#cw menstrual issues

[hoodedfigure-no99]

Fml 2 weeks of pure clots

Can I please get this taken out of me

Also can I please just get diagnosed with the damn clotting disorder

[seilon]

I wish I could tell every young person with a uterus (especially with bad cramps and/or dysphoria and/or depression, etc) that there is a decent chance they just straight up don’t need to live with that. don’t let the stigma surrounding contraceptives and the expectation that you should just ride it out and suffer win. for the love of god if there’s a chance you can lighten or even stop your period and it’s symptoms all-together, unless there’s a legit health concern, your doctor should at least make you aware of that option. I want every young person to know that “birth control” is not just for birth control and it has the potential to make your life infinitely easier to live. do not give in to anti-pill propaganda im serious

[gggno]

“Something’s up with you, and I’m not letting you go until you tell me what it is.” / @ uma

despite blocking her way, harry's face contorts like a cornered animal. his prideful eye shadow is smeared across his cheeks, the watery shine presumably due to sweat, hopefully not tears — neither of them is good with tears.

having someone who knows you inside out is both a curse and a blessing. he is as much an open book to her as she is to him, and this is perhaps why they are equals even in conflicts like this. she can read his feelings well: stressed, confused, and ultimately, scared — she knows very well this is all because of her.

still, with all those emotions slowly souring into rage, harry doesn't yell. he whispers, coos, pleas. like he is afraid that he would startle her.

it's only fair she returns the same respect and care, even if her stomach turns from the source of this quarrel. in fact, the more her stomach turns, the more terrified she is to acknowledge it.

she has avoided harry for days and she risks losing him if she lets the silence grow any bigger. she considers lying for a brief second — he is too smart for her to pull it off, and she loves him too much to hold back the truth.

but to tell him... she risks losing him too.

she looks at him, brushes a finger over his frown and drops her gaze entirely.

"i don't think you can take this, harry," because neither can i, "just walk away while you still can. pretend you didn't notice and quit asking."

sucking in a deep breath, she decides, "it'll be over soon."

[mustang423]

Me: I’m so glad I don’t have physical touch sensitivity

Also me: Wants to tear off every inch of skin below the belt that is touching blood once a month

[merakiui]

eden.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, non-con, captivity, obsession, menophilia/period sex, vague references to the story of adam & eve note - a self-indulgent paradise crafted by rollo's generous, gracious hand.

Silvery slivers of moonlight spill through the space in the curtains, illuminating the fluffy sheets you’re currently entangled in. A sharp sting in your abdomen rouses you from your dreamless slumber, so agonizing it causes you to slowly curl in on yourself. Miserable and defeated, you groan and bury your face in the neighboring pillow. Now muffled, the sound can only carry on for however much capacity your lungs possess. It eventually fizzles out into a solemn, silent resignation that forces you to accept the third day of the monthly curse that is the menstrual cycle.

It’s a natural facet of your biology, but that doesn’t stop you from moping when you register the slick sensation between your legs.

This wouldn’t be an issue if he got me pads or tampons, you think, bitter with resentment and worn to exhaustion even though you’ve only just woken.

Awkwardly, you attempt to sit up and pull the covers back to check the damage. Rollo’s sheets are always spotless and fresh; he washes them every two weeks on Sunday afternoons, dedicated to following his schedule down to the letter. But then the pain persists, stabbing through to your very organs, and you resume your pitiful fetal position in hopes that the severity may abate.

It does, but you think you’re just tricking yourself into believing so.

You can feel the blood soaking through your white nightgown, and the sodden fabric molds itself to your rear in a very unpleasant way. Shuddering, you blink back tears.

I wanna go home.

Home, as it happens, has felt less and less temporary with each passing month spent in Twisted Wonderland. You’ve come to associate the familiarity of Night Raven College and its student body with comfort and contentment. It’s your home away from home. A long, long way from home. But it’s all you’ve ever had since the Dark Mirror beckoned you forth, and it’s served as your solace for a while.

Initially, you felt trapped and alone, uncertain of your fate and what this could mean for your life. But now you realize that no amount of feeling stuck at school could ever compare to this—to real confinement.

Your capture and, subsequently, your captor’s inexplicable infatuation are the result of arbitrary observation. In his frigid, heavy-eyed stare, you fit the criteria for a definition of purity he has constructed for his own abstract conduct. Untouched by magic, unable to conjure even the simplest spell, you are the speck of hope within Pandora’s box—a blessing enshrouded in sin.

“It must be taxing to live amongst mages so often,” he had said, as if to extend sympathy.

Foolishly, not quite understanding where those words were coming from, you replied in jest, “Believe me, it is. The amount of times I’ve nearly been caught in the crossfire when my friends get into heated arguments… Yikes.”

Rollo Flamme is a righteous man, and thus it is his duty to build a pristine paradise for you. An Eden of his own creation, its sole purpose to safeguard you from the pollution that is magic and, by extension, mages.

But purity cannot be found here, for Rollo is a devil in this garden. Potted plants adorn the floor; it’s something of a floral jungle, filling the room with perfumed scents and pretty sights. You’ve made note of their habits—of every flower that wilts and rises once it’s watered, of every petal that pries itself open under the moon’s glow and closes come sunrise, of every stem that’s trimmed to prevent excess.

Rollo Flamme prefers tidy spaces, so this well-kept garden is sterile and peaceful. You’ve likened it to a morgue filled with dead things—or soon-to-be dead things, as most plants cannot thrive forever no matter how diligent the botanist.

He barked a humorless, monosyllabic laugh at your declaration. “Unless you’ve chosen to view yourself as a rotting corpse, which you are not, your comparison is both unwarranted and untrue,” he muttered, and that was the final utterance of that subject.

Conversations with Rollo are always impossible, which is why you’re dreading this next one when he turns the key in the lock. The sound is like a gunshot in an empty room: explosive. As if echoing your discomfort, your cramps worsen in their intensity and you suck in a shaky breath through grit teeth. You hear the door shut and lock, sentencing you to an exchange with an unwanted warden. He walks into a mostly serene scene, his glacial gaze sweeping across the room to pick apart any interruptions in this slice of Shangri-La.

“I’ve brought dinner,” he announces, and you lift your head to peer at the tray in his hands.

