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insomniac-dot-ink · 6 months ago

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Deep in the Woods in the Dark of the Road

Everyone talks about the fear of hitchhikers. Parents and urban legends repeat, Never pick up someone on the side of the road. Like food from the floor, you don’t know where they’ve been. Smiling ghosts, prison breakouts, serial killers on the lam. Very few stories talk about the edge of the road, the place where you lose yourself to these strangers in a stranger’s land. The ones that pick you up. I tell the story to anyone who will listen.

First, I have to tell them, “of course I don’t hitchhike anymore,” condemning my youthful folly for them before they will consider me a credible source. As someone worth listening to. My sister likes to remind me I was on the type of adventure only clean-shaven young men can get away with in the first place.

I like to remind her that I’m not sure I got away with anything.

May 12th, everything else shifts around it like the light, but that date might as well have been printed on the back of my hand.

May 12th and the small Canadian town I had been staying in had a high school graduation, the place swelling with relatives and well-wishers. There was only one high school and their hockey team seemed to be the one big rallying point the people shared. Everyone became a grandkid to every aging adult and I knew it was time to move along in the same breath.

I meant to leave early in the day. Meant to leave earlier in the week too. Nonetheless, when you're on a country-long trek you do start to appreciate the little things and the Johnsons’ had a high-pressure shower. The Johnsons were a family of pit-stop angels for hikers and bikers, turning their home into an invitation. Hippies, aging athletes, and former-vagrants were the main types of pitstop angels–literal angels in my mind at that point. I told myself a second shower was indulgent and then I gave myself another shower. Me and time we’re never really on the friendliest terms, especially when I was a thru-hiker that had lost the trail.

I stood under the burning hot spray and melted. During the first shower, the water always runs brown and muddy, sloughing off layers of dirt and dead skin. I think I understood religious resurrection after showers like that.

This one though, a second shower, ran clear and crystalline and perfect.

Hot, steaming water and a steady drumbeat of pressure. Heaven. Heaven though, eventually turned cool and then freezing. A cold river from every faucet. I jumped out and had a mild freakout session. Leaving someone’s worse-off than when you found it was a big taboo.

Plus, I was young and still embarrassed by everything. I wrote a hasty apology note, and then packed up as quickly as I could. It’s the type of age where you’ve started to realize you are responsible, but not old enough to know how to go about doing it correctly. I left a note. I scrubbed their counters and stripped the sheets off the pull-out bed. I scrubbed the counters a second time and then tripped out the door before they could get back. The day had turned into late afternoon. A spring chill seeped across the land and I took a backroad to the highway.

Originally, I had told my parents I’d be back by the end of season. Then I told them I deferred my college start date to the second semester. Then deferred again to next fall. Bumming around ski towns during the winter and making just enough money to get back on the trails in springtime. I had been skipping around different trails since then.

I needed to get on the road. I needed to find another car.

One of the tricks to getting picked up is to be clean, so I had that much going for me. Boiled like a lobster in oil, I felt new and good and I walked confidently backward with my thumb out. The second trick is to smile. I smiled and waved and walked along a long stretch of highway bordered by dense conifer forests.

If worse came to worse, I’d set up my tent somewhere among the tree trunks. A dampness coated my skin. Strong wind rustled the branches. A minivan approached and I smiled wide enough to make my eyes water. The van passed.

I took a break to chew down an energy bar and some Slim Jims. Drivers normally don’t stop if you’re chewing furiously and an internal sigh was building in my core. I wondered if the Johnsons’ were toasting their daughter right now. Giving a cheer. Making plans for dinner. I’d miss their dinner.

When I stood up again, the sun had dipped toward the steep mountains. I shielded my eyes and scowled. How the hell did so much time pass? I hurried to the side of the road, thumb out, smiling, rehearsing some of my best stories in my head. I liked telling stranger’s stories, a “thank you” for the ride. I had learned the best ways to spin terrifying encounters with mountain lions and the chipmunk trapped in my sleeping bag. Most drivers seemed to like it too.

The sun disappeared behind the first peeks and the temperature plummeted. Pockets of darkness spread out before me between the shards of sunlight quilting the land. My teeth chattered.

The dusk had a feeling to, a weight. A car approached from behind me and I whipped around, hands too cold to be out. A beat-up Hyundai, off-green and compact. A tacky Sasquatch air-freshener hung from the mirror and the person behind the wheel wore sunglasses. He looked like a young guy, early 20s, with long brown hair down his shoulders. The hair reminded me of a girl, curly and well-kept, shiny in the dying light. The dusting of a beard offset the look.

Several cars lined up behind the Hyundai. Their lights were all on, shining like a procession of lanterns. This is where they all were apparently. Figures, I thought, and I stuck my thumb out.

My stomach sank when the Hyundai swerved off to the side of the road. I was hoping he would pass and let one of the others pick me up. I usually preferred families, women, couples, and the like. I would like to say it was the romantic in me, wishing for ladies or aging lovers, but the truth was I had never really gotten along with guys my own age. But beggars can’t be choosers.

He honked the horn once and grinned at me. I checked over my shoulder like the trees might turn into a Holiday Inn, and then approached the window.

He cracked the door. “Where you headed?”

“Vancouver,” I said, which was true enough. He gave the horn a second honk. “Alright, alright, alright, my brother. Going to the same jungle. Hop in.”

I gave him a crooked smile and avoided responding by opening the back door. Storing my enormous backpack was always a challenge, but the back seats were down and I slid Jessica, my pack’s nickname, right in.

“How’s it going?” The guy had both a California accent and swagger to him. I ran a hand through my hair, already on guard.

“Cold as a witch’s tit out there.” I might as well get the bro-ing over with. The driver had holes in his faded band shirt and board shorts. Sandals probably too.

“Only if you're walking down the side of the road like a lost kitten, my man. Here.” He cranked the heat in his car and I exhaled, gratitude shining from my center.

“Thanks,” I said, showers and warmth and soft beds having changed me. I swallowed a couple times, not sure if bros even thanked each other. “So, what are you doing out here?” I asked, already formulating my story about the mountain lion. And yes, I do embellish just a bit.

“You know, this and that. What are you doing getting yourself ax-murdered all the way out here?” I shot him a look. “You know, this and that.” I cleared my throat, mimicking his tone, “Ax-murdering. Collecting hooks for my right hand.” He lets out a big laugh and that’s a relief. I grow emboldened. “What are you doing to avoid getting hook-handed this late at night?” He chuckles, chest rumbling like a car engine. Taking off his sunglasses, he places them in the cupholder. “Distract them. Ask them what ACDC they are into.” His gaze flicks to the back as he says it.

I noticed for the first time a guitar case wedged into the back. My eyebrows raise. “Sweet. You playing gigs?” “Just coffee shops and anywhere that will take a burnout with a dream.” I copy his tone. The swagger. “You any good?”

“Hell if I know. Coffee shops aren’t Juilliard.” He winked. “But don’t tell my mom that.”

My arms gooseflesh and at least my teeth stopped chattering. “Good to know. You have an LP? CDs?”

“Not yet. Still working it out.” “Nice. Well, I’m Ben. Not really a music guy, but an appreciator.” I realized I had gotten all jumbled by being freezing and messed up my usual intro. “Hailing from Boston by trying to be anywhere else.” He chuckled again. “Christopher.”

“Not a Chris, I take it. The whole thing?” “All the way through, brother. Think you can handle it?”

I clicked my tongue. “I usually stick to single syllables, but I’ll make an exception for you.” “From my new friend Ben? Can’t complain about that. Damn, can’t complain about a long night on the road. Nice to pick you up.”

“Nice to be picked up.” I realized too late the way that sounded and rubbed the back of my neck. “Beats walking. Or have to hook-hand my own damn self.” “Heh.” His inky eyes flicked my way and then he grins. I looked away at that, gently embarrassed in a way I couldn’t explain. I had gotten pretty good at the chameleon act but still wasn’t finding my footing here. His eyes were deep brown, inky-almost, and deep-set in his face.

The beat-up Hyundai rumbled up a mountain pass and the sky turned the blue-black of a bruise. I tear my eyes back to the window. The conifers appear larger–like everything does at night, and pass in a blur on the back-forth mountain road. I spy a river through the trees and birds taking flight from somewhere in the distance, lights of tucked-away homes even further up.

Christopher turns the music up at that. “You ever listen to house music?” “Can’t say I have.” I turn back, mountain lion stories forgotten. “Ben, my guy, you’re missing out. You don’t do German house music either, I take it.”

I put a hand over my heart. “Purely provincial.” “I’ll play the good stuff.” He grins. “Make an exception.” “You usually play your hitchhiker’s mediocre playlists?” “Exceptionally mediocre. The last one didn’t even make it beat drop.” “I’ll sit and take notes.” “Don’t let me down, Benny.”

“Now who’s not going all through?”

His dark eyes flash. “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“For you?” I gave a sardonic half of a smile and then let it fall.

Noises with bumps and chs played out over the speakers and I had to wonder why Christopher had a guitar instead of a DJ soundboard. Maybe he had both. A hand placed on my knee and I jumped. I went to brush it off, God, I didn’t need this to get unpleasant, but when I looked down nothing was there. Christopher’s hands were lazing on ten and two and he raised an eyebrow.

“You still headed all the way to Vancouver? It is a long drive.” he asked slowly and I nodded, unwilling to say my real plans. To just keep going. I started on the east coast and wouldn’t mind making it to the other ocean. “Good.” He turned the music up a second time. Despite the grating techno and sense of still not having found my feet here, the heat of the blowers washed over me. The rocking of the car and dull humming of the driver next to me. The lights of cars wound through the roads behind us and my eyes fluttered closed.

You don’t sleep in stranger’s cars. It’s rude for one thing and dangerous for another. Yet, the cold leached out of me and a drowsiness sent me over the edge into a deep abyss.

—----------------------

I heard humming now and then, dreamlike and threaded through my personal abyss. I cracked open my eyes, glanced at Christopher, humming to himself and tapping a beat on the wheel. And then drift off again in the very way I shouldn’t.

—-----------------------

A hand shook my knee. I had no idea what time it was and the weight of night startled me awake more than anything else. A pair of headbeams blared into my face and I brought up one hand. “What the hell?”

“Hey, Benny, buddy,” the driver, Christopher, said. It took me a moment to turn toward him. His sunglasses were back on and he was frowning. “Do you think you could mess with my phone? I’m not getting anything up here. Do you have service?” I blinked rapidly and pieced together the back of tail lights in front of us and head beams behind. “Traffic?” I croaked, rubbing my throat. “Here?” Only three cars ahead were visible, disappearing up a mountain bend into who knows where. However, I get the sense of lights lined up like little soldiers through the night, long and duckling-like.

“I know, it’s whack. I was looking for a sideroad or something to get us out of this.” “How is there traffic in the middle of the mountains?” I rubbed my eyes until I saw spots, feeling groggier than ever.

“Probably a rockslide up ahead or a truck fell over, who knows. I think someone’s cleaning it up now but at the pace of, like tomorrow morning.” “What the hell?” “Now you’re getting it.” The line inched forward and Christopher refreshed his phone with one hand. I fumbled for my own phone in my small pack and cursed under my breath. “What?” Christopher prompts me.

“Out of battery.” I shake it like that might do something. “Hold on, I have an Anker in my pack.” I turn to climb into the back and dig through everything for my charger.

“Wait, wait, I think I see a road. Put your seatbelt on.”

“We can’t just,” Christopher grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me back to my seat. I inhale sharply, remembering I am in a car with a stranger–maybe getting too close for comfort. I sputter out my protests, “we don’t know where we are. Where that goes.” Christopher was already turning off the side. “I bet I’ll get some signal if we head down the mountain. That’s headed down. Don’t worry about it. Put your seatbelt on Ben from Boston.” The nose of the car dipped down and I clenched my teeth, clicking my seatbelt in place. We rocked, boat-like, and the wheels fought against the dirt until we were level again.

I wasn’t sure how I was feeling about Christopher at that moment. I wish I could charge my phone or maybe get out and walk. There were plenty of cars to hitch a ride from by then. Too late to make up my mind, the car’s wheels crunched on a new gravel road and our headlights streaked against an empty dark. The car behind us drove forward to take our place.

“Don’t you think other cars would go this way,” a bump in the road sent me jostling, “if it leads to the main road again?” “I’ll just get us some signal,” he mumbled. “Better than sitting in traffic.” I huffed, “Right.” The gravel road had the feel of a worn-down side street, probably leading to a series of fancy mansions or off-the-grid weirdos. Nowhere real. Christopher took off his sunglasses all over again and met my eyes.

“Sorry to get you take you on a side adventure.” He cleared his throat. “And wake you.” I remembered myself all at once and ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry,” I said, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m normally a better house guest. Promise I don’t normally pass out in stranger’s cars.” “What do you normally do?” I shift in place. “Convince them to go off-roading in the middle of the night,” I deadpan. “Keep things interesting.” “That’s my line.” He laughs. Before we can really get back to normal and I can push away the dark flick of his gaze, Christopher slams on the breaks. “Holy hell!”

I grip on to the seatbelt, jostling back and forth, eyes go wide. “What?”

A line of cars appeared up ahead. My whole system tingled. “Were those there before? I didn’t see those before,” I repeated the phrase like a fool, “I didn’t see any of those cars a second ago.” A long line of cars, trailing off ahead and into the hills. “Out of the frying pan and into . . .” he trailed off. Christopher’s gaze lost its humor. He put his sunglasses back on. “Get out.” “Excuse me?” I definitely shouldn’t have taken that nap. “Get out.”

The hairs on my arm stood on end, breath catching in my throat. I glanced into the woods. The trees were tall here, leaving little undergrowth, and a sliver of moon lit barely penetrated the textured black. I could still make out headbeams, bright here, blaring, and moving through the trees. I reeled back, watching the lights bob in place. A few minutes ago, I had been chomping at the bit to get out of the car and find someone else to ride with. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Head Beams swayed. Oddly. Unnaturally. Too far off the ground. Head Beams that couldn’t be headbeams when I squinted and looked. I gulped.

“Sure man, just give me a second.” I clutched at the seatbelt. A hand squeezed my knee and I glanced down, almost grateful if he was going to keep me for this reason or that. Nothing was there.

I buttoned up my jacket, readying myself to walk until I couldn’t walk anymore. Get ready to be eaten by a mountain lion because I sure as hell wasn’t setting up camp any time soon.

“Nevermind.” Christopher grabbed the back of my head. His hand was large and firm around the nape of my neck. “Too late. Get down.” The lights bobbed and weaved around us and I didn’t need to be told twice. Better to be hunkered down than out in the open. A second later, a knock came at the car window. The type you might hear from an officer in a tv show. I hoped. Just a regular official telling us the roads weren’t clear, the rockslide was too big. Go back, go home, all of this was explainable.

“Can I help you?” Christopher’s window rolled down. I tucked myself into a tighter ball in the foot space.

“Do you want to be loved?” The voice was sharp, a splash of cold water cloying through my senses. Branches against glass, more garbled than real. Then the words righted themselves in my head and I wished I was back at the Johnson’s. I could be with their family right now, however out of place, holding up non-alcoholic champagne and telling her life after graduation wasn’t so bad. Didn’t have to be.

“No, I’m all good.” “Do you want to be loved,” the voice said in an insistent tone.

“I don’t want any.” He cleared his throat. “We’re running behind, anyway. Have to go. You could tell th–” “Seven years. To be loved, do you want to be loved,” I peaked up from my fetal position, a thing bent into the car, “Seven years and a day. To be loved.” Christopher rolled up his window, slow and deliberate. “No. No,” he said, “not that.” I caught a glimpse, however briefly, of a head of something impossibly tall and with a singular eye, blinking and glowing and bobbing in place. My heart sang, briefly, called out, wanted. Then, the thing at our window turned and disappeared.

“That’s what I get for thinking it’d be someone important.” Christopher’s gaze lingered on my own, keeping me there and for the first time, I heard him humming, gently, in the back of his throat. Inky eyes, dark as night, and holding me there.

“Stop it!” I clawed at the air back to the door. My chest heaved.

He swallowed, looking away. “I really was just trying to give you a lift,” he muttered, gripping the wheel. “I don’t even think they’d want me back so soon.” “Who?” I lapped the roof of my mouth, realizing I was parched.

Christopher leaned his head back against the headrest, looking above. “Don’t tell my mom,” he adjusted his seat, “I’ve been playing music for mortals.” —---------------------------

There are ghosts and ghouls and monsters and many things that want to eat you. I was a fool, not recognizing what types of things might want to eat me. Traffic was barely moving, whatever this traffic was. I was getting thirstier.

I swallowed, again and again. A steady stream of knocks came at the window, but Christopher waved them all off. “No thank you, no thanks.”

Music spilled in the distance, faint and dreamlike, just like the soft humming Christopher had let out. I could see streaks of light against the seat, Christopher’s face, the trees up above. Once, impossibly, something passed overhead. An enormous head you might see displayed on mantles. Big as a house, mighty and towering up above. A long white nose and antlers thick as redwoods. Great tendrils of moss seemed to hang from the antler’s alongside lanterns. Lights strung up among the foliage and impossible prongs.

An elk, an elk enormous beyond imagination, passed and I exhaled. I really wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

“Do you have any water?” Christopher glanced down, eyebrows arching and eyes wet as dogs noses.

“None for you,” he said but in a tone that somehow did not convey rudeness. “Trust me.” “Trust you,” I muttered, “after being cramped and hiding for over an hour? God, it must be sunrise soon.” “No. I’m afraid not.” He heaved a sigh. “Fairy market and all that.” I gaped at him. “Would you like to run that by me one more time?” He shook his head. “Ben,” he said, tasting the name on his lips, humming, “sturdy name. Useful. You’ve got strong fate lines. You won’t die here tonight, as long as you do as I say. Well, won’t die or be stolen if I can help it.” I set my jaw and Christopher put his sunglasses back on. “Happy?”

I kicked out, deciding if I was going to have a delusion, I might as well have it sitting. I rested my back against the door, head peeking up above the windows now. “I want to go back to the main road.”

Christopher didn’t reply.

It could have been an hour or only a few minutes, before a face appeared in the window. At first, I didn’t recognize it as a face, a smooth moonlike token in the window. Then, it gathered itself into two sparkling eyes, a clever mouth, and delicate cheekbones. The lady's white hair piled high on her head, adorned with blood-red leaves and berries and she smiled. Her eyes were ink-dark.

“Oh no.” Christopher clutched at the wheel. The lady inclined her head, clever mouth remaining closed but eyes beseeching. A pang went through my chest, unbidden, I felt bad for Christopher. Lord have mercy on a fool. “I have to take this,” he said in a monotone. Air whooshed into the car, cool and light against my skin, tasting of mint or something sharper.

“Wasn’t expecting a visit so soon. Is dad here?” The woman didn’t seem to speak, but inclined her head. Christopher leaned forward, blocking my view or maybe blocking her from me. He got out of the car.

The second the door closed, taking Christopher with it, I decided to make a break for it.

—---------------

I racked my head for what I knew about fairies. Cinderella’s godmother, the tooth fairy, Peter Pan. Tinker Bell was probably not going to help me much unless, of course, pirates became relevant in the near future. Which they might, given the night I was having. I opened the door a crack. Sweet brisk air filtered in.

I contemplated the ground below. No longer gravel but rich black earth. My spine prickled and I held very still. The only thing I could come up with half-way relevant was a 11 grade project where we had to choose a poem to analyze. I had picked The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. As a 16-year-old I had chosen it for the racy content and riskier presentation in class.

Looking at the dark soil, I muttered to myself, “We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil, they fed their hungry thirsty roots?”

I squeezed my eyes closed. I had already spoken to the dark-eyed man and listened to his music, I suppose. I didn’t remember much else of the poem but the heat rising in my cheeks and Lizzie walking into the market.

