your hurt behind. “But I still sense dirt within you. I will clean the impurity” he responded.

He grabbed another scoop of water, and repeated the cleansing. But now, every time a finger would pass your entrance, it would dip in ever so slightly. Every time just a bit deeper. Soon, another finger was joined. Showing you how, ever so softly, you could be opened, you could be set to welcome him, knowing his size would be difficult to adapt to.

“You are clean enough. Come” he ordered, as he led you back to his bedroom, still undressed.

“Here,” he pointed at his bed which consisted of canopy held up by four pillars. You obeyed and stood next to the bed. “Wrap your arms around this pole” he instructed. As you complied, rope came from from under the bed, which was used to tie your hands together and connect them to a fixed ring. You did not know what he was up to, as he had just said he wanted to eat, but you did not have the capacity to deal with more pain.

“You will stand here, while I eat” he presented as a mere fact. No consideration for you, and your hunger, which did not surprise you anymore.

As he ate, facing you, you were left to stand there. Stripped from your modesty. No place to hide. Exposed. Uncovered. Afraid.

You had hope, deep inside of you, that as long as you did not rub him in the wrong way, he would come to give you something as additional nourishment.

But he did not. He ate slowly. Deliberately very slow. He made sure you saw him eat. He made sure that you knew he was looking at you. Looking at you with the pry of a predator when game has caught its eye. Looking at you, with eyes spitting the defiling filth he was planning on laying onto you.

The hunger made place for fear. You knew what he was capable was in this very room. You had heard the sounds, and you did not want to follow in those footsteps. You wanted to live.

Once you had embraced that notion, it somehow set you free. It allowed you to reimagine his foul gaze into a token of unencumbered attention for you. You recalled how your mind had ventured to explore what he would be hiding under his robes. And perhaps now was the moment you would find out.

This shift in your state of mind must have had an impact on how your body presented itself, as he growled, again observant as he could be: “it seems like you are more than ready. You are eager. I believe you want me to fuck you, don’t you, little warrior?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yes, what?” he asked menacingly.

“I am dying to be fucked by you, if it befits you, my lord Harkonnen.”

“Hmm” he moaned, “that’s better.” As he took a few steps towards you, he continued: “do you recall what I told you?”

“I am not sure, my lord?” you said, with slight angst in your voice, as he now stood just behind you, with his hands on your hips. You tried to look at him, but he was out of the reach of your neck.

“Once I fuck you, once I take you, you may call me by my given name. But only then. And may I remind you that this is not a suggestion.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Come” as he pulled your hips back while you leaned against the pole. “Spread” as he pushed his knee between your legs to make room for him.

You had started to drip. Your body had been preparing you for this very moment.

He kneeled down behind you, facing your core. While he opened the buttons to his skirt, he observed: “your pussy is beautiful, and is already glistening with moisture. This was prepared using the cum I gave you.” He threw the fabric covering the bottom half of his body on the bed, as he pushed two fingers in you. “So moist. You are desperate for me. I even feel you pulsing on my fingers.”

As he curled his fingers, you arched your back inwards a bit more, exposing yourself a bit more.

“So fucking needy” as he withdrew his fingers and removed his trousers, which he kicked out of the way. “So fucking desperate to have me. Even more than that little mouth of yours” as he thrusted him inside of you. “It does not matter how badly I treat you, your body will betray you” he said in a moment of surprising honesty. Opening you with force. It would have hurt considerably more if your mind and body would not have started to prepare for him already.

“So wet, yet so tight. Even tighter than your throat. Tighter and wetter” he huffed as he kept on opening you further and further, wider and deeper.

“I am feeling how your narrow cunt is wrapping itself around me, clenching itself. You are ready to come already, aren’t you, little student?” while he grabbed your hair to expose your neck to his tongue.

“Yes” you moaned, “yes, my lord Harkonnen.”

These words had not left your mouth, or he had already slapped your still tender butt.

“Feyd-Rautha, Feyd-Rautha, I apologise” as a wall of pleasure came over you.

“Your first orgasm. Reached through pain invoked by my hand. How adorable” as he bit your neck while removing himself from you.

The na-Baron wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you onto the bed, still tied to the pole. There, you were leaning on the rope that was connected to the ring, now with your shoulder against the pole and your knees on the bed. He positioned you in front of him, guiding you to the right height while holding on to your hips, so that he could continue to take you.

With the pillar holding you tight, you could not move anymore. Every push he gave drove you against it, removing any buffer that you had to reduce the depth of his thrusts. This position allowed him to go deeper than before. You tried to tilt your hips to remove some of the length, but you slapped you again: “you will take everything I give you. Every centimetre, and you will thank me for it, woman” he rumbled.

“Yes, lord… Feyd-Rautha, yes. Thank you… for your… consideration” you spoke between thrusts, as each one left you breathless and unable to speak.

Your eyes turned in their sockets. You had no place to escape. No place to leave. He was in total control of what he was doing and what you were experiencing. He knew what he was doing. He knew the pleasures he was bringing. He knew that how he tilted his hips, the angle with which he drove himself into your core, would inevitably lead to another peak.

“Let yourself go. Trust me” he whispered. “Trust me. Submit to me. Give yourself to me” he continued to whisper. The intensity of the thrusts increased; he wanted to sheath himself in you entirely. You had nowhere to go. No rescue. You would give him what he wanted. Your body took over from your mind; his relentless fucking extending the length of your wave.

“Fuck, you are so tight. Even after everything I gave you, you still hold me so well” he moaned. He drove himself deep inside of you a few last times - everything he needed before he spilled himself inside of you, again.

Falling over you, his mouth reached your ear: “you are delightful. Even if you do not learn that quickly, you are a good fuck. For a virgin.”

Leaving you to contemplate whether this was a compliment or an insult wrapped as one, he removed himself from you and fell back on his bed, leaving you to your own devices. Within seconds he was asleep, while you were left in an uncomfortable position, still bearing everything to the world, but now with black cum leaking from your tenderised puffy pussy. Emotions raging through your head on what just had happened, the silence gave you some time to contemplate.

+++

Later that night, you were placed in your room again. Having been exposed for so long, you covered your nether region and your breasts with both hands, hurling your shoulders together. You felt his semen continue to drip down your legs and wanted nothing more than to clean yourself and lay down to rest your body.

You were removed from the relative comfort of your own mind by his harsh tone: “is this how you show your gratitude, girl?” he spoke with a tone bearing the equivalent of lashes on your body as your back was still facing him.

You turned around, fell down to your knees and touched the ground multiple times with your forehead. “Thank you for defiling me, for taking the time to purify me, lord na-Baron” you said, while looking up to him, with hunger in your eyes. Begging him without words. He threw the remaining part of the space apple, which he was eating as he brought you back, onto your lap. “I was not planning on giving this to you, but you redeemed yourself a little bit” after which he closed the door.

That night you were sent back to your room without any clothes nor any extra food, but somehow you still felt fulfilled.

It was difficult to find sleep, wrapping yourself in the sheets of your bed, your mind reliving all the events, all the mistakes and the experiences gained.

+++

The next day he visited you again. The ritual repeated itself.

After it, he brought you to his bedroom again, sans sheets. “You will need to replenish your energy, before we can commence our next lesson” pointing at a new spread of food on the table. He withdrew a chair and allowed you to sit. While you tugged in, he watched you with amusement. You did not try to hide your nakedness, as hunger had overtaken you. He touched the marks he had left on your neck, your shoulder, your hips, causing you to shudder.

You did not question him, you did not ask him what was to come, even if dread started to cement in your bones with each of his touches. You were still sore on the inside and outside from yesterday.

It had taken mere weeks for you to succumb.

“Yesterday, I went easy on you. Today. I won’t” he huffed, as you took your last bite.

You looked up at him with fear in your eyes.

“You would be disappointed if I would do anything else” he said with a soft voice. “Wouldn’t you?” as he pushed some hair behind your ears. “Hmm, wouldn’t you?”

You were too afraid to answer. But also too afraid to not answer. “I don’t know, my lord. I am afraid” you said truthfully.

“A surprising good answer, little one” as he caressed your hair. Despite your eyes being averted to the table, you felt him target you as if you were prey. “I like my Fremen scared for me. Men and women. All of them. I like all my subjects afraid of me.”

He saw you tensing up, and it delighted him. “What shall I do to you? You came so beautifully yesterday. Shall we see how often you can come until you die from coming too often?”

You squealed and looked at him with pure terror in your eyes.

“Or maybe just until you pass out. I don’t know whether you can come, knowing I want to fuck you to death. In my experience not a lot of women can deal with that, although those from Giedi Prime are better placed than those from this planet. I believe the upbringing here is just a bit too... soft, I would say. You Fremen lack a certain level of ruthlessness. You do not face reality. You are too committed to life and fail to see how death is part of it. You have not embraced death at all. While, it is just another step in life. A reset. A way of absolution for the past.”

You were left speechless. Part of you wanted to shout: ‘yes, because of all the hurt and torture you bring, it is fucking salvation.’ But you wisely kept that to yourself. You had no idea how this would end. If anything would end.

“Now, stand up and lay near the head of the bed. I am pleased with my marks on your neck, but I need to see those I left elsewhere.”

With a heavy heart you stood up and complied. There was no other option.

You heard his chair move, but you could not hear his footsteps. He had a way of walking silently if he wanted to, allowing him to attack whenever he wanted. You shuttered at the thought, you toes clenching while keeping your arms close to your torso.

However, where you had expected him to strike, push himself in your still sensitive pussy, or at least inflict some other form of pain, it appeared he had surprised you again. You felt his calloused hands softly petting the wounds on your behind. “It is so pretty. My marks on your body. Here, let me put some cream on that will help you heal quicker” he offered.

You tried to look up, but could not see him well. It looked like his face adorned with a grin, but that could not be the case as he sounded so understanding.

A bottle was opened, liquid was spread between his hands. He straddled you by sitting on your back, facing your feet. “This will only sting a little” he said to your surprise, simultaneously placing both hands on your buttocks.

‘Sting a little’ was an understatement. It burned. It felt like flesh was burning of your bones. You tried to buck, to get your behind away from his hands, to push yourself up and remove him, but his weight was positioned too well and you were too weakened to allow you to do that. He knew what he was doing. He was punishing you again.

“My lord, what have I done to deserve this? It hurts so much. Why? What have I done? Please, please, make it stop” you screamed.

He laughed, a sound so evil. “Don’t worry my dear. You look so beautiful with these injuries. I want you to remember me forever. To have a token of my mentorship. I want anyone who ever fucks you - if there will ever be another - to be forced to ask about this, to learn about me, to think about me, to know I was your first, to acknowledge that they will never fuck you as good as I did. That is a lesson you will learn, don’t worry. We still have time” as he spread the liquid over your wounds. “This potion will allow precious scars to develop.”

Pain had taken over, causing you to jerk your body involuntarily.

“Hush hush, it will only take a few moments. The pain will subdue, and you will be left with a glorious reminder” he said, almost sounding like he meant it. “Hush hush.”

Somehow, it was true. Slowly the stings reduced in intensity. In the back of your mind, you could not help but think he would not be doing this if he were to dispose of you and feed you to these so-called ‘darlings’ anytime soon. Another thought that shot through your head is that he may have been doing this to send a signal to any new joiners behind the closed adjacent doors.

“Now, where were we?” he asked.

A rhetorical question, you presumed.

You presumed incorrectly, as he hit you on the sensitive skin still trying to heal: “you will answer me when I ask a question” he growled.

“My lord. Uhm…” trying to gather your mind. “I believe you said you fuck me until the many orgasms would overtake my mind and render me unconscious” you responded with dread in your voice.  

“That sounds about right. Turn around and spread your legs” he ordered. You complied. You always complied. “Let me see. How has your pussy been recouping from yesterday?” He went out to investigate the remnants of his own doings, his fingers pushing your outer folds apart, while he had placed himself on his sculpted torso in front of you. As you looked down on him, you saw him deliberately move his head in between your legs. Spreading them a bit wider to allow him the space to verify what he had left with the most sensitive part of his own body: his lips. A tongue ventured to observe to his insensitivities of the day before. It tended to all your folds, his saliva holding nourishing properties. Everything this man had to spill, apart from his harsh words, provided and replenished.

“You still hold me inside of you. I can still taste myself. Well done. The longer I stay in you, the better you can absorb me” were words of affirmation left his mouth, rebuilding your mind. “Let me heal you. You took quite a hit yesterday” he spoke, somehow sounding surprisingly sympathetic. Soon, after you spread your legs even further, his tongue found his way into you, while his lips removed the remnants of last night. You started to moan in response to his pioneering. The repetitive sucking, blowing and thrusting motions of this relentless man soon brought you to your first high of the day. The liquid you provided in response was devoured.

He placed his hands on your thighs to push them onto his still covered shoulders, as he threw himself in there again, his teeth gracing the most sensitive of your skin, grabbing and tugging whatever he could get his hands on. He pushed his tongue in further, causing you to grab the sheets and buck into his face. He sucked without forgiveness. He bit the most tender parts of your tender parts. A sensory overload causing you to inevitably arch your spine to seek relief. But he would not allow you. By now you knew that you would end up feeling much more worn than from the night before.  

The lord na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was now focussed on just one thing: making you come so often you would faint.  

By itself, your body decided it might just as well succumb to it, as this man was not known to fail.

Your legs could no longer hold it and wrapped themselves around his head as he continued to lapse and caress. Your height was imminent.

Or so you thought. Just as you were about to come, he closed his mouth and wrestled himself out of your grip. You scooted straight up, leaning on your elbows, to look at him with a defying combination of discontent and loss.

“When you arrived you nearly choked on the idea that I would fuck you. Yesterday, you tried your best to hide from me. What will it be today, little greedy Fremen toy? What will it be today?” he grimaced, baring his black teeth which were laced with your white liquid.

Doubt hit your mind on how to respond.

Doubt left your mind as you saw him lick his lips.

You knew.

You knew he needed you at this very moment just as much as you needed him.

So, you decided to play a little game. “My lord – you are not fucking me now so I will address you like this – my lord. I may prefer to be left trying to hide from you” with a smirk of you own.” To make your point, you closed your legs.

“Hmm, someone is getting a little insolent, I see” as he grabbed your knees and pushed them as far as he could. “Nobody keeps me away from this liquid if I desire it. Nobody prohibits me from any cunt I desire” diving into your pussy again.

The moment of rest intensified the inevitable orgasm, as you grabbed his bold head and tried to push it as deep as possible against your folds. He permitted you.

After you rode your waive, he lapsed one last time deep inside of you to collect whatever he could get, pushing one finger in to gather more. Sitting up straight, he made a display of sucking his finger and his lips.

He scooted back, off the bed, leaving you to wonder what would happen next.