“I don’t want your grapes and croissants,” you spit. “I want something warm.”

“It is warm.” Stepping closer, he sets the tray on his desk. You spy wispy tendrils rising from a bowl of soup. “Sit up and eat before it goes cold.”

You attempt that, halfway up on your elbows, but then your abdomen tightens and you slump back into the sheets. “Hurts,” you whine, clutching your stomach.

Rollo sniffs at the air, brows furrowing. His shoes click out an even rhythm against the floorboards, stopping at your bedside. Without ceremony he yanks the duvet away and you hiss at him, humiliated even though it’s normal. Your skin prickles with a chill, and it’s made even worse when you see the fiery glint in his eyes—the perceptive sort of glaze that overtakes his pupils when he’s observing you. His eyes crawl down your figure, stopping at the stain sullying your satin nightgown.

“Ah, you’ve leaked.”

“Obviously,” you snap. “I did this yesterday, too. When are you going to get me pads? Or tampons? I’ll even take a towel at this point or toilet paper. Anything is better than this.”

Rollo shakes his head. “You’re perfectly fine as you are.”

“Free bleeding like this is filthy and unsanitary.”

“So I’ll simply clean you.”

You drag your hand down your face and groan. “Rollo, please. It hurts, and it’s wet and uncomfortable.”

“You’ve illustrated these points more than clearly.”

“So then… Then do something about it!”

He narrows his eyes at you, silently taking issue with your demand, before he hums his consideration. His face settles into something neutral while he removes his hat and shoes, dutifully setting them in their respective places.

Rollo surprises you when he climbs onto the bed, kneeling over you with the tiniest trace of a smile.

“Spread your legs. I’ll have a look.”

Fresh horror blooms on your already distraught countenance. You bickered with him over this yesterday when he’d brought a wet rag to your inner thigh, seething at you to stay still while he wiped you down. You’d wrestled with him for ownership of the rag, insisting in panicked huffs that you could do it yourself. Your slap had rung out in the silence, rendering Rollo stiff with stormy emotions. He’d relinquished the rag, scoffing at you for being ungrateful and resolving to scribble in his diary for the rest of the day—a prisoner to his own silent treatment.

Now, as his cold fingertips creep up your legs, you feel less hungry and more sick.

Weakly, you shake your head at him, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I… I can do it myself…”

“With what? The nightgown you’ve already dirtied?” He tilts his head at you and smiles an odd smile. You can’t place it, whether it’s smug or sweet, but it soon becomes the former when he throws your words right back at you: “That’s filthy and unsanitary.”

“You don’t have anything either,” you retort, only to grimace once more.

Rollo exhales through his nose, amusement flashing in his dreary eyes. “Because I’m not going to clean you. Not yet.”

Ice crystalizes within your veins, and the tension in your legs slackens enough for him to pull them apart. “What?”

His hands stray dangerously close. You stiffen, nerves tangling with panic. “There are ways to alleviate menstrual cramps. You should be aware of them, so I see no need to go into detail.”

“I know, yes, but—” You swallow thickly and push his reaching fingers away before they can curl around the hem of your nightgown. “Rollo, please don’t…”

“You’ll feel better,” he assures you matter-of-factly, whispering the words like that will change anything. “This is better than medicine and safer than magic.”

You shift beneath him, unsettled. “A… A hot compress will do. Y-You’ll get yourself dirty. Also! A-Also… If we don’t wash the sheets soon, it’ll stain.”

“Let it. It will serve as a reminder to both of us. A reminder that, though you may ruin these sheets with all manner of bodily fluids, they will still remain pure.” He lifts your nightgown, leaning close to your ear while palming at your stomach. You angle yourself away from him, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s because you’re perfect and clean, untainted by magic, that you are able to exist here. I envy you…”

His bare hand is cold against your warm belly and it travels lower, his fingers hooking around the waistband of your panties. You stifle a whine, tears welling up behind your eyelids.

“Rollo…”

“Even your voice…” He inhales deeply, high off the scent of you—metallic and pungent, a natural musk more enticing than any flowery perfume. “Everything about you is so clean, even the very blood that pools between your legs… Just a moment in your embrace is enough to wash away the layers of filth that accumulate on my person. Perhaps you might even manage to scrub beneath my skin, wash out every ounce of magic that rests within… Would that I could, I’d break myself into pieces so that you may reassemble me—build a better me. A me without magic. If only…”

His other hand slithers into yours, squeezing tight. You’re arrested by the strain in his tone when he speaks next, so full of yearning and desperation. Covetous. Shameless.

“If only.”

“R-Rollo, please stop…”

“Yes… Yes, of course,” he babbles, nodding to himself. “I’ve likened you to a concept—to purity alone—but you are more than that. The embodiment of it… An angel. Otherworldly, immune to the poisonous effects of magic… Yes, that is what you are. An angel bereft of flaws.”

He fishes his celestial-patterned handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to your lips next. Your eyes snap open to find him now much closer than before, and you have but a moment to brace yourself before he leans in. The kiss is indirect, the both of you separated by the cloth, but the intention is there. It sticks to you even after he’s lowered the handkerchief. You are too pure and he is too filthy, which is why your lips must never touch.

Contradictory because he’s kissed you before.

Rollo drags your blood-soaked panties down to your knees. You shudder like a frail leaf caught in autumn’s harsh breeze.

“I’ve saved you—freed you!—from those…those villains. So you must allow me to indulge.” He shakes his head, his licentious, lustful stare smoldering to such a scorching degree it brands impure, unhealthy love upon your bare flesh. “I will indulge because I have been nothing but agreeable. This—” his fingers brush your slick folds, testing the waters— “is a wonder no magic could ever hope to reproduce. This is just you. Perfect, pretty, pure you…”

Experimentally, his digits dip shallowly inside. You flinch and inhale a sharp, frantic breath, your stomach somersaulting and knotting itself all at once. Complicated feelings stir within you as you writhe under his invasive touch. Your effort to escape is halfhearted; it’s too painful to move, so instead you attempt to clamp your legs shut. He tuts at you and slips his hand out from your hold to pet along your thigh.

