#Will save the galaxy for food

[gameguy20100]

Please share your top 5 books

I could talk for hours on this topic. So here are my rules.

A: One section per author.

B: Series count as one book.

Let's get to the list!

5) Misery by Stephen king.

4) The Skulduggery pleasant series. By Derek Landy

3) His Dark materials by Phillip Pullman

2) Dungeon lord by Hugo Huesca

1) Will save the galaxy for food. By Yahtzee Croshaw.

[lokis-wager]

I wrote something vanilla for me and, like, the two other people on tumblr who care that this book series exists.

Per usual, my gratitude to @bum-scum for beta-ing and also assuring me that I do know how to write words, and am not just a monkey with a typewriter.

[fruity-mercenary]

Drew some more from will save the galaxy for food/ will destroy the galaxy for cash. Henderson kinda reminds me of richard from fred the vampire accountant books and then i finally settled on a design for my oc but i still need a Name i’m leaning on Joey :3

[hoorayiread]

Will Save the Galaxy for Food, A Review

Will Save the Galaxy for Food, written by former Escapist editor Yahtzee Crowshaw, is the first book in a trilogy that takes place in the far flung future. We explore a universe where spaceships travel across the galaxy and their pilots stumble into fantastic adventures on alien planets...

Or, at least, that's what used to happen. Recently, a new piece of technology was developed that made all of those pilots obsolete. Even worse, some hack novelist has made millions by publishing stories of their adventures. But when one of these unemployed star pilots steals the writer's identity, he finds himself caught up in a web of intergalactic crime!

I am actually a huge fan of Crowshaw's books, and this one is my second favorite (its sequel is even better). His writing is the kind of hilarious that makes me cackle like a hyena, and its a damn shame more of his fans aren't familiar with these books. I have them on Audible, where he reads them aloud himself, and by god is it a treat! The third book in this trilogy only just came out and I have high hopes.

But the premise of this book may be what really draws me to it. A bit about me, but I have spent years trying to be a professional artist. I have the skill, but these days it feels like more and more art jobs are being replaced by new technology. There's less and less work, and more and it feels like we're all fighting for scraps. Its not unlike the situation that the pilots in this novel face. In fact, I feel like a lot of workers are being squeezed out of their jobs. This book becomes more and more relevant with each passing day. And that's the mark of good sci-fi.

[movies-tv-more]

TV Show & Movie Collection Releases for May 21, 2024

[hauntingblue]

Rong ring rong raingo time

Zoro making that speech reminds me of ace and how he treated luffy at the start, maybe not because of the same reasons but zoro is calming chopper down bc he KNOWS luffy and the others (and him) would not let him be taken without trying everything they could... there is ko use for crying and zoro is repressed but of course he would not say he cares but he does so of course he tells him to shut up bc he can't handle how chopper makes him feel... Also Foxy taking chopper for being cute and not because he is a doctor and that if they first wanted chopper to join bc he was a doctor he ended up joining bc they really became friends....

Legendary find

Look at these losers... zoro's hair is blending with the grass akdbakjka

Lettuce and cheese... the Burger Brothers

Robin supports nami's wrongs ✊🏻

Chopper being cute again

He is so slow ❤️

Seeing robin become a luffy enabler in real time is such a joy

HE IS THE MAN!!! Robin seeing luffy say that and believing it because she thinks she is expendable.... look how surprised she is... I think it's not just because she's surprised luffy got up but bc she realizes he is including her in his fight... he is also doing this for her

[fricklefracklefloof]

[ID by @hijab-described: A four panel comic. A woman in a white hijab stands inside a classroom. Text reads, "A year ago, Eslam was teaching children in schools."

Framed family pictures in front of a cracked wall. Text reads, "She was a mother of two girls and her husband was a successful business owner. She had a beautiful home and family."

The four of them, huddled together in front of the ruins of a building. Text reads, "On October 7, 2023, everything changed. In December, Eslam and her family were displaced from their home. Then, her husband's learning center was blown up. By March 2024, Eslam's family had found their home completely destroyed.

Two sleeping children. Text reads, "Eslam's family has been living in a tent ever since. Her daughters have suffered from multiple skin diseases because the costs of soap and food are extremely high. With your help, Eslam's family can have better chances of living, or even evacuating Gaza. Please donate to their campaign if you can." /end ID]

for @eslamfamily3

eslam reached out to me recently asking if i could illustrate her family and of course i said yes. she has been so effortlessly kind to me even though it took me a while to get this finished. please, please listen to her family’s story, share and donate if you can. it would mean the world to us both.

you can visit eslam’s blog @eslamfamily3 for more information, she is also on instagram here.

as of now, eslam’s family has received $7,991 out of their $50,000 goal.

verified on entry #308 on @el-shab-hussein ‘s spreadsheet here.

also verified on entry #175 on the bees and watermelons spreadsheet here.

campaign has also been shared by @90-ghost

tags (thank you endlessly):

@pocketsizedquasar-3 @pomeg-glitch @ramshackledtrickster @atlas-of-galaxies @mxwhore @gasterofficial @samwise1548

[chaos-in-deepspace]

I’m thinking of simple things this morning for our galaxy boy. I don’t know why, but I woke up thinking about him.

Xavier who hates waking up early morning, but the moment you ask him if he’d be willing to do something with you at that time, he’s setting 20 alarms so he doesn’t oversleep.

Xavier who loves eating, but will always save you the best parts of his meal just because he likes seeing you smile.

Xavier who gets in the zone while fighting wanderers, but he always, always is keeping an eye out for you and will swoop in at a moments notice if he thinks you’re in danger.

Xavier who finds comfort in simple things like getting to play with your hair (or getting his hair played with). He’ll just instantly fall asleep the moment your hands are in his hair.

Xavier who always wants to hold your hand when you’re out on public. The one who suggests locking your pinkies together if you’re embarrassed about your hands being clammy (plot twist: so are his).

Xavier who will absentmindedly trace constellations on your arm while cuddling with you. When you ask him what he’s doing he’s almost surprised, but then begins tracing your zodiac sign on you over and over again.

Xavier who originally is upset when you tell him you’ll handle the cooking for the night because he assumes you don’t trust him. Pouting the entire time, and the moment the food is in the oven he’s grabbing onto you and pressing his face into your neck asking you why you won’t let him help. You have to remind him it’s because he’s supposed to be resting after his mission.

Xavier who never took care of his injuries, but after seeing how concerned you were, he tries putting in more of an effort. He might even ask you to help him just so he can feel your hands on him, something he finds grounding after a long battle.

Xavier who sometimes gets stuck thinking about events in the past, and is messaging you to come over. Seeing your face and reminding himself that he still has a chance to save you calms him down.

Xavier who sometimes finds amusement when he finds new quirks about you. It’s even funnier when you do something that he recalls was a quirk of yours in another life. He has a mental catalogue of all the things you do because they always make him smile.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Getting Thrashed

Female Alpha Yandere x Male Omega Reader (CW: Noncon/dubcon, heat cycles, scent kink, pheromones, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, NO mpreg, enslaved reader, conquered society, general yandere behavior, teasing, biting, claiming, space pirates) Word Count: 3.4k (WOW, sorry that took so long. I started off writing fast because I loved the idea then lost motivation halfway through. Hope you guys enjoy the second female yandere fic I have written and the first one I have written with smut. Also first fic I have written where the reader penetrates the yandere.)

Your day on the space colony of Nithyal started out like any other. You diligently did your assigned work of farming a wide array of essential foods for the colony.

It was pretty vigorous manual labor, but you didn't mind. You rather enjoyed the scent of fresh soil and ripe fruits.

And you were fairly compensated. Everyone was in Nithyal. After all, the colony was on the planet Solstan. And it wasn't called a paradise world for nothing. The weather was agreeable, there were few dangerous animals, and everyone lived harmoniously. No homelessness, no corruption, no hunger, no violence. You were very grateful to live in such a place.

Especially since you were an omega.

Many generations ago, human fertility was greatly diminishing. In a bid to save the species, there were numerous fertility experiments.

One of the most extreme experiments that altered human DNA and psychology the most resulted in two new variants of humans: Alphas and Omegas.

They were both given extreme fertility, but what good is being fertile if you just end up with a barren partner?

So they were both given heightened olfactory senses, with omegas being given genes to produce pheromones that alphas were attracted to and vice versa.

They were also capable of quickly forming intense bonds with their romantic/sexual interests.

But the biggest difference from unaltered humans was that alphas entered ruts and omegas had heats. These periods of ultra high libido were to make sure they were compelled to procreate.

The gene editing was not without unintended consequences.

Alphas tended to be larger, stronger, and more aggressive than normal people, and omegas had a tendency to be smaller and a bit more submissive.

Alphas also tended to be possessive and jealous, even going so far as almost always needing to mark their mate with a permanent bite.

These behavioral concerns lead to the discontinuation of the program. Specifically, concerns about omegas maintaining their agency when faced with such forceful alphas that could easily sniff them out.

Human fertility was restored through more refined gene editing later, with suppressants being developed for the humans already altered and their descendants so they could mask themselves.

Heats and ruts were only partly suppressed, though and it wasn't too hard for someone to discover who was an omega when their life was put on hold in a predictable pattern once every few months.

It wasn't ideal, since most people hated such altered humans.

But Nithyal was different. Everyone just cared about each other and didn't bother with any judgement.

There was no better place in the galaxy.

That was... until the dark day that a pirate fleet came from the deepest reaches of known space to upend everything.

They were called The Eternal Eclipse. And they certainly eclipsed any joy you found in Nithyal.

Your people tried to mount a defense, fighting bravely with the few ships and ground to air weapons that were available, but given their numbers there was no chance of victory.

Your colony was pretty isolated from the rest of civilization so once conquered there was little chance of liberation.

They quickly killed or at least maimed anyone who tried to fight back or organize a rebellion.

The colonists had become little more than slaves.

Many continued the hard labors they had before, with more demand to support the new ruling population, others were forced into personal servitude for the higher up pirates, and a decent chunk of the population became personal fuck toys.

At first, when the pirates had gathered up all of the colonists to assign them their fates, you were mercifully going to continue the work that you had already been doing.

But unfortunately you somehow caught the eye of Thrash and for some reason she had taken a liking to you. So instead of cultivating plants, you were forced to be by her side all day as a simple servant. This probably wouldn’t have been too bad if the violent leader didn’t happen to be, against all odds, an alpha.

You had never met one before but you could tell right away. Her scent, her attitude, the fact that she was larger and stronger than most adult men. She had hair like fire and an energy and attitude to match.

At first you were worried that she had pegged you for an omega, but she gave no indication that she knew. You were in constant fear that your omega nature would be discovered. It wasn't unheard of for omegas to be brutally raped, sold to far off black markets, or even just outright killed. Surely if she had known you wouldn’t just be a personal slave.

It seemed that your suppressants were enough to completely hide yourself from her, and you had a huge supply of them. Though you knew for a fact that once your heat started, your pheromones would poke through. And you’d also be rather horny. Maybe you could feign illness and cover yourself in perfume?

That was probably your best bet. Though you hoped no one would notice that you got ill like clockwork. Luckily you still had plenty of time until your next heat.

Working for Thrash wasn’t too physically demanding, you just had to clean up after her, prepare meals, and do little odd tasks like deliver a note or something to one of her subordinates. You actually got a lot of down time between tasks… though you always had to stay nearby in case Thrash needed something.