“Keep your legs open” he growled, as he saw a first twitch in your thigh indicating what he wanted to prevent. “This entire night you will not cover my sight on your delightful cunt.”

“Yes, my lord” you said faithfully.

Standing at the end of the bed, he dropped his clothes with a smooth motion. You could not help but stare. This was the first time you saw him fully uncovered. He was magnificent. Not a place on his body left unsculpted. Not a scar on his frame. A single shade of paleness wrapping him. His potency proven by the gravity defying angle his cock was standing in.

Wrapping his hand around himself, he gave a few thrusts, while carrying a face with a sinister look on it. Why, you would never know. It only made him bigger and more difficult to accommodate. But accommodating, that is what you would be doing this night.

His knees hit the bed, slowly he moved towards you. Instinctively you scooted back. Your eyes must have flared up in fright as he suddenly lunged at you, grabbed your feet and dragged your body to be under his.

Him towering over you, he found your neck to bite while his legs found their place between yours. His tip found your entrance, causing you to gasp in anticipation for the thrust. The deep thrust. The painful thrust.

But again, the actions of this man would not be predicted. He just lingered there, ever so deliberately moving not further than perhaps a centimetre or so, and moving out again. He was hard enough to be able to hold himself, as his thumbs tilted your jaw to expose you.

Entering you ever so slightly, and exiting again. Not finding the entrance ever time, gracing your most sensitive bud in the process. Every now and then suggesting to thrust, hard, only to stroke your folds, find a path between them. He was in total control, over himself and everything around him.

Soon, he had found a rhythm that worked for you, and sticked to that rhythm. Unyielding. He would not give up until you had given him another peak. The necessary lubricant being supplied by your pussy, spread through the few small entrances he made, you would soon be gifting him what he desired, as you bucked and pushed yourself against him, feeling your folds surrounding his warm length.

He raised himself a little, to look down at you. Touching your hair, whispering in your ear: “you are so pretty if you do as I say.”

You huffed and bit your tongue. A response he accepted, considering how he now did what you had expected earlier. You squealed, knowing the persons behind the other doors would be able to hear you. You bucked your hips, as he tilted you just slightly. You wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck as you started to breath heavily into him. He knew how to bring you to another high with just a few well-placed powerful thrusts.

Having heard the dreadful stories of your Fremen sisters speaking about how their man could not bring them pleasure, you started to understand why he was being so boastful about his skills.

“You still have so much energy left in you. I first need to drain that” as he replaced his cock with his fingers inside of you and the thrashing balls with his tongue. It was too sensitive. You tried to push him away, but he was not having it. “Submit yourself to the pleasure” as he curled his fingers to find the spot deep inside of you to bring you yet another orgasm.

You just wanted to lay down, recoup. Fall asleep in this soft bed. But it was not up to you to decide. He grabbed you by the side and toppled you over, grabbed your breasts and pulled you to sit on your knees. “Hold on to the head of the bed” as he spread your legs, grabbed himself and pushed himself inside of you.

Obscenities left your mouth. Involuntary profanities. He was deep inside of you, filling you completely. Touching every sensitive part. While holding on for dear life, you knew he was still not going at full power nor speed. You felt his hips slam against your buttocks. You wanted to cry. You wanted to fall down. You wanted to sleep. You wanted to rest. You wanted to have all the impulses removed. You wanted him to go away yet never leave you.

He moved his hands from your breasts to your pussy where he could feel himself inside of you. They moved to your shoulders as he kept you in place. He did not even move that much; the depth ranged from deep to very deep. It was one plateau of height, where you could not recognise the beginning nor the end.

You were done. You had already been done for a while. But he wasn’t. He had not yet reached any of his goals.

The grip to the board diminishing, you faltered. You fell to your chest as your hands were not stable enough to catch you. He continued. He did not miss a beat, as he continued to thrust into you.

Your legs were wasted, not providing enough counterweight to his actions, and soon you lay on your stomach, where he continued. Not changing his speed or the power behind his movements. Monotone, directly touching the buds of pleasure you held within your core.

He continued. And continued. And continued. Over and over and over again. Your walls clenching around him as he continued. More resilient than your mind was. It was still all a new experience, yet you started to fail to register what was happening.

Whether it was due to the continuous high, the repeated pushes on your body digging your face deeper into the matrass preventing you from breathing deeply, or simply being overcome by everything that had happened over the last weeks. You did not know.

+++

You did know, after you woke up, that you were back in your room, which was tidied up. New bedding was placed, more food was put on the table and a fresh set of clothes, several even, were placed on one of the chairs. You even found some books placed next to the bed.

You were wearing clothes. Clothes were nothing like you had worn before. But you recognised from the first day you set foot into this palace that this was what Harkonnen servants wore.

Your fold were sensitive and wet. Your fingers showing proof of the na-Baron having reached his own high deep inside of you.

Many rewards were bestowed upon you. Apparently, you had pleased him.

+++

Over the coming weeks you were kept in the room, only to be released when he took you to his own bedroom. After such trips, you would find your room cleaned up, food and drinks refilled, and sometimes you would get new books or even a game to play. Never though, not once, did you notice any person slipping into your room.

He would not visit you every day, but every time he did, the same process ensued: you emptied him on your knees and he rewarded you. Either with food, a cleanse, a fuck, or even a mere conversation. Food would never be presented without you having seen him. Subconsciously you started to associate his presence and satisfaction with your survival.

You basked in each reward.

Seeing him train was even a gift. Even hearing sloppy sounds and sounds of pain and death coming from his room gave you positive feelings, as you knew he meant to send a message to you. He was thinking of you.

The days that you did not see him, the nights, they were dark. The days graced by his presence were light.

Time started to pass in a blur.

+++

One night, the na-Baron came into your room, slow enough to allow you to present yourself in the desired position.

“Today, I have a gift for you, if you obey nicely. Perhaps a few” he spoke. You smiled with anticipation, as he uncovered his cock and presented it to you to lick.

+++

[Link to chapter 3 / 3 - Punish me (part 3 of 3): the story on how you became one of Feyd-Rautha’s concubines]

@kasagia - thanks for the suggestions and inspiration!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - We Are Fucked - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"The Ditch. It's not far from the Shimmer Fields, is it?"

"It's not." Sevika's breath comes as if drawn through a pinched straw. "That's where the 'and then some' comes in."

Silco braces himself.

"The fields, sir." She swallows. "They're dead. Whatever that blue shit last night was—it's burnt them to a crisp."

"Burnt?"

"The blackflower reserves. The harvest vats. The processing plants. It's all gone."

"Even the stockpiles?"

"There's nothing left. Not a petal, leaf, or stalk. The blast wiped everything out."

Her eyes, gunmetal in rings of black, lock on his. There's no fear or denial there. Only the hard bullseye of certainty.

We, her eyes say, are fucked.

Silco concurs, with a single nod.

Shimmer is Zaun's beating heart. If it flatlines, the city is finished. Their main export is gone; their industries will tank. Breakthroughs with medicinal Shimmer will go belly-up. Backdoor deals with the Council will fall apart. Their footholds in Piltover's economy—all that painstaking groundwork over the months—will crumble.

Investors will flee in a mass exodus. The chem-barons will turn on him like a pack of rabid dogs.  The rest of his network will fracture and cannibalize itself. All the strays he's sheltered—Dustin, Ran, Lock, Avi, Posky—will be flung back to the old hell of bloodsports, human auctions, and streetside debasement. Dustin will end up OD'ing before the month is done. Ran will wind up on the slaver's chopping block. Lock will fall back to the fighting pits, a dead-eyed shell of his old self. Avi will fly straight into Bilgewater, only to be blasted into fish-fodder. Posky, poor boy, will end up in some brothel's basement: the kind with cages, where the clients get to choose their favorite cut of meat.

And Sevika?

She'll survive. Of that, he has no doubt. But he'd lose her. Not as his bedmate or his XO; he'd lose her faith. And, in losing it, win a knife to the ribs.

Sevika's not the type to forgive betrayal of that scale.

Nor can he fault her.

He'd promised them a brighter tomorrow. Promised a future, not an endless present of pain. A city that was more than a safe harbor, but an ethos, an ideology, an unshakable self-belief.

Now, that promise is in shreds.

There's a saying in the Undercity: A disloyal motherfucker is born dead every minute.

For Silco, it'll be a fitting epitaph.

He dares not seek Medarda's aid. She'll never condescend to bankroll an exportless economy; her gold, when she deigns to dole it out, is not alms, but a gauntlet. Prove yourself worthy, or perish. Now, having already invested so heavily in their partnership, she won't cut her losses right off. But he'll be left in the unenviable position of owing her his balls on a golden platter.

She will make the most of the meal. She'll leverage his failure for her own ends: leverage him along with it. Silco shudders to imagine his ambitions shredded like sweetmeats between her pretty white teeth. Feels the shudder deepen to icewater as he pictures Medarda standing over him, gloved fingers on his chin, forcing his eyes up. Smiling as she orders him to take it all down his throat: his pride, his dignity, and all that gold.

She'd enjoy it, the bitch.

And after she's had her fun—dragged him to the gutter of her satisfaction and the slaughterhouse of his self-respect—she'll hand him off. To the next bored blueblood with a fetish for slumming it, or simply to the high courts for his crimes against her Council.

He'll be back where he'd begun: a rat on the run, with no recourse except a fast-track to ruin.

And Jinx—

Silco breathes. In, and out. Wills the pressure in his lungs to recede. Wills the terror to a place where it can't touch him. Wills himself to a place where nothing touches him, and lives: the place where the Monster is submerged. 

And, as blood pools between the Monster's teeth, he thinks:

You’ll never drag me back down: whole or in pieces.

I’ll kill every last one of you before I let that happen.

I’ve got nothing left to lose. Nothing but Jinx.

And to keep her, he'll burn down whatever's left of his soul. Will turn the whole goddamned city to dust.

Watch it burn.

[dcdreamblog]

do you have any tidbits about the Red Bee? I heard he died decades ago but I also saw some people claiming that he showed up a few years back helping that Peacemaker guy

Depending on someone's level of familiarity his entire life is a fun tidbit but I will do my best.

(Art piece of The Red Bee that adorns one wall of the Superior City Historic Society) Richard "Rick" Raleigh would have appeared to anyone who knew him as the most stand up kind of guy that existed at that time. The assistant DA in the booming pacific port town of Superior City. His only major quirk was a fascination with bees but hey, everyone has to have a hobby right? No one knows for sure what caused his turn to crime fighting, as I've stated before it really was just something in the air during those days. If people like The Sandman and The Atom could do it, and make the jackals preying on vulnerable communities shiver, then anyone would with the right willpower.

His abilities were modest. A motorcycle, a "stinger gun" (which in reality was just a souped up BB pistol but sting it did indeed do) and his secret weapon. A trained bee named Michael. Those of you who do not know this story just balked at that. How does one train a bee? Don't bees live like, two months at best? I need you to look at me when I tell you a couple of things and then the best guess we have. I am NOT fucking with you. 1. That bee is still alive, and has recently reunited with Raleigh's time displaced sidekick. 84 years after Raleigh's debut. Michael sat, and waited until Ladybug returned to the honey farm where he was housed and upon her return instantly flew up to her acting with direct recognition of the young woman after 8 decades.

2. Michael is able to sting multiple times without any ill effects on his person. (Bee-son. You know what I mean) Our best guess? The bee has a metagene.

A random mutation in this seemingly random worker bee has given it, what is from its perspective superhuman abilities of intellect, longevity and invulnerability. It is a theory because under no circumstances are we ever going to get to find out unless for some god forsaken reason the two heirs to Raleigh's estate pass it off to science when and if it does finally die.

Perhaps the discovery OF Michael's abilities were of partial inspiration for Raleigh's career. Truly we may never know.

Raleigh himself died in a battle with Nazi war criminal Baron Blitzkrieg in 1944, distracting the Baron long enough for his teammates in the Freedom Fighters to free themselves and turn the tide of battle. His memorial rests in Raleigh Park, Superior City for those curious. Note that it is a somber place of respect, those who have gone in an attempt to trivialize or joke on Raleigh's legacy have found themselves suspiciously targeted by the park's many large bee hives. The local superstition is that Michael has made it clear to all his fellows in the thousands of following generations who made their undisturbed home possible. (The park was built and is now maintained by the Raleigh estate, currently in the name of Raleigh's grand niece Jenna Raleigh and the descendants of the Rivera family who owned the honey farm where Michael was born) To this day, in Superior City, is considered very bad luck to harm a bee. And the city's annual Pollination Parade is held on Raleigh's birthday in July.

[cherrybomb107]

Idk friends, but something about having Jinx, a severely depressed and mentally ill victim of oppression at the hands of Piltover be the one to “break the cycle”(what even is the cycle fr?) by leaving is…not great.

Obviously the way “the cycle” is framed is inherently flawed. The show is telling us the cycle of violence is what needs to be broken, and I’d agree, if not for the fact that they’re putting interpersonal violence on the same level as the state sanctioned kind, and because they’re putting interpersonal have Jinx specifically be the one to break it. There’s nothing wrong with Jinx feeling like she’s the real reason for everything and outsizing her guilt. Thinking that everything would be better if she wasn’t around. That’s definitely something that Jinx, as so deeply insecure and full of self loathing would think. But the narrative never calls her out for thinking this way. In fact, it supports it! And that’s not right.

Saying that Jinx, who has been shown to be capable of becoming a better version of herself, as evidenced by her relationship with Isha, is at fault for the tensions between Piltover and Zaun is just false. Piltover is the real monster. That oppressive institution is the reason why people like Jinx exist in the first place. If not Jinx, then someone else in Zaun would’ve said “enough is enough” and decided to fight back. It was inevitable. Plus the Piltover/Zaun conflict has been going on for centuries. The conflict is a result of institutionalized violence against Zaun more than it is the choices of individuals. The individuals only made the choices they did because of Piltover, yk?

Making Jinx, who is not only a Zaunite but has also had very real struggles with her mental health(which again, were absolutely exacerbated because of Piltover) be the one to “die”(I know she’s most likely not dead. It’s still a shitty message to send regardless) is very strange. I know the show wants to spread the “both sides” narrative, but this is not the way to go about it. Instead of making it genuinely both sides by holding both people like Silco and the Chem barons AND the Council/the institution of Piltover accountable for the conflict, only Zaun loses. Only people like Jinx, Ekko, Vi, Sevika, and Gert lose. Only they suffer. The onus to pick up the pieces and rebuild the relationship between Piltover and Zaun rests squarely on their shoulders.