“There goes a certain tale,” Rollo says, breathless as he continues his patient exploration. His eyes rove over your pussy like he intends to imprint it in his memory, and he doesn’t shy away from the crimson rivulet that runs down his palm when he sinks his fingers in further. You grit your teeth, melting against the pillows like an angel stamped in snow, and your free hand strangles a fistful of sheets. “In which a pair lived together in paradise, but it was temptation that ultimately led to their downfall. It is a doomed narrative.”

You’re breathing heavily now, your eyes flicking from the ceiling to the many plants that surround you on all sides, each one in full bloom. It feels as if you’re on a bed-turned-boat in a sea of greenery.

A sea of divine fertility.

With a skillful curl the two fingers delve deeper, pressing up against your gummy walls. Against your better judgment, you whine, loud and bawdy. His touch soothes, but then it stings. It makes you want to peel yourself open and step out of your skin so that you may subject it to a vigorous washing. It makes you despise the scent of flowers. It makes you fear the sound of the bell as it tolls unfailingly every single day. It makes you wish you’d never opened your mouth to respond to his words all those weeks ago.

Tears slip from your lash line. “Stop… Please stop…”

“Perhaps this is that same story made modern. Perhaps you were sculpted specially for me and I for you.” A third finger joins the other two working you open. Paper-pale skin is coated in brilliant vermillion, the very color of ardent desire. “Perhaps we are destined to fall together, born anew in someplace purer…”

The slow, steady drag of his fingers is more tempting than the ripe redness between your thighs, and you force yourself to gaze sidelong at the soup sitting abandoned on his desk. He plucks at each of your tangled, dewy strings, unraveling them with graceful strokes, and you’re pulled along on the blissfully uncomfortable current, treading between someplace grounded in reality and fantasy.

From above, at the bird’s eye view, you have become a garden for Rollo’s twisted whimsy.

You return to yourself when he eases his fingers out, stalling for a silent beat, before he thrusts them back in in one fluid motion. It punches the air from your lungs, has you throwing your head back with a weepy howl. He watches this with fierce scrutiny, curious at a clinical level.

“You’re beautiful,” he admits, spreading his fingers inside you. “My world. My panacea. My angel.”

“No… No, no.” You sob, your chest heaving with every wail. You can smell yourself on the air, the sharp scents of iron and sweat. Your pussy weeps blood, devastated at the hands of a monster, and yet it can’t stop affixing itself to him. A mold meant to suit his design. “Please… Please take it out.”

A shadow of contemplation passes over Rollo’s flushed countenance and then he’s reaching over to dry your tears, dabbing at your face with his handkerchief. “You’re okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore, right?”

You shake your head in protest rather than respond, chewing your bottom lip to shreds. A feeble whine slips through and you arch into him when his thumb presses down into your clit and prods at your hood. It happens all too fast. You tighten and loosen all at once, your mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back. The sheets are soaked through and properly soiled now, but that fact doesn’t lessen the seismic ecstasy that drapes itself over you like a veil. Your vision whites out and you fall, fall, fall through the waning vestiges.

Your heart drops into your stomach at the realization.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“You’ve done well.” He slides his fingers out, and the gooey squelching wrings a shudder from you. This time he grants you one of his rare smiles—the authentic, sincere kind—while he presses the pads of his fingers to his upturned lips, dyeing himself in your essence. You blink through encroaching tears, an ocean that obscures your vision and fuzzies his figure.

His fingers dig into the plush pudge of your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles along your adductors. You open yourself again, involuntarily blossoming in this garden of iniquity.

“Good,” he praises again, whisper-soft. “You’re only permitted to be this way with me. Anyone else would simply tarnish your sweetness. They’d take advantage of your ability to cleanse even the foulest of filth. But I…”

Rollo, still clothed and now libidinous in his impatience, fumbles to pull himself free. His throbbing erection presses against your stomach, the final piece to force this puzzle to completion.

“I will always lay myself at your altar.”

You beg him not to, but every objection goes unheard. His hips connect with yours; he’s holding back, if only just barely, pressing onwards slowly, his breath coming in huffs and grunts. To savor it. To know the feeling firsthand and engrave it into his very being, from his fingers to his toes. To immerse himself in the red rain of a shackled angel.

To color a picturesque paradise in cardinal sin.

Just beyond the windows of Eden, swathed in midnight luminescence, a glorious city set aflame burns bright, overtaken by fiery flowers.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

Hello! I'm back with another chapter of my Feyd-Rautha/Reader arranged marriage series.

AO3 link here for full fic: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 5 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

Side post that has some of my headcanons for how I interpret Feyd-Rautha's own relationship to his sexuality: Hello, Friend - So I've been working on a Feyd-Rautha/Reader... (tumblr.com)

This fic and this chapter are 18+ up only. Tags, content warning, and full chapter below the cut

Tags/CW list: rape/noncon; graphic depictions of violence; dubious consent; arranged marriage; forced pregnancy; nature versus nurture; implied/referenced child abuse; implied/referenced sexual assault; implied/referenced incest; first time; rough sex; oral sex; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; blood kink; pain kink; sadomasochism; period sex; problematic smut; inappropriate misuse of BDSM; slow burn emotionally but the exact opposite of a slow burn phyiscally

CHAPTER FOUR: A BLOODY GASH

You're fertile.  You’ve never had any reason to believe otherwise.  This union is contingent on giving him children–at least one son, and as many attempts as necessary to get there ( and you desperately hope that you’ll only need that first one.  You don’t want to raise a daughter in this place, amongst these people .)

So you’re horrified when you wake up the following morning to blood smeared between your legs, staining your chemise that rode up to your hips when you were sleeping, and leaving a smear on the sheets below when you move.

No.  No.  You pull up the hem of your chemise and stare at your inner thighs as if just looking will change the outcome.  Feyd-Rautha came inside of you four times in two days for nothing .  He’ll be furious.  He’ll question your very biology.  He’ll have you examined as thoroughly and cruelly as possible.

You scramble, trying to cover yourself, wondering what you can even do next when Idrisa comes in with fresh water and coffee.

To her credit, she doesn't drop the tray when her eye line goes directly to your bleeding crotch for the few seconds it’s still visible.

“I knew my time for it was coming up, I just didn't think it would,” you say to yourself as much as her and come to meet her gaze.

She glances back down out of respect, but the awkward tension hangs between the two of you for a moment.