I kicked the door open, kept my eyes down, and went for my pack. My heart beat at the pace of the hummingbird's wings and my hands slipped on the door handle. Voices, whispering, indistinct. At the third try I wrenched the back open and got my pack out in one swing. The whispering grew louder and my eyes caught on the lights and the forest.

I knew the Canadian Rockies. I tripped over pine cones and hard stone, drank from crystalline lakes, ran my hands over Alpine forget-me-nots, froze and sweated and bled. This was them and so much more. The trees were the whitebark pines and firs, tightly knit together and crowned in ragged peaks. Voices called to me.

The darkness between the trunks bled into hands, red and mangy, like huckleberry shrubbery waving in the wind. Faces appeared in the shards of moonlight, lanterns bobbed and lurching heaving mountains of things moving in the far distance. Elk perhaps. Mountains.

I pivoted in place, keeping my eyes away from stalled cars that made up this place. Voices called and righted themselves into words this time. “Young man. Mortal son. Hello.” A sheet of misty rain appeared to my left, melting from the dark and blinking handsome golden eyes. A sturdy nose. A pretty mouth.

“Would you like–” “Thanks. No.” I copied Christopher, not meeting the thing’s eye, and began to walk. The underbrush was not empty however, the forest moved with creatures big enough to crush. I wondered if any amount of walking would take me home.

Another voice broke through the murmuring. “You’ll never make it that way.”

I turned. And there were cars. Glowing bright as stars and windows cranked open. Figures sat inside alongside various goods. Twinkling soda cans and pearl necklaces hung next to each other on string. Stuffed bears and empty plastic bags filled baskets hanging out of car windows. Paint brushes, old CDs, and pine cones set out on car hoods.

Market stalls. Of course. Some of them appeared as cars, others were old barrels and broken-down train cars off to the side. The beckoning of hands felt like it was coming from all directions.

“I don’t have any money!” I called like that would matter. “I’m, I’m a hiker. A traveler passing through.”

“We don’t take money. Those things,” a clump of white moths, fluttering around and around in a mass, spoke. Ink eyes. Beautiful, tumbling curls. She pointed at the empty soda bottles and stuffed animals, “not for you.”

I backed away. “I don’t have anything you might want.”

The clump of moths smiled. “My darling, sweet boy . . . Would you like to be loved?”

I gulped down air. “I have to, have to go.” Weaving between stalls one moment and stalled cars the next, I hurried to where there must be an end. There must be an end to the market.

Fruit the color of sapphires piled high on discarded card tables. Sardine cans and quilted blankets. Water bottles. Canisters and other hiker’s camel backpacks. God, I was thirsty. And I could hear all of them now.

“Boy, would you like unfading beauty?” “Ten years of glory and a lion’s heart. Heart of lion’s for only ten years.”

Calling. Beseeching. A market you could understand the poem’s sisters getting lost in. My sleeve snagged on something in this endless market. I stumbled into what felt like a rock face.

“Hush now, sweet thing,” thick lichen, flaking and upright, spoke, “I will give you a belonging you have never felt before.” My heart went double time and the thirst ached. I knew it was aching. I knew I was Lizzie about to have her skin pinched and clothes torn. Sullied. Or perhaps, like Laura, changed. I wondered about my sister then. I wondered about being home.

“Belonging for thirteen years and thirteen days,” she smiled. My heart raced and I searched the fairy's face. “You deserve to belong just like anyone else, don’t you? Thirteen years and nothing more.”

“Of my life?” She smiled wider and placed a hand on my chest, fingers spreading like a mold. “Or your heart. Your soul. Memories. Wakeful hours. A song.” I shook my head, slowly and then vigorously. I took a step back.

“A bargain then,” her voice crooned in the groaning of old wood, “Twelve years. Twelve days.” Her hand spread, soaking into the flesh of shirt. “And a kiss.”

“Thank you!” I nearly shrieked. “I’m not, I’m not. No.” I stumbled back, teetering away from the bright lights. I ducked and dodged into the darkened wood where smaller, stranger things dwell.

I stepped out of the light. The fairies called after me and their voices, luckily, faded into the murmuring of brooks and bird calls and rustling once more. I turned and felt the despair leach into my center. The line of stalls appeared endless, a train, a caravan, a curse.

I slumped down and put my head in my hands. No matter where I had looked, there was no sign of sun. I counted back from ten before I pried my eyes open again. “Christopher?” I called once and then shivered in place, perhaps the most lost I’ve ever been.

“Would you like to be good?” I didn’t look over when it spoke. “Good and know that you are good.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I want to go home.” I groaned, still not looking down. “Or at least for my ride to come back.” Christopher, at least, had not tried to make any deals.

“Hmm. Not home. No.”

I saw her hop up from beneath a crop of twisted roots. This fairy was smaller and less beautiful. A dainty clump of mountain ash that was only a hands-length tall. A bushel of delicate white flowers crowned in dew-like hair. She reminded me a bit, only a bit, of Tinker Bell.

“You’ve been running from something,” her voice was more of a squeak. I was tired.

“You could say that.”

She patted my knee and my throat throbbed hard enough to make me groan.“You could be good. And know that you are good.”

I leaned back against the tree trunk. “How much?”

“For good?”

“For home.” “A year or two.” She shrugged. “For being good and knowing you are good. I’m not sure about home.”

I chuckled without humor. “Less than a decade. You’re not much of a bargainer.” “The others know I am small. And crushable.” Dew leaked down her shoulder tops. “So, I’ll take just a year or two of your heart. That’s all.” “My heart?” She shrugged once more, the water making its way down her fluffy skirt and dripping on the ground. “No love. No opening of it.” She put a hand over her chest. “And you’ll be good.” “Good. Huh.” “And know it!” she chirped, “so when you ask yourself, am I doing alright? Am I enough? When I am not earning or making or promising or getting a wife or standing big. You will know. Know that you're good without wondering.” My eyes burned and I rubbed at the corners until I saw spots. I cleared my throat, knowing I needed to steer away. “Where did you come from?” “Silly question.” “Sure.”

“I am like you.” “Not good then?” I raised an eyebrow. “In need of being good, apparently.”

She laughed, shrilly. “No. Not very good at all. Small. Crushable. Small and crushable are not allowed in the queen's caravan.” “That does sound bad,” I said, quietly, staring up. “I’d like to say I know how you feel, but . . .”

“But I do know things. And little boys like, they don’t have to make their own lives so difficult.” “Ha.” My gaze drops to hers. “You’re offering to make my life easy?”

A smile across the face of the little ash fairy, spreading all the way across her face like a jagged wound. “Good.”

My breath wheezed out and I dropped closer. I was tired, eyes heavy, body aching like a kicked dog coming back to sit at your feet. “It wouldn’t hurt, would it?” She held up a cup made of her own petals. A cup of deep water and lapped at my cracked lips. “All you have to do is drink your fill.” The moonlight caught in the shallow dip and I tipped my head back. Three droplets passed down my lips, fresh as spring, cold enough to strike from my chest to my fingertips. I screwed my eyes shut and clutched at my chest.

The cold blossomed and it was what I imagined a heart attack might feel like. Or perhaps the opposite of one.

“Wait, shouldn’t we, shouldn’t there be something to sign–” I choked and sputtered and then pain burst from my middle finger on my left hand. The fairy, small and crushable, dug her teeth into my flesh. Gripping ruthlessly, she attached to an open wound, drinking her fill. Dew perched on her head turned red and she made a supping, singing noise in the back of her throat.

“That’s enough!” I shook her off and another sharp prick went through my wrist. A sting in my neck and then another by elbow. “Stop it!”

A chanting went through my head, a child’s chant like a nursery rhyme. You are good, you are good, you are good. I covered my ears with both hands.

“Stop it!” I bellowed. “This isn’t what we agreed to.” What had we agreed to? The creature tittered and others gathered around it, sharp and hungry. The roots and the rot and the writhing soil.

I stood, world spinning and heart crushing together into a perfect aching cold. Are fairies allowed to be liars? A tingling spread to the ends of my fingertips and a dizziness overwhelmed me. I covered my mouth with one hand and stopped myself from heaving.

I might have blacked out, blacked out and not come back, and then a light parted the darkness of the wood.

“What have you done?” The words echoed in my head. The face of man, inkdrop eyes, and shining curly hair, looked down on me, pitying. “No,” he said simply. “You can’t. He is my guest.”

Blood seeped out of the cut on my hand and I think I might faint, actually faint like in the movies. Strong hands caught me and then two fingers, clean and warm, human even, pressed to my mouth. Light like the moon poured off of him. “Swallow,” he said. The light burned away the sickly chill. A white fire, burning a path down my throat and into my chest and leaving new life in its wake.

“Better?” A crown hovered around the man’s head in a halo, stars, the moon even.

Maybe I could have stayed, made clean and whole, and neither good nor bad. Could have stayed to be made better by the prince of fairies. But I wasn’t that type of person. Voices, again, of birds and wind and roots. I tuned them out. My eyes fixed on lanterns in the distance, meaningless words rushing over me. He spoke of being clean now, healed. The lantern flickered, floating there like something from the stories.

I looked down at my veins, spiderwebbed in light. They glowed from the inside out. A light, poured from the outside in. A hand was on my knee. Like it had been in the car and I saw it was my own, digging into my flesh. My own hand clutching my own knee and taking me back to myself.

“Can we get him a blanket?” Christopher turned his face. I bolted. No packback, no thoughts, only feet on the ground. Light blared into my face, branches gripped at my clothes, tearing at seams. My nose began to bleed, tasting heated and metallic. I didn’t stop to mop it up. I kept the light of that bobbing thing in my vision, running and bleeding like I never had before.

Later, I would learn a will-o-wisp will is a type of fairy as well, meant for travelers. A light that will get you lost or drown you, if it gets the chance. Though, I was already lost. I ran until my shoes lost the ground. One moment I was sailing ahead, the next I burst through the surface of a lake. Cold engulfed me from all sides, plunging me back into my flesh. I kicked for the surface, up into the fresh night. The trees surrounded this lake in beetle-worn packs, brown and small. Mud caked the banks of the water. Stars were distant and small overhead. I laughed.

I tore at my shirt and shoes and pants and rubbed deep dark mud across my skin. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

The water ran muddy. Ran red. Then, at least, ran a bright horrible glow, bleeding out and out and out. I bled out the glow of the fairy prince. I washed myself, heaving enough laughter until it turned into a whimper. I scrubbed myself raw until the water, with the sun rising among the peaks, ran clear.

—----------------

I thought of the prince now and then, how he saved my heart from closing. How he looked at me. How he poured light down my throat, burning me up from the inside out and taking with it a curse. I should be grateful. I went home after all, I hugged my sister and my parents. Hell, I even re-signed up for classes, even as I knew I’d eventually drop out again. Went on a few dates. Gained some roommates I loved and a dog I liked even more. I told stories and stayed. My heart was my own. But I didn’t come back the same after hitchhiking into the depths of the woods in the dark of the road. It was hard to be grateful. Hard for it to feel like a favor to have my heart kept open when it was only replaced by a worse sort of feeling. Longing and longing and longing for inky depths and impossibility, memory that grips you by the throat and murmurs, what if you had stayed?

---------------

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amaranthine-enihtnarama · 7 months ago

Text

Is This Desire? (Feyd Rautha x reader)

u know I had to tap in 🤭. reader is a noblewoman who has undergone bene gesserit training, there IS smut, there IS sexual tension, there ARE mind games, there IS dubcon (but not really 😉); quote found on Pinterest. None of the media besides the writing belongs to me, including quotes used at the beginning.

Happy Sunday 🤭 finally made it. Strong trigger warning for people sensitive to dub-con situations. There is a significant push and pull dynamic, be mindful of your peace.

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen and Tii Sanura Sur-Kar have been lifelong friends since the day they were betrothed as children—-a mutual coldness in the eyes inspired respect and appreciation between the two kindred spirits. On the day of the na-Baron’s coming of age, however, simmering tensions between the pair rise to an all-consuming firestorm as the young Baron attempts to finally act on the desires he has harbored for her, but there is a significant challenge: how he can manage to break past her impenetrable composure; the dispassionate mask of his treasured Bene Gesserit master?

the lovers.

“Love is an ancient force, one that served in its day but is no longer essential for the survival of the species.” -Bene Gesserit Axiom

***

“Do you truly think you could redeem such a beast?”

She smiled. “I know, I am allowing my affections cloud my judgment. But allow me an opportunity before his fate is sealed, Reverend Mother.”

The older woman stared her down through the sheer fabric cloaking her face. “You are a very sharp mind, but your youth may sway you against wiser judgment.”

The young sister smiled. “I will not lose sight of our mission, do not worry. I only wish to test a hypothesis.”

“Be wary of overextending yourself.”

“I would not shame you with such folly. I have no intention of losing control.”

After this, the Reverend Mother Superior was silent, ending the discussion. The Duchess rose, gave a respectful incline of her head, and departed.

No, she would not lose control. They had come much, much too far.

It was simply a mere experiment—-too much risk, and she would end it without hesitation.

She only hoped she wouldn’t have to.

***

Tii Sanura Sur-Kar ran through the subconscious of the na-Baron like a mantra. A dangerous liability, he knew, but considering it was the name of his bride, it was an indulgence he willingly succumbed to at every turn. It was like song, like poetry to him, neither of which he cared for terribly but she adored—if she was truly capable of such a feeling. His betrothed was a shrewd, charming woman. Never terribly moved nor affected, never troubled nor wanting. It hadn’t always been that way, but once she underwent her Bene Gesserit training, the risk-taking, jubilant playmate he knew as a child became a confounding and mysterious woman as the years passed. He was vexed by it initially; her disinterest towards what had once thrilled her, her fixation on scriptures and disciplines, her strangely hypnotic eyes, but he managed to adjust over time. After all, she was a noblewoman with duties and ambitions of her own, not a pet.

Still, she was his. The knowledge that she could not slip through his fingers sated his dissatisfaction with her frigidity. As the years passed, he managed to learn her ways. He was the only one who elicited a smile from her pursed, pillowy lips. He was the only one who could freely request her presence and, eventually, he was the only one—in the whole of the empire, he suspected—that could see the brief cracks in her sagelike mask. He experimented with the pressure points he could catch glimpses of. There was some satisfaction in pulling out the things she was so resolute to conceal from the world around them, to rouse moments of amusement, surprise (a rarity), or, his favorite, timidity.

He lost out on the last one a couple years ago, though, when he had pushed too far during a sparring match, and she surrendered too freely. Her eyes miraculously sparked with the horror of an uncontrollable and unexpected emotion. He felt it for a moment then—the way he could ignite her desire, the way she softened all over beneath his strength. The warmth of her breath, the softness of her skin; he had gotten a taste of it and had needed more ever since.

Thoughts for another time.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen knew how badly his future bride desired him. And vice-versa. It made Tii Sanura retreat as they grew older: more distance, more sarcastic jabs and intellectual pretensions. She knew him well enough to do exactly what would make him tick, to repel the low hum of want that had grown strong enough to overwhelm any other potential experiences they could’ve shared. There had been a time where they had come to an agreement of tentative friendship, but those days were burned to ash under the heat that dared to surface whenever the two were together.

The closer they got to coming of age the more her visits changed. She took longer to come by, and when she was there, she was terse with him if he could get her to speak. In all fairness, though, they did have chaperones since the sparring mishap. She was undoubtedly being discreet about whatever she felt about him, but he knew that despite all the suitors that attempted to sweep her away from him, he had secured her interest. Only he could tell, as difficult a riddle it was to continuously decode. The difficulty became less infuriating as he slowly understood the game being played—he kept testing her resolve and she kept coming back to prove it. The satisfaction he got from poking at her weaknesses barely rivaled hers from besting them. It was almost heartwarming if either of them possessed such a silly thing: he was still her favorite sparring partner.

Tii Sanura had not visited in this year, and it was an important one. The time of his coming of age and hers, the time of their union. He anticipated her usual distance, but not total silence. He tried to distract himself from the unpleasant feeling it caused but there was no cure on Geidi Prime to salve the absence of her silvery voice and sweet perfumes. His pets sufficed for more immediate needs, but there was no comparison. It troubled and fascinated him, the attachment he had to her. He would’ve rid himself of it if not for the fact she still sent him letters, and the fact she could not truly discard him like the rest fueled his want, his need, his hunger to claim his prize. His woman; his wife.

He would not show mercy on this day.

It was all that was truly on his mind as the slave women did their painting on his torso and he inspected his new blades. She would be there, she would be watching him in the arena, and she would be with him tonight afterward. Feyd intended to make the most of such ripe opportunities.

The games were amusing enough, but it was time for them to end. He had spent months envisioning it, the way he would finally best her, conquer her. The anticipation set his teeth on edge so badly it took all of his willpower to not run through slaves and servants like tissue paper. He would not lose his cool, he would adopt the discipline of his beloved, he told himself. He would not imagine ravaging her powerful, lithe frame, bruising her soft brown flesh, envisioning the pain and ecstasy he would conjure upon her unmoved, delicate face. He wouldn’t lose himself. He wouldn’t.

Not if he was going to finally make her do the same.

***

Tii Sanura was bored, as always. She was always amazed by how stupid everyone had to be to not tell the woman she presented them was a fiction. Did they not find her razor-sharp mind the slightest bit incongruent with the mask of a young noblewoman dutifully awaiting her marriage, tastefully enthused to kindly engage with anybody, who always had the perfect compliment and the most ego-stroking remark? Did they not see the void behind the artificial warmth in her gaze? Did they truly think every braindead comment they made amused her?

Of course not, save for a few pitiful monkeys, but the desire to believe the myth and participate bored her all the same. She had forced it into a microscopic container by now, but part of her still longed for the days of swimming naked in the swelling river during the rainy springs in Daquan, riding horses, hours of archery and combat training, studying the history of her ancestors, dressing up in her mother’s priceless gowns and traversing across the oasis-laden desert that surrounded their palace, much to her always gratifying horror. Oh, the tragedies of womanhood.

She was almost perfect. Almost. It made her want to dig her nails into her palms with frustration. The only source of weakness that remained was her betrothed. No matter how she wanted to or tried, the memories, her favoring of him would not fade away like the rest of her old emotions. She could not stay away no matter how much it infuriated her, humiliated her to her sisters. The little machine and her crush, they would tease her. It made her want to smear the walls and floors with their blood, the sounds of their smug tones and the superior air they held around her. It made her furious with her parents for not keeping her and Feyd separate in their youth. Now she had a soft spot in her armor, and the worst part is how he knew.

He provoked her, the bastard. He studied her every time they were together to the point where her only solution was to stop visiting so much. The only company in the galaxy she could stand was now her greatest vex. Just her luck.

The roaring of the crowd in the arena was deafening to her. She hated it, the sounds of fools cheering for their annual performance, for their na-Baron’s holy birthday. She could only imagine how small the Harkonnens’ subjects’ brains had to be to think God was anywhere near this place.

Despite the charade of his arena performance, it wasn’t a detractor from her future husband’s proficiency in combat. His strength was obvious, from the gradual sophistication of his movements, the calculation of his ink black stare…the way his body sculpted overtime to…distressing perfection. Weary of her sisters sensing where her thoughts wandered, she dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they came, calmly raising her binoculars to get a better view of the arena.

There was no relief: he was walking out into the center.

The cheers grew so loud they hurt her ears. Her body became rigid as she watched how he stalked onto the arena, claiming the praise and attention so readily offered to him. She spied the strength of his taut arms, his hands that held those blades of his with such natural finesse. He was a perfected killer, through and through. She stifled the sensation that dared to conjure in her stomach with a hint of spite. He was well enough in comparison to a Harkonnen, but he had room for improvement, she thought to herself, cooling down. But then, he did the absolutely unthinkable.