Furthermore, this is why I take issue with the idea that Jinx leaving is “good” because it “prevents other kids like Isha from looking up to her and wanting to rebel”. Huh??? What the fuck are you talking about? That’s such an awful thing to say! Feel how you feel about kids participating in protest movements(it’s been done since protest movements have existed) but come on! It is not on Jinx if people are inspired by her. It is on Piltover for imprisoning children, gassing the streets of Zaun, enforcing martial law, and much more. It is NEVER the fault of the oppressed for fighting back. The blame always has and always will lie with the oppressors. Blaming Jinx for more kids dying for their freedom is fucking yikes…

Zaunites put on enforcer uniforms and died fighting for their oppressors. Meanwhile, because of time constraints as well as other factors, the oppressors lose nothing. Sure, Noxus and Viktor were defeated, but they were both used to scapegoat Piltover. Piltover is the real monster, remember that. What fundamentally changed after the final battle? Did Caitlyn step down as commander? Issue a formal apology to Zaun and promise to do right by them? Was she ever punished for allowing Ambessa to come in and seize control? Will the remaining Zaunite fighters be compensated for helping Piltover? Will they finally be treated with respect? Will Zaun ever get its freedom? Does there exist a world where the blame is not always placed on that of the marginalized to clean up the messes of those who are responsible for marginalizing them in the first place? We don’t know! And we never will, because the show brushes these issue off because “forgiveness”.

TL;DR Having Jinx be the one who had to sacrifice herself in order to “break the cycle” is icky and weird

[the-hinky-panda]

War of the Roses: Part I

Title: War of the Roses

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Bill Bevilaqua x Reader

Summary: Married at nineteen to a man you didn't even know, forced to live in a marriage that neither one of you wanted has killed any hope of a happy life. That is until a mistake in a country club coat room brings that hope back to life.

The first time Bill Bevilaqua kisses you, it’s in the coat room at a country club in Kansas City. To his credit, he thought you were the bartender that had been flirting with him all evening, because why would Cal Thresher’s wife be retrieving her own coat? He had grabbed you from behind, his mouth covering yours when he spun you around. It takes you by surprise but not for the obvious reason. 

It’s the first time in six years that you’ve felt actual passion. 

It was your sister that was supposed to marry Cal. She was a few years older, closer to his thirty-two years of age. She was more materialistic, more into the glitter and gold, the cars and the mansion. But there was some other oil baron, more established and with a larger bank account that would allow her to stay in her home state of Texas. She eloped, marrying in a beach ceremony on his private Caribbean island. And you were left standing at the altar in your sister’s dress, holding her flowers, and marrying her fiance in a small, clapboard country church in Oklahoma. 

You were nineteen. 

The terms of the marriage had been simple. Cal needed an heir to leave his estate to and you would be provided a life of comfort. You were merely an extension of his wealth and persona. Coming from generational oil wealth, you were well trained to fill that role. An arm piece for social functions, hostess for fundraisers and Christmas parties just as your mother had been. And, of course, be the mother of children that would continue the Thresher legacy. You thought you could handle it, the vapid existence and shallowness of the other socialites. You held out hope that once you had children, you would find your joy in them and not the social functions. 

Three miscarriages later and your gilded cage is quickly becoming a smothering prison. Cal’s patience is running out but there’s nothing you can do about your faulty reproductive system, especially when the doctor’s can’t pinpoint a reason for the losses. It was just two weeks after your latest loss when Cal asked you to accompany him on a business trip to Kansas City. Bill Bevilaqua, a wealthy ranch owner, was throwing a party for his latest business: growing medical marajuana. Cal had struck a deal with him, wanting to obtain a corner on something that had the potential to be lucrative, and this was the celebration of what they hoped was going to be a long and successful partnership. 

There had been a couple that had struck up a conversation with you and Cal about horses, a subject you actually had genuine interest in. The wife had three prize thoroughbreds, all had run in the Kentucky Derby at one point over the last four years. During the course of the conversation, Cal had handed you and the wife wine glasses but she had declined. 

“Sorry, none for me,” she had smiled proudly, her hand resting on her flat stomach. “Just found out we’re expecting our sixth.” 

The look Cal had given you when the couple moved on would have frozen a cactus in the middle of a desert at the height of summer. It was a knife twist to your gut, like you had wanted to lose those three babies. You knew you couldn’t get any peace in the ladies room to cry your tears so you had gone to the coat closet instead to gather yourself. You had your face pressed against someone’s rabbit fur coat, soft against your face and smelling of Chanel No 5, your mother’s signature fragrance, when Bill had interrupted you with his broad, roving hands and warm lips. 

When he leaned back and recognized you, his tipsy grin immediately disappeared. “Fuck.”

Tears were still wet on your cheeks, grief still heavy in your chest when you grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him back towards you. You kissed him this time, tasting the whiskey that he had just recently drank, trying to memorize the way his mouth moved against yours. The way his hands returned to your ribcage, gently holding you against him. Eventually your senses returned to you, the fear of getting caught replacing the desire, and you slowly released him. 

“Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m sor-” 

You hold up your hand and smooth his jacket lapels. “I’m not.” 

“Look, I didn’t-” 

“I won’t tell Cal.” You grab your coat from the rack behind you and slip into it. “I suggest you don’t tell him either.” 

He says your name, shortly but with an edge of softness to it. It causes you to pause in your retreat from the coat room. 

“You know my name?” 

He gives you a confused look. “Of course I know your name.” 

It’s been so long since you’ve heard someone call you by your actual name. It’s always Mrs. Thresher or Ma’am. Even Cal calls you honey or sweetheart. To hear someone say your name, and only your name, reminds you that you’re still an individual. You reach out and gently lay your hand over his, your thumb moving over the large onyx and silver ring on his hand. “Please, call me that again the next time.” 

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “Next time, huh?” 

[heartfullofleeches]

Actually, I imagine Baron using his refusal to be in human form AND actively challenging C.C in a game, and when C.C gets smug, BAM. Baron convinced MC to play for him and since they are his player, Baron gets to have MC in his lap while C.C is fuming and actively deciding whether to beat his brother's ass or continue. But continuing also brings trouble, do they win to flaunt at MC how good they are or they lose bc well, it's MC.

[excessive vulgar language]

As per norm, the demon brothers get into an argument within ten minutes of meeting with each other. This time, the fighting began before they even saw each other over the phone due to Baron answer the call for you while you were taking a shower. Due to his large hands and claws he continuously hung up the phone or put himself on mute. C.C was pissed one for you not being there, and two his brother's refusal to make things easier for everyone around him. The shouting match continued in your living room where you were mysterious nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck you."

"No- fuck you, you oversized red piece of shit. Do you know how much times you've slapped me in the face with your tails? You can barely fit pass the front fucking door!"

"It's not my fault you're tiny. I oughta knock your ass through the ceiling."

C.C smacks the back of his hand to his palm with each pause between words. "Bitch. You. Are. Too. Big. What's so hard to get about that?"

"The fact I'm fine as I am. I could beat you in literally anything and I don't just mean strength related activities. In fact, let's play a game. I saw the one you bought for Y/n the other day."

C.C scoffs. "Sure. You can't even press the buttons."

"That's why I got my secret weapon. Observe."

Reaching behind the couch, Baron picks up his hidden powerhouse and holds them to his chest like a child would carry their favorite stuffed animal. You wave down at C.C, your legs dangling beside his head.

"Hello."

"....You son of a bitch."

Baron smirks. "Could say the same about you."

C.C throws up his hands. "Alright. Fine. You can cheat this time - I'll still win. And you-" He points his manicured claws up at your face. "When I win, I get to french you so hard I'll know what you ate for breakfast this morning."

"Hm..... Fair bet to me."

Baron's eyes flash red. He slowly lowers you to the ground. "I'll rip out your tongues and nail it to that pink hunk of junk you call a car.

C.C bats his eyelashes as he wraps his arms around your neck. "But I'm only playing by your rules. You have enough faith in our Y/n and your backseating don't you?

Baron grumbles to himself, snatching you from C.C's arms and sitting down on the floor with you in his lap. C.C pouts, but he's confident enough in himself that it's his arms you'll be in by the end of the night - so he isn't worried. Baron rests his chin on your head, purring through his frustrations as C.C turns the tv on and grabs the controller. He winks at you, getting down on the floor beside the two of you.

"This is going to be fun."

[everythingshewantsss]

Florian's Background Made No Sense (Theory)

As I played Florian and finished his deductions, I fell in love with his story and his character. He was a survivor of a house fire that killed his parents, raised in a well-known orphanage, and developed a pyromaniac hero complex as a result of his experiences. I became invested and wanted to know how he ties into the rest of the story of the White Sand Street Orphanage, since his deductions state he was raised there. News flash- He doesn't fit in with the story. The number of years he stayed there, the lack of a fire brought up in relating characters' accounts of the location, and Florian's deductions having no information about the asylum itself, that the orphanage was turned into. I was wondering about his experience there, as we all know it's a staple location in Identity V's lore. I thought at first that the writers on IDV's dev team fucked up terribly. But after piecing together the full story of White Sand Street Orphanage, I have reason to believe he was never there at all.

The current story of the orphanage is known: White Sand Street Orphanage was founded by Kreacher where he homed Robbie and his sister. The church in the town had a lot of power and demanded that Kreacher sell them the orphanage, or he will be prosecuted. The time that Kreacher owned the orphanage lasted ten months before selling the property to Father Duke.

Under the ownership of the church, Father Duke and Emily (under the account of Baron) started drugging and experimenting on the children, including Emma, Robbie and his sister. However, Sister Lorraine, the assistant director, would have little to no idea about these actions. After transforming the orphanage into a mental hospital, they started admitting both adults and juveniles. We know some of these admissions to be Emma, Kurt, and Emil. Robbie's sister, Dolores, would cause a lot of trouble because she was very aware of the malevolence taking place. She and him were roomed separately, but Dolores would be caught throwing Robbie's medication out the window or even take his doses herself— this leading to her quick psychological degradation. Robbie would usually sneak into her room more often to see her, but one day she starts screaming. Dolores doesn't remember her little brother due to the effects of the drugs. She was dragged away, and Robbie went back to his room. After not seeing his sister for 3 days, he tries to sneak out of his room's window, leading to the window falling on him and decapitating and killing him.

At one point when Dolores is more sober, she realizes Robbie is dead and starts freaking the fuck out. She had to be thrown off of her brother's grave and dragged back inside several times. Dolores writes Robbie a letter telling him there's one last thing she has to do. She finds an axe and at night, she went to kill as many people as she could find— staff, nuns, and other children.

The local public would begin to question if the mental hospital should stay open. Sister Lorraine would take over as director as Father Duke moved up into a district position. Sister Lorraine had reevaluated the juvenile patients and deemed them sane to discharge. She left a resignation letter and disappeared. The rest of the patients there were transferred before the business shut down. There are so so so many more details about the White Sand Mental Hospital, but this is the summarized story from start to end!

This story takes place over the course of no more than 2 years. It was in Kreacher's possession when he founded it for ten months, then Robbie and Dolores remained very young children up to Robbie's death and Sister Lorraine leaving. Emily had tortured Lisa there before Lisa was likely discharged and grown into the identity of Emma Woods. The orphanage was only called an orphanage until the kids were reported to be sick and needed treatment. It was then known widely as White Sand Street Mental Hospital, or White Sand Street Asylum. I thought to myself, could Florian have burnt it down and then it was rebuilt later?

No. Florian was orphaned when he was 6 years old and presumably pulled his arsonist stunt sometime during teenhood. Within his time span, the orphanage would have been turned into an asylum and closed down not so long after. His deductions never report an asylum at White Sand Street nor any of the events that have been established before. None of the characters with relations to the location have never mentioned a fire or a rebuilding. Robbie and Dolores were homed there from the start to the finish of the business, and not once were they interrupted by a fire. So where was Florian raised?

I have to believe that Florian's White Sand Street Orphanage is a complete reopening with new administrators and staffing. During his time there, the grown-ups help Florian cope with the death of his parents. They tell him that they are still with him and still love him, and Florian found that his parent's love is in the fire. This brings him comfort and he is content with his past as he becomes the poster boy for the orphanage to gain funding. According to his written background story, he was proactive and diligent, and appointed to be the manager of the other children.

Additionally, I still do think the Baron may be in control or have influence of it. In Florian's background video, there is a shot of a nun adding something from a vial to a pitcher— presumably drugging water for the children.

Sister Lorraine and Emily are no longer associated here and that provides an opportunity for a fresh start. After the first location being so careless and unorganized, Baron and/or Father Duke may have been able to properly organize illicit experimenting without it getting obvious. The first White Sand Street Asylum story mentions a writer visiting before Dolores' incident happened— this is likely Orpheus. With the loose ties that Baron and Orpheus have narratively, it would be of interest for either to keep continuing these experiments. With the amount of drug usage that is in the manor games, it would make sense to have them tested here first.

Florian's story starts a new story for White Sand Street Orphanage. Sister Lorraine is gone, and other linked characters were already at the Manor much earlier. Emil's game at the Manor is the first test run, and by that time the original asylum should be long gone. The town must have needed an orphanage again and a new one has opened, just as the Baron or Orpheus needed more testing grounds for their drugs used in the games.

[ok-pop-1]

Regarding the last line tag game you posted, I would definitely like to know why Hyrule is ready to fight over a carriage. I can only imagine what could push him to such limits!!

I wasn't expecting a request that quickly, but hey, I got it fixed up! You can check it out on ao3, or read it below because it's short enough that I figured I'd just post the whole thing lol

"I'm fine."

"You are not."

"I'm fine, Rule."

Hyrule breathes in and out. It's meant to be a calming breath of some sort, but really it's just a breath. The carriage under him bumps and jostles with every minute dip and pebble in the road, and he hates that he has to be riding inside this thing, absolutely despises that he can't see what's going on around him, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because if he leaves, then there's nobody he trusts to keep Wars in the carriage. And right now, Wars really fucking needs to be in the carriage.

Because it wasn't enough that they had to land in his era yet again, had to negotiate a ride yet again, and had to travel with some random soldiers yet again. No, it clearly wasn't enough, because Wars just had to go out and get stabbed through his forsaken thigh during a skirmish with, like, four bokoblins, and now he's trying to weasel out of sitting in the carriage to let his leg heal. Because no matter how good Hyrule's magic is, a stab is a stab and they're out of potions, so there's still a gaping wound in Wars' fucking leg.

The captain, with stabbed leg bandaged and raised on a bench, has the gall to look annoyed. "A leg wound like this won't prevent me from being able to ride, I need to be out there with the others."

Hyrule breathes in and out. It's slightly more helpful this time.

"Baron Link Dedril--" his memory of Wars' full name runs out-- "and whatever else it is that you're called, you are going to sit in this carriage until Linkle has a chance to heckle you to pieces for your stupidity, or so help me Hylia, I will stab your other leg."

He's not actually going to stab Wars' other leg. ...Yet.

Wars opens his mouth. Wars closes his mouth. Wars' thick skull finally comprehends the fact that Hyrule is not letting him leave this carriage until he's healed or they reach his house, and he sighs, dropping back against the bench.