The overworked farmers would have surely enjoyed such a relatively cushy work detail, but it was absolute hell for you. It was like walking on eggshells, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Thrash hadn’t treated you poorly, never hit you. But you had no idea how an omega would be treated.

It was especially scary when she decided to tease you, just because she enjoyed watching you squirm.

When she licked your neck in the cafeteria in front of all her dining pirate crew she cackled at how your face turned red and you got as still as a statue as your brain shut down. You were terrified that she could smell or even taste the omega on your skin.

Thrash didn’t really know why but something in her made her love flustering you. She just couldn’t help it. She had always enjoyed making men uncomfortable or putting them in their place, but you were a bit different. It wasn’t like it was with her male pirate colleagues, where she strove to be the best and made them obey her. No, this was different, seeing your face turn red made her hungry for more.

One night she dismissed you with a smack on the ass and let you go to bed while she stayed up drinking with her best buddies. You felt humiliated and rushed off to your room, which was one that was in the house she had claimed for herself in case she needed you for something she wanted you close by. You were really like a live-in maid.

You tidied up a few things before washing up and going to bed, still embarrassed about having your butt touched in public. Despite that you managed to go to sleep pretty quickly.

Though a few hours later a very drunk Thrash comes stumbling in drunk. You wake up with a jolt and nearly jump out of your bed as a strong arm wraps around your waste and firmly pulls you close.

“Mmm where ya goin cutie? Ya need to stay close to yer alpha!”

She lightly grinded into you for a moment, her crotch against your ass before stopping and nuzzling into your neck.

“Thr-Thrash… uh… I think you accident-”

She shushed you by licking your neck and nibbling a bit. You went still as stone. If she broke the skin the special enzymes in her alpha saliva would cause you to have a permanent mark. Fortunately that didn’t happen, instead remaining content with sloppy kisses, sucking, and gentle nibbling.

You couldn’t help but let out a series of little whimpering moans at the sensation. You also became aware of just how nice she smelled. So dominant. Kinda… safe…

She chuckled at your noises.

“Haha, you’re practically a tiny defenseless omega!”

That made you shake the thoughts and distractions from your mind. This woman was not safe. She stole your home and turned you into a glorified slave. If she knew what you were she’d sell you to the highest bidder!

Luckily after that comment she had passed out in a drunken stupor.

You managed to extricate yourself from her grasp before scrambling to get to the restroom. You had to double check to make sure that the bites that Thrash had so kindly applied to your neck had not broken the skin, luckily they hadn’t.

But you still looked absolutely horrible. Your neck was covered in little hickeys, your hair was a mess, and you were so shaky from the rude awakening that you could barely stand.

Something about looking so debauched made your cock hard. Maybe it was because you had her alpha stink all over you or maybe it was something to do with the bites all over your neck. Maybe it was just because you weren’t used to the attention.

It didn’t matter why the result was the same, you had to do something about this almost painful arousal. And the scent that clung to you.

As you got in the shower you gave your cock the attention it was demanding, thinking filthy and shameful thoughts about Thrash. You tried to pleasure yourself to other thoughts but your mind kept drifting back to the oppressor of your people and the way she smelled as she bit and drooled all over your neck.

You couldn’t spill until you imagined her leaving a permanent claiming bite on your neck.

After your shower you felt dirtier than you had before you got in. You reminded yourself that you hated Thrash and that she and her crew had done to upend the lives of you and your people. It wasn’t your fault she made you aroused. What omega wouldn’t have been after that?

After you got dressed and left the bathroom you wrapped your spare blanket around you and slept in the chair in the corner of the room, you would have rather not been in the same room as the drunk alpha, but you had nowhere else you could go.

When Thrash woke up she found you sleeping soundly in the room and it took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her room. She must have kicked you out of your bed. She did feel kinda bad about it, but she figured you would live. She was the one with the massive headache.

She went back to her quarters, leaving you to sleep a bit longer.

When you woke up you found her, thankfully gone, you wrapped a scarf around yourself to hide your neck, the weather was cool lately so no one should give a second thought to you wearing one. Then you left to start your day of servitude as you did everyday.

Unfortunately for you, you had to accompany her as she went on one of the landed ships to see what the problem was with it since she had originally been a mechanic and engineer. It was very hot in the engine room.

“How are you wearing that scarf? It’s so hot in here.” The heat wasn’t the only problem you were dealing with, she was sweating and only wearing a tank top, allowing her musk to practically smother you.

It didn’t really take all that long for you to get more than a bit dizzy and flustered. And once you were, it took even less time for Thrash to notice, she often kept an overprotective eye on you, though you had rarely noticed.

She came stomping over and looked down at you.

“I told you it was too hot for that! You’re gonna get sick dumbass! Take it off and let’s go outside for some fresh air.”

You fidgeted under her gaze and mumbled that you were okay.

When you didn’t take it off immediately she growled, jerked you over to her, and yanked it off of you.

She stared wide-eyed at your neck, not remembering having put the marks there herself the night before. And she was fucking livid.

“When the fuck did you hook up with someone, you fucking slut!? You belong to ME and I didn’t give you any permission for that shit!”

The enraged alpha slapped you hard across the cheek, making you yelp and stumble to the ground. You were sobbing and could scarcely manage to croak any words out.

“I-i d-d-didn’t l-let anyone d-do-”

Had one of her men defiled you against your will? Defiled HER slave?

“Tell me who did it!! I’ll cut their dick off and shove it up their own ass!”

Her eyes were like a cats, narrow slits. Your naturally submissive instincts told you to put your head down and obey anything the near feral alpha might demand of you.

“Y-you were dr-dr-drunk and b-bit me last night…”

Tears were leaking down your face. If you had not been on suppressants your scent would surely be one of fear mixed with pheromones to calm down this beast.

That’s right, she had woken up with a bad hangover in your room...

Thrash stared at you, at this tiny crying man in front of her, crying and terrified. She felt awful, and she didn’t often feel bad about her actions. She was a pirate, but for some reason she just didn’t like seeing you suffer at all. Certainly not because of her.

“Fuck… I’m… sorry…” She managed to say as she knelt down and rubbed your back.

“I really have no memory of last night...”

The large powerful woman picked you up easily, with your head nuzzled into her neck, crying into her.

“C’mon crybaby, let’s get you cooled off, I’ll deal with this engine later~”

She carried you carefully back to your room in the housing building, collecting odd looks as she did, which she quickly got rid of with a glare each time.

Thrash placed you into your bed and felt your head with the back of her hand. Despite not having the scarf, having been exposed to the cool outside air on the way over here, and now being in an air conditioned room you were hotter than ever.

Your mind was getting foggier and when she left to go get a cool rag and some medicine from the bathroom you finally realized why you were so hot. You were entering heat. The neck stimulation and all of Thrash’s dominant behavior over you must have somehow triggered an early one.

You had to leave before she came back and smelled it. It would only be a matter of moments before the smell broke through your suppressants.

Something in your brain was telling you to just stay there and let your alpha come back and take care of you, but the other much more grounded in reality part of your brain was telling you you had to hide in a utility closet somewhere and deal with the consequences of your absenteeism later. Better than being sold off or raped by every pirate who wants to try out an omega.

Right then you really wished suppressants just completely eliminated heats completely instead of just diluting them a bit.

Right after you had that thought Thrash entered the room and saw you standing by the door, you saw her hand had a bottle of pills. Though her search in your medicine cabinet yielded no fever reducers she found something else hidden away under your sink. Your suppressants.

And then your scent hit her. It was dulled by your medication, but she was an alpha unused to omega pheromones in any capacity.

She growled low and her pupils were like slits as her stare bored into you angrily.

“You’re MY property! And you’re keeping secrets from ME!?”

Before you could stumble out the door she charged at you, picked you up and slammed you down on the bed a bit harder than she had intended. You looked away, unable to meet her domineering and angry gaze. Your only response was to instinctively whimper in submission to placate her rage.

Thrash sniffed you, inhaling your scent from your underarm to your neck. You leaned your head over to give her easier access and show that you submitted to her will. You were terrified and she could certainly smell it.

Some of her drool dripped onto your neck as she hovered above it, licking you tentatively to calm you down. She was going to bite you and make you into her personal fuck toy and mate, she was mad that you had hidden your nature from her, but she would never hurt you.

Thrash sucked and nibbled at the gland in your neck, with you gracing her ears with a new whimpering gasp or moan each time she touched the sensitive spot.

Your terror evaporated quickly, replaced by heat fueled desire. And if you were honest with yourself maybe not all of the yearning was born from your heat.

The lust filled alpha couldn’t help but inhale your scent over and over, it was literally a drug for her. She had already wanted to fuck you into oblivion even before she got a whiff of you in heat, but now there was no stopping herself. Already she couldn’t wait to drink in your smell during your next heat when your suppressants were out of your system.

She made a mental note to flush them after this.

The pirate rubbed your crotch, palming at your erection, getting you even more aroused before she bit your neck. Hard. Her fangs pumping into you something that would make you smell claimed to any other alphas and leaving a large permanent hickey on that portion of your neck.

You moaned out loud in painful pleasure, arching your back and thrusting your clothed arousal into her hand.

Thrash licked your bleeding wound and then turned her attention to your cock and her own pleasure.

You could only stare and writhe in need as she pulled away from you and took off her clothes.

“Gimme a second, I just need to get our clothes off!”

It was the first time you had seen her breasts. You were in awe of this figure above you. So strong and assertive. So beautiful. A perfect partner.

To her you were the beautiful one. So sweet and pretty and perfect put in your place below her.

She practically ripped your clothing off and buried herself back in your neck as she brought herself down on you, enveloping your entire length in the warmth of her cunt. Her hands pushed down your shoulders as she rode you.

Your pleasured moans mixed with her grunts and growls as she fucked you until you saw stars. Your first orgasm was really quick, and was not nearly enough for either of you. Another perk of heats, insatiable libido.

With each of her downward movements you thrust upwards, desperate to get as deep as possible, the scent of her aroused pheromones combined with your heat making you absolutely unable to care about anything else.

You didn’t care that she had conquered your people or that she controlled them. In this state it only made her stronger in your eyes. A more suitable mate. You wanted to fill her up with so many babies.

The sex lasted hours, until the both of you were too sore to keep moving. It finally ended with you clinging to her and using her tits as a pillow with her arm wrapped around your protectively.

When the fog of pheromones and heat left your brain you were horrified by what had happened. But if you weren’t owned by her before, the new mark on your neck meant you certainly were now, and she would never let you go.

[physalian]

10 Character Dynamics the World Needs More of

Me handing out character dynamics like free samples at the Mall Food Court: “Take one! Or two! You’ll love it!”

I don’t care how many times these tropes have been done – write more of them. Write all of them. Fill out your author bingo card one by one.

1. “No one gets to kill you but me, Old Friend”

This. Right here. Primo rival content that I *live* for. All the juicy history between two old frenemies, the character drama, the backstory, the titillating unknown of what drove these two to rival status, bitter enemies that respect the heck out of each other, to the point that hell hath no fury should one get knocked down without the other’s consent.

And, of course, the moment where it seems all bets are off, when the rival comes to save their ass only to hand it back to them at a later date. The angst! The shipping fodder! Need I say more?