“Do you…” you start, embarrassment flushing your face and neck, “do you have anything for it?”  You have no idea how menstrual care even works on Geidi Prime.  You’d just assumed that it wouldn’t be an issue for another ten months.

She composes herself again immediately.  “Why yes, of course, Na-Baroness.  I apologize for my negligence.”  Before you can tell her there's nothing to apologize for, she adds, “I'll help you get cleaned up first.”

“That’s alright, I can do it,” you tell her as you wonder for a moment who she served before that she’d assume you want her to clean between your legs when you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

She inclines her head further.  “Thank you, Na-Baroness.  I’ll be back in just a moment.”  

As soon as she’s out the door you’re up and walking briskly to the bathroom. 

You’ll need to have the sheets changed.

It’s only been two days, you think, washing between your legs.  This doesn’t mean anything bad .  When he asks for you, you can just explain the situation and try again in a few days.  Until then…until then…   For a moment you draw a blank, before remembering a conversation you had a few years ago with a slightly older friend when you asked her if husbands still desired their wives when their wives were bleeding.

“ They honestly just want something warm, soft, and wet to bury themselves in, ” she’d told you matter-of-factly.  “ So most men just use their wife’s mouths .”

“ What do you mean? ” you’d asked, fairly certain you had an idea what she was talking about but still more willing to briefly embarrass yourself by asking than remain ignorant.

“ You know what goes on between a man’s legs, right? ” she’d asked in turn.

“ Of course ,” you’d said, a little offended that she’d think you so naive. 

“ When you’re bleeding and he still wants you to please him, put your mouth there instead, ” she’d told you.  “ Like he’s burying himself inside your mouth instead of your canal.  You can’t make babies that way, of course, but they often don’t care about that .   You can’t really make babies during your monthly courses anyway. ”

You wonder how she reacted when she found out who you’d be marrying.  You never got the chance to ask and assume, like many young women and their parents, that she was relieved that she wasn’t the one hand-picked for him. 

You also haven’t done that to him yet, nor any other man, for that matter, and you’re sure your lack of skill will show.  How are you meant to take the entire thing in your mouth when you can barely fit it where it’s meant to go?  What are you supposed to do with your teeth?  It also just seems somehow more daunting and personal than just having inside of you in the traditional manner.  

He’ll be aggressive with it, like he is in everything else. 

You can’t stop thinking about it as you brush your teeth and hair and try to ignore the discomfort in your lower belly before you hear a click and the door to your quarters opening.

Idrisa’s back with a basket made of some kind of black synthetic material; it’s covered to protect its contents from passing view.  You could kiss her for that, you think, and she starts unpacking.

She pulls out what look like thick handkerchiefs, going to your bathroom to stack them neatly on the countertop.  She also hands you a canister that you open to find a handful of circular tablets.

“They’re not as strong as what I left for your wedding night,” she says, “and they won’t put you to sleep, but they should suffice if you need them.”

You’d chalked up your cramps to nerves but now that you have your answer the symptoms couldn’t have been more obvious.  “Thank you, I think I will,” you tell her as you think about how you’ll likely be expected to join your new family, if one could call them that, for breakfast again.  The thought makes you want to crawl back under the covers.

“Can you also please tell Feyd-Rautha that I apologize for missing breakfast but that I'm feeling unwell this morning and wouldn't want to be poor company in my condition?” you ask.

Idrisa hesitates, nervous.  You realize that she's thinking, You know that your husband finds me far more disposable than he finds you, right?  He could easily kill and replace me and no one would care.  You also realize that she can’t and won’t say no to you.  But just that look reminds you that as frightening as this fortress is to you, it’s much worse for her.  You haven’t seen Feyd-Rautha kill outside of the arena yet, but you also barely know him; killing people who displease him over minor inconveniences, especially if they’re low-born and low-ranking, could be a common occurrence for him.  The Harkonnens didn’t earn their reputation for nothing.

“Unless you think they won't notice if I’m even there,” you add, thinking.  The Baron couldn't care less if he never has a conversation with you again, and outside of the marriage bed, Feyd-Rautha doesn't appear to have any real plans for you.  “I could just…stay here and if Feyd-Rautha has any questions he can ask them.”

Idrisa’s shoulders had been locked and tense but appear to relax just a little at your words.  “I can make a plate for you and bring it back here,” she says, already knowing your preference.  Given Geidi Prime’s incredible wealth and lack of natural resources other than fuels and metals there are imported fruits that you’d never had before coming here that you’re certain you’ll never get sick of.

“Sounds perfect, thank you,” you tell her, and take advantage of the new medication when she leaves.

When she returns with another tray for you, she’s accompanied by two other girls holding a fresh arrangement of sheets; the hems and necklines of their garb are cut a little different from hers and they look younger, perhaps the same age as your little sister.  You wonder if the difference in the way they’re dressed suggests rank?  They keep their heads down and don’t acknowledge you other than a silent curtsy before stripping your old sheets and setting down a new spread.  You look at them for a moment, wondering if it’s at the Baron’s insistence that no staff ever look a Harkonnen royal in the eye or if this rule’s been going on for generations when Idrisa snaps you out of your thoughts.

“I have a tea prepared for you as well, Na-Baroness,” she says, gesturing towards the tray that she’s set on your end-table and removing the cloche covering your plate.  “It’s not medicine strictly speaking but it has soothing properties.”

You turn and look at her.  She doesn’t look much older than you, but the same can be said of most of the female slaves.  Are they banished to where they won’t be easily seen when they reach a certain age?  What’s the life expectancy?  It feels more than a little insensitive to ask right now, so you just let them work as you take a seat at your end-table and take a sip of your tea.

After breakfast is over and you’ve found a comfortable position sitting up in bed, propped up by the pillows and headboards, you read a bit more on the Harkonnen lineage.  The more you read, the more you understand why Father always insisted that Geidi Prime is no place for a woman.  Women in high places, you find, have in history been assassinated more often than the men, or kidnapped to use as collateral and tortured.  You wonder if that’s why you saw so few at the wedding and reception, why they seemed so hidden out of view even while accompanying their high-ranking husbands.