"Just... tell me if they need me," he finally says, arms crossed as he sullenly stares out one of the carriage's tiny windows.

"Of course," Hyrule lies. "Now, rest, so your damn leg can heal."

The carriage jostles hard as it crosses a bump. Shouts can be heard from outside. Hyrule thinks that if he ever needs to get into a carriage again, he might just resort to violence.

[brionbroadway]

“Princess, is it your time to rest? Or do you want your story to continue?”

Rosamund is glad to be asked.

This is what she wants: a chance to write her own story outside of the narrative that’s planned for her. She is not ready to rest--she already rested for a hundred fucking years--and true love is no longer an option. It must be something else; there has to be something else for her to choose. She will take her scrap of a page and discover what it is.  

“I don’t think it’s my time to rest.”

“Then I think—”

She feels the briars before she sees them, wrapping around her heart the way she guaranteed a lover never would. With each pulse of her heart, the briars pierce it.

But her heart must be stronger than everything than every piece of Thumbelina, because she splits in half.

“I take it back!” Rosamund yells. “I take it back!”

“Oh, my dear Rosamund.”

The voice comes from a briar that’s coiled itself into her ear. It’s unrecognizable as any individual fairy, but it drips with both the saccharine sweetness and depraved wickedness Rosamund has realized they all possess.

“You cannot take a choice back, my girl. This is why you should have trusted the ending that was written for you.” The voice tuts, a disapproving parental figure that never gave Rosamund anything but rules. “Your gifts did not come without a curse. You have sacrificed the one condition that would break it. You have rejected rest. What did you think was left for you, Sleeping Beauty?”

Rosamund tries to use her own voice, but a briar invades her mouth and replaces her smile. Its teeth are sharper than her own.

“Oh, I know what’s that like.”

The voice in Rosmaund’s heads changes, a conspiratorial older sister like she tried to be Red. The briars morph into thick strands of golden hair.

“It’s a shame we never got to talk.” Rapunzel’s voice comes from everywhere her hair touches.  “We have a lot in common. Locked away, someone else claiming to know what’s best for us, unable to make our own choices…”  

The briars spin, like hair being twirled around a finger.

“But when we did write our own story, we gained power. I know it hurts, Rosamund. I know it may not seem like it, but my hair hurts too. It chokes me, and restrains me, but more importantly than any of that, it keeps me safe—”

She’s cut off, because Gerard is eating Rapunzel on the battlefield. Her voice returns, hoarse from screaming. It sounds the way her hair feels in Rosamund’s throat.

“He will consume all of you, Rosamund. He has already done so to Elody in their marriage, though she does not recognize that. You must him put him to sleep.”

Rosamund cannot see a prince on the battlefield, only a monster. 

Suddenly, the hair transforms into chains.  

“Hello, my love.”

The deep, cruel voice of the Baron of Bricks feels like the weight of the chains on Rosamund’s skin. It comes from the ones trapping her heart into beating.

“I know, of course, that I am not your true love,” he says. “I know you will not get that. But, I do believe we have more in common than either of us first thought. You have rejected death, and I respect that, but I must warn you that it will not last as long as Death is around. She just took a Beast. She can certainly take a Princess.”

Rosamund cannot see a girl on the battlefield, only The Big Bad Wolf.

“If you need to put her in a stew, I have a recipe. Otherwise, you have all the tools you require. You must put her to sleep.”

The chains drop, but Rosamund is quickly snatched up by sharp claws. The Baba Yaga runs them down her face, her neck, and finally stops at the same wrists she considered feasting on. Her voice comes from the wounds she created.

“Thank you, Princess, for your gift. I am taking good care of your true love. He is only feeling the pain you would have caused each other after happily ever after.”

She cackles, and it infects the wounds.

“You made a wise choice in putting him to sleep.”

The claws release Rosamund, and the briars consume her again. Slowly, a pattern appears on them that represents a kind of evil she still had not accepted existed.

“I am sorry my son could not keep you safe, Rosamund. You do not need to worry about punishing him for that; I assure you I will take care of it.”

The Stepmother’s voice sounds like Rosamund’s own thoughts.

“Sleeping Beauty, I know what it’s like to have a role assigned to you. But, I also know what it’s like to edit the story. We can change this together. You can make your own choices, just as you wished. Put them all to sleep, Rosamund, and we will write the stories this world deserves.”

There is no happy ending for Rosamund. Only what must be done in this room.

[ria-the-camel]

gotta write down my act 3/ season 2 thoughts while they’re still warm (watched act 3 then slept on it)

okay so.

first things first, Isha. I deeply dislike her character. I can’t really dislike her because homegirl barley has exists as anything other than a plot device

the minute she was introduced she felt like some plot device (plus i don’t like her character design at all), then she started following jinx around and yeah. I knew exactly how she was gonna get used, by dying to break jinx even more.

the main issue have with her is that with sooooo much stuff going on in the show, they didn’t really have time to grow her as a character I could care about, other than Jinx’s little buddy, so it really had no impact, I barely accepted that Jinx cared for her at that point.

And it’s very disappointing when you see a character and all you can think is “oh yeah, that’s a tool that theyll use later” instead of a character I could actually grow attached to.

Plus! she’s entirely irrelevant to act 3, straight up barely mentioned! I personally think they didn’t really need her, I think they could have done something great with just Jinx and Sevika and the rest of the Undercity using her as a symbol. the pieces were there but it didn’t really feel like they delivered.

And in general, I think the biggest gripe I have with season 2 is how unsatisfying their handling of the whole Piltover vs Zaun thing was. That was the main issue in season 1 (along with Vi/Powder, but I’ll get there) and here it took such a background spot. Ngl, it felt bad! the final battle being “there’s a common enemy so let’s put aside our differences and fight these sexy zombie-robots!” was sooooo disappointing. What the fuck??? that was the whole point of the story! Zaun is still oppressed!! oh weaaaow they put sevika in the. council? The right hand man? the brawler? alone in a room filled otherwise with piltover’s rich ass people?

yeah, truly satisfying.

I liked in act 1 how they showed the power vacuum after Silco died, how inadequate the chem barons were, but like, they did not deliver on that storyline either, they let it frizzle out. “sure now theres just a bunch of leaderless gangs, one has blue hair and pronouns”. eh

The other big thing that made me legitimately sad, and i did mention it before, is how dirty they did Cait in act 2. I loved the direction they took her in act 1, dictator Cait,Fascist Cait, after being the fish outta water, the damsel in distress being kidnapped while in the shower, girl got her traumas! The visceral and emotion numbing hatred she had for Jinx was so intresting. she hated her, she feared her, thought everyone was on that same page because she was blinded by her own grief. And she was so so wrong!! and she got manipulated so easily by Ambessa!

And I just wish they’d given her more time to show how that pain and power and relentless hatred eroded at her soul. I had no doubt they would have her go back on her choices (tho a part of me also wanted to see her get dragged so low she couldn’t climb back out. What can I say, I love a tragedy and Cait is one of my favorite characters), get back to Vi, but I wanted it to matter, to really show how fucked up she was.

And it didn’t feel like enough. There were hints of her disagreeing with Ambessa, with her use of power and violence, but never of her changing her goals really, she still seemed to be ready for anything as long as they got Jinx. And then she bumped into Vi and they didn’t show us how they came to that betrayal, only that they did. and uh? I didn’t like it.

In act 3 I liked her a bit more, idk if it’s because i had time to mourn dictator caitlyn and how little of her we actually got to see, or if maybe seeing her and Vi actually talk about how they were still mad placated me a little.

though, fuck me I really disliked the cell sex scene. Not the animation of course! shit was fucking well done, though some shots were so purposely for the camera that they felt kinda like porn, but I mostly laughed at that. No I didn’t like that it was in a jail cell, I didn’t like that it felt kind of outta nowhere? like yeah sure showing them fucking is a good way to hint at them having made up (cos Cait decided Jinx wasn’t so scary after all I guess? Like I can bekieve that, I just wished they’d shown ita bit more, but like I said, I liked it more than act 2), but the timing felt so off, Jinx just ran away to do gods know what, Vi is locked in a prison again, little fucked up?

Also the editing was, uh, a lot. I think of the Jayce/Mel sex scene as one of the best, the music, the cuts with viktor, the was the blood/magic and sex all mixed and crossfaded on screen? Holy shit that scene rules! So this one was… a bit disappointing once again.

(Maybe if season 1 didn’t exist I would have had a better time with s2 as a whole., but it does exist!!!)

anyway I was saying, I feel like a tasteful fade to black would have been better, tho my best choice would have been for them Not To Fuck in that scene, save it for later, or find something that works to make flow it a bit better (that isn’t king princess blasting in the speakers lmao)

I liked the choice to have the sniper lose an eye, girly did some war crimes and the like, a little bit of karma was needed there, plus I love when my faves get scarred forever.

speaking of karma, Maddie. Another. for the “why would they introduce her” pile. first time I saw her, approaching Vi in her drunken pit, it was either she’s a spy or shes gonna die tragically, same “plot device thing” as isha, then she slept with cait and yeah, if she’s not a spy i would have been surprised. what was her purpose tbh? Showing Cait rebounding was eh, didn’t feel that needed but sure alright. she tried to convince her to back out? so that ambessa could fully take over? if that’s the case it wasn’t reaaally clear. why was she there.

I didn’t get why Loris was so prominent at all. Sure use him as a sort of Vander stand in but also. They didn’t really??? It almost felt like they had ideas for a deeper story but they had to cut them for time and all that was left was this discount Vander who would sometimes pop up.

I just don’t feel like we really needed the fascist police squad to have names and relevance tbh, unless they were gonna be given some time, which they weren’t, because there was sooo much shit going on!!!

Now Vi, I have a more difficult time decoding how I feel about her, the line about whatever choice she makes being wrong kind encapsulates her character perfectly tbh. And I love that for her, absolute disaster woman with a heart as big as the sun. I wished they’d given more space to her choice to join the enforcers, explored that conflict more deeply, and also her feelings after the timeskip, but I have to admit I probably was only disappointed because I had seen the teaser of her emo phase in the pit, I feel like i would have enjoyed that sequence more if it hadn’t been shown already! I was thinking there was gonna be more but nope, just jinx showing up about Vander. And that’s again a core aspect of her, she fights Jinx about it for like, two seconds, before giving in. She loves her, she loves Vander, she wants to believe hes there, that their family could finally get back together, as broken and bruised as it is. And yeah I liked ep 5 the most out of that batch, because I did like how they dealt with their family (only gripe was isha, who had no real reason to be there but sure)

I hate her longer hair tho. I get thats its a bit more LoL accurate and that just makes me dislike it even more lmao. in the finale she was kinda there, punching and stuff, good for her. I didn’t reaaaally like her ending though, she lost everything, again, and she just goes to Piltover to live wth her rich cop gf? What about Zaun? Is the “you’re never getting rid of me” meant to say she’s joining the cops again? Cos I know she’s always a cop in LoL, but man, does that Not feel like the right move. All she seems to have left is Cait, is that supposed to mean she’s renounce her identity too? Cos if that’s the case it sucks ngl.

With Jinx, I have mixed feelings aswell. Like I said I wish they hadn’t used Isha. I don’t think she was needed, she’s broken, she’s hopeless, but she still wants to fuck shit up. Give more space to her and Sevika!!! Show her recognizing something of Silco in her!

Idk I need to think on her some more. I enjoyed the shot of her in the cell with her hair loose, got an honest gasp outta me. All she wanted at the end was to stop the bad feelings, save her sister and stop her father from suffering, and I guess she did! We’ll see her again for sure.

Vander/Warwick felt so underutilized, just missing parts of what would have made a great story. He didn’t even get to ball and cause much damage 😔 I wanted him to maim and destroy more shit even before the Viktor switch. I kinda wanted him to really hurt Vi or Jinx or someone they cared about. Tbh the show could have worked if they straight up not had him in it. He would have been perfect if season 2 had continued on the Piltover/Zaun and Vi/Jinx, but it did not, so he just felt like another loose thread flapping about.

Jayce and Victor are the people that in the overarchinseason I liked the most. It became their story, and it shows, even through hiccups and the many many things still going on. I’m unsure as to why Viktor agreed to ally with Ambessa, I probably gotta rewatch a few of his scenes. Was it to get help from Singed? idk.

Loved when Jayce showed up and killed Viktor in 6, and loved his Annihilation jaunt through bad ending Piltover, (ep 7 in general was amazing). I called the mage being Viktor and I liked that Jayce stayed consistent to his character from the very beginning, in that all he really wants is for his partner and him to help people and each other. Love wins! win for the yaoi fans. And I mean that truly, an ending so tragic and impactful, that ruled for them.

Mel… oh Mell… how they butchered you… It makes me so sad. The black rose plot was so egh. Unnecessary, took away time and for what? Mel and Ambessa already had reasons for conflict! no need to throw a new party into the mix. and so she spent most of the season in storage. Sad!

And then, she shows up and gets magic powers? That whole sequence with the magic lady whatever felt like a high value trailer for the new LoL champion!! coming soon to console and pc(tm). Didn’t feel like they let it breathe enough. Oh she got magic now, and people think thats bad for… reasons. That’s never been the point of Arcane, idk if it’s bigger in the game, but again, irrelevant. reminded me of that episode of Adventure Time where a dude who hates dark magic tries to kill Peppermint Butler, but instead Pep just turns all his children into monsters and the children are delighted and the dude just walks away with his monster kids. Which is to say, a bit silly, since in AT monsters and magic are just, everywhere.

I thought her design was still cool as hell, my roommate disliked it, I agree that her season 1 look was better tbh.

But the main thing is that she was so cool because she was just a very smart normal woman! That was amazing in a world filled with freaks who do freak shit! She was a political manipulator, ambitious but cautious, her character was so interesting and prone to mistakes because she was surrounded by freaks! and she was too normal to predict their shenanigans.

I can’t even remember the scene where she reunites with Ambessa rn, how is that possible? It must have been important, c’mon.

I did enjoy Cait and Mel being the ones to fight her together, though the choreography wasn’t too exciting (it felt a bit static with ambessa practically standing still as the girls threw themselves at her, though it did work in showing just how strong Ambessa was), I liked that Cait got at least a little bit of recognition from Ambessa, and got to show her why she was more than a tool.

Heimerdinger fucking exploded, funniest shit I’ve ever seen. He’s also probably still out there somewhere, being tossed around in the multiversus.

Ekko was so good. His only problem was the fact that he was missing for all of act 2. ep 7 like I said was one of the best of the series, Probably my fave of the season, but it was so unrelated to it that it’s difficult to put it on the same plane. I did roll my eyes at him building his time device from LoL, but they did manage to integrate it pretty seamlessly! (unlike the gloves and hammer in s1, but you gotta accept some shit) And it’s forgiven because he blows it up in Viktor’s face almost immediately ahahah

I’m a sucker for alternate realities in stories, the What ifs are always so intresting to me. Also, Vi is dead, is Jayce also dead in this universe? I didn’t catch any hints he is if they showed them.