Her mouth dried as his head smoothly turned to look up at her and her Bene Gesserit sisters, blue eyes daring to twinkle something disastrously humiliating as they somehow fixed onto her from an impossible distance. He smiled and kissed one of his blades in gesture to her, then turned his attention to his uncle, bowing deferentially. It pleased the crowd greatly, and Tii Sanura wondered if these arena visits would one day fully strip her hearing abilities away as sisters chattered amongst themselves with a flat amusement Tii Sanura could not stand, but kept from feeling resentment towards. Such a small attempt to ruffle her golden feathers would not succeed. She watched on, her blood pressure stabilizing from its slight disturbance.

The bastard. He never bored her.

The pageant went on routinely enough; two hulking, delirious men stumbled out into the arena—the last of the House of Atreides. The name made the base of her spine tingle inexplicably. Perhaps it is her weakness of favor creeping up again, she would wonder; the thought of her childhood friend, his parents, Duncan Idaho and Gurney Haleck swept away in a harrowing night of fire and blood made her blood chill slightly. Perhaps it was the fragility of power in such a bloodthirsty imperial court; it often haunted her these days, knowing that the lives of her parents, her younger brothers, her ladies in waiting, herself, hung in such a precarious and delicate balance. Knowing the treachery of her near Uncle-in-law. The guarantees of disaster from moments of weakness. All the more reason to be perfect. One slip up, one ignorant action, and she could lose control of the game she was playing.

Still, those weren’t the answers, she knew that. It was something deeper. Something much more primal, animal. Like rats would escape pirate ships in those faraway ancient years. It felt wrong in a real way. But she didn’t let this trouble hover over her long. Only at night, in bed, did she contemplate the tension within her body. She knew it was not fear, so what was it? Perhaps if she could feel more she would know.

The arena’s cheers spiked in volume and Tii Sanura blinked, returning to what was conspiring beneath her. Feyd made easy work of the two drugged men, much to the delight of the ravenous crowds, but one still stood. And she meant that, too—he was standing. He was upright, alert and sharp. Her spine straightened in interest. Finally. Something interesting.

The two men squabbled briefly until Feyd realized the situation his uncle had placed him in. To anyone but Tii Sanura’s surprise and thrill, he removed his shield with a beaming expression. Her skin prickled slightly at the memory the motion conjured. When she came too close—much, much too close. It is agreeable for a Bene Gesserit to be able care for her partner, but what she felt that day was intolerable. The heavy burden of it on her sweat-slick chest, skin glistening with sweat and a few smears of blood, their muscles contracting and rippling as they fought each other with a heat that didn’t come from competition or bloodlust. Desire.

The word made her think of shuddering. There could be nothing more shameful, certainly. Especially for her kind—excellence was the only option, mastery was her only aim—her mother would have thought her a braindead whore if she had seen her that day. It almost made her think of feeling ashamed, but she only felt disgusted at her own laziness. It would never happen again.

Another swell of cheers. Tii Sanura left her mind again and focused on the battle beneath her—Feyd Rautha was at the mercy of his opponent’s blade, the point staring him directly in his eyes. She knew that he could only be laughing, and just to prove her point his blackened smile bloomed across his face. The man struggled against Feyd Rautha’a grip on the blade, trying to deal the finishing blow, but Tii Sanura knew her betrothed was well-equipped to handle such a minor threat. This was mere play to him. In an instant he had turned the blade onto the final member of House Atreides, sinking it into his chest.

She held back the sensation she felt watching it, the blade piercing her, imagining the heat of Feyd Rautha’s enthralling stare as he watched the life fade from his opponent. The man crumbled, and Feyd dropped him to the ground. He turned to his audience, raising his blade in victory. More roaring, almost like the oceans of Caladan themselves. She could hear their roaring. She could hear their ghosts.

He met her eyes again. She remained unfazed as she held it. He smiled slowly; it was not the same one as before. She knew that look, when she would politely excuse herself when he was getting a bit too touchy with one of his concubines—pets, he’d call them—and the air sparked with carnal heat.

Hunger. He was hungry. And he wasn’t looking anywhere else but her.

The sister closest to her jested softly. “It seems your betrothed is ready for you, Duchess Sanura.”

“He always looks like a dog in heat,” she cooly remarked, “There is no need to jump to such conclusions.”

Another one spoke again, Lady Margot Fenring, one she preferred out of her sisters, aside from the Reverend Mother Superior herself. She smiled bemusedly, eyeing her with a knowing that made Tii Sanura simultaneously relieved and discomforted.

“I hope you brought something for him to feast on, Duchess Sanura, if you do not want to be the one he devours.”

She allowed herself a bemused chuckle. “A fair assessment, I admit…”

She rose from her seat, undaunted by his dark stare. She slowly cocked her head, a small smirk quirking the corner of her mouth upright, forming a familiar wrinkle in her cheek and exposing her dimples. The arena roared with cheers at the interaction.

“I can assure you; he’s not the only rabid dog I’ve tamed. There will be no devouring.”

“You speak with the confidence of a girl, sister,” she warned.

The Duchess’s smile twitched into something genuine as she turned to look at her.

“He is a mere boy, sister. I have faced much worse than Feyd Rautha Harkonnen.”

“Worse,” Lady Fenring remarked quietly, “I will must admit, the thought of worse troubles one deeply.”

A soft laugh left Tii Sanura’s lips like a breath. “Wise words, I cannot disagree.”

She turned back to the arena. Feyd was gone, with only bodies and pandemonium left in his wake.

He certainly never bored her.

***

They never strayed from their ritual, no matter how much time had passed. Feyd-Rautha waited patiently in his betrothed’s quarters, eyeing the golden box sat in the center of her bed from a seat in the corner of the room.

She was taking a bit long.

He tapped his fingers against the metal armrest with some annoyance but he would keep his cool; she wasn’t going to toy with him this time. His mind wandered to the events of the arena—her icy smirk, her leisurely movements. The people of Daquan were so fascinating in their complete and utter absence of desire, of urgency. Understandable for a people that have hailed from paradise, but it still fascinated and confounded the Harkonnen.

They were certainly a high-achieving people, a quality clearly displayed in Tii Sanura. With no lack nor sense of imperial ambition, her people tended towards scholarly, military, artistic or spiritual pursuits—the level of wealth on their planet was immeasurable to anyone who had never seen it, alien to those who did not grow up in such sheer opulence. The Sur-Kar were among the eldest of the great families; their dynasty serving critical elements to the foundation of the empire of today—the first planet to possess Spice, although not nearly as potent or abundant as Arrakis. They were a sister planet, in fact, and although the differences in culture and landscape were obvious, they possessed the same treacherous deserts deeper in the Southeast of the planet—in images, the deep desert bloomed out like a scar.

Feyd broke out of his thoughts and let out a heavy sigh through his nose. Instead of pondering Tii Sanura’s planet, it would be preferable to have the woman herself before him.

As if she had heard his thoughts, she entered through the hissing doors, her shoulders far more relaxed than they should’ve been. She let out a heaving sigh of her own, starting to remove her many rich golden shawls and copper-colored garbs. He watched eagerly, unsure if she knew he was there, but he certainly wasn’t going to call attention to himself now. He took in the golden inscriptions on her dark brown skin with all of the awe his cold black heart could manage. She didn’t undress, much to his dissatisfaction, but his eyes feasted with on her bared arms and shoulders, glistening with golden passages from the Daquani’s various ancient scriptures—there were many to give strength, tenacity, to cool the mind and spirit, to bring fortune and blessings, protections, the like. Superstitions that were outdated in a world where chance had been long buried.

“Are you ignoring me, or have you forgotten how we meet,” he asked, gravelly voice creeping along the walls towards her.

She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her golden makeup shimmered on her eyelids, harmonizing with the undertones in the high apples of her cheeks. She glowed like a precious jewel. No matter who he crossed paths with, Tii Sanura was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He would say across the galaxy, if it wasn’t such a foolishly sentimental thing to say. She would throw such a silly compliment back into his face with blasé amusement. Her dark, void-like eyes slowly came to life as a small smile formed upon her lips. He kept his cool resolve.

“Perhaps I do not care either way, My Lord na-Baron.”

He smiled in return, pleased with the biting humor in her tone.

“The only trick you couldn’t play on me is convincing me of such a lie.”

Her mouth barely twitched into a growing smile before she corrected her face and rolled her eyes.

“Oh dear, I see the rumored hereditary madness has set in. Just as I feared.”

He let the insult roll off of his back like water as he slowly rose from his seat, stalking towards her like one of those giant cats from her planet. She had one as a pet, he recalled. He spied the sketches she had drawn in a small pocketbook she used to carry with her when they were younger—he wasn’t sure what it was for—her mood had always improved after flipping through its pages.

“It’s been so long since you’ve visited. Are you afraid?”

Her face softened in amusement. “Yes. I am quite terrified. I’m trembling as we speak.”

“You misunderstand what I refer to.”

She frowned at him as she meticulously folded her shawls and scarves, the brushed past him to set them down in the very chair he had sat on.

“Is there something I’m not aware of?”

“Today is the day we are both of age,” he said, holding back any potential hint of emotion from the phrase, “Our marriage is imminent.”

She didn’t display any hint of being affected, but only nodded. “Hm. Yes, I know. Why would this scare me, exactly? I know everything there is to know about you. I doubt I will have any ugly surprises any other poor noblewoman would have in my place.”

Feyd Rautha studied her closely. She didn’t give it away, but she was bluffing. He could feel it.

“No bridal nerves,” he poked, gaze searingly meandering across her face.

She laughed, brushing past him again and placing a knee on the bed, leaning over to grab the golden box. “What, do you think I’ve been twirling my hair and kicking my feet as I fantasize about the wedding with my ladies in waiting? Or perhaps plucking petals off of flowers in the night, biting my nails down to the cuticle?“

She turned to face him, her voice lifting to a mocking octave. “He loves me, he loves me not…”

She handed him the box, her expression serene and friendly. “I know what is in store. Here.”

He took the box, breaking his intense stare on her and sliding it open. It moved with the unsurprising weight of solid gold—the wealth of these people was borderline obscene.

Within the midsize box was a strange red fruit and an ivory hilted knife, dotted with gemstones of a deep and bloody red hue. He opted to take the knife first—a butterfly knife, upon closer inspection. A hint of a smile formed on his lips, she remembered what he asked her for the last time they’d met; it had been so long even he’d forgotten. In combat, it was obviously useless; he had asked for the gift with the hidden intention of having something equally as tangible as her when she was absent, with the hope she would stop haunting his thoughts if there was a reminder of her readily at his fingertips instead of memories and dreams.

Her eyes held a satisfied glint at his obvious pleasure. “Do you like your birthday gift?”

He looked to her, a devilish grin forming on his face. “Is this all?”

She ignored his suggestive remark with annoyance. “I pray to the gods one day you will manage to finally utter the words thank you.”

“I appreciate this, Tii-Tii.”

She seemed to stiffen a bit at the sound of her nickname, and she broke her gaze from his, moving away.

“Get out, I’m going to change.”

His grin widened playfully. “Certainly you still don’t intend to feign decency now; I am your husband, after all.”

She let out a scoff. “Near husband. I’m not asking again.”

Tii Sanura was the only woman he obeyed.

It didn’t take long for her to have changed and join him in the hall. She refused the assistance of their slaves or servants, insisting on dressing and bathing on her own. He suspected her being wary of constant eyes, but the reason for such a reason wasn’t very clear. He later came to the much more obvious conclusion that she was disgusted by them.

Ever modest, she looked more Bene Gesserit than before in the black gown she had put on: long sleeves that poured past her hands, a hood that cloaked her entire head and face from unwanted view. Of course, the fabric shimmered, as did everything from Daquan. Beauty and Tii Sanura did not wander far from one another. The dress was not stingy with her figure, and Feyd took in the curve of her hips with painfully restrained fervor. He looked away when she eyed him under the glowing light that hovered overhead between them. She brandished the fruit from her sleeve, barely containing it in her palm.

“We’ll need a bowl, you eat the seeds.”

He made a face. “You want me to chew on seeds?”

“I thought you were of age,” she chided, “You whine like a child.”

He shot her a look, and she raised her eyebrows an inch or two, eyes glistening with humor. She loved to annoy him when they were left alone together.

“So sensitive all of the sudden! Perhaps I do need to visit more often, these beaten dogs of yours coddle you.”

“It’s respect,” he corrected with some edge, “At some point you will actually need to show it to your husband.”

She only smiled more, knowing his bluffs of retribution. “Delicate baby boy.”

His eyes lingered on her mouth for a moment, making him slow down their pace to his quarters. Feyd’s jaw clenched as a vision of putting her in her place against the wall burned through his mind. He fought it as quickly as it had come, shaking his head with a slight chuckle as he broke his hot stare. By the time it passed, she had stopped her smiling and was looking away from him, having clearly gleaned what had crossed his mind. The weight of their silence made them start walking again—perhaps sharing the hope of escaping it, even for a brief moment of relief.

He cleared his throat, and the collar of his shirt suddenly felt tight, making it hard to swallow. She tossed the fruit in the air as they winded through the halls of the Harkonnens’ underworld palace, the occasional flashes of white light from the fireworks giving brief reprise from the heavy shadows around them. So much of it felt like a strange dream to Tii Sanura, with all of the darkness and high, shadowy ceilings. She could never get used to this strange, colorless planet. At home, the rich golden suns shone through every window and crevice, kissing her people’s brown skin of various shades. A far cry from the albino appearance of Harkonnens under their black sun.

She eyed Feyd-Rautha discreetly—when they first met on Geidi Prime, she was convinced her betrothed was a ghost. It was one of the few frights he had ever gotten over on her. Before her training, he could sneak up on her and surprise her, getting a laugh out of her high-pitched squeak, but those days had passed. But, once they had made it inside, she saw the fine quality of his features, the pleasing peach-colored hue of his pale skin. His eyes went from terrifying pools of ink to a keen soft blue stare, and soon she felt luckier than most of her peers with the looks of her betrothed. If directly asked (and with enough honey wine), Tii Sanura could not lie about the fact that her betrothed possessed beautiful qualities about his appearance. The older they got, the more he grew into them and the more handsome he had been becoming. It made the idea of intimacy less tolerable and more intriguing.

He felt her stare and looked at her from the corner of his eye, making her look away. She shoved the feelings blooming in her stomach into the smallest box she could and willed it away.

“You still have no qualms about marrying me,” he questioned, gaze now fixed on her hood.

“No, of course not. You’re the only person I can barely stand out of the great houses. Everyone else is just too stupid. I’d end up killing him one way or another—gods forbid such an animal would ever try to touch me, it would be more messy than my parents would be able to overlook.”

His ears perked, and a smile played on his lips. “And if I were to touch you?”

“You have touched me,” she replied loftily, “Or have you blocked out the memories of me beating you into a pulp to salvage your pride?”

She looked up at him with a wicked glint in her eye, eager to pounce on an opportunity to shift the mood to something else. Feyd stole a glance at the expression, then scoffed lightly.

He had half a mind to grab her, hold her down, and have his way with her just to see how she reacted. He knew better than to force himself onto her—he’d be kissing his gravestone if he tried—that wouldn’t bring him the pleasure he sought. She wanted him, he knew this. Her humiliated surrender to her need was what he truly hungered for. He wanted the power to unravel her.

She sighed, tossing the fruit again. He started to think of how he was going to begin as they neared his quarters, passing the guards, who Tii Sanura pointedly ignored.

His pets rose in excitement as he entered, but then retreated at his companion’s presence, giving defiant black-eyed stares. Her gaze shifted to them, hiding her expression from his face, and within mere moments they had retreated to the same corner as the slaves. He didn’t know when or how, but she had made her dislike of them very obvious when they were teenagers. He had to replace one of them in the aftermath of this dislike being shown, but never said she was jealous. She didn’t even act particularly troubled by them, but she was clearly revolted by their existence, and, he suspected, their purpose for their na-Baron. After her training with the Bene Gesserit the flashes of proof that she claimed him as he did were resigned to memories. But he didn’t believe they had vanished. Her nose wrinkled slightly in pointed distaste but she addressed Feyd cooly.

“Have you forgotten your manners? You didn’t have your quarters cleaned for your betrothed’s visit?”

He smiled at her, amused by her inexplicable temperance. “Do my darlings still bother you, Tii-Tii?”

“Remove them,” she commanded immediately, eyes fixed on the bald servant woman. “Take them for a walk, or whatever those things do.”

The woman straightened up from cowering under her haunting gaze, ushering the three women from their position and leaving the room. Her eyes moved to the servants cowering in various corners, eyeing her warily.

“You may leave,” she told them.

They quickly filed out, heads bowed and shoulders slumped. Feyd almost wanted to laugh, but knew better than to provoke her—an incensed Tii Sanura with mind control abilities was more dangerous than any atomic arsenal that could be launched at him.

He was glad to have such a woman as his wife.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she lowered her hood, face glowing softly in the low, sparse light of the na-Baron’s room. He watched her with barely cloaked intrigue, freeing his throat from his collar as he moved towards her with a light smirk. She seemed oblivious to his demeanor as she continued to reprimand him.

“I’m not surprised by the barbarism your relatives display, but I do expect some semblance of class from my husband.”

“Near husband,” he corrected, stalking up behind her and placing his hand on the small of her back, “Or does your jealousy make you forget?”

She chuckled, moving away from his touch unceremoniously. “I am not jealous of filth. I am tolerant of your Harkonnen ways, but it is unsightly. Hopefully spending time in my court will help refine some of your rougher edges…although I’m not holding onto much.”

He watched with sharp eyes as she took a bowl off of a sleek black table, eyed it, and, after deciding it was clean enough, sat down on his bed and made a gesture for him to sit with her. Gladly.

“You know my pets eat out of these,” he lied, eager to tease a reaction out of her.

“Not yet, obviously,” she dismissed, “Whatever poor bastard’s their lunch just got a few more hours.”

She brandished a small black knife out of her sleeve and handed it to him with a sigh. He chuckled, but took the knife as she carefully undid the barely visible labyrinth of fastened clips and buttons that had apparently held her gown together. He watched her with interest as he sliced the fruit.

“Too lazy?”

“Too expensive,” she clarified, gesturing to her outfit with some annoyance, “I swear, my mother’s trying to drown me in fabric...”

The hood and sleeves were simply elements of a cloak that covered her actual outfit. Feyd was feeling his appetite sharpen by the second. It would prove modest to anyone else, with loose, flowing trousers and a woolen, long-sleeved tunic, but for the Daquani, especially one of her standing, he knew that what he was seeing before him was absolutely not for anyone else’s eyes but his. It was just then he observed her braids had been taken down from their elaborate updo she had at the arena—when, he didn’t know—as they gently spilled over her shoulders and framed her foxlike face. She sighed again, watching him skillfully remove each juicy seed from the fruit’s pale flesh.

“You should squeeze it,” she told him casually, curling her legs up next to her onto the bed, “The seeds will fall out.”

He paused, glancing up at her serene, delicate face before turning the fruit over and squeezing it firmly. Tii Sanura watched his hand contract around it, the seeds spilling out into the bowl as he crushed it in his grip. She felt it again; the heat that set her ablaze from head to toe the final time they’d sparred. It had been then, when he had her on the ground, the flat of his blade pressed against the hot pulse that flowed down her neck, that same hand pinning her wrist to the ground with iron-like strength as their faces brushed dangerously against each other, that she realized they were becoming a man and a woman intended to be married and no longer the youthful partners in crime she could easily maintain a satisfactory internal distance from. It was then she became aware of a new weakness, one that caught her by surprise—she never thought it possible to see him in such a way, but there she’d been, flushed in an immeasurable amount of places, wanting to feel more than his blade against her skin.

There was not a feeling more taxing, more tenacious than desire. She could feel it blooming in her stomach with dread that she put all her will into tempering. His eyes were boring into her in a way that made her want to run away, retreat, but she refused to show such a pathetic display of weakness. He managed to get all of the seeds out, discarding the fruit out into the hall where the servants remained, flinching at his motion before he returned to her, sliding both sides of the blade along his tongue to lick off the juice. She stole a brief glance at the motion, but remained unaffected, her mask solid.