You’re reasonably certain that your new husband’s concerned enough with his image as heir to the Harkonnen throne not to tarnish the alliance your marriage has created, that even if he doesn’t really know you and may never love you–you’re reasonably certain that he’s incapable of feeling such an emotion–he’ll still make sure to protect what he sees as his.  His uncle will likely be another story.  

The door opens unannounced and you look up, expecting Idrisa only to find Feyd-Rautha letting himself in without a word and closing the door behind him.  He doesn’t speak at first, but everything in his demeanor tells you that he did in fact notice your absence and wants an explanation.

You compose yourself.  There’s no need to panic.  “Good afternoon, husband.  To what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask, tone as light and cool as the weather would be on your home planet right now. 

He leans against the door as he folds his arms across his chest and looks you over.  “I missed you at breakfast,” he says.

“Yes, my apologies.  I’m not feeling well,” you tell him.  

He clearly doesn’t believe you.  You don’t seem feverish , he seems to think with his unimpressed gaze.  You seem fine .  “Still getting adjusted to the atmosphere on Geidi Prime?” he asks, and for a foolish moment you hope that he’s giving you an excuse.  Maybe he thinks you’re avoiding him because of last night, and you’re content to let him think that.

“Yes, husband,” you tell him.  

“That’s a shame,” he says, crossing over to your bed and sitting at the edge of it.  “It occurred to me last night that whoever taught you close-range maneuvers didn’t do their job right.  You should’ve been able to evade me.”

You wrinkle your brow and don’t have it in you to hide your insulted glare; your House’s military is considered a force to be reckoned with and a slight against your training is a slight against your House and your father himself.  “Did you want me to evade you?” you ask.

He seems amused by your sudden sharpness, and you realize that he’d wanted to hit a nerve.  He knew what he was implying and got the precise reaction he’d been hoping for.  “That’s not the point, wife.  You said yourself that you were out of practice and as soon as you’re feeling better I intend to rectify that.  Your cute little boot-dagger won’t serve you any good if you can’t correctly use it.”  

He places his hand on your leg, trailing it along your thigh and stopping just shy of your apex, his thumb brushing against it through the fabric of your skirt.  You give a sharp inhale that makes him smile.  You start to close your legs but his hand, now cupping your inner thigh, holds one open enough for him to continue to fondle as he pleases.

His hand stays there for a moment, stays over the light material of your skirt even as you're sure the soft flesh of your inner thigh heats his palm, as flushed as you feel under his touch.  He leans in, inhales as he leans over you and sniffs your hair.  It’s not even the first time he’s done it.  You wonder if he finds your hair to be a sort of forbidden fruit; something he can’t say he likes because to do so would disrespect Harkonnen hairlessness, but still something he finds fascinating or even enviable.  You’re not sure yet whether his lack of it is down to genetics or grooming but you assume the former, if it affects everyone including those who wouldn’t have such prime access to constant shaving.

But then he fully brings his hand between your legs, fingertips rubbing up against you and you flinch.  

Now?  Is he going to try and fuck me right here and now?   You shift, trying to hide what you’re sure is a look of panic on your face, trying to scramble for an excuse as Feyd-Rautha rubs a whimper out of you.

In the moments he does and you freeze, he watches your face a moment longer and then something shifts in his eyes, and he pulls back.

“I’ll call on you soon,” he says.  There’s something satisfied, almost smug in his tone.  He doesn’t wait for a response from you before he gets up and leaves, and you wonder what caused his departure.

Idrisa comes in a minute later with more tea for you.  “The Na-Baron seems mollified,” she says.  “He’s taken the news well.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

You catch Idrisa furrowing her brow-line, incredulous even with her head bowed before she can smooth over her expression into one of polite indifference.

“He doesn’t need to know yet,” you tell her.  “He said he’d call on me later.”

“My apologies for speaking boldly, Na-Baroness,” she says, “but the Na-Baron will still take you to bed tonight or whenever he decides is convenient.  Harkonnen men expect their wives to always be available to them, no matter how they’re feeling.”

You suppose you already knew this.  It certainly doesn’t help the gnawing feeling in your stomach even as the medicine Idrisa gave you has soothed the cramps for now.  

“It appears I can hold him off until after dinner, at least,” you finally say.  There’s that; you also appreciate having another meal without the Baron’s presence.

You wish you had someone you could talk to about this in which it wouldn’t feel weird to ask.  You look over at Idrisa.  She’s the only friend you’ve managed to make so far and while you don’t see that changing anytime soon, you haven’t forgotten that she keeps you company out of obligation.  You can’t be certain as to whether or not she actually likes you, or if she only tolerates you due to her heightened position within the Harkonnen Fortress as your personal attendant.  Still, she’s certainly better than no one to ask.  She takes your old mug and heads for the door.

“Idrisa,” you start.  She turns.  “You’ve…have you been with men before?”

She inclines her head in a polite nod.  “When it’s required of me,” she says.

Your second question dies in your mouth.  Oh.  Right .  Yet again you’re disgusted but can’t say you’re all that surprised.

And instead of asking for advice you’re struck by another thought.  “Has the Na-Baron ever…?” you start and she immediately shakes her head.

“Never, Na-Baroness,” she assures you.  “He has never been known to satiate himself that way with slaves.”

Are you being honest or telling me what I want to hear? you almost ask but spare her the indignity.  You’re reasonably certain that if Feyd-Rautha had taken advantage of her, he’d have gloated to you about it.  “Thank you,” you tell her.  You don’t want to know how men on Geidi Prime have abused her mouth.  “I was just curious.”

“Not at all, Na-Baroness,” she says.

As the hours tick by you wish you'd just told Feyd-Rautha your situation and gotten whatever awkward ensuing conversation over with.

In the evening Idrisa brings you dinner, more tea, and a glass of wine.  “The Na-Baron has given you two hours before expecting you in his bedchambers.”

You sigh.  “Thank you, Idrisa,” you tell her, not quite willing to add, you were right .  You eat, you have your tea, you bathe and clean your hair.  And in the remaining time that you have before you need to leave, you sip your wine. You’d be foolish to assume that it will truly settle your nerves, but it tastes nice. 

“I guess it’s time,” you say finally, looking at the timepiece on your nightstand.  “How angry do you think he’ll be?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Na-Baroness,” Idrisa says as she opens the door to lead you to your husband.  “He’s never been married nor been instructed to sire an heir before.”