I’d love to play in that reality a bit more tbh, I might read some fics in it if I find them. Like what’s Cait doing? Is Viktor dead? How did Zaun get to be almost as rich as Piltover just by having Vi be dead? It’s fun!

general thoughts are: wished they’d stayed with the relatively smaller scale of season 1, focused on piltover-Zaun, on Vi-Jinx, on Caitlyn dealing with that shit, made Ambessa stay a secondary villain character, have Mel stay a normal motherfucker dealing with just so much shit, explored the undercity unrest more, Viktor and Jayce could have still had their big confrontation in the last ep cause it worked so well imo!

I am glad I enjoyed the last act a bit more than the second, it means when I do my rewatch I will probably be more optimistic about the stuff that bothered me.

Anyway fascist Cait deserved more screen time committing atrocities RIP to a queen.

[paranormaltheatrekid]

ehehheee,,,,,,,space pirate bandd,,,,,,,,,, they all have different,mechanisms. aka parts of their bodies replaced by machines that basically make them immortal. this was done by a mad scientist dr carmilla, who was the captain b4 she was thrown out of the airlock

weve gott!!!

jonny d'ville- captain! FIRST MATE. of the starship aurora. his mechanism is his heart. he killed his father, got mechanized, then went back to kill the guy who told him to kill his father (though. that might not be true. hes a storyteller, after all). hes committed all the crimes but the sexual ones

nastya rasputina (also known as anastasia nikolaevna romanova)- the engineer of the aurora. her mechanism is blood and honessttly i forgot some of the details of her backstory but shes basically like a sister to jonny. her girlfriend is aurora. the starship. she fucks the ship<3333 and uhmm. slowly. they have to start replaces pieces of aurora as she breaks. you know the ship of theseus right? yeah. when theres only a tiny piece of what was originally aurora left, nastya took it, and threw herself into space (this is. mostly bc the actor had to leave the project, and has chosen to stay anonymous)

ashes o'reilly- the quartermaster. their mechanism is their lungs, which they got because a guy got them involved with a gang, and was later found out to be a double agent, but he blamed it on ashes and got them "killed". they were mechanized and came back to kill him and burn the entire planet down

the toy soldier- ??? it does what it wants. its mechanism is everything but its voice, as that is the only living part of it. the rest is just pretend. it follows any order given to it. its also. real fuckin weird<3

gunpowder tim- who. well. he does the guns. mechanism is his eyes, because they got blown up after he blew up the moon because the moon kaiser killed his boyfriend

doctor baron marius von raum- ships doctor. mechanism is his right arm. he is neither a doctor nor a baron. oh also hes ace! just learned that.neat.

drumbot brian- pilot. mechanism is everything but the heart. he has like thiss,,,, mortality switch,,, means justify ends (he wont do things he considers wrong), and ends justify means (hell commit a bunch of atrocities if he thinks its for the greater good)

raphaella la cognizi- science officer. her mechanism is a pair of wings. doesnt have much of a backstory but joined the crew around the time of marius

ivy alexandria- archivist/navigator. her mechanism is her brain. she can only recall memories of her life when dreaming. shes often horrified by what she sees.

OOOoOOOO

very intriguing

what songs or albums should you start with?

[andthebubbles]

(from smooth-boob) 🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share? I couldn't resist!

i can't believe i'm doing this

here's almost the entire first chapter of a/b fic (there's meant to be a flashback at the end of 2 y/o anthony running away and meeting his adoptive parents, but i haven't written it yet 😇)

for passersby who don't know what this is about: this is the fic where anthony runs away when he's 2 years old, accidentally boards a ship that leaves england, gets adopted by nice parents, eventually forgets that he's a bridgerton, doesn't come back to live in england until he's 13; meets benedict at oxford in 1806 and they start a relationship. if this bothers you, do not read below the cut (it contains smut), just move on, don't send me hate, i am a real person

(i should start copypasting the summary and disclaimer lol)

-

Benedict meets the love of his life one ordinary autumn evening in an Oxford pub. 

He doesn’t know that yet of course; he’s never been a big believer of love. Thus far he’s found it entirely consigned to the great epics of the ancients, the tragic tales of Shakespeare, even King Char and King George, loving in their madness, loving despite no rhyme nor reason, loving when they should have no right. But then, surrounded by his peers who he does not care very much for, a Lord Fife and a Lord Cho and the second son of a baron and the third son of an earl whose names he does not care to remember, he looks up over his glass of beer and finds a finely dressed gentleman making his way over to them. 

And his heart skips a beat.

“I hear you’re the best coxswain and crew out of all the undergraduates,” the gentleman says, loudly enough to halt their conversation, with no introduction of himself whatsoever. He has dark eyes and dark hair, lush with a hint of wave, curling over his forehead and pushed to one side. 

Benedict hurriedly sips his drink.

“What of it, Mr.…?” Lord Fife eyeballs him.

“I'd like to place a wager on your winning the next race,” the gentleman rests a casual, black-gloved hand on their table. “On one condition.”

Fife raises his eyebrows. “What’s that, then?”

“I’m the coxswain for the crew.”

Silence. Then the table laughs uproariously, Benedict excluded. 

The gentleman has a glint in his eyes, a tilt of his head befitting a lord. Arrogant. Attractive. His nose is straight, aristocratic, and his lips—

Smirking. Thin and pink, but full.

“My good man,” Fife finally says around chortles. “We don’t even know your name.”

“Nor have we seen you around, have we, lads?” Cho looks about pompously. “Are you a first year?”

“You’ve got me,” the mystery man straightens, tipping his top hat, impeccably smug. “A first year, looking for a crew befitting my talents. The best crew. Third years. Well-seasoned. You.”

“And… your name?” Fife drawls. 

“Bailey. Anthony Bailey.” The gentleman holds his hand out.

Fife glances around at them all rather than taking it. “Hmm, Bailey, do we know a Bailey?”

A chorus of shaking heads. 

Fife’s gaze sharpens. “What’s your father’s name? Where are your estates?”

At this, Bailey tilts his chin up. “My father is a merchant. And our estate is a shop in Bloomsbury. Which I’m sure you wouldn’t know of, since all you lords seem to learn is which of your first cousins has the biggest dowry so you can fuck them till you sire an heir—”

Fife punches him in the stomach, and the others set upon him like dogs, and Benedict yells and grabs the closest man to him, the second—or was it third?—son of a baron, whoever he is—

But heroic tales where justice is served are consigned to the epics, are the stuff of fairytales, have no place in reality. So the merchant is tossed out onto the cobblestone street, and the door slammed shut against the sudden autumn rains. 

-

Benedict slips out the back door under the pretence of taking a piss outside.

The merchant is in a nearby alleyway taking shelter under the arch of a doorway. He has a cut on his cheekbone that he dabs at with a handkerchief; he puts it away with a mostly concealed wince when Benedict approaches. 

They stare each other down like two fighters forced into the ring. Benedict’s heart aches; the merchant looks so tired.

“If you must punch me,” he says at last, looking away, “I would be grateful if it wasn’t in the same place twice. So, the stomach is off-limits. As is my eye. And my nose, though it hasn’t been punched, but I have plans with a special someone tonight, and I’d rather it not look bloody or broken.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, you should probably stay away from my face altogether.”

Benedict’s mouth twitches. “I’m not going to punch you.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” It’s very droll. “You lot seem to have trouble doing anything but.”

“You… seem to know our prejudices well? The upper class?”

“Well, you rather like buying the things we make. You just don’t like it as much when we dare to step out of line or try to better ourselves or forget our lot in life.”

Benedict approaches him, cautious, like he would with a wild animal. Or a wounded one. “We were once like you, generations ago. Mere landowners. Until the crown granted us a title.”

“And how many generations ago was that, my lord?” The man’s voice drips with disdain.

Benedict winces. “Nine. I’m… I’m the ninth. In my family.”

The merchant looks sidelong at him in the lantern light, up and down, Benedict suddenly conscious of his finery, and the merchant’s coarser fabrics and simple brocade waistcoat indiscernible in the dimness of the pub earlier. 

“So…” The merchant’s eyes drift back up to his face. “You’re an… earl?”

“Viscount.”

“So your father is an earl?”

Benedict swallows. “My father is dead.”

Rain pitter-patters on the cobblestones. Benedict’s fingers, lungs suddenly itch for a smoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Benedict almost smiles. “I’m surprised you have any sympathy left for us.”

“I’m not completely heartless. I know that death doesn’t care how rich or poor you are, how titled or how bottom-of-the-barrel you are. Once gone, the dead are all the same. Sorely, terribly missed.”

“Quite right.” Benedict’s mouth has gone dry. After a moment he holds his hand out. “I realise I haven’t introduced myself. Benedict Bridgerton.”

The merchant raises his eyebrows, a smirk playing on his lips. “The Right Honourable The Viscount Bridgerton?”

“Or just Benedict,” he grins. “I’m not fond of the title.”

“Then call me just Anthony.” He firmly shakes his hand, leather against warm skin. His eyes up close under the shadow of the doorway are near black, bottomless and blown wide.

Their gazes hold like puzzle pieces interlocked, clicking forever into place.

Benedict clears his throat, titillatingly unable to let go of his hand. “Do you have somewhere to be? You uh… mentioned having plans with a special someone?”

Anthony moves closer, impossibly so. “I noticed your staring in the pub.”

Benedict laughs, slightly desperately and high-pitched. “So you’re not the best coxswain in Oxford after all? You just… wanted me?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Anthony’s voice is intoxication against his lips. “I’m the best coxswain, and you’re my special someone?”

“Even when you thought I was going to punch you?”

“Well, I fervently hoped you would not.”

Anthony slides a hand under his jacket to rest against his hip; Benedict sucks in a breath like he’s starved of air. “Do you have some place we could go?”

-

Anthony cages him up against the door to his room and uses their combined weight to slam it shut. “Sorry about the mess.” He locks it and lights a taper on the nearby table, then licks a stripe up Benedict’s neck. 

Hand fisting in Anthony’s hair against the sensation (and Anthony moaning into his mouth), Benedict has the barest second to look over his shoulder. Anthony’s room is organised clutter: books and papers on the desk by the window, spare candles on the shelf, more papers scattered on the badly-made bed. 

“It’s not so bad,” Benedict says. “In fact I’m quite sure I’ve seen worse—”

Anthony kisses his words away like he’s ravenous, like they’re both running out of time. He drags Benedict by his shirt front over to his bed and Benedict falls onto it willingly, Anthony climbing atop him, caging him once more.

“You’ve seen worse?” Anthony grins, punctuates it with more kisses to the underside of his jaw. “Dare I ask where?”

“Well, when you have siblings…” 

“I don’t. I have a mother and father, six freeloading stray cats, and about double that for the number of people I’ve had at some point or another in my bed.”

“People? Not men, specifically?”

“Men, women, and everything in between. And now, you.” It should sound callous; instead Anthony sounds almost reverent. He pulls his lips away from Benedict’s earlobe and extraordinarily gently unties and pulls off his cravat. Breath caught in his throat, Benedict reaches up and does the same for him. 

Anthony’s cravat, unlike the duller colours of his waistcoat and jacket, is dyed a rich indigo blue.

“Mmf.” He impatiently pushes up Benedict’s waistcoat and shirt to get to the skin beneath, laying his hands everywhere, simultaneously trying to help Benedict with shucking off his own clothes. His jacket and waistcoat and boots are discarded on the floor; Benedict grabs his wrist when he gets to his leather gloves.

“Keep them on,” he says, hoarse.

Anthony’s gaze darkens, unfathomable pools of black. “What have you in mind?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, his other hand sliding down and unbuttoning Benedict’s trousers, Benedict gladly lifting his hips to help Anthony push them down to his knees. “Your fingers,” Benedict says breathlessly, “in my arse—”

“Fingers?” Anthony smirks. “Rather confident of you.” He puts his index finger in his mouth, sucking and coating it with spit.

Benedict takes his hand from his mouth and guides it to his own, lapping around two fingers, tasting warm slick leather, Anthony trembling in his hold. 

“Fuck.” With his free hand he takes Benedict and strokes him to full hardness, Benedict groaning at the sensation of leather on his cock, the back of his head hitting the mattress and Anthony’s fingers sliding out.

He pushes Benedict’s legs up, finally rids him of his trousers and boots and tosses them to the floor. “This all right?” He circles his entrance and Benedict bites his lip, settling his heels on Anthony’s back. 

“Yes—”

Anthony pushes in.

Benedict’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Fuck.”

“And you wanted fingers,” Anthony teases.

“Hush—”

Anthony crooks his finger and hits his prostate, and Benedict cries out. 

“Shh.” Anthony leans over him, keeps fingerfucking him, kisses away his whimpering, Benedict pulling him closer and roughly tangling his fingers in his hair.

“Fuck.” Now Anthony’s breaths turn ragged; he pulls back a fraction, panting against Benedict’s mouth. Glances down at Benedict’s cock between them, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re going to come without me touching you?”

Benedict groans, cupping Anthony through his trousers, heat pooling in his stomach and groin, “I’m not that green,” he says between gritted teeth. 

Anthony grunts and eases a second finger in, scissors, fucks him, curls them just so, and Benedict chokes, pants, and comes undone just like that, almost incognisant of it, gasping in bliss and relief and mild embarrassment, Anthony kissing him open-mouthed and lazily and his hand working him through till he’s spent. 

Then he mouths his way down till he’s at his stomach, and cleans his come-splattered skin with his tongue.

Heat radiates raw and anew between Benedict’s legs.

“Can I suck you off?” 

It comes out rough, awed; Anthony looks up at him startled. “You… you want to?”

Benedict nods. 

He sits up after a moment, all of him shaky, turning Anthony so that his back rests against the wall. Anthony is still staring at him, loose-limbed and wide-eyed; Benedict tugs his trousers down and pushes apart his thighs. 

“You… you don’t have to,” Anthony stutters.

Benedict looks up at him, one hand on his length. “Do you want me to?”

Anthony bites his lip and nods.

The first taste is salty, Anthony’s cock already tipped with pre-cum. Then it’s just sheer musk; Benedict adjusts so that the flat of his tongue is on the underside and gets up on his hands to swallow him whole. 

“Oh—” Anthony’s fingers, toes curl; he quickly sets the gentlest hand in Benedict’s hair. “Oh, fuck…”

Benedict starts fucking him, fondling his balls gently, pressing down hard on Anthony’s hips when he involuntarily jerks. “Fuck, sorry—”

Benedict sucks him hard and Anthony keens, sliding further down the wall, fingertips fluttering at the nape of Benedict’s neck. 