2. A bigger, badder villain, and their minion

You, reader, spend countless hours hating the guts of the big bad villain. They’re evil, they’re vile, they’re sadistic, heartless, irredeemable bastards. They killed your favorite character for shock value. The big bad moustache-twirling antagonist… is actually not the biggest fish in the story.

Either they’re coerced into doing evil as a puppet of the Bigger Bad, a tragic villain in their own right, or they have some reservation, some line even they won’t cross, someone else’s boots they have to kiss, someone who features in their nightmares, as they feature in the heroes. They end their stories dispatched without a thought by the Bigger Bad, or redeem themselves in death by taking out their masters. It never gets old.

3. A leader and their lancer: besties

You know what’s better than leaders and lancers who have zero faith in each other and are constantly bickering about who should be in charge? Leaders and their right-hands who adore each other (platonically). They have each other’s backs, they know each other’s greatest strengths and weaknesses and are each other’s perfect covers.

They can communicate with looks and vague gestures alone, they compliment each other’s flaws and misgivings, build up the rest of the team when they’re down on their luck, and should misfortune strike either, they pull out all the stops and show off exactly why they’re not to be trifled with, so that even the villain is afraid.

4. “I don’t even know who you are”

Oh, but you will. This one twists the knife, robbing the avenging hero of the importance in this world they’re desperate to maintain. They are their own hero, the sun revolves around them… but not to this one asshat that ruined their life and doesn’t even remember doing it.

An entire identity built upon the finding, fighting, and overcoming of this wrongdoer, every other goal in life cast aside for this one impossibility. Either the villain toys with the hero to make them irate, or gets suckerpunched by some pissant fueled by vengeance and spite and divine purpose to dole justice where justice is due.

6. The jaded badass and their naive ward

If the last 8 years of media is anything to go by, we still love this trope, whether it’s in a galaxy far, far away or a fungi-zombie post-apocalypse, or in the twilight hours of an era of legendary mutants. The best part of this trope? You get two often contradictory character types in one body. The pessimist, PTSD-ridden master of old with no living friends left and at least one dead love interest *and* beneath all that, still lies an atrophied heart of gold just waiting to be nurtured and revived.

The naive ward gets a hard lesson in how crappy the world can be, but also in how there’s still some goodness left, if their guardian cares about them. The jaded badass in turn, learns how good the world can be, that there’s something still worth fighting for beyond the next bottom of a bottle.

6. The enemy of my enemy (is my friend)

Similar to the “old friends”, this trope is often a result of the minioned Big Bad realizing they don’t want to be evil anymore. Or, bitter old rivals, sides of a war that have been fighting for generations, ideological polar opposites, fundamental polar opposites all come together when: Some evil schmuck managed to scare them both.

Doesn’t matter on what shaky ground this temporary alliance is built, or how long it lasts, equally-competent badasses on both sides finally work together and compliment each other’s strengths, and compensate for their weaknesses, in a way their teammates never could.

7. The irredeemable villain’s only wholesome connection

Not so irredeemable anymore, now are they? This trope messes with your head, taking a character you know has done heinous acts of terror, but who cares unflinchingly, unabashedly, about one thing – either their lover, their pet, their relative, or their kid.

This exists independently of the heroes and is not the same as an “oops I guess I’m your father” reveal. I’m talking this character who everyone is convinced cares about nothing and no one but themselves and their ambition still has a place in their soul for something they want to protect, they want to be loved by, or that they must spare from their atrocities.

8. Platonic Heterosexual Friendships

These two have seen each other at their most vulnerable. They’ve shared fears, dreams, desires, know each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. They’ve seen each other exhausted, frazzled, dressed up, dressed down, bloodied and broken and like a raw, open nerve. These two would die for each other, they would live for each other, and yet.

They’re not in love with each other. They’re wholly comfortable in each other’s spaces without lust and desire mucking up the atmosphere. Neither is the one, neither wants to be the one. They remain together not for the bonds of romance, but for the bonds of friendship, and nothing could be stronger.

10. The Ace and their best friend, the Self-Proclaimed Slut

These two respect the f*ck out of each other. One never mocks the other for lacking desire and in return, they’re never mocked for their promiscuity. They’ll never walk in each other’s shoes, but they don’t need to, to understand that’s just how some people are. They’re each other’s safest spaces when the world doesn’t take either of them seriously.

They’re each other’s biggest defenders against the bullies, presumers, the holier-than-thous who think they have it all figured out. They’re the perfect compliment to give advice on everything from relationships to the best outfits for an outing because there’s *zero sexual tension* between them. Or, maybe, if the stars align, they’re something more.

10. The redeeming villain, and their staunchest skeptic

This villain has lost everything – their home, the respect of their people, their worth, their evil ambition, their identity, and has begun working their way up from rock bottom doing everything in their power to show the heroes that they’re serious. They make amends, they break their bones proving themselves, they’ve swayed everyone they’ve wronged in the hero camp.

Except one. The one character that was probably their first defender, and got burned for it. The character that was naive enough to think this villain could be saved, and was wrong. The character that won’t be duped again without some serious drama and soul-bearing between them.

Now tell me which ones I missed!

[dreamtheatre]

hi! I've been really into doctor who lately, but I can't find many headcanons on tumblr!! if you have time or are interested, can you do headcanons of 9,10, and 11 having a crush on the reader? (or if you'd rather only do one, that's fine too!)

a/n hey! i absolutely love this idea... so let's do it!! i'm going to do this with our wonderful time lords 9 and 10.

Pairing: 9/10th Doctor x GN!Reader Fandom: Doctor Who Genre: headcannons, fluff Word Count: 708 Warnings: Nothing really... Obliviousness? Denial?

9th Doctor

he would never admit it, but he notices these little things about you.

your laugh... how the corners of your eyes crinkle and your head tilts back when something amuses you. he notices that when whatever you're laughing at is funny enough, your laugh turns into a bit of a wheeze. he can tell you're embarrassed by it, but he thinks its cute adorable nice.

he notices what your favourite colour is, and when he gets you a big box full of stuff that is your favourite colour he feels a smile stretch over his face when you grin. when you ask how he knew your favourite colour, he lied and said that the TARDIS told him (to which the TARDIS hummed in disagreement).

he notices what your favourite food is. he even takes you to the past/future to let you try all the different variations of your favourite foods.

he calls you "fantastic" a lot (Rose and Jack definitely notice)

he sees how close you are with Rose and Jack, but although he doesn't mind Rose, Jack notices how the time-lord's eyes get just a bit darker and a frown is etched on his face whenever he sees you with the 'handsome' ex-time-agent.

he never tells you any of this, though, because he doesn't know how he feels. the time war is still too fresh in his mind for him to come to terms with his emotions.

if you are there when he regenerates (which of course you are) he'll tell you that you were "bloody fantastic" one last time before the golden glow covers his body.

10th Doctor

this version of the time lord is different... you're not complaining though.

he rambles and rambles on about the planets, stars, and the galaxy and tells you about all the places he is going to take you (all the companions tell you he's just trying to impress you, but you wave them off, telling them he's just being his regular time lord self)

he can't help but smile when you smile, laugh when you laugh, and he has to fight of his tears when he sees you cry.

when you both lose Rose, he really does cry with you. he holds you tighter than ever and vows to never let the terrors of the universe reach you.

when you both meet Martha, the Doctor notices how you and her get along almost as well as you did with Rose. he happily takes the med-student along with you on your new adventures

he's beyond terrified when he gets possessed by the sun, thinking that he's going to hurt you (or worse, kill you) and there would be nothing he could do to stop himself. when you and martha save him, he contemplates taking you home, where you'd be safe from all the dangers of travelling with him, but you tell him that you're going to stay with him forever. he's stuck with you now (and he's not complaining at all)

when he turns into john smith, he falls in love with you instead of the matron. when the family of blood is defeated and he turns back into his old self, he hates that he can't bring himself to tell you that those three months, a mere fraction in his time lord life, was the best that he had ever lived.

after a year without you and the torture of being with the Master, the Doctor realises how short his time with you might be. when he sees his old friend, the Master, dying in his arms, he knows that he'd never forgive himself if he let anything happen to you

he finally tells you that he loves you

happily, he takes you out to romantic locations across the galaxy, picnics on New Earth, watching outer-space operas, and even just sitting on beaches on a planet where the ocean glows with pink and purple hues. he loves doing what you love

when Donna comes along, the Doctor and you both find her to be an amazing friend, and when you both meet a strange woman named River Song at the Library, she grins knowingly, knowing what the future had in store for the both of you.

end xx dreamtheatre requests are open!

[evilminji]

Hey Minji! A thought for your Star Wars things!

Who ever said the SI-OC was the only one to get dumped in SW? Just. A Creche that has several Reincarnations/Transmigrants.

Oh? My god? Just... the FIRST thing that popped into my head? Was the image of one of those "we are so Unbelievably Overworked We No Longer Fear You Nor Death" Sort of office workers/team of workers(nonspecific)?

Just... fuckin EVERYBODY knows Star Wars. Not everybody focused on the same PART of it, but the DO know it. So OBVIOUSLY? The Force decided it should bring in an A Team.

It Did Not ASK the A Team.

They are... like? 4. And sitting in a soft foam, brightly colored Creche, in their lil Jedi rompers, all sitting in a circle, looking at each other like... ( -_-) (-_- ) you too, huh?

Yeeeeeep. (God does Jerry want a cigarette. Jerry gave them up in his 20s. But he's KINDA GOING THROUGH IT, okay?!) (Sarah is hyperventilating in the corner. Her KIDS! Oh GOD. Her KIDS! She was on the way to pick them up from SOCCOR PRACTICE!!!)

Just? This whole ass team of "yeah, we know the LORE, but buddy, pal, we had LIVES! What the FUCK. Star Wars was a HOBBY!" Type adults? No one is happy and everyone wants to choke the metaphysical concept of The Force with their itty, bitty lil baby hands.

They may RIOT.

And like? Do to sheer NUMBERS? They make up ALMOST a full Creche?

Almost.

There is like... one? Maybe two? Actual Jedi Babies™ in their group? It's A Team... plus our collective children. Whom we parent. The MOST baby of babies. Also the spokesperson when they want to fool anyone into thinking they're "normal".

I want Jerry to have a fake cigarette. He's looked up death sticks and like FUCK is he putting that shit in his body, but dear LORD are the oral fixation and mental effects of a past addiction still both real, and a pain in the ASS.

If you try and TAKE his fake ass, hand made, bespoke not-a-cigarette from his itty bitty lil baby hands? He will take your KNEES. These FUCKERS won't even let him have COFFEE. Let him HAVE THIS. *hisses from the walls*

I want them to be ☆~Nightmare Children~☆

They have the power of The Force, various past life skills, an uninterrupted access to the galaxy's BIGGEST LIBRARY, close proximity to FAR too many senator AND their living spaces, and? An actual negative number of fucks to give. They can take shifts. Tag team. Be creepy, horrible, terrible, God awful nightmare creatures climbing out from your WALLS.

Somehow they keep escaping.

Down through the lower temple as they examine the hidden tunnels and escape routes. Through the vents. Forcing other jedi to become VERY familiar with where those pathways are. Sure hope THAT won't someday save your lives! Ya ungrateful, "you're grounded, stop sneaking out younglings" BASTARDS! So rude!!

The camp out in the Corrie Gaurd office. Bring the babies.