When you get to his bedroom he’s already standing in the middle of it, wearing only black pants with a relaxed fit that suggests leisure, maybe sleep.  And here you hadn’t taken him as the kind of man to own pajamas.

He looks over your shoulder at Idrisa, who seems just as surprised to see him as you are even as she immediately lowers her head in deference.

“Dismissed,” he tells her, and she curtsies and scurries out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving the two of you alone and rather more dressed than you’ve been in this room.

You stand, awkwardly, playing with the sash to your robe as the two of you look at each other in silence.  Or rather, he stares at you and you look down, knowing what you’d rehearsed and still needing to force the words out.

“My apologies, husband, but it’s my time of month,” you finally manage.

“I know,” he says.  “I could smell it on you.  I could feel your rag in between your legs.”

Was that what he was doing?  You look up at his face and find nothing that you can really parse and pause, unsure what you could say to that, before you move on.

“I know it’s not ideal, but we can try again in a few days, and in the meantime,” you try to sound like you’re not as nervous as you are, fully aware that seduction was never something you learned, “I know that there are…other ways to satisfy you.”  A few days and we can resume trying to secure your firstborn .  

He gives a small smirk at the second part of your statement but comments only on the first.  “A few days?” he repeats, as if you’ve just said either the funniest or dumbest thing he’s heard all week.  “What makes you think I care to wait a few days?”

You’re not sure you heard him right.  “The blood,” you say slowly.  “I can’t control it.”

“You think a Harkonnen would be scared of a little blood?” he says.

You’re not sure what to say to that.  In hindsight, you’re not sure why you’d assumed that this man of all men would be too squeamish to fuck a bleeding woman.

“Strip down,” he says, after the seconds of silence that follow.  He sounds so casual as he says it, as if he just told you to have a seat.  You hesitate, still unsure if he’s being serious.

“Did you not understand me?” he prompts when seconds tick by and you haven’t moved.

“I do, husband,” say.  “But still, I have to warn you that it’ll make a mess.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone somehow light.  There’s an element of danger to it.  “You’re not the one who’ll have to clean up afterwards.”

Nor you , you think.  “So you want me in this state.”  You don’t phrase it as a question but he can hear the confusion in your voice.

The smirk never quite left his face but returns in full as he crosses the few steps over to you that leaves you close enough that you can feel his breath.  He takes your wrist and presses your hand to his groin–it’s rapidly filling out.

“What do you think?” he says.

You gasp, almost giving an incredulous laugh as you glance between his face and back down to his groin.  Harkonnen men are built differently, you suppose.  

You pull away enough to unravel your robe and step out of your slippers.  He doesn’t object to your garments being left on his floor instead of neatly tucked on his dresser, so you keep going, pulling your chemise over your shoulders, pulling down your undergarment and letting it slide down your legs, until you’re bared entirely for him.

He looks down at the blood that gathered in the kerchief lining the gusset of your undergarment as it hits the floor and you step out of it, and then he looks back at you.

“Hold your arms out like this, wrists together,” he says, extending his own to demonstrate.

He still doesn’t seem angry, his tone suggesting patience that you know he doesn’t have, but you hesitate before mimicking him.

“Very nice,” he says, and you bristle at his condescension as he half-circles you before heading for his armoire.  You turn around to watch him open it, and your jaw drops when you see what’s inside.

It’s lined with whips, rope, chains, knives, scalpels, collars, and other items you’ve never seen before but if this is in his bedroom then it must serve one particular purpose, either on himself whoever has the misfortune of being with him when he wants to use any of these devices.  

He glances over his shoulder and looks if anything delighted by your stunned reaction, the growing sense of dread.  “I didn’t say you could drop your arms,” he says, and turns back to pick out a length of black rope.

You suppose you ought to be grateful that he didn’t pick out any chains.

You watch as he loops an intricate tie binding your wrists.  He does it with such practiced ease he looks directly into your eyes as he does it.  You manage to hold his gaze in defiance even as your heart hammers in your chest and you’re scared of what’s going to happen next.  You know that, like a true Harkonnen, he likes your fear, but it hasn’t occurred to either of you yet that he also appreciates your fire.

“Get on all fours on the bed, pet,” he says, tone light and playful as much as his gravely timbre can make it.

You try to keep your eyes on him as much as possible, making sure he’s never fully out of your sightline as you get on the bed, squirming but managing to maneuver the position he wants while your wrists are bound.  He knows that you don’t trust him, and if anything that seems to elevate his excitement.  

Good girl, he seems to be thinking.  He looks you over, turning and sauntering so he can take a moment to gaze first at your naked profile, then at your backside.

You have to keep reminding yourself that he won’t do anything that will risk you being able to give him children as he turns away and pads over to his armoire.  For a moment you’re not sure if he’s trying to decide what he’d like to use, or if he’s purposefully biding his time to make you more nervous.  His fingertips seem to dance over the whips, then the chains.  He briefly touches the handle to one of his knives.

Not the scalpel.  Please not the scalpel.

You see it–corded leather.  A black whip with multiple knotted tails.  He takes it down from his display but leaves the armoire doors open–undoubtedly to keep reminding you of what else he could be and very likely will be doing to you in the future.

You think about the Bene Gesserit Litany and try to repeat it in your head as you consider the tool? the weapon? clutched in his fist.  At first glance the whip looks like the cat-of-nine-tails your brother-in-law seems so fond of.  However, when you shut your eyes, take a breath, and think of the words– fear is the mind-killer –you realize when you open your eyes again that what Feyd-Rautha’s holding is a lot smaller than a proper cat-of-nine-tails and the tails thicker.  You have no doubt that this is going to hurt, but it doesn’t look like it will rip you apart.

“What, what is this?  A punishment for bleeding? ” you finally ask, unable to handle the silence anymore and because that’s the only explanation you can imagine.

And yet Feyd-Rautha looks amused that you’d suggest it.  “It’s because I want to use it on you,” he says, as if any further explanation would be silly.  “Ever since I first saw you, I wondered what that pretty ass of yours would look like after I’d taken this to it.”  He holds up the device for emphasis.  “I wondered what noises you’d make.  I wanted to know what you’d look like with your wrists bound, naked and helpless in my bed.  What you’d look like squirming and bleeding.