Benedict swipes his tongue over the head, bobs up and down, finds Anthony’s other hand fisting the sheets and slides his own underneath to hold it tightly in his. “Fuck, I’m—I’m going to—” Anthony gasps, tugging at his hair, warning him off; Benedict holds fast.

Anthony’s come hits the back of his throat, salty and bitter and hot. Benedict swallows it all, nips the insides of his trembling thighs when he’s done; Anthony curves over him and drags his lips against his temple and pulls him up, kissing him like a man starved, kissing him like Benedict hung the moon and the sun and the stars.

Benedict pulls them both down to the bed when he starts to catch his breath, lying side by side, face to face; he caresses Anthony’s cheek, removes his gloves, slides his hand down past his sweat-damp open collar and feels his pounding heart. “You all right?” he murmurs. 

Anthony lifts his eyes to his, still breathing hard, brushing his nose against his. “Yes. Are you?”

Benedict grins. “More than.”

Anthony closes his eyes and contentedly hums.

After a moment he opens them again, something small and hopeful and anxious now threading through him like a childhood fear of the dark. “Will you stay awhile?” he whispers. 

Benedict blinks. Quickly eases into a smile. “Of course.”

He settles beside him; Anthony pulls him towards his chest with an arm over his shoulders, rests his head atop his. 

Outside, the pitter-patter of rain continues to fall.

[zaunrising]

A man, punished.

Silco drabble with him punishing someone. I’m putting this under a cut because of blood, violence, torture, mind break, drug overdose, unwilling (mind break causes it) familial abuse (violence/death/murder), and suicide. Do what you will with that.

There were a number of ways to piss off Silco, but one of the quickest ways was betraying him. With how long he’d been in control of The Lanes, one would think people knew better, but judging from the whimpering man currently on the floor in front of Silco some people had forgotten. “All you had to do was not take the information you gained by working for me, and sell it to someone else. Disappointing. Truly. I expected better of you, but I suppose you need a reminder as to how important loyalty and self-control is.” Letting out a soft sigh, almost like a disappointed teacher, Silco shook his head.

The man on the floor had in fact sold information, and had spent the past couple of hours being beaten by Silco’s people. Silco himself hadn’t even shown up until perhaps fifteen minutes ago, having better things to do than be there the entire time, but he wasn’t going to miss the grand event. Glancing over to one of his runners, Silco waved a hand, nodding towards a nearby door. “Go ahead.” On the floor, there was a quiet little sobbing as the beaten man managed to get himself up to crawl towards Silco. “P, please. Sir. I fucked up. Please just let me go home to my family. I won't, I won’t make this mistake again. It was just one mistake, plEASE!”

The sudden rising of his voice came from Silco moving to one side, and casually kicking the man’s knee to break it. “One mistake? It wasn’t just once, we both know that. Besides, getting drunk, and letting a piece of information slip is a mistake. Taking someone's money, and giving them information in return isn’t a mistake, it’s a transaction, Tommy.” Reaching towards his now broken knee, Tommy swallowed as he looked up at Silco. “It hurts. Hurts so much. Please. I understand, you’re…you’re right… wait. Wait, wait what are they doing here!? What are you doing with them? No, don’t hurt my family!” A hand reached pleadingly towards his wife, and seventeen-year-old son who had just gotten dragged into the area through the opened door, and shoved down into chairs. Not that his attempt to reach out to them did any good, as he was on one side of a large basement room while his wife and son found themselves bound to chairs and gagged on the other side. Silco shook his head. “Hurt your family? Oh, Tommy, I’m not going to hurt your family. Rather, I’m giving you the opportunity to prove yourself, and to remember how important it is not to make the wrong choice.”

Holding out a hand, he motioned with his fingers, and a moment later a knife was put into his hand along with a pistol. Tommy at this point tried to stand, but with his knee broken collapsed back down. “Don’t hurt them! They didn’t do anything, I’ll take responsibility. It’s all on me. They didn’t know anything. Please Silco… Please!” Silco frowned as he looked down at the begging man. “I already said I wasn’t going to hurt them. Did we damage your hearing, as well as the rest of you, or are you just stupider than expected?” Moving over to the two people bound to the chairs, he put the knife down in front of them, and the gun. “No, instead, you are going to have the opportunity to make a choice.”

Utterly confused, Tommy just shook his head, confused, lips parting, and then closing as tears ran down his cheeks while watching Silco. The chem-baron walked back to Tommy, which as the basement had been large enough to function as an apartment before most of the walls were taken down, took longer than one might think. “Do you know what Zaun has in abundance? No? Scrap. Metal scrap as a matter of fact. A great deal of which is either sharp, or can be sharpened. Almost like hardened glass shards, really. Normally not a problem since most people in Zaun either stay away from the scrap, or have the shoes or gloves to handle it properly.” Looking down at Tommy, his lips pulled into a dark smile. “Ah, but all you have now is a pair of pants. Well, I suppose that’s where the self-control comes in at.” Taking a few steps back towards Tommy’s family members, Silco nodded. Suddenly there was a sound of crashing metal pouring out over the floor as a couple of runners tipped over a large barrel filled with small sharpened metal pieces that stretched out across the floor between Silco and Tommy.

“I know. What’s a bit of pain, and blood in order to get to your family, really? Any decent Zaunite could crawl across a mile or more of this in order to get to their loved ones. So let’s make it a bit more interesting, shall we?” Reaching into his coat, Silco pulled out a few vials of shimmer, and shook them. “You are already bleeding, and cut up a bit. Skin broken from being bludgeoned, or a knife used on you or whatever else as I understand. Now shimmer, in case you were unaware, doesn’t have to be drank. If it gets into your blood stream, it still takes effect.” Two vials opened, and the shimmer tossed out across the metal. Slowly, Tommy’s eyes widened, and his lips parted, realizing what he’d have to do.

Silco took a few steps back. More metal, and more shimmer. Steps back, metal, shimmer. Steps, metal, shimmer. Over and over until he was by Tommy’s wife and son. “When you get here, there’s a knife to set them free with, or a loaded gun to do…well…whatever you might wish to in the end. Set them free, and you all live. There’s an easier route, of course. Kill yourself, and your family lives. Otherwise, if your family doesn’t live you really will have failed to prove yourself, and no one will need you anymore. Certainly not I after being disappointed by you yet again.”

Turning around, Silco opened a door, and simply left the room. Heading up a flight of stairs, and then a second one to be rather far above the basement, he nonetheless had a perfect view of everything that would happen as at the floors above the basement had been ripped out. Reaching into his coat, Silco pulled out a cigarette, and his lighter. “Tommy. If you don’t start fucking moving by the time my cigarette is done, we will lock the door, and you can starve to death down there with your family.” Tilting his head a bit, the lighter clicked, and his cigarette was lit.

Behind their gags both Tommy’s wife, and his son were trying to plead and yell. Both had tears streaming down their faces, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that the chairs were bolted into the floor, they likely would have tossed their chairs over to the side. Tommy on the other hand looked panicked, and at a loss of what to do. Looking up at Silco’s utterly merciless face, the man almost started to plead again before whimpering and looking back at the sharpened metal laid out across the floor in front of him. Finally, he moved, reaching out with a hand to try to brush it to one side, but that was met with a sharp hiss of pain as there wasn't any safe side to touch. They were for all intents and purposes caltrop’s with every side sharpened, and coated with shimmer. A particularly brutal thing to have to get through, and with nothing on except for pants, there was little Tommy could do except pray. Pray, and start to move.

Once again he tried to stand, and to his credit he got a few limping steps forward doing his best to ignore the metal underfoot, inevitably however he fell. Too tired, and hurt as well as emotional to catch himself properly, his wife and son watched as the man they were counting on to save them simply crashed into the metal. It wouldn’t have been that bad, perhaps, as he turned his head, and ensured his eyes were saved and none of the metal was large enough to react anything vital. However, the shimmer spread over the metal introduced a bit of a problem. Still smoking his cigarette, Silco raised his eyebrows, and actually chuckled softly.

“Things do escalate quickly.”

The shimmer of course started to take effect, and it made Tommy forget for a moment the potential consequences of taking in too much of it. With the pain fading under the high of the drug, and his wounds starting to heal, he started to move faster. With that broken knee, however, it kept him crawling. Each hand coming down made his skin split open, and shimmer enter his blood stream. Each knee crunching against metal, and calf getting sliced apart as he moved, opened him to the shimmer even more. With the pain largely inconsequential all of a sudden, and his muscles starting to get larger as the shimmer going right into his bloodstream forced that over dose to sweep over his body, Tommy started to lose himself. Hands crashing down into the metal almost embedding it into his hands while his eyes changed, he nearly seemed like some wild animal. As Tommy continued moving towards his utterly helpless family, they now looked more afraid of their loved one than anything else.

Silco took a long slow drag off of his cigarette then called out. “If they die, so do you.” Glancing at one of his runners, who by now was looking a bit disturbed, he raised an eyebrow before looking back down to the show. If they couldn’t take working for him, better to find out now rather than later after all. Eyes utterly cold, he shook his head. “I don’t think he’s going to enjoy learning why self-control can be a vital thing.”

Tommy, if he even heard Silco, didn’t register what had been said at all. At this point, despite being on all fours, he was charging at his family with nothing in his mind except for a savage violent impulse, and there was nothing at all to distract him from them. A hand on his wife’s knee to raise him up, and his other hand came up to start hitting what to him was just flesh to dominate. Just meat to prove his strength on. The whimpering and crying, enjoyable if it was acknowledged at all. Bulked up on shimmer shoved into his blood steam by injury after injury, with his mind at that moment broken from everything that had happened that day, all Tommy could think of was stopping things. The fact that the people in front of him had nothing at all to do with what had happened didn’t matter.

His fists rained down on the woman like a butcher with a hammer tenderizing meat, and even with his strength, at first it didn’t seem like it’d do much. However, then the wooden chair broken and he was able to straddle his wife. Something they’d likely done in one form or another for enjoyment more than once in the past was now something horrifying. The last thing she’d ever see was the utterly crazed look on her husband's face. The last thing she’d feel was the pain from his fists slamming into her face before he grabbed her head to smash it against the floor, fast, breaking it like an egg. The entire time his son was screaming behind the gag, and shaking his head with tears streaming down so quickly, one might almost imagine he’d drown himself as they soaked into the gag. It would have been more merciful if he had.

With the woman dead Tommy turned, and with the shimmer continuing its work making him stronger still while healing him constantly, he only needed one strike to break the chair his son was in. This time the blow made the gag get ripped free and his son screamed out. “DAD NO PLEASE!” It was the last understandable words the teenager would ever speak as those fists started to work at him. After the chair was broken, a large piece of wood was grabbed a moment later, and used as a club to beat the seventeen-year-old nearly to death with before it was used to crush his throat, ensuring his passing. With both his victims dead, Tommy turned, and started to hurl himself against the walls trapping him, jumping as high as he could. However, with how high up Silco was, Tommy had no chance of jumping out even with his knee half healed. Each jump made his knee break again however as the pressure ensured whatever work had been done on it was nullified, and catching at the walls made his nails get ripped out, leaving bloody streaks behind.

Finishing his cigarette, Silco tossed it into the basement before glancing around to check the time. “I’ll be back in an hour. Watch him.” His runners got the task of ensuring Tommy didn’t escape, and it was an easy task. Easy, that was, if you ignored the sight of the bodies and the screams ripping apart Tommy’s vocal cords over and over again as the shimmer healed him each time. Some part of his broken mind recognized what he’d done, but with the overdose it rendered him incapable of anything except trying to escape and screaming. The task wasn’t actually that easy, and the “fucking new guy” would be having nightmares that night despite downing a bottle of cheap tequila.

An hour later Silco returned, and Tommy was calmed down enough that despite still being bulky he was now crouched over his family weeping. Hands behind his back, Silco watched for a moment before calling out. “Disappointing. No one needs you anymore. No family, or anyone else. You failed Tommy. Everyone, them and yourself as well. So what will you do now?” Tommy predictably enough whirled around, pistol in hand, and Silco stepped back out of view. Turning around, Silco shook his head as he called out. “A waste. Complete waste. Goodbye, Tommy.”

With no one to vent his rage, and grief on except himself, Tommy decided to try to join his family.

Moments later a shot would be heard, and the clink of a pistol hitting the ground as well as a heavy body’s thud as it to hit the ground.

Silco glanced to one of his people. “Make sure he’s dead, wash off the metal and collect it all up. Clean up the basement.” The sound of the new guy retching, and then letting his lunch come up over in one corner got no reaction at all from Silco as he simply left.

There was other business to take care of after all, and perhaps he’d take an hour before bed for a bit of knitting as well.

That’d be a nice way to end the day.

[sabraeal]

Unexpected Complications, Chapter 4

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki Trope Madness 2023, Semifinal #2: In Love With the Mark

A box from the modiste arrives at the crack of noon, glossy and lacquered and more expensive than any other piece of his wardrobe alone. Two wide eyes are perched above it, half-hidden by a cap, but they scrape up every inch of the front hall, calculating the price of paint and paper, measuring the amount of soot in the grates. It’s clear from the speculative look they lay on him that the assessment comes up short.

“Wouldn’t do if my old lady knew I was in town.” Obi winks, conspiratorial. The boy straightens at the first whiff of gossip like a mutt anticipating a bone. “I’d have to spend my mornings visiting her set, having cake and exchanging cards. I can act as my own butler for a day or two if it means I have the time to woo one of those fair maidens out from under His Highness!”

The little spy grins at that, flashing even more teeth when Obi gilts his palm with a handful of dir. “I’ll expect the next one just as prompt! But...” He leans in, voice dropped to a whisper. “It wouldn’t go amiss if you let a man sleep in.”

“Whatever you say, mister. Er, I mean, milord.” The boy sweeps a bow so messy it wouldn’t pass muster at market let alone at a townhouse in a fashionable part of town. “Thank you kindly.”

There’s a spring in the boy’s step when he bounces out onto the street, not getting more more than a stride from the stoop before some carter starts cussing him out about blocking the road. Still, the kid bounds off, undaunted. And who could blame him? He’ll be getting a tidy little tip from what he gleaned here, that’s for sure.

Obi’s good-humored grin collapses under its own weight, all the sunny disposition lost with the last slam of the door. At least someone’s getting something good from all this. 

It’s three flights to his room, the first taken under the curious gaze of the building’s caretaker-- a older woman whose name he only remembers when he’s using it-- and the next two unwitnessed. Or so he assumes; there’s some shuffling behind more than one door while he tours the landings, the hairs on his nape rising as he passes the small, inlaid glasses lenses.