Here, you seem stressed, random gaurd. Hold a Jedi Baby. They radiate sunshine and good vibes. Are literally the Anti-Old-Man-Sith. We brought caffeine and food from the temple. Are willing to follow you around like "adorable ducklings" on patrol under the excuse that we're "training" for when we get our own soilders.

Sure is INCONVENIENT for all these asshole senators to has a witness, huh?

You gaurd my back, I'll gaurd yours. And if a certain long neck trips near the stairs? You didn't see SHIT. I'm BABY. How could I POSSIBLY have the control to do that? Now excuse me... we need to practice our "we Jedi Children can stare into your SOOOOOULS, we See All Your Sins." Wide Eyed Unblinking Predator Stare.

(O.O) (O.O) (O.O)

[lokis-wager]

One of my favorite things about Will Save the Galaxy for Food (now that I've listened to it like 10 times lol) is that all of the main characters think they're in different kinds of stories.

Mr. Henderson thinks they're in a romance novel. He gets that impression from the first moment he sees McKeown and Warden in a room together, and immediately becomes the antagonist. Just one glance and he knows that McKeown is going to shake up Warden's life enough that getting her off his payroll is the best possible thing he could do.

Warden is, reluctantly, pulled into what she also thinks is a romance novel. She spends the first third of their adventure being the sci-fic adventure deuteragonist, and the last two-thirds trying to be the love interest before she finally realizes McKeown doesn't like her back. Henderson probably colored her view on the matter, frankly, but that's thrown back in her face when Jacques basically tells her to go to therapy after she asks him for sex. She backs off afterwards, but her looking at McKeown in excitement after blowing off Henderson's leg was one last bid to be the love interest - instead, Jacques is freaked out, quickly taking the gun out of her hands. She stays on Salvation Station and he goes back to Luna.

Daniel thinks he's in a teen romance movie where he's the main character, and Jemima thinks she's in a teenage coming-of-age novel where she's the main character. Daniel awkwardly trying to impress her while Jemima tries to impress the adults around her is a nice contrast of character. He mostly only cares about the space adventure because he can show it to her, while she is truly in awe of what she can see through the spaceship window.

But Jacques is the main character, he's the one narrating the events, and he is gonna keep this shit squarely in sci-fi adventure/comedy whether you like it or not.

The second book, Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash, was the exact reverse, where Jacques was desperately trying to keep it in sci-fi comedy/adventure for the first half, while every other character was in a heist story. The second half of the book is everyone (including Jacques) trying to make it out alive of the straight-up sci-fi adventure that they wound up in.

Halfway through the book, however, right before it transitions, Jacques snaps - there's a reason why he has to be the space hero in a sci-fi adventure, because if he can't be the space hero, then he's gonna be the space villain. He gets his head back on straight in time to lead his coworkers out of the deadly situation they fell into, but Jacques as a person fundamentally cannot exist in a situation where he is not the hero defining the story's genre.

It's incredible that the central conflict of the story is Jacques (or more accurately, the man calling himself Jacques) pretending to be a novelist that writes sci-fi adventure stories. The man pretending to be Jacques didn't write the books in universe, but he has to be the one telling the story to us, the audience. He has to be the good guy, the perfect protagonist, who may do wrong things sometimes but only in the pursuit of justice. Because if he isn't... then he has to be evil. He has to be completely in the wrong.

[fruity-mercenary]

I made another oc for my favorite book but this is his boyfriend. Im in the middle of the second one so if he gets a partner well damn. But anyways his name is Link, he was a star pilot- to which when quantum tunneling came around was abandoned- so he started his own team of misfits so now hes a space pirate. But one of the good ones. And meets WHATEVER THE MCS REAL NAME IS as mckeown con. Also links a thief working with a hacker, whatever some other thief wants.. so does he. Its just down to whoever gets it first

[hoorayiread]

Nameless Protagonists in Books

Is anyone else a big fan of this? Because I sure am! The two books I'm thinking of for this are Will Save the Galaxy for Food by Yahtzee Croshaw and There's No Such Thing as an Easy Job by Kikuko Tsumura. Both great reads (a review of the second is coming soon).

What I love about this specifically in books, as opposed to other mediums, is thay books are non-interractive and give you a lot of time with their characters. You get to know your protagonost intimately. What they love, what they hate, their thoughts and habits around spacetravel and their opinions on different flavors of rice crackers. And then you get to the end of the book and realize their most basic character trait, the one thing you learn first about a person almost all the time in real life, is a complete mystery! "I know about your pooping and showering habits, and yet I don't know what you're called."

It is hard to do. Telling someone your name is a very normal thing that comes up naturally in dialogue. Having a prominent character, let alone a main one, that doesn't reveal theirs is difficult to do without making their attempts to dodge questions seem awkward or clunky. Both of these novels pull that off with flying colors!

[moonbeammist]

The Peasant's Secret (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them. taglist from Part 1: @aoi-targaryen

I don't give permission for any of my fanfiction to be posted, this is also cross posted on my account w/ Archive of our own :)

PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Fighter!Reader

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey! l'm excited that I continued this. Honestly, couldn't get it out of my head until I did. I really hope you enjoy it, feedback is most welcome. New readers, read Part 1 for context and character, if not, this can be read as a solo fic too 💖

WARNINGS: (Adults only 18+) DARK! profanity, extreme violence, torture, gore, sadism, masochism, dubious consent, erotic undertones, heavy petting, reader is a fighter who get's extremly hurt, bigotry against the poor, very immersive, intimacy, touching, feyd-rautha is his sick self, public humiliation, light smut

Feyd is at his most sadistic - please mind the warnings. I really wanted to explore that in writing because I feel it's such a big part of his character. Honestly Dune Part Two inspired the hell out of me, and looks like I'm not the only one judging by some of the brilliant writers on this site. Thank you for inspiring me too.. I poured everything into this.

SUMMARY: As a rice-harvester hailing from Planet Caladan, you knew these things to be true. You and your people were "peasant scum". And as far as you can tell, peasant scum deserved a shot at the vast unknown as much as any noble folk did. Even if the only thing protecting you is a flawed battle-tactic and the falsehoods that you tell yourself. Even if it has you riding a wave into the wicked evils that lie.

WORD COUNT: 10.3k words (yes it's long, but enjoy the ride, take breaks, ect.) ❤️

PART 1 PART 2

It’s scalding, the black ebb of the sun in Giedi Prime. But you are well hydrated and fed.

Previously, when you were aboard the ship with Count Fenring in the depths of space, he made sure you and the small group of rice labourers that stayed behind were treated. Various platters of eclectic fruits, aged cheeses, proteins, and beverages were presented before you on a wooden table, the Count encouraging the hesitant Caladan rice cultivators with a wave of his hand. Almost in unison, they dived for the food at his proclamation, knives and forks clashing. You couldn’t tell what animal you were gnawing on as you slobbered it down, only fixated on filling the hole of anxiety that grew, every so slowly, deep in your belly. You volunteered to be here on the basis of... being Harkonnen entertainment, mixed with a blind, selfish jump into the illogical.

And for what?

So you don’t deserve to feel this uncertainty. You did it to your damn self. Wanting to prove... something, anything. What that was exactly you couldn’t pinpoint, except a growing need to see yourself capable of a different path than the comfortable life you grew to know. Your mother’s words came to you again, flying through the vastness of the galaxy.

“You should go.” A pause. “Live for us.”

Her words spread through you like a viper, a sliver of hope returning to you.

You’re covered by the dark canopy of the nestled burrow underneath the stands of the large dome-like arena, filled to the brim with Harkonnen porcelain heads. You can see a partial view from here—a small peek, but enough for multiple stark heads to pop through. The hard, black metal doors were closed all the way, save for that small crack. Their starving, needy chants are ear splitting to you; you can hear them all around you in these walls beside your fellow fighters. Here you are, like a feast for them—ripe, hot-blooded, and ready for the taking. 

You keep your hair cropped short just under your cheekbones for battle, falling messily over your face in a choppy cut. The length made sense under these circumstances.

Last night, after filling yourself with food and beverage and thanking the Count on the ship, you pushed your way past the other passengers to the ship’s restrooms with slight impatience, a mulled over idea that has been eating at you finally coming to the forefront. Seeing your hollow, adrenalized eyes in the mirror, your hand reached to your thigh, brandishing the emerald handle of the small blade you were given as a courtesy. Unlatching it from its leather harness with a click, your arm juts out to swipe your tresses away, the ends falling like a blanket on the floor. You did not need to make yourself a target on the hairless planet, that is for certain. Not like this, not so obviously. 

They can already see what you are, you know.

Your conscious crows at you, and your teeth come out to play with your bottom lip, chewing it. That’s not why. When you were shoving food down at the table with your fellow people during mealtime, you received a more in-depth, private discussion about Giedi Prime and House Harkonnen’s culture and traditions, along with a long spiel on the opponent you and your fellow peasant fighters would be privy to facing. 

The Count’s voice was almost a warning to all, and you could’ve sworn his eyes rested on you too many times for it to be a coincidence. Obviously, being the opposite sex in the Harkonnen arena is going to come with a target on your back. In Giedi Prime, usually, they had a target on your back no matter what, but they usually fell into four prime categories: pleasure slave, handmaiden, visiting Bene Gesserit, or noblewoman. And obviously, they’re going to make out by your form, that you’re not a big, burly slave-gladiator. But some type of amateur, dodging, slave-gladiator nonetheless.

The issue is that you don’t want the nephew, that psychopathic nephew of the Baron—Feyd-fucking-Rautha grabbing a long mop of hair and whipping it around the arena like a toy, a rag doll. And you don’t want something as silly as hair being used as fodder against you, like a joke. You had gathered the length of hair in the disposable bin, cleaning up the mess on the marbled floor in finality.

You glance up to catch yourself in the mirror, and your pulse quickens. You run your fingers through your short locks, the pieces framing your face. You feel renewed, refreshed.

You feel more like yourself than ever before.

The guttural melody seemed to increase in speed across the walls underneath the arena, bouncing off the ground. You could feel the voices, deep in the earth, the soles of your feet vibrating against your boot. You peered into the backs of the heads of your crew. You knew that your time was getting closer. Uneasiness, but also a slight giddiness that shouldn’t belong, bubbled up within you. 

Why?

The small group of men that you came with from Caladan were also branding themselves as inexperienced rice labourers. As men, it was common for them to get in spats or tussles about gods-knows-what. They had experience in that sense. For the fairer sex, all you had was your mother’s encouragement to take an interest in the art of dodging, the defensive battle strategy known as "The Peasant’s Secret." There weren't many ladies, as far as you could tell, who were following suit. They had more important things to register, like feeding their children, you mused. The peasant men were taught it too, as they weren’t permitted weapons, armour, and the like. But it didn’t seem like they held it in high regard as often as you did. They practiced being on the offensive with their knuckles for light fun, with a masculated zeal. You questioned why they were here, as it would seem they dared not want anything else than an honest day’s work, being able to daze upon the fields with a wife warming their bed. But you wondered if the few that came grew bored of their mundane life and little free time, and were willing to put themselves on the line of fire today like you. 

Stupid, silly peasants you all were. Couldn’t just be happy with what was given to you. Couldn’t just lay your head down on rice grain forever. 

Just wanted a small hit of dopamine to the psyche, it would seem.