“Hm; what is this?”

“My uncle gifted me some recreated seeds they made in his laboratory. Pomegranate is what they called it.”

“Strange name.”

“All dead languages sound strange if you don’t put down your knives long enough to study them,” she subtly reprimanded.

A soft laugh passed through his nose as he returned to her side on the foot of his silken-sheeted bed.

“Tii-Tii, aren’t women from your planet meant to be less…annoying?”

“I wish I could ask the same about the men from yours.”

The juice of the pomegranate seeds gradually coated their tongues as they chewed on them and continued to make playful jabs at the other.

“I want a pleasant wife,” Feyd proclaimed with the gravity of a command, “A respectful one.”

Obedient was a far-fetched fantasy.

“If you want a pleasant and respectful wife, then you must please and respect her,” she said with the impersonal tone of a proverb, “You must plant seeds to harvest what you desire.”

He eyed her quizzically as she continued eating pomegranate seeds. She didn’t respond to the question in his stare, in fact, she seemed to be avoiding his gaze altogether.

“Tii-Tii,” he began slowly, “It’s unlike you to avoid a subject.”

He watched her shoulders square off with interest. Perhaps he had more leeway over her than he anticipated.

“I don’t—“

“We both know playing coy isn’t a convincing look on you,” he interrupted, a wicked smile forming on his face.

“Whatever you wish to speak about, I will speak on,” she said, “But I must admit I don’t know what you want to discuss.”

“The consummation of our marriage.”

She didn’t miss a beat, tilting her head with a shrug. “Yes, a necessary duty. It will be fulfilled, I will give you heirs. I can guarantee no difficulty in the…process.”

Upon finally meeting her betrothed’s gaze, Tii Sanura fell silent. The heat of his stare was unmistakable, and a shiver went down her spine. This couldn’t happen yet, she thought to herself, no overextending.

“Of course, it will wait until our wedding night,” she clarified, testing the waters of his mood, “Anything beforehand would be improper.”

He didn’t answer her, only took the bowl in his hands and lifted it to her mouth.

“Spit them out.”

Hunger. It was burning off of him so intensely she could feel it against her cheeks, which were growing more flushed by the moment. She stared at him in an oppressively long silence before her eyes shifted away to the floor, then gradually met his again. She was blushing, he realized.

“Feyd, what are you doing?”

Her voice had become much more softer, confused. It made him want to pounce, but that wouldn’t do him any good, not when he was getting her where he wanted her. His silence in response weighed down the air around them with what felt to her like tons—she was cornered and she knew it. There were two options: she could fight him off and swat him away, which would anger him, but he could not resist her Voice’s commands. The other one she dare not think of, lest she forget herself. Slowly, she spit the seeds out, watching him a bit nervously. He couldn’t tell she was nervous, of course, no one could, but he had the air of certainty of a predator closing in on its hunt.

She was not ignorant to the fact her betrothed was dangerous and forceful. He was clever, manipulative, calculating, but ultimately a slave to his desires. The Reverend Mother Superior had appointed the two to one another for just this precise reason: one of the sharpest of her students to serve as a companion and counsel to such a husband, but also to keep him contained. She was well aware of her husband-to-be’s danger, and the genuine hazards that came with the heat of his passions.

Tii Sanura was still confident in her ability to defend herself physically, and she knew he had certainly not forgotten how swiftly she could put him down, even if there proved more struggle in the present day. But no, she realized, Feyd did not intend to force his way through to her at all; he knew he could tug on the threads of physical desire that he intended to conjure within her. She also knew, furthermore, that such a refutation and humiliation of her self-discipline was the gratification he wanted—how long, she couldn’t determine.

She rose from the bed as he set the bowl down. He was watching her like a panther.

“What’s wrong,” he questioned, voice saccharine with humor, “You seem tense.”

“Certainly…you can wait a few more months for an heir—“

“I don’t care about heirs, Sanura. I think that’s obvious enough.”

The way he’d said her name made her want to reconsider her resolve, but involuntary alarm bells went off as he approached her—his expression was so dark, his stare so heavy on her face that it reminded her of his thrill in the arena today, his sharp, powerful movements as he struck down his opponents. Damn him, she thought, he’s even got the propaganda working on me.

She watched as his eyes raked her body, her face, and his aura got shadowy as he stepped towards her. Bad, bad, was all that she could think, this still couldn’t happen yet. They had to be married. She tried to spin up a diversion with her words, but they were beyond unintelligible, let alone obvious lies.

“I am not like you, Feyd. I don’t harbor such desires, I am not…I do not have lustful wants. I cannot…It’s not right.”

He only held a knowing smile in his eyes as he closed in on her slowly, standing over her and peering down with evident satisfaction. She was too prideful to back away from him, no matter how badly she wanted to. Or perhaps she didn’t want to. He couldn’t tell, and Tii Sanura didn’t know herself right now. He held her jaw gently, making her hold his stare. He could feel her pulse racing under her skin, and she felt it quicken the longer she knew he could feel how fast her heartbeat was getting. It wasn’t right, she could only helplessly repeat to herself, it wasn’t time yet, it wasn’t right.

The more it kept repeating, the less it was starting to matter. The heat coming from his body was beginning to eclipse how stupid and reckless such an indulgence would be, what a delicate night this was, and how she had been avoiding this exact situation for the past year. A new voice spoke in response: and what a miserable year it has been.

“I have trouble with that, Sanura,” he said quietly, grazing one of her flushed cheeks with this thumb, “See, I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

She lied like breathing. “I am.”

He clicked his tongue, smiling slightly. “No, you’re not. I can smell it off of you. I know my wife.”

“Near wife,” she quickly corrected, brushing his hand aside.

Her pedantry annoyed him, it wasn’t going to distract him from his goal. He knew just how to punish her for it.

“My wife all the same,” he countered, “Just as I am yours. Besides, you think I can’t tell your only weakness? You can barely think straight and all I’ve done is touch you a little.”

She was fortuitous in her composure—he knew the embarrassment that must’ve been flushing through her body at his open recognition of her obvious desire. She held his gaze now without his help; she had the strength of a challenge behind her stare. His mocking smile grew.

“I have no weakness. You are too used to the pathetic women on this planet to understand that.”

“Oh, Tii-Tii,” he lamented with a sigh, “You know I hate it when you lie to me. Do you think I’m as stupid as everyone else?”

He stepped towards her, and she stepped back. There was mild surprise in her eyes underneath her cool expression; she didn’t do it consciously. He felt his pulse starting to rise; she was cracking.

“I am not one of your whores,” she told him firmly, “You cannot have your way with me as you please. You must have my agreement.”

He smiled, eagerly backing her against the wall. “My darling beloved, I already have it. Don’t I?”

Her eyes flared with sudden alarm. “Feyd, what in the gods’ name is making you speak in such a way?”

“I am not a boy anymore, Sanura,” he said, eyes tracing her skin before returning to press down on her gaze, “And you are not a naive girl. You are a woman. You are a…beautiful woman.”

“I will not be demeaned in such a way,” she warned.

“It is not my intention to do such a thing.”

“You are cornering me like an animal.”

He smiled. “Are you cornered? Are you admitting such a thing?”

She blinked, then a sudden wave of anger darkened her features. He knew before she opened her mouth that she was about to use her Voice on him—he clasped his hand on her mouth, caging her to the wall with the rest of his body. He watched fire bloom in her eyes with reverence.

“You could not understand the way I have longed for you,” he spoke, voice too soft for anyone else but them to hear, “I would not disrespect a woman such as yourself with harm or force. But I will not wait any longer.”

Her eyes were alarmed and questioning. He willingly gave her the answer.

“I need you.”

His fingers gently grazed the scriptures that were raised on her soft skin, trying not to let his breath tremble—he did not anticipate being the slightest bit nervous to make his advance, but he couldn’t help it, not when it was her.

“You’re getting goosebumps,” he remarked with a grin, “Now why is that?”

He teased the edge of her waistband gently, watching her chest rise and fall in short, tight breaths. She was so much more easier to toy with than he thought, or she held back more needs of her own than he could’ve imagined.

“I’ve always wondered about that day.”

Tii Sanura felt her heart drop in humiliation, but an undeniable thrill shot through her. Part of her feared he’d forgotten, consider what he could be sticking his dick in every night, but here he was, admitting it had sat as heavy on his chest as hers.

“If no one had the opportunity to stop us…what I could’ve done to you…”

His fingers slid between the waistband and her bare skin as he slowly grabbed ahold of her hip, holding her in place. Her breath shuddered involuntarily, sending a jolt of hunger through his body.

“Mm, see? You aren’t made of stone, my jewel. You are a woman.”

She looked away with obvious discomfort and shame, but Feyd wanted to press a bit more before retreating. He didn’t lie, he would not force her.

“I will wait for you to come to me,” he said, leaning in to speak softly into her ear, “I won’t judge you for your needs, Tii-Tii. I know I am the only man to have ever touched you like this.”

They looked at each other, the pretense of denial have shattered, making their gazes wide open, their feelings and intentions obvious, unable to cloak them from the other. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth, a bit worried she would immediately lash out with a command.

She did not. She was silent. Her lips trembled.

He glanced between them and her eyes, his body slowly closing in on hers until he knew she wouldn’t resist him. He kissed her, gently, so as not to scare her too much, taking hold of her waist underneath her tunic. Her body was rigid and he could sense the nervous, confused energy coming off of her. He parted his lips from hers, feeling her trembling breath against his face.

“F-Feyd…”

She was stuttering, her mind seemingly incapable of forming a coherent thought as she frowned. Her eyes seemed to take in his face in a new way, but she couldn’t make the two different images fit. He kissed her lips again. Then her cheeks, then, with a flash of weakness, he kissed her neck, and her breath audibly drew.

“Feyd, please…”

I can’t take any more, is what she didn’t say but he knew what she meant. It made his blood get even hotter, rushing straight to his groin. His fingers dug into her skin, perfumed with roses, and he inhaled the scent greedily with a swallow.

“You think I don’t know the ways I make you excited?”

She stiffened as he forced his leg between her thighs and pressed against her, making her exhale loudly and mutter under her breath, closing her eyes and turning her face away.

“You can’t—I must…I can’t.”

She felt the cold blade of his newly gifted knife caress her cheek before he pressed the flat of it against her face to turn her face towards his, making her open her eyes and meet his gaze in challenge.

“Mm, those pretty eyes,” he said softly, trailing the dagger point down her neck, then chest, “You can’t what, my darling?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your pet,” she demanded, hand closing around the hilt of a blade tucked in her waistband.

“No, no, of course not,” he soothed, voice rumbling in her ears as he tilted her chin up with his jewel-jilted knife, “But you’re mine, aren’t you?”

Her eyebrows drew together, and Feyd felt a thrill flash through him like a shiver. What will you do now?

He lowered his mouth to hers, eyes burning into hers, challenging her to stop him. She tried to wriggle but it only created friction between their intertwined bodies. Her eyes shut with a grunt at the feeling of heat and a jolt of pleasure blooming between her legs against his thigh. He watched her, tongue grazing his lips.

“You disgust me,” she calmly jabbed at him, trying not to give a reaction.

He chuckled. “Oh. Do I?”

“Get off of me,” she insisted, “I’m only warning you—once…”

Her voice faltered at the feeling of his blade’s tip tracing her bare waist as he pressed harder, his erection pressing against her thigh. It was upsettingly sizeable, just as she remembered when he was on top of her before. She had prayed it was just a trick of her mind.

Fuck, no, no—she couldn’t, definitely not, at least, before they were wed. It was not only beyond taboo for a woman of her standing in Daquan—but a blow against her pride as a Bene Gesserit. She had proven herself to the Reverend Mother, and she was supposed to throw that away, be knocked up under the seductive force of a Harkonnen? It sounded beyond deranged.

“I will not lie with you,” she told him firmly, finding some ground in her desire-afflicted mind. “You cannot force me.”

“Oh, you’re really breaking, aren’t you,” he murmured against her neck, parting his lips afterwards to taste her skin.

Her chest rose high, and her left hand involuntarily grabbed onto him as she pressed her lips together, fighting the soft shudder trying to move through her body. Her right hand had a white knuckle grip on her dagger, but it faltered.

“I will not lie with you before we are wed,” she said, “I will make you stop if I have to.”

He only laughed. “You don’t have to stop me yet, Tii-Tii?”

“Feyd,” she whispered, her tone even. A warning.

“I won’t give you my heir now,” he reassured, “But that doesn’t prevent me from giving you what you need, don’t worry.”

He started to kiss down to her chest, her skin hot against his lips.

“You really do need it, don’t you? I can tell you do, or you wouldn’t be hanging onto me like that.”

The smugness in his voice both made her frustration and desire rise to a breaking point. She parted her lips to speak, but her voice had disappeared as he tossed his blade aside, undoing the top buttons of her tunic so fast she didn’t even get the chance to try and stop him. He still seemed to hold some sense of respect for her sense of modesty; instead of ripping the fabric free from her body, he let it fall slack and open, revealing her torso to him. He took in the new skin, how the golden tattoos adorned her chest, and he couldn’t help but trace the pads of his finger across them, mesmerized.

“I still can’t understand it, what you’ve done to me,” he muttered softly, tracing the tattoos that weaved up her neck. She shivered slightly at the sensation, despite her best efforts.

Her will was starting to crumble as his fingers slid under her waistband, teasing at her undergarment, his touch creeping lower so slowly her legs were becoming weak. He licked atop her collarbone and tasted her skin, her head slowly tilting back as he dragged his tongue across her throat, tasting her pulse, gently grazing his teeth against her flesh. She made a soft sound, the tension in her body softening. Feyd grinned in victory, feeling the tension in her hips slowly loosening. That’s my girl, just as you’re supposed to.

“I can feel your legs shaking,” he said, words coming out in a low hum, “You’re this pathetic, just from my touch?”

Feyd was losing sight of anything beyond this moment. Her weak, bated breath, the moan building in her throat, the heat coming off of her intoxicating skin—it was overwhelming in the most delicious way. Her breath caught as she stared up at him, feeling, with equal parts terror and awe, completely helpless. It was a state of being she never thought possible; she was always far ahead of her peers, enemies, and colleagues. Never, in her lifetime, had anyone put her in such a weak, pliable position—certainly never a man of the Great Houses.

But here he was: her husband, the only one she ever thought close to matching her, doing just that, and about to push beyond it. Her lips slowly parted as her breath evened and he gently brushed his mouth against his. Their eyes fell shut at the mutual feeling.

“Kiss me,” he whispered against her mouth.

The heavy footsteps reached Tii Sanura’s ears before they reached his, and as the doors hissed, she had summoned a surge of strength within her to shove him away and quickly lunge over to the seat her cloak was and tugging it on. He fell back onto his bed in pure disorientation as she fastened a few of the bigger buttons and pulled the hood over her beautiful, precious face. Feyd quickly sat up as he looked from her cloaked figure to his cousin’s hulking frame barging into his quarters. An overwhelming wave of hatred washed over him as he glanced between them both with suspicion and curiosity. The fucking bastard, he seethed to himself.

“Uncle wants you to see him,” Rabban said, “And you, too.”

She ignored him, leaving the room smoothly with her hood up. Feyd watched her slip through his fingers in furious agony. The fucking bastard; he was so close.

“What—“

Feyd’s white-hot glare was enough to make Rabban turn away and leave.

***

Tii Sanura’s aura was dark and heavy as they were all escorted to meet with the Baron. She stalked ahead of the men in silence, her cloaked hands clasped firmly behind her back. Feyd eyed her with a discreet sense of pride while Rabban eyed her warily. Her hooded figure was unsettling to The Beast; there was something about the silence and swiftness of her movements which set his spine straight. This mood troubled him; in the underworld of corridors they travelled, she could easily slip from his sight and do god knows what. He remembered the day she interrupted his training session hours after he had insulted her culture’s customs, and she brutally beat him with just the same coordination and grace as she had in her movements now. Needless to say, he apologized.

Rabban glanced to Feyd, but his cousin’s face, as usual, remained impossible to decipher.

The three entered the quarters of Baron Harkonnen in silence. Instantaneously, Tii Sanura’s entire aura shifted from agitated to perfectly collected. The Baron blew smoke from his hookah, smiling at the sight of her as he reclined in his ink black bath. It took all her fortitude to not allow disgust to creep up in her mind at the unpleasant sight.

“Ah, my dear nice-in-law,” he remarked, “I’m glad you visited today.”

She smiled, briefly inclining her hooded head. “Lord Baron.”

Feyd and Rabban stood by as the Baron Harkonnen and Tii Sanura exchanged disturbing pleasantries with warm smiles.

He chuckled, rising the hookah to his lips. “How did you like your betrothed’s performance today? Did you not find it impressive? He’s improved, no?”

Feyd eyed her as he awaited her answer; she knew better than to refuse the statement or show any degree of affection towards the na-Baron, but there was always a sliver within him that hungered for her approval.

“He has learned well,” she affirmed smoothly.

“Perhaps after the wedding you can test your blade against his again, see for yourself.”

A soft smile briefly spread on her lips as she turned to him, gaze spelling vengeance. Feyd’s gaze tossed the challenge back with a small smirk. Her eyes said something he couldn’t decipher in response. Rabban glanced between the two discreetly, but his cousin still caught his eye, making him avert his gaze. Tii Sanura’s eyebrow rose a quirk as she glanced over at Rabban as well before turning her attention back to the eldest Harkonnen.

“Perhaps indeed, Lord Baron, but at least let him give me heirs first.”

He chuckled lightly, smoke billowing from his lips. Rabban observed the three with split second glances before remaining still, lest their withering stares fix onto him. He never trusted the Daquani girl. She was too clever, too good at saying the perfect things at the perfect time. His time on Arrakis only made him more wary—to come home to a woman so similar to the rats he fought on Arrakis, charming room after room, bathed in gold and glittering jewels, wrapping his Uncle around her finger only spelled trouble to him.

She was skilled at eliciting any paternal affections the soulless Baron Vladmir Harkonnen possessed—her mental acuity and combat skills already made her the bride he’d envisioned for his prized nephew, but her family’s power and prowess bumped her up to god’s personal gift to him. As if to prove his point, the Baron’s expression glowed with the same fondness he looked upon Feyd with—she was already family.

Rabban swallowed his annoyance, and Baron Vladmir’s eyes slid over to him slowly as if he’d sensed it; his expression quickly souring.

“You may leave.”

Anyone who could make Rabban go away in a moment’s notice immediately gained the Duchess’s favor. Feyd watched her back slowly relax as Rabban left, slinking up next to her. She didn’t shift her focus from his Uncle as their hands brushed against each other.

“Now then, enough pleasantries,” the Baron dismissed, “I have spoken with your family this week. I am sure you know Tii.”

She nodded. “Indeed, My Lord.”

“We have agreed that tomorrow is the day you two shall finally unite.”

Tii Sanura’s stomach dropped, and Feyd suppressed a smile. It seems he didn’t need to wait a few more months after all. He could sense the tension in his fiancé, though, and brushed the satisfaction he felt aside. Either she was truly afraid to marry him, or she knew something he didn’t.

She didn’t falter; in fact, she smiled. “I see, when are we to return to Daquan?”

“They intend to send for you tonight. A bit hasty, but I suspect they are a bit protective of their heir all alone on Geidi Prime, all these years aside. We’ve also discussed your living arrangements.”

Feyd eyed his Uncle suspiciously. “Living arrangements?”

“Yes, the Duke and Duchess have generously invited you to live as newlyweds in their court; I see no protest. You will enjoy yourself, nephew; I have heard many stories of the pleasure of Daquan. Consider it another gift for your birthday.”