Real or imagined, the glassy eyes imply enough attention to keep the box in his hands, rather than tipped over the rail, destroyed as thoroughly as his chances. If he’d been clever enough, quick enough, then he could have told the boy to scuttle the rest of his order. There’s no point, after all, to showing up plucked and preened like a baron’s son when the one person he’d even bothered to talk to isn’t--

Lacquered edges bite into his palm, even though his gloves. That’s the problem isn’t it? If he’d been clever enough, he’d never have gotten himself into this mess in the first place.

It was never meant to be opened. The box was supposed to sit there on the table, untouched; a testament to how badly he’d fucked this job. Or maybe, to how he hadn’t, since if he’d sealed the deal, then--

I wouldn’t mind being used, he’d said, and it’s terrifying, knowing how much of it he meant, if only it was by you.

Either way, he’s not supposed to touch the damned thing. Not until he can sneak it back out into the rest of the garbage. Maybe put himself there too, for good measure.

He does, of course. Open it. Wraps his fingers right around the lacquered lid and lifts it, protective cloth and all. If he was actually good at following his own rules, he wouldn’t be here, contemplating a life among the rubbish.

Worse yet, he puts it on. Let’s himself don the skin of Lord Obi one more time, piling on every frippery and finery that credit could get him, buckles and buttons and capes alike. When he faces himself in the looking glass, looking every inch the man he pretended to be, he dares himself to flinch.

The suit’s finer than all the ones that have came before; the trousers fit him like a second skin, the jacket cut so close that it no longer makes him broad, the way Miss’s guard dog had been last night, but slender as a whip. Dangerous even, the whole thing black and gold like a coin caught in the shadows, less high society and more highwayman. It’s rich, like he isn’t, and sharp, like he should be. And the cape--

Ah, it’s a thing of beauty. Deep burnished red, it’s dull and lifeless in daylight, but under the palace’s chandeliers it’d be set alight, scintillating as a candle’s flame, just as his miss had looked the first time--

Tevta’s got the market cornered on cruelty, a honeyed voice whispers in his ear, cultured and cool and clear as a bell. Only a fool would think he has her beat.

Obi laughs, a strangled noise in his throat. If only they’d all lived to see this new kind of torture he’s gone and invented just for himself, maybe that sweet voice would be singing a different song.

His fingers clench in the velvet. He’d been a fool to put this on, and a worse one to let his mind wander to h-- that. There’s nothing for it but to strip it off, to shove it and all its glamour back into that box. It should be easy to forget her, to make this debacle just a skip of his knife on his bedpost, and yet--

And yet, all he can think is of the measure of this cape, large enough to fit not just one but two. How if it had been this one he wrapped around her shoulders last night, the ruffled hem of her chemise drifting out beneath it, that hair of hers would shine even in the shadows, a flame that he would fly himself into again and again if only to feel the barest hint of its warmth.

With a curse, it lands in a heap upon his sheets. He’s had a hundred girls in the same position, panting as he pressed them against the wall, chins tilting up and lips begging to be kissed. He’s done it too, and more, guiding them back to piles of hay or silken sheets, drawing their secrets from them with no more interest than a clerk filling columns.

But with her, his heart races even now, barely able to be contained by the cage of his ribs. She’s been so close, flushed with laughter and the dancing, fingers still caught in the shoulder of his jacket. It’d been nothing to lean in, to cut that space down to nothing. Her breath had caught, and his stomach flipped, the anticipation making even the air taste sweet.

Obi’s not one for wishes, but in that one moment, he let himself hope. That she’d let him close the distance. That she might even pull him in herself. That she could want him as thoroughly and completely as he wanted her, and--

And now he’d have better luck collecting that cape of his from the prince himself than ever being alone with her again. Obi might not be a gambler, but he’d shown his hand last night, and she’d made it clear that whatever he felt, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Or welcome.

His eyes clench shut against the sting. Maybe it would have hurt less, if he hadn’t let himself care so much. If he hadn’t bought into her little dream that she could care for him. That he could be worthy of being cared for, one more time.

No use crying over spilled milk and all that. With a flick of his wrist, the jacket fall to the floor, no more substance thank it’s shadow. When one door closes, you jimmy the windows.

He’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.

His blacks might not be made of fancy wools and velvets, but they fit him like a glove fits a hand, stretched to fit and worn in all the right places. As nice as it would be to live in the lap of luxury, every seam tailored to his comfort the moment he put it on, Obi’s no stranger to having to work for his wear.

The faint strain of strings winds its way into the rafters, the vaulted ceiling so high above the floor it might well be a different room entirely. A few nights ago, it would have been impossible to slip up here; the guard had studded the windows, grim-faced veterans glowering out like grizzled gargoyles, waiting for even a sniff of foul play. But with five days under their belts and only two to go, security’s grown lax. It’s the younger knights striding around the perimeter now, more concerned with looking the part than performing it.

Beneath his boots lords and ladies eddy and swirl; a silken ocean hiding a deadly current beneath its smiles. It’s drowned more than one unsuspecting young miss in its time, and it almost certainly will again. Water might drag a girl under, but a court lady will swallow some country count’s little pride and joy whole with a smile and ask for seconds.

But it’s not them he’s here for. No, that would be the guest of honor at this shindig, the man who’s got to sift through a whole kingdom’s worth-- and beyond-- of eligible young misses to find someone with the right pedigree to make his heart sing. Or at least Clarines’ coffers.

Not that Obi can blame His Highness for dragging his feet to the contract table; he’s been everywhere that’s anywhere, and there’s no one he’s found that can hold a candle to what this man has for a measuring stick.

What he can blame him for, however, are those dresses. Shirayuki can swear up and down that angels fly up from where this guy walks, but Obi, well-- there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing the life he’ll take tonight is the responsible party.

If only he could find him.

Ah, now there’s the hard bit. Throwing a knife so it sticks? Obi’s been training on that one since Tevta took him off the streets. Killing a man so swift he hardly knows it’s coming? These knives wouldn’t be burning a brand in his back if that weren’t one of his skills. But sussing out the one silver head among a hundred blondes, a singular needle among this glittering haystack? Now there, there is the challenge.

Some knives in his place might make the mistake of depending on their eyes, squinting down at the press until their heads swam. But Obi’s not some kid fresh from his first kill, thinking swagger and strength can make up for what he doesn’t have in experience. He didn’t climb his way up here to play peek-a-boo with a prince-- no, he’s here to follow breadcrumbs, the kind that are all dressed to be eaten.

It’s different, seeing the crowd from up here, wide skirts buffeting off each other like winds across a plain. There’s no risk of a dust up here, no danger of hot air and cold calculation twisting into anything so natural as disaster, but the pattern of it spirals to a single place, to a corner of the dance floor where--

Where he can’t find any tow-headed princes at all. Damn. The bastard’s got to be here somewhere. It’s his party, after all; be a real shame if all these bright young things showed up only for His Highness to play hooky.

Something catches his eye, faster than a flutter and softer than a sigh. His heart pounds, almost painful, like fists banging against his ribs. It’s her, it swears, but it’s not, it’s not-- just a scarf, lost on a quick turn. It wafts in the air for a moment, free, before plummeting to the parquet, a pool of crimson quickly lost as the press closes in around it.

“Haah.” He sits back on his heels, hands pressed hard enough against his eyes to see stars. “I need to get a grip.”

The mission’s a splash of foam on this scintillating sea, but his heart’s looking for red, catching every flare of a skirt of flutter of ribbon. She’s in his head and his heart and under his skin, everywhere but actually here, dancing the night away.

You’ve been the only good thing about the past few nights, she’d told him. He’d known she meant, you’re the only thing that makes these things tolerable. And now she’s not here. Why would she be when he’s supposed to be there, the Baron of who-knows-where, who didn’t know to leave a mourning mistress well enough alone? Why would she come when he’s taken even--?

White. Right at the corner of his eye. Obi chases it, right to where it churns at the eye of this storm. Hand over hand, passing from one lady to the next, the second princes steps as spryly as a village boy around a maypole. From this distance, he can’t tell if his smile is as warm and kind, the way Shirayuki remembers, or as calculating as his brother’s is on Clarines’ coinage, but it’s clear: this is the prince he’s been waiting for.

Cool crystal slides across his palm, unfamiliar against his fingertips. Two chances to make the hit. One less than usual.

Feels generous now, watching the Younger Highness bobbing like a buoy amongst this stormy sea. There’s six guards he can see, and probably twice that which he can’t, hidden in shadows and silk. If his first throw leans wide, if His Highness misses a step-- well, Obi doubts he’ll be able to make much use of number two.

There’s a trick to this, to making what should be a fifty-fifty shot turn point-up every time, and it all in the grip. Most kids clench up, choking the blade and sending it ass-over-teakettle right to their feet. They think it’s strength that makes the blade fly straight, that makes it sink past skin and sinew to settle into a body. 

But it’s not. It’s control.

His fingers tense when he curls them around the knife, just enough to keep it straight between them, but not enough to grip. His wrist tips, lax, but the muscles there are coiled still, ready to let fly. With a flick, he could make it cut through the air with a purpose, as unerring as any arrow.

He just has to wait. The prince is a moving target, orbiting around the gravity of his partners. The hops and twirls and claps might seem senseless to him, the boy who has never played a lord long enough to learn more than the most basic of steps, but there’s a pattern to it, a rhythm. One he can follow, counting beats until Youngest Highness turns just so, his arm thrust out and breast bared, almost welcoming what’s to come.

His breath bottoms out in his chest, every part of him utterly still as his wrist pulls back, ready to loose and his eyes--

See red.

His gloves squeak where they catch the blade, its flight cut painfully short. She can’t be here. He knows that, and yet all he sees is red. Even when he blinks, it’s still there, but now-- now it floats.

Fuck. That stupid scarf. The dancing must have kicked it up again. He’s let himself miss his moment, all because--

A sharp pain blossoms at his wrist, a sting that spreads to his fingers, tingling just before it all goes numb. It’s only instinct that makes him grip tight-- the knife cozened into his palm instead of sent end-over end, stopping this little party before it can really gets started. If he’s honest with himself, he’s pretty sure the edge has bit through the glove, but if he can’t feel it, he can’t worry about it. Not when the hilt that struck him lunges out again, only this time with the point.

One handed, off-balance, and with a narrow margin of error to either side, Obi’s got hardly anywhere to go. He tumbles back, but it’s not enough; the knife scours a line in his blacks, leaving a red smile where there should only be skin.

It hurts like a bitch. The sort of pain he’d nurse like a fine wine, if only his new friend wasn’t there to distract him.

The guy lunges, his arm lifted high to go for the downward swing, a sure way to bury six inches in any body. But even on his back, Obi’s not out of options. Sure, it’s not ideal for his legs to already be tangled, but if there’s one things he knows about messes, it’s that it’s real easy to drag someone into them.

His legs wrap themselves around the one stomped down between them, and with as much strength as he can spare, Obi twists.

They drop, the weight of it sending them sprawling across the beam. But whoever it is, they’re too good to let that be the last of them.,clinging to the rafter until their fingers bleed white.

That’s fine enough for Obi. He doesn’t need a dead body; he just needs space enough to get away, and that involves not being splayed out like a turtle on its back.

The beam might as well be a blade’s edge for the amount of room he has. But there’s nothing for it; his legs coil, knees dipping back to his shoulders before momentum carries him up. His feet wobble and his side burns, but he’s upright, just in time to meet the next thrust of the knife.

“Who are you?” At a glance, there’s nothing to mark his own personal assassin; every inch is covered from head to toe, the only skin laid bare being the strip across his eyes.

He steps in, cross arms stalling the stab mid-swing. This close, he can see even that’s greased black. A professional, then. Little on the smaller side, but Obi knows better to believe age equals experience. “Who sent you?”

His friend’s not one for talking; instead he springs back, crouched and cautious, and yet-- yet-- strangely at home on these rafters. Seems like he’s not the only one who’s been doing a bit of reconnaissance this week. That changes the landscape a little.

It’s Obi who leaps at him now, shoulder tucking into the small guy’s sternum. It’s supposed send him skittering back-- and it does, a few trembling steps-- but it doesn’t knock him off his feet.

Obi huffs, shoulder aching. No one’s ever called him a bruiser, but well, no one’s called him a quitter either.

This time he puts a little more weight into it, hitting the guy while he’s still teetering on the beam. Again, he doesn’t fly back-- the kid must be bracing himself-- but he does fall hard, ass hitting the wood at an angle that would leave most men reeling. He certainly doesn’t take it well-- there’s a yelp, high enough for dogs to hear-- but it doesn’t slow him down. Get right up on his feet, legs shaking and--

And that’s it for the little pouch he’s got, clipped right to his back. The clasp must give, since it its the beam with a soft leather plith, it’s contents spilling out along a the narrow margins. It’s all knives of course, just like his, but one skids a little further, teetering on the edge, close enough to catch the light of the chandeliers.

It scintillates, its inner facets sending light scattering over both their feet. Obi stares, ears ringing, and oh, oh-- it’s one thing to have shorted him a shot, to give him a little challenge before the Underground ushers him into their grave embrace, but to have them handing out chances like candy to whoever asks? Now that gets him.

If that’s the way they want to play it, fine. He rolls his head along his shoulders. Obi’s not above stealing himself another chance.

He lunges for it. Obi’s never been a big guy, but he’s certainly bigger than the one in front of him, and the kid hasn’t forgotten. He slips back, easy as shadow, just out of Obi’s reach--

Only for his boot heel to tap that slice of crystal, just enough to send it careening down below. It’s impossible to hear it crash in the din, but they both see it fall, shattered on the parquet. There’s a gaggle of young ladies with their back to it, all looking around, leaning close to ask, did you hear something, and it’s only a matter of time until they turn--

The kid’s face might be covered, but it doesn’t hide the moment his eyes widen, calculating just how long they have until it happens: until the ladies turn and raise a fuss, until the guards come over and inspect the shards, piecing them together to one career ruining conclusion. Until both their chances two and three are scuttled before time even runs out. Unless...

Unless there’s a body to go with it. A tragic would-be assassin, plummeting from his hiding place. Too much confidence and too little skill, desperate for recognition. The papers would be scathing.

Good thing Obi’s no slouch at math, either. He’s already on the move, scrambling back, trying to turn himself away from any hands that must reach out with a shove on their mind, but--

But it’s not an arm that lashes out, but a leg. A kick.

No, not just a kick but a high sweep, body turned so the leg hits just after the height of its arc. So that the Obi’s chin takes the full brunt of its force.

It’s only instinct that gets him out of the way. Instinct, since he’d survived it a half dozen times before he made it his own.

There’s no follow up to that move; in practice, your opponent never sees it coming. They go down like a sack of bricks, you go home. But he’s still standing, and the other guy--

The other guy’s gone.

Obi sways on the beam, catching himself with a hand. “How...?”

The world gives a sick lurch, twisting in front of his eyes. He gags, raising a hand to his stomach. It comes away coated red.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Guess that’s not just a graze.”