Without notice, a speaker made himself known above you—and it must have been from the very top, the very perch of the arena. The Baron of House Harkonnen’s rough voice pummelling into the pits below. “Citizens of Giedi Prime, and most welcome visitors,” he began. “We have quite the show for you today, most definitely... Count Hasimir Fenring has brought with him mere-" he pauses to chuckle as it reverberates through your mind, and you make a note of his happiness. It already confirmed what you knew to be true.

He continues. “Rice harvesters from Caladan who would like to join in on today’s festivities. Mind you, they volunteered their time here as well, so we shall see what they have to offer.”

A more ominous-sounding laugh is heard.

“How exciting, dear nephew, for you to enjoy this treat. Some low-born entertainment as a warm-up. We shall commence shortly.”

The audience chanted their sick appreciation at this news, their cheers echoing across the skies.

You gulped your saliva down. A warm-up, yes, of course. That makes sense.

It’s here. You’re here. Pacing, jumping up and down, in your murky, brown cloth. Amping yourself up.

Tight, tattered dark brown shorts adorned your knees, with strings tying the garment in place at your hips. To counter that, a long, light brown quarter-sleeve tunic swamps your form, belted at the waist with a large buckle securing it. Under the belt, the bottom of it is cut into two sections, split right down the middle, revealing your shorts in a fashion with athleticism and movement in mind. It’s lightweight and loose, allowing your bindings and skin to breathe in the hot weather.

In just a moment, the doors to the arena pits would open, and you would face the deviant that awaits. But you would not be alone. At least in the beginning. 

You turn to glance beside you at the men accompanying you. The men stood beside, in front, and behind you, their large frames slightly swarming you. You briefly imagined them emerging into the arena like some low-born three-course meal for the Na-Baron. You wordlessly prayed that you would not be considered a part of the appetizer.

“Come,” a man you knew by the name of Rexen, threw his arms around your shoulders and jostled you out of your ponderings. His hair was a deep black, matching his unkempt brows and scraggly beard. His face was warm and friendly, and his stare was earnest. “Join us for a moment.”

You walk with him a mere two steps before he gently pushes your body forward, and your eyes take in the slight change of everyone’s chest now visible to you. Your home planet’s men’s faces rapt with attention on each other. They are now huddled in the formation of a small circle. Rexen leans forward, and you follow suit, huddling even closer into the group, shoulders touching.

A glow of comfort envelops you, a piece of home.

“We are not a skilled people,” Rexen graciously offers, his head dipping low as he mutters this. His eyebrows raise as he anchors his head against yours and the men surrounding. “Most of our people did not want to be here. But for those that remain, we need not concern ourselves with why we are here. Just that we’re here to put on a show, for the holier than thou fucks.” He grins at his quip, his teeth slightly yellow in colour, stained from poor hygiene. Laughter emits from his chest, and the men barrel with much-too-energetic laughter for the situation.

You feel bizarre. You definitely came with the... what would you call those with no regard for their own self-preservation? 

Lunatics? 

But chillingly, you find yourself chuckling along with them, joining them in their message. Joining their showmanship. You’re here after all. That makes you one of them. You grin ear-to-ear as you laugh along with the men.

Something breaks you out of your glorified stupor. You hear a muffled chant just outside the doors. A pause. They were speaking in syllables. 

“Feyd-Rauth-Ah!” Again. “Feyd-Rauth-Ah!” And again. “Feyd-Rauth-Ah!”

Before any of you have a chance to compose yourself, the doors behind you slowly split open, and you eye the entrance to the arena with a spike of endorphins settling like butterflies in your stomach.

It unfolds, unlatches, and stretches out.

Until you’re cast in a perfect halo of light, the bleak colour seemingly burns your eyes for a moment.

There. It’s adjusting.

Your eyes adjust to the toxic atmosphere once again. You now have a more personalized viewpoint of what is to come; your perspective now shows a closer point of view of the arena as you break away from your fellow fighters and shakily take one step forward to the substantial crowd. The energy in the crowd shifted considerably to a higher plane, and you can literally feel the noise cover you in a blanket of sound, and you’re vibrating. You don’t turn to pay attention to your peers as they slowly spill out of the doorway.

The guttural native tongue of the Harkonnen boomed through the air, the announcer’s voice telling a story with his words. It all became white noise next to your thrumming heart.

At the opposite end of the arena, it’s... him.

His bleached, ghostly white silhouette sauntered several yards away with a slow swagger. The distance dwarfs his form slightly. Black on black. Everything he’s wearing is black, jutting out from his body to clearly signify a plate of armour atop his chest, ribs, shoulders, and legs. A combat suit absolutely made for battle.

The good news was that his skull and neck, seemingly attached by his bulging shoulder plates, was exposed. The sight of his hands clutching two considerably large Crysknives on either side of him made you pause. His wrists jumbled up and down, playing with blades.

Moving in an angular motion, you make a beeline for a darker area along the arena wall. You now notice your companions are already scattered all over the arena, the restlessness in their scurried steps now known to the sole Harkonnen. You’re sure he can smell them from where he is, and you want to perhaps blend in with the wall for a bit while you plan your next move.

He hasn’t noticed you yet as he charges forward, the speed in his steps like lightning.

You quicken your pace to the side of him, against the wall, out of sight as he spots a single peasant man squaring up to challenge him.

Your gaze is transfixed on them as you continue to walk backwards to the wall.

Feyd-Rautha is closer now, towards the centre of the Arena. The way he moves is like a freight train, all at once, and not a single part of him is apologetic for it. Your friend, your... companion, who had his head pressed to you moments earlier, had you clenching your teeth in anticipation at his first swivel around Feyd-Rautha’s Crysknife. The man ducked, barely grazing Feyd-Rautha’s blade as it sliced through the air. You hear a deep, grovelling chuckle, the sound making you freeze. It’s alien.. It’s so, so deep.

He doesn’t even sound real.

You glance at him while side-stepping, grateful his attentions are on the burly man’s arms flying at him like a circular typhoon. The man was already so tired; he was slowing down.

Feyd-Rautha exhales, curving the Crysknife in an upward motion, pushing it to the hilt, the squish of the male being impaled hauntingly audible. “That’s the spot.”

Like a caricature of doom, the voice of the man had a guttural, raspy quality to it. So low but with an unusual lilt at the end of his words.

Feyd-Rautha grabs the man by his shoulders and flings his heaving body to the ground, removing his painted red Crysknife from the man’s gut.

He barrels onward, heading further away from you, his eyes lit aflame.

You cannot deny that you’re in shock at the raw energy, but you take several breaths to calm yourself down, reminding yourself you just haven't ever been in an arena before. This is how it goes. Randomly, your back collides with something warm as you're breathing in and out. 

Jostled, your breath hitches as you whip around at the feeling. 

A clicking sound speeds up at your collision, erupting from a black, horned... genetically modified something.

God knows what that is, but you knew by its circling movements it was there to service the arena as its handler, keeping a watchful eye. There seemed to be another one roaming where Feyd-Rautha was, to your far left.

You raise your hands up, hearing the clicking intensify in warning. “Apologies.” You nervously laugh, wondering if it even cared for your apologies at a time like this.

You hear yet another man falling to the ground behind you, your gaze darting to the sight of him rolling, trying to swerve the absolute onslaught of the animal standing above him.

All your planning and all your battle-tactic calculations were lost in the wind, it seemed. It didn’t matter anymore because you were so fucking nervous.

No, it’s okay.

A small voice inside you encouraged.

You need to utilize “The Peasant’s Secret” in front of this crowd of evil eggheads, even if it’s not perfect.

You feel cracked mentally to even be joking to yourself at a time like this, but the fleeting sentiment is all you need to feel better. It was time to give yourself some grace.

You glanced at the horned handler once more as it retreated, before facing the savagery you knew you needed to keep your eyes locked on... Rexen, the man who pulled you aside earlier, was moaning in agony, his eyes bloodshot. You felt a fluttering sensation in your stomach. Alone and gushing, flowing, a stream of blood spilled out from his sopping open wound into the arena pit.

You remember his joyous remark that he was going to put on a show as you watched the life drain from his face.

You feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, like something in the air has shifted.

A BANG snaps you out of your reverie.

Isolating the noise, you lock in on it. There, now dangerously close, a looming presence carefully studying you. Feyd-Rautha’s hard, deep stare. He was standing a few feet away from you on the right side of the arena wall, his leg kicking at the wall animatedly. 

BANG

He hit it again, and as he finished, his armour-clad legs seemed to click together. His pale face was plastered with a delighted expression that met the depths of depravity. As your gaze flickered over him, you noticed an open mouth, a row of black teeth, the shade of the darkest midnight, smiling in glee, seeming to be proud of his announcement.

“Just a few more of the rodents,” he sneered, his eyes gleaming with giddiness.

You hold your breath in fear, stopping all at once. You know making a move right now would be foolish at his proximity.

“Did you perceive yourself to be out of harm's way?” His rasp quipped. 

You consider him, swallowing a jump in your belly. Unnerved by his misplaced enthusiasm. 

You brace yourself, standing at attention, before lowering yourself into a bent stance. The choppy pieces of your short hair fall into your line of vision as your head dips to the ground, trying not to let his overbearing nature shake you.

He doesn’t seem to move from his place as his gaze flickers over your movements.

Those black teeth. You were strangely fascinated by the ghoulish sight of them.

You’ve heard rumours of it being akin to a status symbol, perhaps even a fashion statement in Harkonnen culture. A custom of extreme wealth, beauty, and high influence.

Aristocratic customs are among this absolute cruel and humiliating gore fest. The irony of that was enough to make you thankful for being low-born and poor, minding your business. For all that you represent, at least you weren’t delusional in your value.

“Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” You greet, nodding solemnly, bowing your head from your battle-ready stance. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Perhaps paying your respects to him before the battle would lessen his aggressiveness, if only a little. If you didn’t mindlessly yell and charge at him without thought, like the others.

He cocks his ghostly bald head, black mouth agape, seemingly taking you in. You briefly wondered if he was flashing that blackened mouth at you like some sort of superiority complex.

“How curious,” he murmurs. “The peasant wishes to exchange kind words before I run them through my blade?” His eyes glitter with something primal.

His sick jab makes you scoff inwardly, but you ignore it.

“On the contrary,” you begin. “I’m merely doing the honourable thing. Are we not battlemates, despite where I come from?” I pause, letting the words settle. “Like those of higher status you have fought before?”

I taste the words on my tongue, knowing full well the act may be futile.

Feyd-Rautha’s black teeth open wide with jest. “Mmm, that is what it would seem...” He nods at you. “The honour suits you.” 

You pause, realizing that he was paying a compliment.

His eyes darken like decay at once. “But you are a plaything, peasant. A pathetic thing for me to slice open and drain.” He tuts and slowly strolls towards you. 

You can’t help the shock that appears in your face at his grotesque words.

“But don’t worry, maybe I'll go a little longer with you.” He emphasizes the last word, a dark promise. His voice was laced with subtle mockery.

He’s put some sort of magnetic spell on you as you stand there, dumbfounded. His face no longer looks friendly as he advances on you, a demonic expression gracing his features. 

Fuck.

You jump back, reeling. You’re already failing, and you’ve got to get away, away, away fast. 

You shake your head at yourself for letting more than a few moments of speaking pass between you two. That was indeed useless. If anything, it seemed to make him crazier.