Feyd’s jaw clenched as he recalled the afternoon attempt on his life in the arena with the Atreides slave with some annoyance. He pondered drowning his Uncle as his expression darkened. His lips dared to part and speak the thought, but Tii Sanura pinched him discreetly to tell him to be quiet. Sensing something beyond his understanding, he obliged his wife.

“Don’t tell me you’re still upset, nephew, you proved yourself quite well,” the Baron chided, chuckling, “Besides, I have another gift for your birthday.”

His lips parted into a smile that made Tii Sanura’s blood chill.

“Arrakis.”

The air in the room shifted. Tii Sanura’s mind fell still. Arrakis. The sister planet to her own, populated with a people whose ancestors undoubtedly lived in some semblance of the peace and calm hers did before the Empire discovered their Spice, before the Harkonnens sunk their claws into the planet. She held her composure, but wanted to swallow. The thought of ruling over Arrakis made her throat feel like sandpaper. The thought of Arrakis made her blood pulse and thicken. She wanted to sit, she wanted to leave immediately, she wanted to go back home.

Feyd placed his hand on her lower back, glancing over to her. She resented the way it calmed her. She couldn’t stand it.

“Rabban has obviously proved his incompetence, and I need Spice production stabilized. And you, my dearest niece-in-law, you will undoubtedly find a way to make yourself of use in this effort.”

“Of course, Lord Baron,” she assured, her expression placid.

“Of course, still, there are more talks to be had beyond this, but your union, and our houses’ unions are imperative. Go and prepare for your voyage, and allow me to be the first to congratulate you—I sense your union will be…more than agreeable.”

The Baron grinned, and instinctively Tii Sanura’s stepped away from Feyd’s touch to give a slight bow of respect. She offered a meditative smile, bowing her head slightly again and leaving silently. Feyd-Rautha followed, eyes fixed on her curiously. What did she know that he didn’t?

The moment the doors shut, Tii Sanura whirled around, and her hand shot out and collided harshly with Feyd-Rautha’s face. Without missing a beat, she walked towards her quarters at full stride, frustrations bubbling within her as if they had all come to boil.

“Do not ever touch me in that man’s presence,” she snapped lowly, eyes smoldering with barely restrained frustration, “I will not tolerate such humiliation, and you—“

She suddenly cut herself off as Feyd watched the anger boil over into the darkest glare he’d ever seen on his betrothed’s face. They held each other’s gazes, and a flash of realization passed over Tii Sanura’s face, sweeping away her temper as quickly as it had descended, causing him some dissatisfaction—he had never seen her so alive. She sucked her teeth, giving him a harsh look and stalking off back to her quarters.

The bastard.

As she rounded the corner, Feyd grabbed her and pinned her to the wall, eyes smoldering. Her gaze held heat too, and it flared back at him with upset and desire. His hand closed around her throat carefully, holding her to the wall as he whispered in her ear. She was learning new things about herself today—the second was what the sensation of such a gesture did to her body. His breath fanned against her face before her spoke quietly into her ear, mindful that his voice didn’t carry beyond the dark, empty hallway. To her shock and thrill, her language flowed from his lips as he spoke.

“Don’t hit me like that unless you’re willing to pay for it,” he told her, voice practically a low growl, “When we’re married, the next time you strike me like that, I’m going to bend you over the first thing I see and fuck that attitude right out of you. That’d be just what you needed, wouldn’t it? I bet you need it now.”

Their breaths were heavy as he let go of her throat, grabbing the back of her neck, and pulled her into a heated, aching kiss. She grabbed onto the fabric of his tunic with a soft quaver of her voice in her throat, opening her mouth—her body had nearly taken over her mind with need, and she crumbled into the kiss with almost as much need as her husband-to-be. He had to hold back the satisfied groan that wanted to rumble in his chest at her near matching his hunger before suddenly pushing him back as much as he would allow. Her breath was quiet but heavy. Her eyes were unmistakable, even in the shadows of the Harkonnen palace. Feyd held her tighter, leaning in again and taking another kiss.

She slowly closed her eyes, her eyebrows briefly creasing before her expression softened into nothingness again. Her body relaxed into a deep exhale, and suddenly, everything became…

Feyd’s world blurred around him. His mind spun as his feet’s hold on the ground seemed to lapse in and out. All he could hang onto was her scent, her heat, the pulsing blood that rushed through her body. Then, her voice. It whispered to him, but she didn’t open her mouth. A Bene Gesserit trick, he realized.

Follow me.

He wanted to be angry at her slight smirk, but he couldn’t; his mind and body were sedated under her cooling presence as she rose from the wall and took his hand off of her throat, linking their fingers to lead him through the darkness. He opened his mouth, but her whispers stopped him.

Don’t speak. You don’t need to. I know what it is you need.

Somehow he could still see her eyes through the shadows that devoured them both. His heartbeat filled his ears—but whispers did, too, whispers he couldn’t understand. He heard her gently laugh, much to his annoyance and stoking his lust. His hunger couldn’t decide if he preferred how she unraveled for him, or how she could assert her will over every aspect of his being at a moment’s notice.

He blinked, and suddenly his mind cleared. They were in her room. His cock strained against his pants as she reclined on her bed, resting on her elbows. He could see the curves of her breasts through her cloak—was she only wearing her cloak?

“Come,” she told him, her gaze dangerous. Another change.

She didn’t need to command him. Feyd knew the danger he had to be in for her to invite her to his bed, but he had no control. He slowly climbed on top of her, wary of whatever she had up her sleeve.

Careful, her Voice whispered. Not a command, but a warning. His mind sharpened with the familiarity of being caught in one of her traps. Her looked over her serene face with confusion.

“The time has come, my friend,” she said softly, “When I am to test if you are simply an animal, or a man.”

The world suddenly grew clear, and he became acutely aware of something pointing at the side of his neck.

“I hold the Gom Jabbar at your neck,” she told him, eyes scathingly watchful, “One move, and I kill you.”

He swallowed, his desires becoming increasingly stoked by the passing moment. She had him bested once again.

“What is my test,” he asked, eyes taking in glimpses of the bare inscribed skin underneath the black, shimmering fabric.

“Focus,” she sweetly reprimanded, “Or you will die by your wife’s hand.”

He held her stare, feeling his cock aching painfully. She moved her sleeve, revealing a small box further up the bed. He moved with her as she slowly reclined until her head was right next to it, and his hand threatened to slide into the mysterious contraption.

“Put your hand into the box,” she instructed, her lips brushing against his.

He was very wary of her intentions now, she was too open, too intoxicating. Hesitantly, he followed her directions while stealing glances at her.

“What is in it, Sanura?”

Her teeth gleamed in the light as a knowing smile curved her full, pillowy mouth.

“Pain.”

The moment the word left her lips, agony overcame his entire being. He knew to hold still, she would kill him without thinking, but his hand felt as if it was being put through multiple tortures all at once—the skin and muscles flaying off of bone, the fire consuming bubbling flesh, the freezing cold making the sinews brittle and dead. It was too much—he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

He held his wife’s dangerous, enigmatic stare as his hips slightly thrust against her and his cock pulsed and twitched in his pants. She felt it, but didn’t respond.

“Don’t move,” she warned.

His eyes were seeing white with the overwhelming sensations consuming his body—he held onto his wife’s instruction, trying to find her eyes through the haze. He was certain at this point that his hand was long gone, but the pain continued, telling him otherwise.

A groan filled his throat, and she clicked her tongue.

“Silence,” she told him.

His breath was ragged as he fought it down. This woman would be the death of him. He couldn’t tell if he hated her or loved her in this moment of torment.

He fixed his gaze onto hers, forcefully keeping himself upright with nothing but spite and terror. He watched her smile grow, but then she became blurry, and her whispers filled his ears. He felt her careful touch wipe his eyes so he could see clearly again.

“Very good,” she said.

Tears involuntarily rolled down the na-Baron’s face. He was right at the gates of release as she lowered the Gom Jabbar, visibly pleased. The pain lowered from its mind-frying crest, making him nearly collapse onto her if it weren’t for the tension holding his muscles in place.

“You can take your hand out, now.”

Feyd discovered with some shock that his hand was completely intact. Pristine, even. He swallowed, looking down at his wife in shock as his nervous system slowly stabilized. She was smiling. It was a strange one. Not the kind from games or torment, but unmistakably tender. Feyd’s heart slammed in his chest as he slowly rested his forehead against hers, but she allowed it.

“Very good,” she repeated, leaning upwards to gently press her cool cheek against his hot, teary face.

His words rasped out. “Am I an animal, my love?”

She chuckled sweetly, the devilwoman. He wanted to ravage her right then and there.

“You are an animal of a man, my husband. But you prove a man, indeed.”

“So have I passed your Bene Gesserit test, then,” he asked, eyelids heavy as he lifted himself up and let his gaze pass over her body again.

“Yes,” she said, “And now…”

He pressed his hips into her slowly, desire slowly reviving his traumatized senses. “…Now?”

“Now…”

She slowly lifted her chin, tasting the salt on his cheeks, feeling the hungry tremor pass through his body with satisfaction. His hands balled into fists, gripping the silken sheets in his hands. He inhaled her scent, roses and sweat and lust, mouth nearly watering. She grinned as she spoke into his ear.

“You must leave and prepare to depart for our wedding.”

At the flash of indignation on his face, she quickly changed her tone.

“Now,” she commanded.

Involuntarily, he rose, his face blank. She lied back with a sigh, placing the Gom Jabbar back into its cloth sheath and placing it on the bed next to her.

“I will see you soon, my friend,” she teased, “Perhaps your pets can satisfy you.”

The monstrous woman, he thought to himself as he unwillingly left her quarters. I knew she was jealous of them.

Tii Sanura let out a heaving exhale, lying back on the silken pillows and closing her eyes. It was only then her awareness noticed the pair of servants in the corner, awestruck and terrified. She sat up, covering herself with a bit of embarrassment.

“Oh dear, my apologies,” she said, finally addressing them, “I am usually not so sloppy. That was rather…improper of us.”

The two women eyed her warily. She considered them, then gave a small, benevolent smile.

“You may stand properly. I will be your new mistress, and I do not hail from a house of savagery. I expect my servants to stand with some semblance of grace.”

The two women shared a look of confusion, but quickly separated, timidly emerging from the corner with their heads bowed and shoulders crumbled. They faced her and looked at her, but she quickly realized the slaves of the Harkonnens did not know how to stand properly.

“Oh dear,” she remarked.

The slaves tensed in fear, trembling in anticipation of a brutal punishment. Tii Sanura rose from the bed.

“You must lift your heads, my darlings. Stand as I do.”

They observed her, then, warily straightened their spines, their shoulders squaring. Her expression was calm but warm, and she nodded in approval.

“That is better, but we will work on it.”

She considered them in silence, and the slaves gradually became less tense, unsure of what to do or anticipate from the stranger.

“What are your names?”

They feared her too much to speak. Her eyes softened.

“That is alright. You will decide yourselves when the time is right.”

She clothed herself, then gestured for them to approach. They avoided her eyes, but moved towards her quickly.

“You shall join me in Daquan. Is this agreeable?”

The two women nodded, hesitant to disobey, curious and eager to leave the cruel House Harkonnen to discover the court of their new mistress. She smiled.

“I suspected as much. Stay close to me. I will not allow otherwise.”

***

Feyd immediately sought out his wife the moment they were on their way to Daquan in a rage. His footsteps were silent—habit of a trained killer, but his fury was easily felt by Tii Sanura as she and the two Harkonnen slave women conversed.

He stormed into her quarters, meeting an unbelievably bizarre sight—two of his house’s slaves, smiling, conversing freely with his wife, dressed in the luxurious fabrics and jewels that she was adorning them in. Their faces fell in mortal terror at the sight of him, but his wife was unmoved. His stomach twisted, a new, unpleasant feeling. Something was wrong.

“Ah, hello, my friend.”

He moved to grab the slaves, but his wife’s dark stare stopped him in his tracks.

“Take one step towards them and I will return their suffering to you hundredfold,” she snapped, then smiled, “Do you understand?”

Indignation rose to a peak, he snapped at them. “Out.”

Tii Sanura was clearly annoyed by his addressing of the women, but she remained calm.

“No, no; you may stay. I do not want the Harkonmen envoys near you.”

“What is wrong with you, woman,” he demanded, stalking towards her as the women retreated to share a corner, frozen in silence.

She watched him calmly, her expression serene as always. Her eyebrows rose in mock sympathy.

“You did not ease your affliction with your pets?”

Her eyes flitted over to the women with a playful wink; embarrassment simultaneously infuriated and aroused him, and he glared back at the women. They stood differently, he noticed, and then he realized they were awaiting her instructions. Something was wrong.

“What is this,” he questioned, voice forcibly calmed, “What is happening in this room?”

She seemed to be glowing with a quiet joy, her features no longer held the shadow they did in Geidi Prime. She touched his face.

“Calm yourself,” she commanded gently, “And hear me.”

Feyd’s head swam as his nervous system suddenly slowed down. She guided him to her bed, and the two sat. He had never seem such warmth in her eyes.

“I will give you what you need,” she assured, whispering so as not to reach the ears of the women in the corner, “I can promise you; it will outclass any pleasure you derive from suffering. I will give you something better. Let your anger go.”

Her hand soothingly rubbed his back, a motion he did not understand, but wanted to continue. His confusion under the gaze of slaves made him tense. This was beyond humiliation.

“Feyd, do you trust me?”

Easy answer. “No.”

She laughed softly. “I will change that. But you can. I am fond of you, and our marriage ensures your safety.”

Safety?

The na-Baron knew he was missed crucial pieces of the puzzle his wife-to-be had built, but needed no additional information to understand he was caught in her web, and traveling through space directly into the nest itself.

“I cannot tell you everything until we are wed, and your safety is guaranteed.”

Her fingers caressed his jaw soothingly, and he looked at her. He didn’t know who the woman before him was.

“What are you planning, Tii Sanura,” he asked her, voice low.

“It is not my plan. It is the plan. And Vladimir Harkonnen is not included.”

A conspiracy. Familiar ground. He felt a bit more settled with this knowledge, but still, he was wary.

“I am your hostage, then?”

She laughed. It was a laugh he remembered from long ago, when she teased him for not having eyebrows when they were children.

“There is no need for hostages. The course is set. There is no escape. You are my betrothed. We are marrying, and that is all. They want you to breed. I want you to live.”

The word intrigued him. “Breed?”

She laughed slightly. “You will understand soon enough. I see glimpses of the path, but I will see it all. I will make sure you survive the coming storm.”

He scanned her face, but there was no way to know if Tii Sanura was ever lying, not to mention she was speaking nonsense. Seeing he couldn’t understand her, she sighed.

“Give me a moment.”

She led the women outside, conversing with the guards—no, instructions, Feyd corrected, orders to protect them if trouble arose—then returned inside so they were alone. Her eyes were fond, affectionate. It made his stomach churn. His head was spinning.

“I apologize that I cannot ease your confusion, my friend. Plans have been in motion since we have been betrothed; this is all I can tell you for now. You will learn the rest on your own.”

She went over to him, cupping his cheek in her hand and kneeling before him, resting onto his lap. Feyd felt the blood rush to his groin immediately.

“You have known no other life than the one given to you on Geidi Prime. It is a brutal, unnatural existence, but you have become the best specimen of such a place, which is why I fought for you.”

Fought?

“Your way of life has perfected you for the Baron’s purposes. But I wish to show you new ways of life—better ways. You burn what does not need burning, you strike when you need to caress. You will learn these things in Daquan.”

His heartbeat was slamming in his chest as she slid between his legs, looking up at him as he felt her breasts gently pressing against his lower abdomen, stoking the fires of his lust punishingly.

“I only ask of you to let me show you the way. I believe you can be redeemed. Let me show you the way to redemption.”

“I do not need to be redeemed,” he demanded, placing his hand around her throat, “You insult me.”

She smiled, and chuckled softly. “I will first teach you the ways of unsullied pleasure. Let me demonstrate my first lesson, and we will see how you feel afterwards.”

Her hands freely massaged his painful erection with careful pressure. His head swam his need; his grip tightened on her throat. She placed her hand over his, and he curiously allowed her to guide it elsewhere, lower, where his hand cupped her breast. His inhale was sharp.

“Do forgive my deception; I am not uneducated in matters of sex.”

The smile in her lips guaranteed her apology was false. Jealously lazily flared in him, but faded as she continued to massage his length through his pants.

“I cannot show any weakness in your court, so I had to hide many aspects of myself. I suspect you will be pleased with the discoveries you make in our time together.”

“I…will not be your pet, woman,” he protested, pleasure beginning to dull his harsher intentions. She deserved to be punished for her antics and condescension, but her hands were undoing him.

“No, you will not,” she assured, moving closer to graze his lips with hers, “You will be my husband.”

He kissed her hungrily, thrilled and conflicted by the newfound passion he was given back by his betrothed. He wished to take it from her, but she gave it so freely, and he needed the release so badly he couldn’t care less how he got her to ease his agonizing denial. She was tugging at his puppet strings, he knew this, but to receive whatever she offered, he would accept being bested. For now.

She broke their lips apart, eyes slowly opening, lids heavy in a way that he never thought possible.

“Do you trust me now,” she asked, kissing his jaw, slowly unbuttoning his trousers.

“No,” he muttered, then, after gathering his thoughts, “I don’t know.”

Her lips brushed against his ear. “Surrender this moment to me, and I will show you the beauty of trust.”

He had no protest. She smiled.

“Mm, I thought so.”

“You witch,” he protested at her gloating.

She only chuckled. “I cannot perform magic tricks, but I understand your confusion.”

Her kiss firmly silenced any retort she had as she closed her hand around his clothed length, making his breath shudder.

“My customs prevent me from making any sexual contact with your bare flesh,” she whispered, her voice wavering, “But the scriptures I studied didn’t mention anything about—“

He cut her off, taking her face in his hands and kissing her with unrestrained hunger as she began stroking him at a measured rhythm. He groaned softly into her mouth, and she tasted it eagerly. She spoke against his lips.

“I want you to be my husband,” she said, breathing heavily, “Do you understand? No other man will do. No other man would be my lover. I want you.”

“I knew you wanted me,” he muttered lazily, completely at the mercy of her skillful hands, “You cannot lie to me about this.”

“I will not lie to you anymore,” she said, words flowing from her lips in the heat of the moment, “There will be no need to. We will be together.”

He growled involuntarily at the feeling of his climax approaching as she sighed.

“You—you belong to me,” he said, it was both a statement and a question.

“We belong to each other,” she whispered, “No one will disturb us. No one will want to.”

His hand closed around her throat again and squeezed. She sighed again, no other man would take control like him, even when he was at his weakest.

“You belong to me,” he repeated—this time, it was a command.

She smiled, making sure to draw each word out, the surrender he had hungered for so ardently for so, very, very long. Her voice was soft and sweet in his ear, but strained under his grip.

“I belong to you.”

He climaxed almost immediately. He groaned as his cum spilled inside his pants; it belonged in her hot, wet cunt, but that was a matter for later. She hummed in affirmation as his cock twitched and pulsed underneath her hand, and made a slight sound of surprise as his hips jutted against her chest. She gripped him tightly and slowed her pace, humming along with his groans, smiling against his skin as his choking slowly changed to gripping her jaw to hold her still for his ravenous kisses, then changed to gripping her hair at her scalp to bare her neck to his hungry mouth.

She gasped as he kissed and sucked at her throat like a starved animal, then, to his astonishment, moaned softly.

“Feyd,” she barely said, her words barely intelligible through her growing sounds of pleasure, “Feyd, wait…”

His teeth grazed her skin, and she shivered with a smile, moving her hand away from his spent cock to press them both against his chest. She was being too indulgent, but then again, he had always been a bad influence.

“You want to wait,” he asked, tugging her head back, “You care about some old books?”

She chuckled, then moaned as he left a mark on her skin with a harsh kiss.

“I must—We must wait.”