From below, a cry rises up, the strings shrieking to silence. Somewhere, the clock strikes midnight. 

He’s running out of time.

[witchersmistress]

Car Bomb

Hello my darlings!! after a love/hate filled relationship with this chapter it is finally done!!

As per usual my darling you do not have my permission to copy my work or use parts. if i find out that you are, i will haunt you for the rest of your days.

Trigger warning: Blood, foul language, some soft August.

Word count: 3K

my usual warnings, you do not have permission to copy my work in any shape way or form, if you do ill find you and haunt you for the rest of your days

The low humming around the office is what catches my attention first, the walker boys are leaving for two weeks and I'll be damned if I miss one last play session with August before he leaves. I get up to go make a coffee for August when the alarms go off. 

Attention, Attention this is a code black

I repeat this is a code black you need to evacuate immediately

What in the actual fuck? This has to be a training exercise, but from the way August came charging at me, it clearly wasn't “Lets go” he spat as he dragged us towards to nearest emergency exit and proceed down the stairs, we made it to the second landing with 4 more sets of stairs to go before August put me over his shoulder and raced down them two at a time. The sounds of panicked voices and feet overpowered the stair well along with the strobing red and white lights. We made it to the bottom of the stairs, he kicked the door open, ran out of the building, bringing us over to his Range Rover he settled me down in front of the grill, he held my chin in a firm grip as he looked me over with those blue eyes. “Are you okay sweet girl?” I nodded , still trying to catch my breath as I heard a familiar British accent yell “Oi,” the twins and Gloria raced after us. I climbed in the car with August. “Meet you back at the house,” Baron says, climbing into the passenger seat of Duke’s Hummer. Duke hops up in, and. August turns the key, and a deafening boom rocks the car. The hood flies up so hard it hits the windshield. Glass shatters, spraying us in the face. Flames shoot from under the hood. I hear August cursing through the ringing in my ears from the explosion. He lunges across me, throwing my door open. “Get out of the fucking car,” he’s barks, shoving me so hard I go flying. I roll once before slamming my head into the running board of Duke’s vehicle. Before I can recover, Duke grabs me under the arms and hauls me up, throwing me over his shoulder and darting behind the Hummer.

 August’s standing there cursing and wiping blood off his face. People are running our way, gathering around, the small crowd taking pictures and talking on their phones. “Where’s Baron?” I ask, trying to get my head together. August nods toward the front of the car, and I twist around on Duke’s shoulder to see Baron standing in front of the Range Rover, videoing on his phone. “You can put me down now,” I say to Duke, who deposits me back onto my feet, pushing me into August. August spins me around and grabs me by the shoulders, looking over my face and neck. He picks a few pieces of glass from my skin and brushes off my shoulders. “You hurt?” I shake my head, looking at him the same way. “You?” “Fine,” he says, his jaw tight. I reach for a piece of glass embedded in his chin, but he jerks away and stalks over to the Hummer, climbing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.

 He pops the hood, then jumps out and pushes Gloria and Baron back when they try to open the hood. I want to yell at him to stop, that he’s going to get himself blown up, but he’s too quick. He lifts the hood, and my throat catches. For one second, I can’t breathe. When nothing happens, my heart turns to rippling liquid in my chest. As if he can tell I’m about to lose my shit, Duke wraps his arms around me from behind and presses his chin down on the top of my head, anchoring me, I’m too relieved to pull away and play it cool, too grateful for his strong arms holding me up so I don’t have to do it on my own for once. August and Baron stand back, and Gloria pokes around under the hood for a few minutes before giving August a thumb’s up. He climbs back into the driver’s seat. “What is he doing?” I ask, darting forward. “Just wait,” Duke says, grabbing me around the waist and yanking me back. A murmur goes up from the crowd, and I try to wrench away, my heart jackhammering. It just about stops when August turns the key. But the car starts normally. A collective exhalation goes through the crowd, and then excited chatter as they realize the show is over, and it’s time to relive the excitement. Gloria closes the hood, and Duke releases me and hops up in the passenger seat.

Baron slides  into the back of the Hummer and throws open the door, giving me a questioning look. “Coming?” still rooted in my spot, i didn't see August get out of the driver’s seat and walked over to me, he grabbed my arm and i flinched and pulled back. “Come on up you get” he said in his usual gruff demeanor. Helping me and my shaking limbs into the car and shutting the door. Jogging back round to the driver side, he gets in and takes off. I see all the office staff gathering around what's left of his Range Rover, including Preston who is wearing a shit-eating grin as August roars out of the lot, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Mind telling me what the fuck just happened?” I ask.

 “I fucking knew it,” August growls. “I knew he was still up to no good .” “Preston Darling happened,” Baron explains. “He bombed your car?” I ask. Again, there’s a reason I stay out of gang business, and it’s for shit like this. I have no interest in war or blowing shit up. But I’m involved, whether or not I expected this. I knew getting in with the Walkers was dangerous. Everyone told me. You don’t get that much power without making enemies, and their enemies are pretty dangerous, too. “Fucking stalker,” Duke says, shaking his head. “He fights like a girl.” “Smart?” I ask. “Like a pussy,” Duke says. “He’ll never come out of hiding and fight us like a real man.” Maybe because there’s three of you, and only one of him, I think, but I’m not about to say that shit out loud. Besides, a horrible, sickening thought was churning in my stomach. What if it wasn’t Preston Darling? What if it was Mr. D? Does he have other spies besides me? Someone still in the Swans? 

If one of the Walker boys’ friends is a Darling sympathizer, and he told Mr. D that I’m lying, would he target the man who made me change allegiances? Or would he come after me?

“We have to flush him out,” August says. No one says anything for a long minute. “We tried that, the stupid fucker doesn’t leave a trail” Duke says finally. “Wait, what?” I ask, my mind racing. I’m so tangled in this web I can’t find the thread to release me. The boys know I’m not a Swan. If they told Mr. Walker, and he told Mr. D—Preston’s Dad—thinking he’s a friend, and Mr. D went after his son to punish me… Is Mr. Walker going to come after me next? This is way too fucking complicated. If I wanted this disastrous mess of violence and backstabbing and confusion in my life, I would have just tried to be popular at the academy. I didn’t sign up for this shit. “But Preston was at your car when we drove away. How could he have set off the bomb?” I questioned the boys, they all just looked at me like I was crazy. “Fuck him,” August says, ignoring me. “He got his revenge. He doesn’t get to stop us from getting ours.”  “We could go after Magnolia,” Duke says. That about douses me in ice water. This problem is so much bigger than me. “Preston thinks he’s the head of that family now,” Baron says. “If we target her, he might come out and defend her.” “Are you seriously talking about fucking some twenty-year-old?” I ask. “She’s not twenty,” Baron says. “She’s four years younger than us.. She’ll be flattered by the attention of three older guys. Hell, it’ll be like taking candy from a baby.” “So she’s twenty-two?” I demand, glaring at him. “That’s fucked up, y’all.”   “You were fucking guys long before you were twenty-two,” August points out. “Not guys,” I say. “One guy. And it was a huge mistake.” “That’s how you learn,” Duke says, flashing a cocky grin. “Oh, I see,” Baron says slowly, nodding as he studies me. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me to excuse the sick shit you’re talking about doing,” I snap.  “It’s not about what she did,” Baron explains, as if I’m stupid to have forgotten what he said in the basement. “It’s about what her family did.” “So, you’re going after an innocent girl because you hate her brother.” “He’ll show to save her,” August says. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say. “You’re using her just to get to her brother, because she’s a girl and can’t defend herself from a bunch of thugs?” 

“It’s how the world works, Harper,” Duke says. “Welcome aboard.” “No fucking way,” I say. “You’ll have to think of something else.” “He went after Gloria first,” August says quietly. “That’s how he got away the last time.” “What did he do to Gloria?” “Nothing,” he mutters. “Because we gave in and let him go,” Baron says. “It’s time for him to get a taste of that medicine.” “So, he played dirty, and that makes it right?” I ask. “It’s not about what’s right, Cherry Pie,” Duke says. “All’s fair.” “It’s a good idea,” Baron says

 “What are you going to do to her?” I ask, crossing my arms and glaring across the seat at him. “Whatever it takes,” August says quietly. “What does that mean?” “What do you think it means?” Duke asks, a manic grin on his face. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it quick and painless. Or at least quick.” “What if she doesn’t know where he is?” “Then we’ll send him a message,” Baron says, a gleam of excitement lighting his face. “Videos pack the most punch, don’t you agree, Harper?”  I want to destroy them all over again every time I think about the video they’ve all seen, laughed at, passed around. It’s been a while since I wanted revenge, but I haven’t forgotten what they did to me. It is because of that fucking video it ended up in the hands of Mr.D and how i ended up his puppet. Smart people forgive, but they never forget.

 “How do you even know it was Preston who blew up your car?” I ask. “Do you know it wasn’t?” August asks, watching me in the rearview. “Is there someone else it could have been?” “No,” I say quickly. “I don’t know anything about any of this shit.” He and Duke exchange a look, and I want to scream in frustration because I’m missing something, and I fucking hate not knowing what it is. I have a secret that could destroy August, but he has so many more, and he never shared any of them with me. We’ve been together for months. I got arrested for them, and proved my loyalty to him in that basement. I go to his games, fuck him every way he wants, hang out with his friends. I’ve done everything, and he’s had my back for it, but he’s never trusted me. If he’s not Mr. D, how does he know I can’t be trusted? “It was Preston,” Duke says. “He’s still pissed about what we did to his house.” 

They’re right. Magnolia is weak. Maybe all the Darling women are. Maybe that’s why the Darling men pick them. I remember her mom shrieking as they carried her out. I remember what Baron said about the others—two in a mental institution, one dead by suicide. This has to end. And not just for the Darlings. It has to end for everyone. These boys need help. They’re out of control, and they’re not just destroying the Darlings. They’re destroying themselves. I remember Baron’s unaffected tone when he described what they’d done, how desensitized he is by the whole thing, so he doesn’t even see that it’s wrong. Maybe he really is a sociopath, and he doesn’t know it’s wrong. But Duke does. His constant binge drinking tells me that—he thinks he can numb it all away, and he does a good job of it.

 And then there’s August, with his empty, dead eyes that I almost never see anymore. He needs help more than anyone. It’s been four months since he beat up Colt, four months since he’s had to see a Darling around. The Darlings kidnapped him, and I totally understand   wanting to get revenge. I understand the need for vengeance as much as the next person, but at some point, you have to move on and let go of the fantasy. At some point, you have to let something else matter more. At some point, August’s revenge became just another one of his self-destructive tendencies. He’s not just hurting the Darlings. He’s hurting the Walkers—himself and his brothers. “And if Preston doesn’t come , or he didn't set the bomb, you ruined his sister’s life for nothing?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even though I want to knock some sense into all three of them. “Then it was Colt,” August says. “I hear he’s home from the hospital with a pretty new face. If he’s stupid enough to fuck with us, he deserves to turn around and go right back in.

” No. Fuck no. And fuck all this. I’ve had enough. I’ve done a lot of things this year I’m not proud of. I’ve wondered if I’m even a good person, if August’s darkness and the rottenness of their rich world has made me into a person I don’t like very much. After all, it’s my own ambition, my drive to stay at their elite school, that’s behind every bad thing I’ve done. But this is where I draw the line. It’s one thing to hang out with thugs with criminal ties or to ruin a house. It’s bad enough to fuck the man who nearly killed my friend or to hear what they’ve done in the past. This isn’t their past. This is now. And it ends now.

 “Don’t look so freaked,” Duke says, turning around in the seat and winking at me. “We won’t kill her. We’ll just have some fun with her until her brother comes crawling out of his hole to try and be a hero.” “So you’re going to rape some innocent girl because her brother damaged your car?” “You make it sound so barbaric,” Duke says with mockery in his voice. “It is.” “Maybe you’re right,” Baron says. “But this is the language the Darlings understand. Sure, it’s a little primitive, but it works.” “People have been doing this shit since Viking days, baby,” Duke says. “We’re all just marauders, aren’t we?” No. No, we’re not. I wanted to get in with the Walkers, to be their friend and accepted into their boys’ club. But I’m not participating in this. It didn’t feel right to wreck their house, but to wreck a person… That’s way beyond a line I’m willing to cross. Especially when that person has done zero wrong and doesn’t deserve this in any way. Just because she happens to be born into a family they hate, that shouldn’t

make her a target. I don’t know her feelings about being a Darling, but I can’t help but remember Colt’s story about what they did to his sister. Fuck if I’m going to let that happen again. August pulls up outside my house and parks. “Get out.” “Where are you going?” I ask. “Not your business,” he snaps. “This doesn’t concern you.” Fuck. I shouldn’t have protested out loud. I should have played along, found out when and where they’re going to take her. Now they know I’m not down for this, and they won’t say anything in front of me. They might even suspect the truth—that I’m planning to warn her. My mind races through possibilities. I don’t know Darling's  neighborhood gate code, and her house was basically demolished the last time I saw it. I don’t know if they rebuilt and moved back in. Wherever she is, she’ll be staying with her mom—assuming her mom survived, since I never heard otherwise—hopefully somewhere safe. I could try to track her down, but I’m not sure what car she drives or when she leaves work. I dont have her number or shared co-workers to get it from,  so I can't think of another option right now. I know better than to try to change the Walker boys’ minds. They’re already suspicious enough of outsiders. Once I showed any doubt, it was over. They won’t trust me to know more. I reach for the door, but Baron grabs my wrist.

 “Keep your mouth shut about anything you think you heard today,” he says. “We’ll know if you talk, and it won’t change anything for her. It will only change things for you.” Our eyes meet, and a shiver crawls down my spine. I don’t even want to think about what he means by that. But I also know I’m not going to sit back and do nothing and let them destroy another girl’s life. I’m tough. I can take whatever they dish out. Magnolia can’t.. And who knows how many other girls’ lives they’ve already ruined, and how many more they’ll destroy if I don’t stand up and fight for all of them. For all of us. I climb out of the car. 

Halfway up the walkway, I hear a door slam behind me. My first instinct is to run. To race up the walkway and into the house and lock the door. Fear bolts through me as I hear heavy footfalls on the concrete behind me. The Walker boys always announce their presence with their footsteps, as if even their stride dominates everything around them. They are here, and the world better take notice. August falls into step beside me. He doesn’t say anything until we reach the door. If I ever imagined August walking me to the door, it wasn’t like this. There’s only dread inside me. I feel like I’m on death row. Dead girl walking. “Can I come in?” he asks. No fucking way. Even if we were on good terms right now, he’s not seeing how I live. I turn to face him, shaking my hair back. “Whatever you have to say, just say it.” He meets my eyes squarely, and his voice is flat when it comes. “It’s over.”