“ Yesterday was a punishment,” he adds.  “This is just fun.”

For you, perhaps, you think.  It’s no matter; you’ll just have to prove that you can take whatever he dishes out.  You just have to decide whether it’s better or worse that he’s not doing this out of anger. 

“Are you scared, pet?” he asks.

“ No, ” you lie in the most adamant and dignified tone you can muster, and once again he acts like what you’ve said is cute.  He clicks his tongue.

“You mustn’t lie to me in bed, pet,” he says, approaching the bed again, his free hand skimming over your ribcage, your side, your hip, as he finally stands beside the bed, and ever-so-slowly draws the corded whip up and down the backs of your thighs.  The tassels brush gently against your skin and it feels perverse, the anticipation he’s building within you.  On his second pass you inhale sharply, shutting your eyes, hips twitching away from the device, and Feyd-Rautha chuckles at that.

“Relax,” he says.

Fuck you.  You know I can’t.  Just do it and get it over with , you want to tell him with your sharp exhale, and one second later he draws his hand back and brings the whip down.

You cry out, rocking forward, your entire body clenching up as much from shock as pain.  Nothing could really prepare you for this; his hand from the first night had been easier, more personal.  The individual cords spread out like a fractal tree, like cracks in a block of ice fanning out. 

The second time is less sharp, more of a thud that reverberates through your body, the impact reverberating in your pulse.  Tears prick up at the corners of your eyes and for a moment you can’t breathe.  It would figure that this man has used this device often enough that he knows how to inflict different flavors of pain depending on whether he’s putting the movement in his wrist or his forearm.  You clench your fists, waiting for the next lash, and then the next.

Your nerves are on fire.  You can barely think, barely focus on anything but the exquisite pain on impact, the sharp sting of the air against your impacted flesh, the sweet moments you adjust, finding your breath, before he comes down again.  You don’t scream, not after the first blow, but the tears forming at the corners of your eyes start trickling down your face and then drop directly onto your forearms the covers below you when you bow your head.  

You don’t know how long he keeps going, don’t keep count.  The pain starts to dull but the intensity becomes overwhelming as he compounds on every lash.  Your ears are ringing.  You taste iron at the back of your throat.  The worst part is that you find, to your horror, your nipples feel stiff.  You start to feel wet.

It has to be a fear response.  This isn’t enjoyable .  It’s intense, it’s painful, and you can’t help but feel shame lance through you that your body would react this way.

Please.  I can’t take any more , you want to tell him, but opt instead to whimper through your clenched teeth.

At that moment the whip comes down and it sends you toppling forward, finally collapsing.  The covers are soft against your tear-stained cheek.  You shut your eyes, panting, waiting for him to haul you back up and continue the process.

But nothing happens.  You don’t try to look behind you and hope that he’s done.  You just take a rattling breath and listen for the sound of the whip and its tendrils slicing through air, and it doesn’t come.  

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” Feyd-Rautha says, the first time he’s spoken in minutes, and you open your eyes and  turn your head to see him twist the coils of his whip and head over to the armoire.

“Come on,” he says over his shoulder.  “Back into position, pet.”  

You grit your teeth and force yourself back up on your hands and elbows.  “Good,” he adds softly, and it’s embarrassing how one single word of praise makes you flush, sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.  This shouldn’t have the effect on you that it does–maybe it’s because now that it’s over, you feel lighter, almost dazed.  All of your muscles had tightened into coils, but now you feel pliant to the point that your limbs feel rubbery.  You’re exhausted.  You’re hurt.  You don’t know what else he has on the agenda for you tonight but you just hope it doesn’t involve another one of his whips or ropes.

He sets the device back in the armoire and turns to face you.  He looks at your flushed, tear-stained face and smiles, mouth-closed before approaching the bed, his cock hard in his pants, and even though part of you wants nothing more than to melt into the bed and to get some relief for your stinging backside, you know he’s still going to chase his own pleasure.

‘He’ll want your mouth,’ you remember.  

You won’t wait for him to force it or grind your face into his privates.  If that’s what he wants, you’ll get there first, and so you drop your head and fumble as you reach with bound wrists for the fly of his pants.

You’re focused on what’s directly in your eyeline, so you don’t see his brief look of surprise, but you hear his voice, sounding pleased.  “Let me help you with that, pet,” he says, pulling away long enough to pull his pants down, stepping out of them.

It’s even more daunting when it’s this close to your face, but he steps back in, cradling your jaw, and you lean in and lick the tip of him.

For a few seconds that’s all you know to do, to lick around him, feeling the ridges and veins under your tongue.  It’s all the verification he could possibly need that you’ve never done this before, and that spurs him on, cradling your head in one large hand as the other guides himself past your lips and into your mouth.

It confirms what you suspected; he’s too big to take all the way and thankfully, doesn’t try to make you.  

Not yet, a part of you thinks.  You try to breathe, try not to get your teeth on him, try to relax and close your eyes as he controls the pace.  It’s easy enough at first; far from the rutting of the past couple of nights.  It doesn’t occur to you that, by his standards anyway, he’s being gentle with you.  Doesn’t occur to you to wonder why.  You just try to keep up as your backside and the backs of your thighs sting like hell and you hope Idrisa will have some sort of lotion for it when you get back to your quarters.

Feyd-Rautha appears to have yet another reason to like your hair, it seems, as he threads his fingers through it, guiding you onto him in slowly greater increments until he’s suddenly over halfway in and you freeze, nearly gagging, forgetting how to breathe.

He holds you in place for a moment, just long enough for your eyes to widen as you glance up at him and his heavy-lidded eyes and chest heaving with arousal.  He waits until you’re about to struggle and tear away from him before he relinquishes your hair and steps away, pulling out.  You take a deep breath, gulping the air down.  

“Stay right there,” he says, and settles in behind you, stroking your hindquarters like you’re a horse that he’s trying to calm down.  Will he put a saddle on you next?  You exhale hard through your nose, mouth pursing, waiting for what he’ll do next.  Will he mark up the stinging raw skin he’s already flogged with his hand?