She gently pushed him back, and he accepted her resistance. He was satisfied by her willingness to express her desire; her surrender to his demand. Hesitantly, he restrained himself and pulled away. She kissed him softly, caressing his head with such affection he would’ve thought a stranger was touching him.

“Without principles, we are no better than animals,” she said, “Not all disciplines are easy, I don’t deny it.”

She smiled at him, a devilish twinkle forming in her eyes.

“But the rewards for such obedience prove much sweeter than without it.”

The na-Baron took in his betrothed’s blissful features with an odd sense of reverence.

“You are a strange woman,” he remarked.

She smiled in amusement. “And you are a strange man.”

They kissed again, with Tii Sanura climbing into his lap as his hands hungrily roamed her clothed body.

“Are my convoys landing with me, my jewel,” he asked between kisses.

She laughed quietly. “They will make it to our realm. Then, I will have them released into the asteroid belt. Is this agreeable?”

Feyd laughed in return. “Yes, I believe it is. But I will require more of your…assistance.”

Her giggles were music to his ears as he hoisted her up into his arms, then tossed her onto her back on the bed, climbing on top of her and pressing himself between her legs.

He would have had no other woman as his wife.

#Spotify #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #my wriitng #amaranthine_enihtnarama #black y/n #fanfic authors #dune fanfiction #dune fandom #feyd x you #feyd fanfiction #feyd rautha smut #is this desire?

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drarryspecificrecs · 1 year ago

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rip-headphones-users · 2 months ago

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My Headcannons for how Infected and Kasper operate

Buckle up, this is a long post. Thinking about how characters function in relation to the world around them is basically a hobby of mine, so expect more. (I have others planned for both lampert and unpleasant at the very least)

(Not ship related) (angst heavy sorry)

Kasper’s infection is a brain-rooted/cognito-hazardous parasite

He got it after purposely ignoring a chainmail curse, both as a sort of “fuck around and find out” as well as an outright form of self-harm/self-sabotage.

The parasite is the one that primarily controls all the conscious actions of infected, while kasper now acts sub-consciously.

Its less of a split-mind situation and more of a Venom + Eddie or Gundam + Pilot situation they are two separate entities inhabiting the same body that can potentially act at the same time

It just so happens that the parasite from the chainmail curse has VERY similar desires/interests/motivations to Kasper, so the host/parasite relationship actually works very well.

Infected accidentally makes Kasper lose a decent chunk of weight after it takes over, due to it not being able to feel when Kasper is hungry and forgetting to let him eat

Kasper and Infected can be addressed separately (Lampert, UnpleasantGradient, Folly and maybe a few others know this) and Kasper tends to choose not to respond due to his own apathy, instead opting to let Infected take the lead.

Being able to respawn/no permadeath on the regretevator is the reason why Kasper opted to infect himself, as he saw it as the next closest thing to death/suicide.

Allowing infected to enter his mind has radically reduced Kasper’s lifespan. (He’d be lucky if he made it to his late 30’s)

His nose bleeds when Kasper and infected try to act at the same time

Infected is only transferrable via chainmail

Infected doesn’t feel any of the bodily necessities that kasper has, so its not uncommon for him to collapse of exhaustion, dehydration, hunger, ect. If someone doesn’t remind him.

Infected doesnt feel pain either

Kasper feels it though. A lot.

In fact the whole process of infected entering his mind was incredibly painful as is.

Infected isn’t the reason why things in the elevator/on his own body suddenly lose their texture, neither of them know why that happens now.

They personally aren’t physically effected by it and both find it cool, so neither are bothered.

It’s probably just the result of infected’s malware (thats only technically supposed to effect machines) managing to attach itself to a human. Or maybe Kasper could do that and never previously knew. Who knows. ;)

Kasper/infected can phase through objects that are textureless, including parts of his own body. Anything else will collide as it normally would, and take damage.

Infected will always talk with full leetspeak, (L13k D1$) while Kasper will only have one letter/number substitution (L1ke Th1s)

UG unintentionally named infected that. Basically just looked at Kasper, who had just let a parasite into his mind, and looked at the chainmail virus on his computer, and it went “huh… Bro’s Infected”

Bro is, in fact, infected.

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lamperts-rokea · 26 days ago

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Time for me to Yap about my Horror AU.

(ALL IDEAS WERE MADE BY ME - IF SOMETHING SEEMS SIMILAR TO SOMEONE ELSES IT'S COINCIDENCE. I DO NOT INTEND TO COPY ANYONE'S IDEAS.)

⚠️⚠️TW! VIOLENCE, DEATH, GORE, HEAVY TOPICS⚠️⚠️

The Robloxian (you, the player) needed to use the elevator to go somewhere. Unfortunately, the elevator, instead of taking you to a different place, took you to a different DIMENSION! If you don't make it back to the elevator before the doors close, you are stuck there until it arrives again at your location.

You would expect in a Horror AU for Bive to be completely driven crazy by the phenomenons that happen - except she isn't. In fact, she may be one of the most sane characters right now.. until she finds the rotting corpse of Split in Dr RETROS office. Her head was completely torn off from her body, her banana-like shell was split apart and, from the looks of it, dissected on. Parts of her skin were torn off her body, and it seemed as though she had been this way for a while, considering all the blood isn't fresh - it's brown and dried out, and it appears that the remainder of her skin is also turning brown.. just like a banana. Whatever happened to her was cruel and uncalled for.

Bive, after finding her crush's body dismantled, stopped all her current research to find a way to make immortality.. and find a way to bring Split back. However, there isn't a way.. leaving her to crumble over time, constantly trapped in neverending anxiety, until she loses it.. really loses it.

Wallters obsessions only worsened with time. Oftentimes he would find himself coughing up liquid cement.. and blood. His body has cracks everywhere, and due to his constant drinking of Grey Stuff, is now 13 feet tall. He began to notice the effects, but he couldn't stop. Grey Stuff was his lifeline. It had started to get so bad that he began passing out for long periods of time. No one has seen him for a long time when Mark decides to investigate.. finding Wallter on the ground surrounded by concrete and his own, dry blood. He was immediately rushed to a clinic, and he was forced to withdrawal. He has been in the hospital for months.

Absolutely nothing happened to Poob. They're still the same guy.. except sadder. Watching all their friends slowly lose themselves in different ways.. made them a bit more unstable. Many things have intended to harm them, but because of the deity that looks over their life, no harm has befallen them. They kind of wished something bad would happen so they could feel the same pain their friends were.. and try to help his friends through it all.

Oh, Pest.. he had put so much faith into the Doctor. He believed she would never harm him... But boy was he wrong. The last time he was seen, his face was all distorted.. like a Fleshcousins face.. and his mandibles were completely torn off, leaving large red scars where they resided. He looked nearly like a normal Guest.. except he was larger.. a lot larger. Nearly 7 feet. It was assumed DrRETRO had.. experimented on him, trying to turn him into a normal Guest, but in doing so, completely destroyed not only his body, but his mind. His ego. He hides in his home most of the time. The only person that has seen him since is Poob.

Folly has not changed, but for some reason, she has stopped possessing Pest. Perhaps because of what happened to him.. or something else..?

Infected tried to stop it from happening.. but soon he was forced into the Doctors, too. But not to be cured... Oh, no. Something far more sinister. According to the logs DrRETRO kept in a journal of hers, she chained him up, first examining his body and comparing him to another Robloxian she had kept contained. Then, she did a truly heinous thing.. she FORCE FED HIM THE UNPLEASANT, AND THE ROBLOXIAN.. then left him there to rot, bleeding out terribly.. over time he finally broke free and made his way back to his apartment, a 9'4, completely broken, virus-induced beast waiting in silence. After a while he was kicked out of the apartment, and he moved into the alleyway, waiting for someone to save him. For an odd reason, it seemed Kasper had gained some control over the virus after he broke out, but that doesn't stop it from making him feel terrible.

Lampert had to run away. He had to run away from everything, especially after finding out what happened to Wallter. To try and find someone to talk to, he went and searched for infected, only to find what he would describe as something terrible and tortured. He ran back to ROKEA before Infected - or whatever remained of him.. - could follow him. Overwhelmed by grief, of his friends, family, and everyone in between being hurt, he went insane, and killed dozens of Robloxians, all the ones that came into ROKEA.. and his own father figure. After seeing what he has done, he forced himself into a coma, not waking up until someone else does.

Mark was so, so worried for his family. Despite how much he gets on Marks nerves, he truly loves Wallter and wanted him to feel better soon.. but he also loved Lampert, in a way a mother hen loves her chicks. He hadn't heard from Lampert for a while, so he visited the ROKEA, and found his son shaking by himself in a corner.. he was much taller than before.. the poor lamp turned nearly into a mutant, standing at 11'7. And when he looked back at Mark.. the last thing that he ever saw of his own dad was him crushed into smithereens, his head crushed underneath Lamperts metal foot.

Prototype, abandoned from the world, was left in a storage closet, completely rusted by the time he was found again. He was still functional, but all that ever came out after the day he was found were cries of help.

Spud exploded because of a player

Gnarpy was enjoying all the chaos. Everyone scared for their lives, for their minds. Unfortunately, xe was needed back at their home planet for another galactic war.. little did everyone know xe would not be returning to earth, as they had died in battle.

Gregoriah was put out of business, leaving Reddy to rot, also abandoned.

She was pulled back into custody for her crimes upon Robloxians. After being questioned by local law enforcements, what was the only thing that she had to say for herself, after doing all those terrible things to the others..?

"meow, mew." (I was just curious.)

She was found guilty, and was scheduled to be put on death row, but somehow she had escaped the cell, and is currently a wanted fugitive for her crimes. Her whereabouts are unknown, and there are no leads..

And, just because I like being spiteful, STAT dies to a spike.

Pilby is not involved in this AU since they are with Mach.

I have two versions of this story, one being a happy ending where things turn out alright and the other being sad and unfulfilling. I might post some more about this AU, some hcs about it, but right now my fingers hurt and I'm too lazy. But if anyone wants me to go more in-depth about any of the characters such as their designs or more in-depth about their changes, lmk.

This is a WIP so nothing is completely set in stone, but thanks for reading my yapping

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bradshawsbaby · 11 months ago

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Letters to My Love // Part X

Rosie the Riveter

Series Masterlist

JOIN THE TAGLIST!

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to update this story! One of my goals for 2024 is to get this series completed. Although it's taken me so long to update, Bobby and Peach are never far from my mind and are always in my heart. I hope you enjoy this latest installment of their story!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story.

The title of this chapter is obviously a tribute to the iconic figure of Rosie the Riveter. But it was also inspired by the song of the same name by The Four Vagabonds, which you can listen to here!

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, Clara (@luminousnotmatter). She was the first person to listen to all my endless ramblings about this universe, and she has never stopped supporting me or believing that I can get it finished. Thank you, Clara!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to casualties of war and grief, slight angst, lots and lots of fluff.

July 8, 1943

My Dearest Peach,

I want to start by saying that I’m terribly sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to your last letter. I think I’ve worn down the paper to nearly nothing with how many times I’ve read it, but it’s been hard to get a free moment to sit and write you the response you deserve. Things are really heating up over here, and we have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down to start a new letter, only for us to be called up just as I set my pen to the paper.

To set your mind at ease, I want you to know that I’m alright. I’m not sure how much information they’re sharing with you all back home, but I know one of the fellas got a letter from his wife recently and she told him that three different families on their street got notified that their boys had been killed in action in just one week. It made her real scared that she was going to be the next one getting a knock on the door. I won’t lie to you, Peach, because I don’t think that’s fair—we’re losing a lot of men over here. It’s scary to think that any day now, it could be me they’re sending a flag home for.

I hate to start this letter off so morbidly, but there’s been something weighing on my mind lately, especially since my buddy got that letter from his wife. If anything happens to me over here, you won’t know. They’ll tell my family, sure, but not you. And I can’t stand the thought of you waiting for another letter that isn’t going to come. So I’ve spoken to Paul, Tommy Boy, and Benny about it. If anything happens to me over here, Peach, they’re going to write to you and let you know. It gives me some comfort to think that their words will be a little softer and kinder than the formality of Uncle Sam.

I hope this doesn’t make you sad, Peach, although I admit it makes me a bit sad to write. The truth is, I’m quite alright right now, like I said, and I don’t plan on letting anything happen to me over here. We have to take that drive to Folly Beach and get ice cream on the pier, after all. I tell you, that thought alone is enough to get me through even the hardest days over here.

Alright, enough of all this. Time to get back to your lovely letter. They’re calling us for dinner right now, but as soon as I’m finished, I’m coming right back to continue this letter. Nothing’s going to stop me from getting it to you.

I’m back, Peach. All the fellas were teasing me in the galley because of how quickly I scarfed down my dinner, but I didn’t care because I knew I was getting back to you and your sweet words, and that means a whole lot more than the crummy food they’re serving over here. Boy, I tell you, I sure do miss home-cooked meals. They even had—I’m not lying, I promise—they even had peach cobbler for dessert tonight. It made me think of you, but I’m sure it’s nowhere near as good as the cobbler your family makes, so I didn’t even bother giving it a taste.

Now I do have to say that you’re right, of course. I hate hearing you call yourself shy and mousey. If that’s the way you feel when I call myself boring, then I certainly promise I won’t ever do it again. It’s a deal—neither of us will talk about ourselves like that anymore.

Nothing you say could ever sound silly to me, Peach. Even though we only got to spend a few hours in each other’s company, your letters have made me feel like we’ve known each other for years and years. I’m honored that I’ve been able to make you feel seen. I do see you, Peach. You’re the most beautiful, interesting, intelligent girl I’ve ever known, and I hope you can see that in yourself. For what it’s worth, you’ve helped me to come out of my shell, too. Paul was just saying the other day that I look like a new man—that I’m standing taller and seem more confident than he’s ever seen in all the years he’s known me. I had just finished reading one of your letters when he said that. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. You’re turning me into a new man, Peach, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I’m glad that you passed along my well wishes to Emily. Even though part of me still thinks her fiancé is a dunce, I do wish them all the best. Has she heard from Eddie? I don’t know where he’s stationed, but if you’d like to find out and send the information to me, I can try to keep an ear out. How has the wedding planning been going? I’m still confident you’re going to make the prettiest bridesmaid.

I did pass along your invitation in my last letter home to my family, and my mother said she would certainly inquire after the Sheridan residence should she ever happen to find herself in Charleston. I think she’s happy that you and I are still writing to each other. She’s even happier about the thought of swapping recipes with you. Watch out—if the two of you ever do meet, I think she’ll hold you hostage in the kitchen all day.

Now I am very proud to hear about all the fine work you and Dottie have been doing with your Victory Garden. I’m sure there must have been a lot of progress since you last wrote to me! I eagerly await news about the beans, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I’m sure you’ve been able to make lots of hearty soups and healthy salads. My mouth is watering at the notion. Like I said, the food in the galley has been pretty crummy lately.

I’m sorry to hear there’s been some trouble back home. I’m sure it can’t be easy for anyone, with all the rationing and the fear and the worry. I promise that we’re doing our best over here to bring this war to an end quickly so that life can return to normal for all of you over there. For us, too. We really can’t wait to be home again.

Peach, I want you to know that it is our duty, our honor, and, quite frankly, our privilege to be fighting for you over here. I know the other fellas would agree with me saying so. So I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything at home to “earn” us fighting for you. That said, I think it’s incredible that you want to contribute to the war effort in that way. I’m sure you haven’t been waiting for my response or my approval—which you shouldn’t, by the way—but I give a wholehearted yes to you applying for that position at the air station. We just recently saw Mr. Norman Rockwell’s illustration of Rosie the Riveter on the cover of the Post, and I have to say that I think you’d wear those coveralls a hundred times better.

I’m so proud of you, Peach. I want you to know that.

Speaking of the war effort, we have a couple big campaigns coming up very soon. I can’t say much more than that, but your well wishes and prayers for success would be very much appreciated. I’m always thankful for them.

Until next time, Peach! I’m already counting down the days until your next letter arrives.

Most Truly Yours,

Bobby

P.S. I almost forgot! I told Paul how much you loved the fact that he sends drawings home to Clara and Paul, Jr.—by the way, that reminds me, how is little Frankie doing?—and he was more than happy to create a few illustrations for you. He did a couple portraits—one of me and one of you, based off your beautiful photograph. He said to apologize that he’s too much of an amateur to capture all of your beauty. He did say that he thought he did a fine enough job capturing my likeness—I’m telling you, Peach, I think my friends officially like you better than they like me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

July 31, 1943

My Dearest Bobby,

Please don’t ever feel like you need to apologize for how long it takes you to write back to me. I can only imagine how difficult it is to find the time to write with everything that must be happening over there, and yet you always find the time to pen the most thoughtful and wonderful letters. I cherish each and every one of them, and I promise that I’m more than content to read your old letters as I await the new ones.

I’m so sorry to hear about how many of our boys we’re losing. Just last week, our neighbors, the Pattersons—you remember I mentioned Mrs. Patterson had helped me and Dottie with our Victory Garden?—received news that their son, Clarence was killed in action in France. It was devastating. Dottie and I had just been coming home from the grocery store when we saw the officer standing on their front steps with a telegram in hand. We knew what that meant. Mrs. Patterson has been inconsolable since. Mr. Patterson is equally devastated, but I think he’s trying to be strong for her. Dottie and I have been taking turns cooking meals for them and spending some time over at their house. We just want them to know that they’re not alone.

I admit, Bobby, that every time I hear news of someone else being lost in this war, I immediately think of you. It feels selfish, but I’m always so relieved when the news is about someone else and not you. I don’t know how I would bear it. I pray every day that I never have to receive that letter from Paul or Tommy Boy or Benny, but I am touched that you’ve thought about how I could be notified. Oh, Bobby, I hope more than anything that your parents never have to experience what the Pattersons are going through.

But you’re right—you’re going to come home safely. We have too many plans for you to do otherwise!

I’m sorry to hear that the food aboard your carrier has been so crummy lately. I wish that I could whip up a home-cooked feast and send it in the mail with my letters. Every time I sit down to dinner now, I think of all of you, and I count my blessings. Things aren’t perfect on the homefront, but I know that we certainly have no room to complain with all you boys are going through. I promise to have a peach cobbler waiting for you when you come home—and a pumpkin pie, for good measure.

If I’m turning you into a new man, Bobby, then you simply must know that you’re turning me into a new woman as well. I hardly remember the girl that I was before I met you. Can you believe that it’s been over a year now since our paths first crossed? I feel like my life is totally different now. The way that I see myself, the way I interact with others, the way that I’m not so terrified to step out of my comfort zone anymore—so much of that is thanks to you, Bobby. I’m still me, of course. But I feel like I’m a stronger, braver version of myself now. I like it, too.

It’s so kind of you to offer to keep an ear out for Eddie’s infantry! Emily received a letter from him around the same time that I received my letter from you, and he seems to be doing well, same as you, thank goodness. Eddie is part of the 1st Infantry Division. Emily said that last she knew, he was stationed somewhere near the Rhineland. The wedding planning has been going very well. Pretty much everything is set now—all we need is the groom. Emily can’t wait for Eddie to come home for good. Once he does, they’ll be able to officially set the date. Us bridesmaids are going to be wearing lilac-colored dresses. Dottie says she already knows how she’s going to style my hair. I hope that you’re home, too, when the wedding finally happens. Emily said that I could invite you to be my date. Only if you’d like that, of course.

I would be very happy to be kept hostage in the kitchen with your mother! I’m sure there’s so much I could learn from her, and it sounds like a splendid way to spend the day. I look forward to meeting her one of these days!