He charges at you with ferocity and a face devoid of emotion. 

This time I will move.

You let your secret instinct envelop you naturally, closing your eyes.

Dodge. Bob. Weave.

Just in time, and he’s snarling. “Rah!”

His black teeth lurch towards you.

You suddenly swirl your body slightly to evade the attack, his Crysknife missing you by mere inches. You jump backwards, not by a lot.

“Run first.. If they are fast enough, begin your dance.”

Your mother's words about the steps of your teachings sneak into your senses. That’s going to come off cowardly to someone like him. Weak. You don’t care. He didn’t know the hidden ways of the ‘lesser’ people of Planet Caladan.

You bolt, legs pumping with renewed investment in your life. The sand seems to give your shoes just the right amount of grip to propel you. You don’t bear to look behind you, afraid of what you may see, but know he’s at least giving chase.

You zip by yet another man, his neck whipping to watch you run. He feels like another stranger among the men who died, like he’s already sealed his fate.

But you presumed. You did not give the man grace. Like you now give yourself.

The man is living now, unchained. In his most honest form.

You crank your head back momentarily as your feet are hitting the sand. You instantly regret it, your breath catching in your throat. Feyd-Rautha is hot on your heels; his snow-white face is terrifying. His nostrils are flared, and his deep blue irises are lit with enthusiastic vigour. Your eyes widened as his blackened mouth was clenched in malice.

There is still a sizeable gap between the two of you. In a sudden move, you see the flash of the man before, in a blur—he’s purposely throwing his body towards Feyd-Rautha—and Feyd is so intently fixated on you he can’t stop the audible grunt that escapes him when your fellow peasant barrels into him with the strength of a bull.

The movement is so out of place that you falter slightly, side-stepping mid-run, your eyes glued to the man who decided to make use of his body as an obstacle. They hit the ground with a hard slam, the sound cracking through the thick atmosphere of the planet.

What is seen before you resembles a dogpile—the man’s large body attempting to restrain Feyd-Rautha’s snarling form, the man’s back gyrating like a hunter holding down a rabid howling elk.

You softly gasp at the mere seconds that went by before Feyd’s blade ground upward deep into the man’s guts—you could hear the sound of insides sloshing, emitting a horrifying, piercing scream from the man. The lack of care was evident as the man was thrown to the side like common trash.

Feyd-Rautha sits up, crimson staining his face like a splatter of paint, his face contorting, mood soured.

You silently thank the man for his sacrifice. It dawned on you that he didn’t do that for himself, but for you. A way to slow down your enemy’s predatory chase. 

Thank you. Your deed today will not go unnoticed, my good man. I shall make a shrine in your honour when I’m through with this animal.

Your eyebrows draw together, and trepidation rings through you as you put a bandage on your reality, cushioning your frantic thoughts with comfort.

You make quick work to paddle your legs from side to side, transfixed on the Na-Baron’s body, using the horrific situation as leverage. You started to do slow, measured side-skips around the man, smart to not use all of your well-preserved energy right away. You couldn’t risk disabling yourself to be slow, but you could be at a good, neutral pace right now.

While he was down. Which wouldn’t be for long.

Feyd-Rautha exhaled hastily as his neck craned towards you. Something akin to a cool, unfazed demeanour washed over his previous frantic behaviour as he allowed himself to engage in a moment's respite. 

“Let’s see you now, you pompous little rodent. Your street-gutter ally was desperate to save you... Caladanians, hm?”

The message was clear now.

You bit your tongue, not lowering yourself enough to respond brashly to his mean-spirited words. Oh, the man was loathsome. But you will engage him. It will allow you to learn more about him.

You already know enough. He’s a deviant, a sadist. What else do you need?

You need to concentrate. You won’t respond brashly, but you will plant seeds of doubt in his mind, if you can.

“Caladan has brought me many things, Harkonnen.” You begin, slightly slowing your skips around the arena as you speak. “It is a vessel of life that your planet seems to be drained of, quite frankly.”

His pupils expand at that.

“Harkonnen?” He stands then, rolling his neck, and you hear a pop as he adjusts his broad torso, his blackened mouth suddenly upturned in amusement as he studies you. “What happened to Na-Baron? Is it not to your taste anymore? Is it because I hurt your heart?” 

He motions towards the crowd of bodies littering the ground. “Did I hurt your gutter tribe?” His rough voice taunts like a menace, as his eyes sparkle with a sort of dark mischief as he laughs at that.

You swallow, biting back enragement.

“You did, Harkonnen.” You agree solemnly. “But what does it matter? Don’t you treat every untrained, unprecedented fighter the same here?” You pause, seeing his deep blue eyes flicker with interest. “Unskilled fodder to fuel your own ego?”

The air was tense, and his calculating eyes seemed to consume you during the silence. He cuts it then, with a breathy, deep cackle.

“Oh, so she has a mouth,” he sneers. He shocks you by darting towards you, his black armoured frame like a thick smog, coming to ingest you. 

He inches closer and closer, and you make the decision to roll out of the way, your body tumbling to the side of him.

“Smart, for street filth. It will be quite a shame when you’re crying under me as I bloody you that you’ll be fodder for my ego.” He mocks chillingly, his cruel words eliciting a spike of nerves within you, but you’re too focused on evading him to let it show. You see him use his Crysknives in short, brutal swifts as you roll quickly.

His Crysknife whips down, but it stabs the ground, Feyd-Rautha not accounting for your multiple movements of barrel-rolling.

He barks a laugh at that, and you hate the sound of it. He pulls out the Crysknife with a rough grunt, and you stumble to your feet.

You’re fast, and you can see that his eyes are trained on you, and he’s smiling. Oh god, that mouth of blackened tar is smiling.

Running away from him again felt more freeing this time, like you were in control. You knew that you could actually keep up with his antics. You were prepared this time around; you two were alone now. Your fellow peasants' bodies are disrespectfully littered at your feet, and it makes you angry.

“Why is she running?” He called, his guttural voice reaching you as you reached the end of the arena. He was talking to you in a strange way, like you were somewhere else, not present in front of him, like a mere object.

You ignored him, and you briefly remember your small blade, strapped under your brown shorts, the strappy harness hidden. You needed to tire him out. That’s your first mission. Tire him out to the point of exhaustion.

Although hesitantly, you knew he was fit and athletic. A powerful, driven force. How exactly you were going to do this remains a sight to be seen.

He growls and chases you like a huntsman, around and around and around. Every time he managed to get in proximity with those two sharp, deadly blades—

Your body moved, just out of reach—like a python. 

You feel pride flow through you when, half-way through another lap around the arena, Feyd-Rautha stops, catching his breath. You’ve managed to get the Harkonnen to audibly pant, and what’s more, he’s crouched over, hands on his knees.

So you decide to waste even more of his energy.

As you begin to run backwards, facing him, you cup your hands around your mouth, sucking in air as you prepare to yell. You call to him, drawing his attention to you.

“Tired, Feyd?” You drop the second half of his name, and it feels more personal.

He huffed, springing up in an instant at the sound of his name spoken so comfortably from your lips.

You couldn't bear to look at his mocking, ghoulish face transfixed on you from several feet away. It sent a deep wave of uncertainty and thrill through your very being.

His ebony mouth gaped at you. “Such gall, from someone who’s been fleeing this entire time. Is that what you came here to do?” 

You swallow hard. Mind reeling.

“I came here to—” you began.

Feyd-Rautha cut you off, an outpouring of snideness laced in his voice. “It matters not. How long do you think this is going to last you, peasant?” 

Your confidence is slightly faltered, but you speak without thought. “It lasted me this long...” and your voice trailed off.

He chuckled darkly. From this proximity, you can see his eyes swirling with a foreign emotion you couldn’t place.

Yes. Your body moved like a python until it didn’t.

He lunged at you, jumping with a prowess that was so quick you barely managed to get out of the way. But you did, feeling his blade slice through your tunic, your abdomen. You let out a hiss, and you’re jumping backwards, regaining your momentum, away from him, and you’re flying mid-air.

But he somehow matches your stride, leaping forward. He snatches the fabric of your shorts, using that to grip you as you are smashed into the battlegrounds by your leg.

The wind is knocked out of you as you land on your stomach, and a sound emits from you that you’ve never heard. Adrenaline flowing through you, you attempt to get up but the heel of his boot digs into your back, pushing you back down, your form collapsing and you sputter, breathing hard - You hear his body drop into the pits behind you, the dust flying into the air in front of you.

Feyd-Rautha pins his entire chest on the small of your back. The weight of the man has your mouth tasting the bitter, dry pallet of the sand. Your face prickles as the sharp grains sting your eyes, crushing your nose and mouth; the pain is excruciating. 

Fuck, if he doesn't get off me, he's going to break my nose.

You let out a feral cry as you tried to move underneath him. His arms hold you deeply into his chest, the plates of his armour digging into the ebbs of your spine.

In defence, you attempt to curl your body into a turtle stance, protecting your front, which is where you are most covered in bruises from your fall. You can feel him all around you, his chest heaving up and down. His breaths are deep and disgruntled; sometimes they don't sound human.

His heavy arms start to slowly pry your arms open from cocooning yourself. He could do anything he wants at this moment if you don’t get him off.

It's no doubt he's much bigger than you, and although you were countering him in speed a while ago, his masculine strength keeps a steady hold on you. 

You start to shake as you flex every bit of muscle you have, your body vibrating in tremors as he continues to pry your arms away from your body. You continue to try holding onto the fabrics of your tunic, still convusling as you fight his hands, trying to pry away your self-made cocoon.

In patience and in your countering movements. You find your strength in your resilience. You remind yourself that you feel powerful in that, at least.

I still have my grit.

"Tough," He jeers, and you’re aware of his chin now digging into the little nook of your left shoulder; you don't even have to look back to know he's grinning from ear to ear. His thick armoured legs tighten around your smaller frame.

In one quick movement, he wrenches your struggling arms, your nails digging into the wartorn fabric that covers your body. You are still holding on, but barely.

Your voice comes out in a passionate screech, ripping from your throat when he shoves your arms behind you so that your elbows are touching, his pale fingers clasped around them.

His muscled, battle-born thighs tighten around your hips.

You thrash against him. "No! NO!" Your scream falls out of you in a high hilt. The pain is searing, like your arms are going to pop out of their sockets. You didn’t want to protest this loudly to him of all people, but he’s forced you to. You’re at his mercy if he manages to dislocate them.

"Yes," he grunts, and you don’t know if he’s responding to you or himself. "Who knew these little arms could hold such force?" The questioning lilt in his rasp went up several levels.

Since your elbows are in his grasp, he has your torso tilted towards the sky of the arena, the black sun baking into your tanned Caladanian skin. 

You hear the deep chanting of the crowd, pulsing through you like a hymn. A smear of colourless shapes moving up and down. All you see is white spreading into your eyelids—your vision is pure, crystal white. Your head lulls back as it rolls back onto his wide shoulder.

And what he utters next is truly alien.

"Let me see those eyes, Caladanian." Feyd-Rautha croaked. It was a gruff, choked sentence, like it slipped out of him by accident.

What?

A weird feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, flip-flopping at his words.

For fuck sakes, the sick fuck is getting turned on by this. Harkonnens..

A silent weight hangs in the air. And for a moment you both don't move.

A flood of emotions wells in you, like an electric charge.

Albeit in pain, you take advantage of the changed atmosphere.