Oh, the Victory Garden, Bobby! You wouldn’t believe how it’s grown! Trust me, no one is more shocked than me and Dottie. Well, maybe Paddy. He knows firsthand what brown thumbs my sister and I normally have. At first, we weren’t so sure what was going to happen—the cucumbers seemed a bit small and some of the tomatoes didn’t really take. But by the end of June, everything was thriving! It’s been such a joy to watch, and I have to admit, both Dottie and I are feeling extremely accomplished. Frankie loves to spend time in the garden with us, although he spends a bit more time digging in the dirt than helping us pick vegetables, I’m afraid. Now that we’re in the middle of summer, we’re experimenting with zucchini and eggplant. We might also try radishes and turnips. We’re turning into quite the farmers! If your mother has any recipes to share, we’d be more than grateful and happy to try them out!

Now I admit that I’ve saved the most exciting news for last. At the beginning of June, I decided to go for it and I applied for the position at the air station in Goose Creek, the one Paddy told me about. I’m sure being his sister-in-law gave me a bit of an advantage, but it only took a couple days for me to hear back from them. I got the job! I’ve officially been working on the assembly line since the middle of June. It’s hard work, and I’ve never been so tired in all my life, but I have to say that I’m really proud of the work we’re doing. It’s funny that you mention Rosie the Riveter—my job these past few weeks has actually been to fasten pieces of the planes we’re assembling with rivets! So I guess you could call me Peach the Riveter. Doesn’t have quite the same ring though, does it?

I know that the chances are small that anything I’m helping to build is going to reach you specifically, Bobby, but I can’t help but smile every time we finish a new part, or get a new plane put together. I imagine you and Paul, or Tommy Boy or Benny hopping inside and it brings me more pleasure and pride than I could possibly explain. I feel like I’m doing something important, something meaningful and special. If spending hours riveting until my fingers turn numb brings you home even a day faster, then it will all have been worth it. And it gives me a real sense of purpose, driving to work each day with Paddy. I feel proud of myself.

I’ve made some new friends at work, too! Florence and Virginia—we call them Florie and Ginny—are the loveliest, kindest girls. They had already been working on the assembly line for a few months before I got the job, so they’ve been showing me the ropes and teaching me everything they know. They’ve made me feel so welcome, so a part of things. I have to admit that I was terrified my first week or so, terrified that I was going to mess something up or make a fool of myself. But I’ve settled in quite well, thankfully.

It means a lot to me to know that I have your support, Bobby. Truly, it does. Thinking of you and all that you’re doing to protect us is what really motivated me to take this job, so thank you.

Of course I’m sending all my best wishes for the campaigns you have coming up! Wherever you are right now, I pray that you’re safe and that your missions are successful.

You’re so brave, Bobby. Have I told you that lately? Even if I have, you deserve to hear it again. I’m so, so proud of you. You’re my hero.

I hope this letter gets to you soon. I wish it could grow wings and fly to you. I know time is going to pass so slowly until I’m holding a new letter from you in my hands. But until then, Bobby, I’m thinking of you and holding you in my heart.

Most Truly and Affectionately Yours,

Peach

P.S. Paul is quite the artist!!! I now have his portraits hanging right beside the photographs you sent me. Please tell him how talented I think he is, and how much I love the drawings he made for me! I was especially touched by the little note he wrote me on the back of your portrait. I hope he’s doing well. Send my best to him and Tommy Boy and Benny!

TAGLIST: @teacupsandtopgun @saturnsbabe69 @gigisimsonmars @marchingicenotes7 @high-speed-r @cadencebeat2662 @up-thereinthesky @lostinthefandoms11 @strangerparks @sweetwhispersofchaos @callsign-magnolia @the-wayward-daughter @becks-things @jostyriggslover96 @solo-pitstop-vibes @wretchedmo @muddwheelz123 @ryebecca @lewmagoo @withahappyrefrain @rhettabbotts

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #x reader #x female reader #top gun #top gun: maverick #WWII AU #1940s AU #lewis pullman

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year ago

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I Come With Knives Pt5

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Am I happy with this chapter? I think so??? I think I was trying to get it to go somewhere it didn't want to go before but I'm happy with how it ends now. I don't know if the words I'm saying make sense I'm so tired lmao

This chapter was inspired by A Lover's Folly (the chapter Fear of Losing It, specifically) by @tripleyeeet! Please go give it a read it's so fucking good

Warnings: angst, blood, murder, canon-typical violence, swearing, hints to a panic attack, Macbeth reference

Word Count: 2,103

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“A mystical and dangerous people, we travel the land, never settling in one place. We steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters - your friend here has heard it all, I’m sure.” You look at Astarion from the corner of your eye. Despite his cool, confident demeanor, you can see how tense he is. He’s staring at the man before you like a steak on a silver platter. “I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer and monster hunter. But I’m no witchdoctor or cut-throat.”

“So what monster are you hunting?”

Astarion pipes in, a devious smirk playing on his lips. You’re shocked the self-proclaimed monster hunter does not take notice of his fangs or the punctures on his neck. Though, Astarion’s are far less prominent than yours - you feel fortunate to have a high collar. “Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops?” He paused, a teasing lilt in his voice as he adds, “Kobold?”

Gandrel chuckles. “Nothing so dramatic. Actually, this quarry is a bit unusual. My people got word of a missing person, stolen in the night by a vampire. It’s unlikely they’re still alive, but with any luck we’ll find the kidnapper.”

You swallow, but the hunter doesn’t seem to notice. Astarion can hear the spike in your heart rate. “That’s not much to go on.”

“You’re right about that. We do know the victim’s name, though there’s not much work can be done with that save wander around shouting for them.” He tells you the name, and your heart drops. You make a good effort not to show it. Your face is still neutral as before, your body stiffly in position, but with a glance Astarion can see the way your eyes are distant. They flicker over Gandrel’s face, assessing the threat he possesses. You’re trying to work up a plan, an escape route, anything - but fear clouds your thoughts. Astarion can smell the anxiety wafting off you, even through the hunter’s stench.

This shouldn’t be as big of a problem as your mind makes it to be. You could lie, tell him you weren’t stolen, tell him you ran away. Perhaps he would take money for his silence. But what if he chose to take you back anyway? What if she is providing a much higher reward than anything you can offer? You can’t go back. You can’t.

Astarion clears his throat and steps forward. “And if you find them? Where will you be taking them, exactly?”

“With any luck? I’d be taking them back to Berdusk.”

Berdusk. Being able to place a name to the city of your tormentor somehow made it worse. You knew where she resided now - you could simply take a detour from Baldur’s Gate and kill her. But, that would mean going back. Walking within reach of her clutches. You could almost feel her hot breath against your neck. Her nails digging into your skin. You can’t go back to that.

“Are you alright?” Your mind is forced back into your body when the Gur directs his question at you. You search your mind for an excuse, but fall hopelessly short.

Astarion steps in where you falter. “Ah, yes, you remember then, darling?” He speaks, then, to the Gur. “I believe we heard that name along our travels. A mere whisper on the wind.”

The hunter lights up. “Really? Any information you have would be invaluable to my mission.”

He taps his chin, frowning in fake thought. “It’s a bit foggy - we must have crossed paths weeks ago by now. If only I could remember…” He looks at the Gur from the corner of his eye, smirking. “Perhaps I can be enticed to recall just where they went.”

The man sighs. He reaches for his coin purse. Your heart leaps into your throat. He’s reaching for a weapon. He knows who you are. He’s going to kill you. He knows what Astarion is. He’s going to kill you both.

When your mind catches up, the man is on the ground. You kneel over him. Two hands hold your dagger within his eye, hilt-deep. The other stares blankly up at you, mouth gaped around a silent scream. Droplets of blood marr your face, mere specks of warmth and wet.

“Shit.”

Astarion grabs your shoulder, but your mind is still consumed by fear and paranoia. You whirl around, bloody blade bared at the vampire. Your grip is all wrong - you’re terrified. He steps back, hands raised. Your eyes flicker across his face over and over again, but you don’t see him. In his place is a stranger. Someone ready to steal you, haul you back to Berdusk, back to your master.

“As much as I love the offer, now isn’t the time,” he quips. He kneels down slowly, getting to eye-level. His whole face is dark. The reference to sex is completely masked by his seriousness. “You’re safe. You’re not going back - not if I can help it.”

Your hands shake. Drops of blood fall off the knife, landing in the dirt without a sound. His blood. This man’s blood.

Gods, what have you done?

You drop the knife like it burns you to hold it. It clatters to the ground with a dull thud. You didn’t notice before the blood staining your fingers, but you do now. It’s all you can notice. Well, that, and the body beside you.

“I-I killed him,” you stammer out, barely a whisper. Astarion says nothing. He realizes the irony in your guilt just as much as you. “I didn’t even think- I didn’t… Gods.”

Your thoughts are consumed by the red stains. You have to get them off. You have to rid yourself of this ever-growing weight in your stomach. But you don’t have much to wipe it off on. Your clothes? Then you’d have to wash the blood out. (Though, little flecks stick to your collar and sleeves already.) The ground? Rub dirt all over until somehow it removes the red? You couldn’t even entertain the thought. But you needed to get it off.

You frantically wipe the blood away with your hands, only serving to spread it further into your skin. But it’s all you can think to do. You have to get it off. You must. If you don’t… If… Would something bad happen? You’re not sure. It feels like yes, something terrible would occur the longer it sat on your flesh. But what? Why won’t it fucking come off?

You don’t even realize you’re speaking. Half-formed desperate, choked pleas to get rid of the blood. Prayers to higher powers to forgive you - even when you’d never prayed for such a thing before. Insults spewed toward yourself, damning you for being so fucking weak.

So you killed a man, so what? You’d killed hundreds to get you where you kneel. What made him any different?

I killed him in self-defense.

You’ve killed loads of men and creatures alike for the same reason.

He didn’t recognize me.

You don’t know that, do you?

All he had was a name. Not even a description of who he searched for. He wouldn’t recognize me.

And why dwell on that? If he’d recognized you, surely he’d drag you back? Tie you up, gag you, drop you on her doorstep. She’d recognize you.

And she’d punish me. Punish them. And then she’d see my scars. What then?

Then she’d gut you. Slowly. Keeping you alive for as long as possible so she can moan to your screams, so she can lick her fingers clean of your adrenaline-rich blood. She’d even do it in front of her spawn. And they’d love it.

I hurt them.

You fucked up and they paid for it. They’d laugh as you beg for mercy. They’d even join in if they could.

But he didn’t need to die. Astarion, he- He could have led him away. I would have been safe.

And when he realized Astarion sent him on a wild goose chase? He’d turn right back around. And by that point his suspicions would fall to you - the leader. He’d know.

He’d know you’re the monster he hunts.

Hands roughly grab your own, snapping you out of your restless trance. Your skin is not only red from blood, but from how much you rubbed and scratched. Small lines beaded with your own blood where your nails broke the skin. It stung. And finally feeling that pain grounded you further.

“Calm down, for gods’ sakes,” Astarion cursed. He hurriedly pressed a white handkerchief into your hand. It was soft and cool to the touch. Gold embroidery danced around the edges, quickly becoming stained and ruined. “You’re going to rip your skin off.”

You felt everything so vividly. You almost wished you were numb to it again. “I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I don’t know what happened, I just… I thought of her. Of what she’d do to me, and I couldn’t think of another way out.”

He sighed, annoyed but all too understanding. “I was going to send him off North. By the time he realized he’s been had, we would already be in Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smirked wickedly, mischief twinkling in his eye, despite the tinge of concern underlying it all. “You’ve simply provided a more permanent solution to our problem.” He glanced over, but you closed your eyes. You didn’t want to look again. “No point worrying about it now.”

“He could have helped,” you chastise. The intensity was only directed toward yourself. “If we paid him or explained or- or something, he could have gone back and said I was dead. Then- then she might have stopped looking for me.”

“And if he didn’t?”

You couldn’t let yourself spiral through that argument again. You just shook your head, opening your eyes to watch as he wiped away the blood. Most of it stayed, requiring water to wash it off - a realization that frightened you. What if the blood never came off?

“I know it may seem hard to believe,” he began. His voice was strained, like he was forcing himself to believe in it too, “but you’re not alone in this fight. If she finds you - Do you hear me? If. - we can protect you. And if she takes you away, we know where to find you now.”

“Berdusk.” He hummed, pleased you understood his meaning.

“Karlach would go on a rampage before she ever lays a finger on you.”

You chuckled weakly at the thought. You could almost picture your companion barging down the front door of the manor, everybody else behind her, as she tears through the place to find you. It’s… comforting.

A shiver runs through your body as the adrenaline finally fades from your system. You sighed. And just when most of your guilt has left, another weight finds itself in your throat - a heavy lump of fear. “I’m afraid to go to Baldur’s Gate,” you admit quietly. He pauses to look up at you, red eyes scanning your face. “Berdusk is so close by.”

“If it’s any consolation, Cazador is in Baldur’s Gate.” You hum; he’s told you this before.

“And you’re walking back into arms reach.” You look up from your hands. “Doesn’t that terrify you?”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Do I hide my fear that well?” he teased. “Of course I’m terrified. I have no idea how well these tadpoles block his influence. For all I know, the moment I step foot in the Gate, he’ll have full control over me again.

“But if there’s even the slightest chance I could kill him, I’m going to take it. I can’t go back to that life. Not after this.”

Not after experiencing freedom for the first time in too long.

Astarion curls your fingers around the handkerchief so you’ll hold it. He picks up your bloody dagger and cleans the blade on the dead Gur’s clothes. You can’t watch, but you can see the sneer on his face as he does so. He reaches forward and tucks it away in your sheath. It feels heavier at your hip somehow.

He holds you by your arms as you stand, continuing to hold your hands in front of you. It feels wrong to let them hand so casually by your side, and just the thought of using them makes you feel worse. He turns you away from the body, directing you back toward camp.

You can still feel the Gur’s blood in your skin, even after you spend two whole hours washing your hands.

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie

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burningcheese-merchant · 17 days ago

Note

Abt burning spice's kingdom interaction with nutmeg tiger when he says "this place it reminds me of the first kingdom i..." do you think he destroyed that kingdom? Or built it?

The fact that he shows regret and hesitation in that line is interesting...

Do you think he became what he is because he doesn't have anything left to lose?

This can perfectly foils Golden cheese's story, even after her kingdom got destroyed she eventually embraces that fact and process that emotions healthily

Sorry im just yapping here, i love me two character that perfectly foils each other while being more similiar than enyone else and form a weird ahh relationship balancing between romantic or wanting to kill each other

-🌾anon

I'm going to go ahead and say both. I think he built it AND destroyed it. In fact, I'm going to go a step further and specify that he accidentally destroyed it while trying to defend it from some invading force, thus making this the first real step down that dark path. Think of it: in a mad frenzy to protect something he loved, he destroyed it instead. He unwittingly became what he was fighting against, if only for a moment - and that moment would set many things in motion, each more terrible than the last, for not only has Burning Spice now come to truly know the bitter taste of loss and history's seemingly futile nature, it came to him in perhaps the worst way possible, and so left the most lasting impression. (Idk if what I tried to cook here came out of the oven right, but there was an attempt lol)

I 100% agree with the idea that Spice became who and what he is after succumbing to despair in the face of seemingly unending loss (I go into detail about it here, this is how I personally headcanon his descent into villainy), and that there is still a lingering sense of regret somewhere inside of his heart, even if small and not strong enough to influence him anymore. That dialogue he has with Nutmeg Tiger is what pushed me to want to analyze him and construct a possible background and motive for him, and later what inspired me to want to redeem not only him, but all five of the Beasts. The fact that he might have regrets is very interesting and very promising to me, and lends itself to the idea that, with time and the right guidance, he could perhaps... change (to keep with the theme haha).

And I also agree with you on him and Golden Cheese being perfect foils for one another (it's part of why I ship them so hard lol). They mirror each other SO well in my eyes. And in the face of the same exact loss, one folded while the other stood strong (although you can say that GC folded as well, at least for a while, before she realized the folly in her delusional grief and collected herself). Nothing lasts forever, that's true, but that doesn't make it meaningless - quite the opposite. It is the ephemeral nature of life that makes it beautiful and worthwhile. It's alright to be upset when something ends, but you can't let that define you. Everything ends eventually. Focus less on what's far ahead or what's far behind and focus more on what's in front of you right now. That's the lesson GC more or less learns, and it's the lesson BS needs to learn too, in my opinion. And I honestly think GC is the right one to help teach him that.

Sorry, I sort of spoiled the "Change" arc in my Reformed Beasts AU a little bit here lol. You really hit the nail on the head with your thoughts here and it prompted me to puke this word salad. Great minds lol

#I PROMISE you all I will explain my Reformed Beasts AU one of these days. I just want to iron out the details first.#I love redemption stories. But redemption is long and hard work. And everyone's got their work cut out for them in this AU lol #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #burning spice cookie #golden cheese cookie #burning spice crk #golden cheese crk #reformed beasts au #just gonna make up that tag ahead of time lol

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droughtofapathy · 5 months ago

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Highlights from Follies at Carnegie Hall

Audio from Transport Group's Follies concert at Carnegie Hall, June 20th, 2024.

The Jennifer Holiday "I'm Still Here" is too big to post, so...tough luck for all of you.

#follies #norm lewis #nikki renee daniels #kate baldwin #beth leavel #i've now seen kate baldwin perform both losing my mind and could i leave you live so when is she going to do i'm still here to complete it?#sondheim

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bullet-prooflove · 8 months ago

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A Cottage in Nice: Captain Jean Treville x Reader

Tagging: @lovemissyhoneybee @sekretwindow @rey4kat @roschele @sassyscottishchick @aiko24k @scorpio-1357 @kmc1989 @burningpeachpuppy @swanfan17 @dragon85faby @angelnyx @caffeinatedwoman @missyhoneybee

Jean’s fall from grace is inevitable. You see it coming the moment he turns down the position of First Minister. It becomes the talk of France because no man in his right mind would defy the king’s wishes and your husband does just that.

It moves quickly from there, the king shows his displeasure by stripping him of his rank before he dismisses him from the service entirely. His career is shattered within a matter of weeks.

He steers clear of you in the aftermath, he doesn’t want the taint of his misfortune to muddy you. Your marriage has always been his most closely guarded secret, he will take it to the grave if he has to.

He ignores your letters, vacates his premises in the garrison and disappears in the night.

There is one other man who knows your true identity as Madam Treville and you meet with him under a rain drenched canopy a few streets away from the garrison.

“We’ve tried to locate him.” Athos tells you as you watch the droplets form puddles in the mud. “It is as if your husband has disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“He is ashamed.” You say quietly as you remove your riding gloves from pocket of the men’s jacket you are wearing. Your hair is tied away from your face with the red ribbon that secured the bouquet on your wedding day and your clad in fitted men’s breeches. It’s easier to move around Paris in this guise. Women tend to be hassled if they are alone during this late hour. “If he isn’t in his cups, there’s another place he would have gone in order to lick his wounds.”

“The cottage in Nice?” Athos questions.

It’s been years since he’s thought of that place, of the town where he witnessed your marriage. It hadn’t occurred to him that their Captain may return there, that he maintained that level of sentimentality.

“We bought it several years ago along with a small patch of land.” You reveal as you tug the kidskin riding gloves up to your wrists. “A place for an old soldier and his spy to retire in their golden years.”

It’s a joke between the two of you because you both know there will be no golden years, not with your choice in careers. The cottage serves as a safehouse these days, a place to go amidst the chaos of the world.

“I’ll escort you.” He says, removing his own gloves from his belt. “The roads at this time of night will be treacherous…”

“Athos.” You say fondly because his loyalty to you and your husband is admirable. “The Musketeers need a leader in my husband’s absence and Jean has always intended to name you as his replacement.”

“Take Aramis or better yet Porthos, even D’artagnan.” He argues as he helps you up onto your mare and you shake your head as you grip the reins in your hands.

“This is something I need to do as a wife.” You say softly. “The presence of others will only serve to silence him.”

You see the resignation in his features as he looks up at you. It’s hard for him to concede to your wishes, it’s the gentleman in him you think.

“Stick to the main roads.” He recommends as his palm smooths over the nose of your horse. “The back ones will be filled with vagabonds.”

He’s not telling you anything you don’t already know but it’s the warning of an old friend, one that doesn’t want to see you dead. You feel his eyes on you as you disappear into the night, watching you for as long as he can. He can’t stand the thought of his Captain losing anything else, especially not his wife.

*******************************************************************

It’s a long ride to Nice and you spend that time considering the state you’ll find your husband in. There have been ups and downs over the years, the rise and falls of your professions, your personal follies but there has never been anything like this. The king has thrown his whole identity into flux and you’ve seen what that can do to a man, how it can twist them into bitterness.

When you arrive at the cottage nothing is as you expected. The windows are wide open, airing it, the garden is neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds recently tilled. The vegetable patch has been replanted and there’s a small harvest sorted into several different baskets. Each one has a name tied to them written on parchment in Jean’s hand.

Local families you realise as you study each one of them. You know that some of them have suffered hardships recently and Jean can’t stand to see someone struggle, not if he can help.

You employ a house keeper and a groundsman from the village to maintain the cottage while you are away. You use money you earn from your spywork and the jewels your first husband left you to fund it. His lands, along with your own had been seized when he’d been tried for treason but the jewels, you kept as payment for what you had endured underneath that tyrant. It had been a pleasure to watch him hang, knowing that you had orchestrated his demise.

You find Jean around the back, bare chested, chopping wood. His scars stand out starkly against his firm muscles as he swings the axe down over and over and over again. There’s a catharsis in being productive, especially for him. You watch as he tosses the logs onto the wood pile before clearing your throat and stepping into his line of vision.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says wearily as he sets the axe down, diverting his attention to the wash bucket and rag he’s set alongside the well.

“Here or with you?” You ask him as he cleans himself with the cool water.

He doesn’t answer you, he won’t even look at you and you can tell he feels ashamed. He has lost his stature, his position. His name may be on the title to this house but it is you that it belongs to. He has nothing besides the clothes on his back, his pistol and the sword that’s been with him for almost as long as you have.

“I have no prospects as a husband.” He says finally as he wrings out the rag. “You’d be wise to ignore the affiliation you have with me, it will not put you in good stead if our relationship is ever revealed.”

You take the rag from his hand and toss it back into the bucket and he sighs because you would never let him off that easy, despite it being in your best interests.

“My love.” You say softly as you lean against the well. “Will you look at me?”

The line of his jaw clenches as he shakes his head, his palms coming to rest upon the stone rim as he looks down into the clear water below.

“I know that it feels that you have lost everything.” You say quietly, studying the profile of his features. “But you have not lost me, you will never lose me.”

“Terese…” He says, his voice rough as he finally tilts his head to meet your gaze. “I have nothing to give you…”

“Our marriage has never been about trinkets or reputation.” You say, your forehead coming to rest on his as your fingertips chase along his grizzled cheek. “It’s about love, it always has been.”

“Terese…” He begins again but you press your lips to his and all thoughts of arguing fall out of his head because there’s just you, here in this moment, anchoring him, holding him steady.

His world is full of turmoil but you’ve always been a safe space, a guiding light in the dark. With you he knows who he is, who he’s always been, who he always will be.

Jean Treville, your lover, your husband and most importantly the man you call home.

Love Treville? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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#jean treville x reader #captain treville #captain treville x reader #captain treville x you #jean treville #jean treville x you #captain jean treville #treville #treville x reader #treville x you #bbc musketeers #the musketeers

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house-afire · 8 months ago

Text

you can have a little revenge, as a treat (Izzy/Lucius)

(tw: references to noncon)

Izzy knew Lucius was tailing him back to his cabin. He didn’t stay so close it was stupid—more like a nervy cat’s way of following than a puppy’s—but he was still as subtle as a cannonball. He wasn’t surprised when there was a knock half-a-minute after he got inside.

“I’d say ‘fuck off,’ but you don’t like listening, do you?”

The door creaked open. “Did you know it was me, or is that just, like, how you greet people?”

“It can be both.”

“Fair.” Lucius slipped in and sat down, like he’d had a real invitation. He gave Izzy a fierce, almost angry look. “I asked Pete to be my matelot.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected this to be about, but it sure as fuck wasn’t this. “And you came to me for congratulations?”

��Uh, no. I can see why that would be weird, if I’d done that. No, I want to—” He pressed his lips together. Turned out that was one last bolstering-up of the dam before he kicked it to pieces. “Stede doesn’t want to listen to what happened to me after Blackbeard pushed me overboard, and he said I shouldn’t tell Pete every dark little detail, either. And he was right. It’s a lot, and I shouldn’t … track filth around. But if I don’t tell someone about it, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. You’re not squeamish, and you won’t cry over me.”

That glare of his, Izzy saw now, had just a hint of desperation to it.

He’d never talked about anything more than he’d had to—swallowed it all down like his fucking toes—but he had, as the whole cursed lot of them knew by now, sicked up enough before to know that it could help. And if you were going to spew, better to do it in private.

“Fine,” Izzy said.

Lucius boggled at him for a moment, like a fish pulled out of the water, and then said, “Right, I expected that to be a lot harder.”

He sat down on the other end of the bed, as far from Izzy as he could get. Crossed his legs and uncrossed them, scowling at his knees like they’d betrayed him. He fixed his gaze somewhere over Izzy’s shoulder.

“I went between a lot of ships, after I got picked up. Wasn’t really by choice, not after the first … first bad one. A good ship—a good ship will let you leave, and you don’t know until it’s too late that if they’ll let you go, you might be … might be better off staying. I should never have left the first berth I got. They only wanted me as a whore, but that’s not so bad, is it? I mean, you’d probably say that’s most of what I did around here anyway.”

His gaze flickered over to Izzy like he expected him to laugh or nod. Izzy didn’t do either: you didn’t fuck about when you could see there was a storm on the horizon.

“Okay. Fine. Be understanding, like that’s not creepy.” He shifted around again, fidgeting like his own skin wasn’t enough to keep together, like he had to hold on to himself. “The other ships were all worse. I thought most pirates were—”

“Like Bonnet?” Izzy said incredulously.

“Like you,” Lucius said. “I thought the worst I’d have to contend with would be a whole ship of Izzy Hands, and I’d just be annoyed and stressed or, fine, dead, but in a—normal way. But you never—you wouldn’t—”

He dug his fingers into his arms. He’d wind up with bruises from it.

“The worst ship was called Dead Man’s Folly. And they had a little dog named Pepper, and they liked having puppet shows in the evenings, and I just fucking need—somebody—to fucking listen.”

Izzy didn’t know the details yet, but the puppet shows were a cursed enough notion for him to tell the outline of it already. Nothing curdled like whimsy; nothing was worse when it turned dark.

He listened. And as Lucius told him all of it, he stowed away a few things in particular.

Dead Man’s Folly. Captain Graves.

***

It took another fortnight—and a through-gritted-teeth request about it to Bonnet, who was so shocked Izzy would ask him for a favor that he gave in at once—but Izzy saw to it that they made one of the Dead Man’s Folly’s regular ports of call.

“I never had the impression you were all that enamored of shore leave,” Bonnet said, watching as Izzy scanned the ships crowded into the bay. “Care to share your holiday plans?”

Izzy’s lips flexed, hard, as he found the flag he was looking for. “Not responsible for what you don’t know about,” he said. “Better to leave it.”

“If you’re looking for trouble, you ought to have company!”

“Not for this,” Izzy said. “You’d approve, at least in theory, but you won’t want to see it. It won’t be very … gentlemanly.”

Bonnet looked crestfallen, but he said, “Well, if that’s what you think, I suppose I agree. I—trust you, Izzy. God, never thought I’d be saying that.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Izzy said.

“It is a bit weird, yeah. Nice, though.”

Almost against his will, Izzy said, “Yeah, it’s nice.” He cleared his throat. “Keep Lucius and Black Pete on the ship, even if everyone else goes to shore for the night. I don’t know, throw them a fucking engagement party.”

Bonnet brightened. “I have been meaning to do that, you know. Of course, you can’t plan a proper celebration in one night, but—”

“Whatever,” Izzy said, putting his foot into the rigging and starting down. It took more presence of mind to do this these days, but it wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. “Just no cake.”

“Yes, I think we all learned our lessons on the cake front. Have no fear! Roach is a pastry virtuoso. There doesn’t exist a confection that he can’t master.”

Perfect. A night of sugar and blood. Captured their lives here pretty well, really.

***

It wasn’t hard to find the Dead Man’s Folly. Ships captained by assholes always made themselves known sooner or later.

Some of Bonnet’s luck must have rubbed off on him, because he got the sweetest of chances: all hands in port for the night, and just Graves and his first mate aboard.

Easiest thing in the world for Izzy to hail them, plain and simple, and get welcomed on. The first mate didn’t even ask him his business, though he found it out in a hurry. Izzy didn’t make a meal out of that one: it was Graves he’d come here for, Graves who had been the rotten core of Lucius’s story.

Graves, who was drinking the night away in his cabin.

He wasn’t completely soused yet, which was good. Izzy wasn’t going to give him a chance to retrieve his sword or pistol—he was here to murder, not raiding or dueling; the usual rules of the profession didn’t apply—but he wanted him sober. He wanted Graves to know what he was paying for.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Curious passerby,” Izzy said. “My ship dropped anchor here, same as yours, and I’d heard so many rumors about the fearsome Captain Graves that I had to come myself to see what was what.”

The fact that Graves didn’t immediately blink at him and ask if he was taking the piss was a marvel and a half. As far as Izzy was concerned, the only pirate worth that kind of slobbery adulation was Edward himself—and Edward had tired of it a long time ago.

“What rumors would those be?” Graves said, hungry for any morsel of a reputation.

“I heard,” Izzy said, “that you picked up a pretty little piece of one-time jetsam a while back.”

Graves earned himself an even slower death by not even being able to fucking remember at first, like he fished bitchy scribes out of the sea every week at least.

“Oh,” Graves said, comprehension finally dawning on him. “Rat Boy. I wouldn’t go as far as pretty.”

Fucking hell, at this rate, Izzy was going to have to spend most of the fucking year killing this prick.

“Rat Boy. That’s the one.” He gave Graves a smile that would’ve sent a smarter man running. “Heard something about a bit of puppetry too, I think. Sounded … inventive.”

Graves, not content with all previous acts of wanton fucking stupidity, took this compliment at face value too. “Keeps the crew entertained on the slow nights. Everybody loves a good show.”

“Yeah? You come up with that yourself, then?”

Graves spread out his hands. “I’m a great innovator, unrecognized in my time.”

“Oh, I bet recognition’s right on its way,” Izzy said. “Nipping at your heels. You really got your whole hand up his arsehole, then.”

“He squirmed, but in it went,” Graves said, wiggling his fingers.

“You like that, watching him squirm? Wouldn’t go so far as to call him pretty, no, but you liked how he looked with you wrist-deep in his arse and making a show of him? Liked having him catch rats with his teeth? You must have. Liked it so well you didn’t even call him by his right name. Do you know it?”

It was, to Izzy’s great pleasure, finally starting to dawn on Graves that Izzy hadn’t really come here to have a wank to his great ingenuity. He stared at Izzy, the damp whites of his eyes looking like Roach’s poached eggs.

“My first mate is right up on deck—”

“He is. All over the deck, you might say.” Izzy leaned back in his chair. “Now, him I didn’t have much of a conversation with, so he didn’t have a chance to make things worse for himself. Just as dead as you’re going to be, though. Had it coming too, because a first mate’s responsible for everything that happens on his ship.”

Graves stared up at the ceiling, like blood was going to start dripping down right on cue. Izzy hoped he had a vivid picture of what all over the deck could mean. He gave Graves time to think about it. Then some more time to think about how much worse Izzy might do to the man who’d just been running his mouth about being the brains behind the human fucking puppet.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Izzy said, drawing his sword and laying it across his knees. “If you can come up with his name, I won’t cram a fat bilge rat down your sorry throat until you choke on it. I don’t really want to go looking for one anyway. This is going to take enough time as it is.”

Graves was sputtering now, like he was trying to save Izzy the rat-finding trouble by choking on his own spit first. “But he—he—”

“Made it back to his own ship.”

“He couldn’t have,” Graves insisted. “He—he said his captain there threw him overboard!”

“I’m not his fucking captain,” Izzy said. “Come up with that name yet?”

Graves’s pulse was fluttering in his throat, rapid as a lady’s fan. Thinking so hard beads of sweat were popping out on his brow: the great innovator at work.

“J—John.”

“Reasonable gamble,” Izzy allowed. “Thing is—it’s not right by even a letter.”

He ran Graves through, pinning him to his fancy chair; rapped the hilt with two fingers and set it to quivering in Graves’s belly. The screams were easy enough to ignore. Just part of the mess, like the blood.

He’d intended to make Lucius Spriggs the last thing Graves ever heard, but it seemed like Lucius’s name deserved better than being dragged back into this room with all its filth. Stupid thought, but there it was.

Instead, he said, “S’pose it doesn’t matter. Saw a dead rat right outside—seems a shame to waste it.” He hadn’t, but he figured Graves deserved to die with that thought in his head. And one more for good measure: “I’m not much for imagination; save that for the captains of the world. But I do work out how to make the fucking plans happen, even yours. The way I see it, all I have to do is cut your hand off—” He tapped a dagger blade against each of Graves’s wrists. “And then I can shove it up your arse. Put on a puppet show just the way you like.”

“You can’t do this,” Graves said. Blood was already hitting his lips as he whined, which meant he was dying faster than Izzy would like, and the bastard was too fucking dimwitted to know it.

Aided in the fuckery, at least.

“Oh, you’ll squirm, but in it’ll go,” Izzy told him. “You said as much yourself. It’ll be slick enough with your own blood, that ought to make it easier.”

He let Graves wriggle and bleed for another few minutes, but there wasn’t any satisfaction to it once the man was well and truly out of his head. Nothing to be gained by hurting a dumb animal. Izzy cut his throat to finish him off.

He stood there a while, breathing in the scent of blood. (And shit. He bet Bonnet’s tales of piracy never talked about how often dying men shit themselves.) He hadn’t paid Graves back for even what the fucker had done to Lucius, but there was revenge and then there was fucking monstrosity. He’d had enough of the latter to last him a lifetime.

Mutilating a corpse, though—that was run-of-the-mill pirate shit, honestly.

“Not saying he’ll make you the centerpiece of the fucking wedding,” he said to Graves’s body, “because he’s still a bit too soft for it, even after what your lot did to him. Which is almost fucking impressive. But he is, God help me, enough of a pirate to appreciate a token.”

Not the head. You walked through port swinging a man’s severed head like a sack of fucking apples, you wound up having to talk about it. Hand wouldn’t attract nearly as much attention—stray hands were as common around here as the pox—but Lucius wouldn’t want one. Not with where Graves’s had been. Fucking reminder, not a proper keepsake. Foot? He glanced down at his hoof—smiled a bit—and then scoffed. Jesus Christ, if he took Graves’s foot, Twatty would never fucking shut up about how interesting it must be inside Izzy’s head. He’d grow old and die before he heard the end of it.

Ear, he decided. Graves had been thoughtful enough to wear some gaudy emeralds there, might as well make use of it.

He sawed off the left one; it had a bit missing off the top, tapering to a lump of scar tissue, so between that and the fucking jewels, it’d be plain enough who it belonged to.

He spat on Graves’s body, before he went.

***

Frenchie was playing his lute when Izzy got back, and he shot Izzy a shy smile and plucked the first few notes of the tune he’d somehow gotten in his head was Izzy’s favorite. He raised his eyebrows.

Izzy waved him off—don’t change it on my account—and Frenchie drifted back to the other song.

Unbefuckinglievable that he’d somehow wound up with a life where people cared what fucking music he wanted. Fucking smiles and moonlight.

And a man’s ear in his pocket. Couldn’t say he’d ever had that before either, strictly speaking. Not as such.

Sugar and blood, he thought.

He found Lucius tucked up in Black Pete’s arms, listening to the music. Little fucker had always been bold as brass when it came to lazing about, never one to spring into action, but this was a new development, this melting back into his boyfriend’s chest and fucking relaxing more as Izzy came close.

Lucius looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Joining us?”

“Oh, get up,” Izzy said, nudging at him with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got a … matelotage gift for you. Just you, not him.”

“Well, color me intrigued,” Lucius said. He twisted around enough to press a kiss to Black Pete’s lips. “Save my seat.”

“Of course! And if he’s giving you what I think he’s giving you, babe, you’re gonna have to let me know if he put a bow on it first.”

They made it around to a quiet side of the deck—as private as anything ever got, with a ship this unwholesomely chummy—and Lucius flicked his gaze downwards and says, “Does it have a bow on it? I’ve always liked unwrapping presents.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Izzy reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief-swaddled ear. It still felt warm. “Here.”

“I swear,” Lucius murmured, “the number of otherwise lovely gifts I get with blood all over them ….” He unfolded the handkerchief and his breath caught in his throat. He stared down at it. “This is—his.”

Izzy nodded.

“That’s what you did tonight. You went out and cut a man’s ear off for me.”

“Killed him too,” Izzy said. “And the first mate.”

“Killed. You walked onto another pirate ship, killed its officers, and brought me back an ear.” Lucius tugged roughly at the earring, like he was half-tempted to tear through the earlobe and yank it free. “How did you even get away with that alive?”

Izzy shrugged. “They’d given the crew shore leave. Otherwise I would’ve had to settle for just the captain, and it would’ve been trickier. Easy enough as it was.”

Lucius wrapped the handkerchief up again. His fingers were shaking. “And here I had this whole vastly symbolic shark telling me I had to move on.”

“You are moving on,” Izzy said. “Or did you miss where it was a fucking wedding present? You’ve got Pete. You’re not sulking about the ship anymore, letting your whole life fester. You fucking talked it out, like you’re Bonnet Jr. You’ve just got some bastard’s ear now too, little piece for the mantel.”

Lucius took a deep breath and then said, “Don’t stab me, because it will so ruin the moment,” and leaned in fast and pressed his lips to Izzy’s cheek. The touch was light and warm. “This is honestly one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy said, even if it took a moment or two too long. His face felt hot. “It’s a severed ear, not a bunch of flowers.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah.” There was more open appreciation in his voice than he’d meant to put there. “Figured you were enough of a bloodthirsty little shit for it.”

“Speaking of which—you’re not … expecting me to cut off Blackbeard’s ear for you, are you?”

“You couldn’t give him so much as a fucking haircut,” Izzy said.

“I know that, but I figured I should, you know, offer.”

“Mm. You didn’t quite, though.”

“I said that I knew I should,” Lucius said. “That’s almost the same thing. I’m self-aware.”

Izzy snorted, and Lucius smiled—victorious and alive and prettier than fucking Graves could have ever fucking hoped to be.

“Don’t tell me you commit glorious, bloody acts of heroism for all the boys,” he said, slipping the bundled-up handkerchief into his pocket. “I don’t need to be a one-and-only, but I still like to feel special.”

He wasn’t quite a one-and-only, Izzy thought, looking over towards the stern, where the ship’s captains and her company was lounging about listening to their moonlit music and probably fiddling with their own beloved severed ears. But he was one of just a few. And special wasn’t the worst word for it, if Izzy were going to talk about it, which he absolutely fucking wasn’t.

“Oh,” Lucius said quietly, following his gaze. “I can certainly work with that.” He kissed Izzy again, on the mouth this time, even more softly than before. It hit Izzy like a kind of slow lightning strike and left him tingling. “Come and sit with us? God, that would be something. One valiant defender of my honor on either side. And Frenchie will play that song he’s absolutely convinced you like.”

“Don’t know why he thinks that,” Izzy said, following Lucius, “but I might be coming around on it.”

#izzy hands #lucius spriggs #izzy/lucius #hints of izzy/crew #tw: noncon references

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