Your knees are trapped, stuck together like a sweaty mass between his thighs. Your head that was stagnantly leaning on Feyd-Rautha's shoulder now aggressively dips down and slams up into his face, head-butting him and taking him slightly off guard.

Feyd makes an animalistic noise, and something changes in his face.

He smashes your skull into the sand, and you desperately claw at the air, gyrating your body like a sandworm. The impact stuns you, and your vision runs fuzzy. Your brain feels like it's splitting. You see green, blue and pink hues. Strong hands are felt touching you, shaking you out of your reverie.

With feverish disgust, you realize that the Na-Baron is kneeling at your back, hovering over your form.

You feel his palm pat. Once. Twice. Thrice. On your mid-back. He rubs your heaving back in a mock-soothing gesture as you gasp inwardly, sucking in the polluted Geidi Prime air like it was your last time breathing, feeling the air barely satisfy you, feeling like you didn't have enough.

"That has to hurt," he purrs. His hand is warm on your back, rubbing. Your eyes widen with horror.

You cough, hacking now. Taking long, deep breaths. If you could just...

He continues rubbing, and you're glued to the ground.

Your chest betrays you and continues to huff and puff audibly, he must hear everything. It’s screechy, your lungs are burning. His hand movements somehow relax you, which may be considerably fucked up. He hums, satisfied, deep in his chest, the sound making you stare at the ground in confusion.

He stills his caring hand on your heaving back and glides it to the base of your neck, plunging your head into the sand, again and again, not giving you any leniency now.

Well, that didn’t last long.

Your head is concussed, sending short, stabbing pains like a tidal wave to your brain.

You flail wildly, kicking back and upwards, your shoes colliding with his body.

He scoops your short locks in one fluid motion, your scalp searing at the sensation. He removes the grip on your hair to fully cradle your face, whipping you around to face him. Your body is limp, nearly falling to the ground, save for your face firmly held in place by Feyd-Rautha.

"Up we go, no sleeping now." he remarks darkly as his gaze settles on you.

Your throat is bone dry, your lips so swollen and puffy from the gushing blood flowing out of your nose. It's definitely broken this time. But you're numbing out now, slowly, and every so often you see those beautiful, vibrant colours again, shimmering despite the bleached atmosphere. It's such a miraculous sight that it makes you smile dumbly... you're finally happy.

A stinging SMACK knocks your face to the side, and you falter in his grip, eyes widening.

Your shock quickly transforms to frustration as hot, angry tears spill from your eyes.

"Fuck you!" And you violently shove your thumbs into his eye sockets, filled with rage. You dig in with all your might.

Your intrusion makes him stumble, and you both messily fall over. Your body falls into his broad chest, the armour knocking against your worn clothes. By now, the rags have slits all along it, from your near misses with Feyd's blade.

You knock him over onto his back so that you're straddling him, your hands sinking into his eye sockets.

His eyes are fucking gleaming now with delight.

"Yes. Take my vision. End me now." He heartily begs, and his mocking face is seemingly drinking you in, in admiration, despite your thumbs digging into eyes. It’s like he can see past them, and you shiver involuntarily.

His hands and Crysknives lay at his sides, in a strange display of submission. You can see the black teeth behind his lips, widened with glee.

His enthusiasm under these circumstances made you pay far too much attention to his face and miss his ulterior motives.

As you’re about to increase the pressure even more, a Crysknife appears in your vision, like a figment of your imagination—before it’s buried to the hilt in your upper thigh.

You cry out, shrieking, throwing your head back in agony.

The sudden onslaught makes you fall backwards in pain. His blade is still buried to the hilt, tendons throbbing. Only the handle is sticking out, like a thorn in your tendons.

Pulling the blade out right now would be a risk to cause further damage to your blood vessels and nerves. This would lead to rapid blood loss. You couldn’t do that right now.

Immediately, you move. You start to drag yourself—by instinct, fight-or-flight, you don’t know. 

You grit your teeth as you manage to find the strength to reach inside your thigh for your hidden blade, letting your hand grasp on the emerald green handle, pretending to cradle your injured thigh.

You keep it there as you continue to drag yourself.

"You've impressed me a great deal," Feyd-Rautha rasps. The unusual deep raspy tone reverberates through your eardrums somewhere above you.

Something inside you quivers at the revelation.

You know it’s best not to believe any of the drivel that spews from his mouth.

Curiously, he’s standing there, the white of his eyes veiny and visibly red from the press of your thumbs a moment ago.

Playing with his now singular Crysknife, tapping his fingers along the stretch of the blade—making no move to attack you. 

Then a thought occurs to you. Feyd-Rautha wanted you to survive. Butchered and bloody, still barely hanging on. He wanted to see you at your emotional breaking point. Writhing and begging for his mercy, begging for your life. The sick fuck derives pleasure from it.

So you say the complete opposite of what he's expecting.

"I want to die," the level of your drawl is barely heard over the crowds chants and shouts booming through the stadium. And you wonder if he can hear you at all.

You drag your aching body towards him, the hidden knife in your hand still clenched thoroughly, stapled to your inner thigh. Your eyes feel raw, chaffed with sand, burning. They flutter as they try to remain open. But you use your eye muscles to slowly turn your face upwards from the ground, eyes searching for his.

"I want you to hurt like I hurt," you carefully fabricate your trembling voice, peering up at him behind your full lashes. Testing him, you spit vehemently on his black boots, emphasizing your point.

The sheen of it glistened in the black and white atmosphere, slightly outlined in a pinkish hue. You're determined to feast your eyes on him, to look as enticing as ever. You use your tongue to push the blood out from inside your mouth, in efforts to trigger his bloodlust. Blood dribbles down your chin onto the murky pits, stained from you.

The world shifts as you take your chance.

His black mouth opens wide in a gleaming smile. His interest is piqued.

"Oh," he coos. His pale hand suddenly darts out to grasp your dribbling face. "What a magnificent sight."

His thumbs trace along your bloodied chin. The fresh blood stains his fingertips, and you couldn't place the emotion that was there. Wide, perplexed eyes settle on you. His mouth was not upturned, but in a hard line. His orbs were staring right through you. 

The seriousness of his mouth with the stimulated look in his eyes unsettled you. "Look at the blood of this fighter." He croons.

You pretend to struggle with rapid head movements to dislodge your head from his grasp. He only holds it there tighter. Now you show off your crimson stained lips, pouting in dismay.

Guard down.

He leans down, looming over you as he studies you. As you initially remembered, his ebony armour suit covered his body in an efficient way, everywhere except his ever-exposed face and neck.

His thumb moves from your chin to your full, battered lips.

You make your eyes as pathetic as possible, pleading. He tilts his head in fascination, and you beg.

“Please..”

You feel his thumb stutter on your bloodied lips at the sound, and his eyes blacken at once.

Bingo.

His enraptured pale face is the closest thing to you, and you don’t waste a minute before plunging the blade into the skin of his cheek, tearing through the flesh.

He roars, and you think the blade nicked his teeth as you hear a click.

There it is again: the change. His smirking, bemused face is wiped clean and replaced with a demonic, empty expression. 

You’re suddenly gathered in his arms, and he slams you against the nearest arena wall. You struggle against him, shouting your protests. His forehead presses to yours—your heartbeat pounds. His magnetic probing eyes are otherworldly as they obliterate the world around you, and it’s claustrophobic. 

You writhe and shake in fear, doing everything in your power to throw him off you. You punch him in the nose with a crunch. You punch him again in the face, sending it reeling. Your other hand chops aggressively at his cheek, downward, your palm bruised by the handle of the blade, wanting it to rupture. But all he does is laugh cruelly at you, his eyes glinting.

He withdraws the blade out of his cheek, tensing as he does it. You hear it hit the ground with a clang. He then grasps the handle jutting out of your thigh, wrenching it out.

Your muscles scream. But your voice doesn’t, in shock. He whips the blade away, throwing it to the side.

His tar-like mouth is drooling saliva and blood, panting into your shell-shocked face. Drool hits your chin as devious gaze envelops you, forehead digging into yours.

Your eyes glaze over and your belly flutters at that, mind completely wiped.

Blood begins to trickle—no, outpour from your wound.

You struggle to hold your balance, barely propping up your form.

He falls to his knees then, using his hands to steady you, snaking his arms down your calf. He stops on your ankle, wrapping his pale fingers around it, his other hand clutching the heel of your shoe.

Your blood runs ice cold. You whimper.

“Hush," he coos. "This is what happens when you volunteer to get slaughtered, rodent." 

He grasps your ankle, and turns it sharply, the movement emitting a sickening snap, the pain is ice hot, the guttural scream ripping through your chest emits such a frequency...

That the crowd goes silent.

"Oh," his bulbous eyes are wide as saucers, his evil coming off in waves as he mockingly consoles you. “Such a delectable sound, so beautiful.”

The colour is drained from your face.

“Not much longer, I swear...”  he moans, about to grab your ankle again.

And now it's your hands that are on his face, clasping his jaw in desperation as you tilt his chin upwards.

"You don't get to fucking do this." You hold his head in your hands as you stumble with your words.

You don't miss the amused expression on his blackened teeth, and, ever so slowly, his hands come to rest on your hands that are cradling his face. His eyes are on fire. Your hands are on fire at his touch.

He tilts his head curiously. "My, my..."

He keeps your grip there. And the eye contact is too much.

He slowly takes your hands down, trying to pin them to your sides, but you aren't going without a fight again. Your worn muscle strains to keep them planted on his jaw, and you’re the one who’s grinning like a maniac now, thumbs digging into the corner of his mouth, stretching that god awful black mouth open.

He chuckles knowingly, his stretched smile guttural, sounding as if Satan himself had spawned. 

"You are special, aren't you?" He pauses to consider your gushing, bloody mess of a face. The deep baritone husk of his voice is sickly sweet. "Even with everything beaten out of you,"

You can't believe how vile and how utterly deranged and twisted this man was to be toying with your anguish and consuming it like a life force. Like it makes him stronger, all the better off to treat your broken soul as a means to an end. 

You tell him this. You tell him exactly now you feel, past the point of caring. You are out-of-body; you are not even attached anymore, shattered beyond repair. 

“Fucking piece of shit," Your voice is hoarse from your screaming, dryer than the desert wastes. You want to see his face as it contorts, need to see him receive your insult as harsh as it was intended. 

His face doesn't seem to register what you said. His pale head merely drops out of your hands to be level with your ankle again as it twitches in his scratchy and cut-up, war-torn palms, your soft skin supple in comparison.

Your ankle is yanked in one swift, fluid motion, and you know he heard you. The pain is making you see starry, glittery speckles as your eyelids flutter close. 

Death is near.

The crowd says it. That's them. That must be them. All of their voices sound like a chorus—a church choir—as you float in and out of consciousness. 

You don't know how long you've been yanked forward; you swear you've been to the end of the arena, doing laps around Feyd-Rautha. 

Running in a diagonal line, weaving through him. Mother would be proud.

But no, something is heavy, rooting you to the ground and sitting on your chest, weighing you down like a cinder block.

The flaps on his black armoured legs are covering your face in the struggle; his knees are pressed into your cheeks as he gathers your arms, both of them against his chest, holding them to him like floppy string beans.

You push against him, “Fucking Harkonnen scum!" Your anger rips out of your throat; your hatred is not reserved anymore; it’s open, bearing witness for the crowd to see.

“You forget yourself,” Feyd-Rautha sneers down at you as he collects your flailing limbs in his palms. “Your beauty is the only thing saving you at this point.” 

His words strike right at your heart, your chest tightening in dread.

Beauty?

But there’s something else there, amongst the terror. Something you don’t want to acknowledge, and in the desecration of your soul, you feel yourself, your whole body, flush. 

You panic at your sickened thoughts, and you dip your head up to see your jello-like arms captured by Feyd-Rautha. Your broken ankle lies horribly twisted. Your anguished, throbbing limbs and fresh wounds are seeping with agony. And your bones—your bones ought to be mush by now. 

Exhaustion has caught up to you. You've ignored it for so long... so long.

Trying to prove yourself.

Your eyes flutter close.

“Closing your eyes isn’t going to make this go away,” the rough, taunting voice of Feyd-Rautha sends a jolt through your body.

You tighten your eyes harder. 

Let me rest. Let me take a rest from you.

“I said-” His voice was malevolent, husky. “I need to see those eyes again.”

Your eyes fly open, just in time to see his blackened mouth now hovering over yours, his proximity making your body go rigid. His chest is weighing you down, his body caging you.

His dark, gleeful expression seems to ruin you as your nose grazes his. Your heart sings. 

No. This is wrong.

“What are you doing?” You don’t believe your own protest as it spills out of you. Your heart is hammering out of your chest.

The palm of his hand slid over your tattered shorts, over the skin of your hip bone. Goosebumps rise at his touch, and he smiles at that, his wet tongue swiping over his black teeth in perverse fascination.

“How utterly brave,” he whispers, his eyes lit aflame as they locked on yours. He drags a finger down your temple, cheek, and finally lets it rest on your jaw, his touch burning like a brand. “A hero amongst them. One that isn’t afraid to be broken. One that welcomes it.”

“Harkonnen-” your protest dies in your throat when you suddenly feel his tongue dart out to lick the blood gathering at the corner of your mouth. 

You freeze. Your eyes widen as he licks it clean. The black pit of his mouth draws closer, and you’re sinking. Your stomach flips upside down. His tongue slithers into your mouth, an overflow of warmth flowing in your belly. You can’t think... You can’t feel. His lips are surprisingly soft as they obliterate you.

He tastes metallic, with a hint of black liquorice. 

Your body shakes like a leaf in his arms—the nerves overflowing. He deeply chuckles, the sound reverberating in your mouth, as his tongue punches yours, darting around and around. Your thoughts are so muddied you sigh and you’re kissing him back with feverish passion. He groans at that.

His hand is splayed over your abdomen, and you feel the cool sensation of his rings. Something snaps inside you. You break the kiss.

No, what am I doing, what am I doing, what the fuck am I-

"Wait-”

His hand trails lower and lower, settling on your pubic bone.

“I-” 

You're stuttering, scarlet red and flushed with humiliation.

“Shhhh..” His shushes are guttural, and a shiver runs up your spine.

Someone has to stop this, right? Th-They'll stop the battle right, once they realize this isn't a battle anymore.

You watch as his arms slide up and underneath your tunic, deep shame swirling in your belly as excitement and thrill courses through your veins from his attention.

They'll stop it, They can stop, I won't be made a fool of- no I won't-

His other hand's rings caress your ribcage, your skin pin-pricking with want. He traces carefully over every rib bone before pressing. Hard.

You yelp as you snap out of your reverie and dig your nails into his wrist, bucking wildly against him in an effort to get him off of you.

Why would they stop it? You're in the arena with a treasured and respected sociopath—their precious Na-Baron.

His hand slides down your shoulder, down the apex of your arm, goosebumps continuing to rise despite your flailing frame.

Your eyes encapsulated your undoing under Feyd-Rautha’s hard stare. He didn’t believe you for a second as he watched you flail about. His sickly eyes were large and expanding at your blatant but silent need.

"N-Na-Baron, you don't need to trouble yourself. I'm a peasant, worthless all around. Surely you wouldn't dishonour yourself...disrespect yourself..." Your ramble came in short gasps.

It sounded pitiful and sad to even your own ears.

Something flashes over his eyes in amusement as he considers you.

“Oh,” his rough voice muses. “But I do respect you, pet.” 

And at that, his ringed fingers cupped you, sliding over your nub.

Your face came alive, then. Like he had never seen. Your eyes swirl, cheeks flushed, pink mouth open—tormented by your enjoyment.

“So lovely,” he encouraged. You shuddered inwardly, your insides like a million shards of glass as his ink-stained teeth smiled down at you.

You’re unable to keep up with his ministrations. A sob wracks through you, the pleasure travelling the whole length of your skeleton down to your toes.

His hot mouth is moving over your collarbone as you struggle to punch him.

He hovers over you, brushing your resisting face with his fingers. He covers your angry fist and snatches it to his chest, holding it steadfast.

"Give in now, you poor thing."

Instantly, your eyes are sucked into his deep blue ones, as he quickens his pace. Flicking back and forth.

You cry out, arching into his chest.

His mouth opens in a mocking, seductive gleam, clearly loving your reactions.

“Can’t-” you think you go to another dimension, a cosmic shift as you try to make sense of what is happening to you.

“Can’t what?” He grovels, low and heavy. His hunger is apparent. His tongue makes a home in your ear, as your eyes roll back into your head.

Faster and faster, he demolishes your entire being, breaking you from the inside out.

You think you go to Caladan for a moment, maybe to Arrakis—your body flying as the pressure builds.

Somehow, in the midst of adrenaline, your battle instinct takes over, and you're able to roll on top of him, bringing his forearm that has disappeared in your trousers with you. 

You sit up straight—on top of him, shakily wrapping your hands around his throat.

A sinister laugh erupts from under you. Feyd-Rautha angles his flicking wrist so that it never leaves you, his free hand seizing the cleft of your hip completely still. Your body sputters in shock.

Your glassy orbs flicker over his angular, pale face like a hawk, stuttering with vulnerability, and he senses it.

He hoarsely speaks below you, his desire thick. “I need it, give it to me, I want it, I need you,”

His words hit you like dynamite as the pleasure amounted within you, tears in your eyes at the intensity of the moment. His bulbous eyes never left you, his black mouth opening at the sight of you in utter devotion. Your hands release from his throat.

Your defeated eyes are engulfed by his as you collapse onto his chest. You felt the throes of submission envelop you - needing, wanting to be under his scrutiny, his gaze. His armoured arms fastened you in his grip, anchoring your shaking form in his arms, holding you close.

His pale head went rest on your shoulder blade for a moment, then pulled you back to leer at you. 

This intimacy with.. him.

It could not be replicated through space and time.

Feyd-Rautha hauls your crumpled form to him, his white hand digging into your hip as he tosses one of your arms around his shoulders. He's doing most of the heavy lifting as you lean against him, depleted and brutalized. He’s walking you towards the stands.

Your face was caked with dirt and blood, swollen. You were numb - to his violence earlier, to his.. attention.   

A bellow is heard above. 

"Exquisite, nephew." The Baron nodded at the both of you, his enormous form like a boulder in the stands. “You lest come across a treat among the gutter like that in your lifetime.”

You turn away, your brow furrowing in disdain.

You feel a harsh slap to your cheek, the bite of it temporarily distracting you from your seething anger, but fuelling it nonetheless. “Look at my uncle when he’s addressing you.”

“Just kill me,” you gritted your teeth as you whisper at him, feeling debased, undignified.

His eye contact was immobilizing.

"Oh now you beg, treasure?" Feyd-Rautha says deeply, in awe. "When you've stopped fighting?"

You barely process the term of endearment as it shuts you up.

Feyd-Rautha holds your upper torso, forcing you to stand against him, squeezing your cheeks together as he inclines your face to his uncle.

Plump lips encase the shell of your ear, his hot saliva sending waves of.. something down your spine.

“You should be proud." Feyd grunted out. "I don't service those in the arena often, but when I do...”

He plays with your ribs, his fingers cold underneath your tatted and holey shirt.

“I make sure they are worthy of it, to add to the display,”

You know exactly what he means by serviced, and you feel mortified of the memory, knowing - The Baron, noble ladies and the noble men all have seen it. They must know that nothing is off limits for a sadist - you could imagine he tortured and serviced men and women alike - you doubt it mattered to him.

It was the Harkonnen Arena, everything for the ease of entertainment. 

Your protest was instant. “Go fuck yours-”

"Shut your mouth, pet, before I send you away to be a slave, the only worth you'll ever live." He threatened. "If you're to behave, you'll be here, training with me, for battle regularly.”

“I don’t blame you, nephew,” The Baron jeered from the stands. “How did you learn to move like that, girl?”

Feyd-Rautha’s mouth was open again—a tunnel of black tar. “Answer him.”

“A peasant never reveals their secret, my lord.” you bluntly say, not caring for the repercussions.

You hear Feyd growl in a warning before the Baron interrupts him, erupting in jolly, sick laughter. “Oh, what fun you’ll have with this one, nephew.”

“Indeed, uncle.” Feyd’s deep blue irises drink you in as he snatches you roughly.

Feyd-Rautha steps around the arena, presenting you to the people like a spectacle. He allows you your respect, holding you with your arms stretched like a splayed out starfish. The flat of his palm is pushing the centre of your spine.

You do feel like you’ve gone through hell as you hear the crowd roar in applause. You do feel like you’ve earned something. But you didn’t. You failed. Tears roll down your face.

Did I mother? Did I do it?

A flash of your mother’s caring eyes envelopes you. She nods, her angelic presence swarming around you.

“You did well, daughter.” A whisper. “I couldn’t have asked for better.”

She cradles your head in your hands, tilting your head to meet her warmth.

You grin, happiness enveloping you, grasping at her shoulders. You want to hold her, but you can’t. “Really, mother?”

“Yes, Caladanian." Her warm smile is pitch black. Her praise is false, a lie.

With a sick feeling, it’s his voice now whispering in your ears again, breaking you from your dreamy experience. 

Feyd-Rautha's chest is pressing into your bruised back as he holds you to him.. Can he.. let you keep speaking with your mother, just for a moment? Would he, if you followed orders, if you made no trouble?

“The honour you deserve, pet..” His thumbs wipe at your tears as they dribble down your sunken cheeks, but his face is devious. “I shall wash and clean you myself, and then you’re going to rest in my arms tonight,” His whispers aren’t of comfort, like hers—his voice is too brazen, too guttural.

His eyes are a bottomless pit as his hand travels to the base of your neck.

“I think you might be my favourite..” He squeezes, briefly cutting off your air supply and you sputter and cough.

You feel faint. A stream of water is forced down your lips, and you drink it, still coughing.

Your vision is hazy, and you decide it’s time to sleep. It’s like he’s rocking you back and forth, the length of your body dragging along the sand, back and forth and back and forth and-

Shushing you, soothing you, like a baby. 

Still hearing the crowd congratulate you, the deafening cries of the Harkonnen people clear in your eardrum, still feeling him grip you -

In your weakened state, a surge of lightning flows through your veins. From the gods, perhaps?

They’ve seen what you did; they’ve seen what you’ve endured.

There’s colour now in this bleak, desolate oasis. You’re the colour.

The black sun seemingly speaks as it encases your entirety. 

You have won, dear one. You have survived.

PART 1 PART 2