Fine.  Fuck you again.  I can take whatever you’ve got.  I can handle it , you want to tell him out of spite.   You sense him shift, dipping his head, and despite your steeled nerves can’t help but gasp and feel something flutter in your core when you feel his breath against your lower back.

What exactly is he–? is all you have time to think before he dives in.

You jolt and wriggle in shock as he licks over one of your growing welts; you can’t quite tell but wouldn’t be surprised if he broke skin.  However, it’s how his tongue glides over your backside before shifting his weight to your folds that sends waves of shock, revulsion, and excitement as you cry out, stunned.

He’s licking my wounds .

You’re trying to wrap your head around how salacious it is that his lips and tongue alternate between licking the impacted skin on your buttocks and the backs of your thighs and dipping his tongue inside of you.  He has your hips firmly in place, which serves him well given that you’re torn between recoiling away from the heat of his mouth and wanting to press back against it.  You can feel him smirk at the sounds of your shocked moans.

He pulls away long enough to turn you on your back and you wince at the impact before you see him slide down along the bed and continue the onslaught.  You can hardly believe it as he grabs your still-stinging buttocks and buries his face against your bleeding pussy.

This is disgusting , part of you thinks.  Another part of you can hardly understand what’s happening.  In all your years you’ve never met a man who didn’t recoil hearing about monthly courses.  You’ve never heard of anyone wanting to taste a…a bloody gash .

Your wrists are still bound, and you grip onto the pillows above your head as he lifts your thighs to rest over his shoulders and dives back in, tongue pressing inside of you.  

It feels incredible.   You’d prefer it if it didn’t.  More than anything else, you don’t want to be enjoying this, wish the continuous whines and moans he’s drawing out of you were insincere, but he can feel as well as you do that you mean every sound.  You, Lady Y/N of the powerful and dignified house of Y/H, are getting your bloody pussy licked by the ruthless barbarian Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and Great Mother and every forgotten old god, you’re enjoying every visceral and shocking moment of it.

He knows it, too, the smug bastard.  He probably feels even more powerful like this, on his belly and with his face between your legs, than he did when he was tanning your hide.

He raises one hand from your hip to your breast, giving one of your nipples a cruel pinch, smirking against your slit as you whimper in protest, and continues.  His nose presses and rubs against your bud in the onslaught and you finally admit to yourself that any last vestiges of resistance you might have had has caved when you squirm, rocking your hips upwards and desperately wishing that your wrists were free so you could press his face closer into you.

He keeps up his pace, bringing you as close to the edge as possible without reaching it until finally, mercifully, he shifts his mouth to your bud, his fingers replacing his tongue inside of you.  Your unrestrained cries fill the room, spurring him on, and then the force of it hits you as he brings you over the precipice for the first time.  It feels like it comes in shockwaves, especially as he keeps going through it all.

You’re still pulsing and squirming against his tongue when he stops, raising himself up and leaning over you.  Inky, sticky blood coats the lower part of his face, from his chin to his nostrils, and you’re a little surprised at how the sight doesn’t alarm you as much as it probably should, especially since that’s your blood covering his face.

There are far worse ways he could be smeared with your blood .  You gasp, still, at the striking color against the pallor of his face, reminded of seeing him in the arena. 

He presses damp, open-mouthed kisses against your stomach, your ribcage, your breasts and collarbone, as if to mark you with it.  Finally he sits up, bringing your legs over his as he guides himself into you with his bloodied fingers.

He stays upright as he pulls you onto him, and you watch his face as he looks down where you’re joined, his groan like a rumble in his chest as he sees himself pumping in and out of your bleeding pussy.  He won’t last long, you realize.  He’s been holding himself back from fucking you into the mattress since he visited you in your chambers hours ago. 

He curves in then, bracing one hand above your head to grip your still-bound wrists as his other hand grabs your hip to keep you stable.  You realize what he’s about to do a split second before it can happen.

He’s going to kiss you with that bloody mouth .

You tamp down on the revulsion of it and the coppery smell, again refusing to let him shock you or give you anything you can’t take and move in first, leaning up and capturing his mouth in a kiss.  

He groans into it, hips pumping, tongue invading your mouth as he speeds up, going hard, hips snapping into you.  He’s relentless; this would be agonizing if he hadn’t worked you open and pliant with his lips and tongue and even still, it veers on the edge of being overwhelming.  Your whimpers and cries only encourage him.

And then he finally comes, burying his face in the crux of your neck and biting down, not hard enough to draw blood but enough that it will leave a bruise later.

For a moment the two of you stay that way, then he releases your wrists and sinks down onto you, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he pulls out and takes a moment to catch his breath.  After a moment he raises himself back up on his forearms, pauses, and takes in the sight of your face and your lips stained red before reaching for your wrists again and untying the rope; once freed you notice that your skin’s been chafed rosy but still fully intact.  

He gets up, and you watch the lines of his legs, the slope and curve of his buttocks, the taper from his shoulders to his waist as he gets up and sets the rope back in the armoire before finally closing it shut.

Guess he’s done for the night .

But is he going to send me back right away? you wonder, turning to your side to watch the way he moves.  It takes some effort.  You feel as depleted as a rung-out damp rag.

He approaches the bed and wordlessly holds out his hand, and once you take it guides you to your feet and leads you into this bathroom.

Like his bedroom, it’s larger than yours.

He doesn’t let you wash your blood off your body; he wants it to remain on you until it dries and peels off on its own.  Instead he wipes his face, rinses and cleans out his mouth, and gives you a cup of water to do the same.  He wipes off in between his legs and then yours, quiet and strangely peaceful.  He takes another cloth and wets it, and then grabs a small bottle out of a drawer.  “Turn around, hands on the counter,” he says.

Fairly certain you know what he’s about to do, you acquiesce.  “Did you draw blood?” you ask over your shoulder.

He shakes his head.  “Not this time,” he says.  “Wasn’t trying to.”  And then he surprises you by getting down on one knee.

You give a small gasp.  It just seems…lewd?  Subservient?  And tired and sore as you are, you can’t help the twinge you feel in between your legs as he gingerly presses the cloth against your reddened skin.  You grip the countertop tighter as he opens the bottle of what you can only assume is ointment because after a moment his fingertips are smeared in a cool balm that offers such sweet relief you drop your head, trying to hold yourself together when your legs feel like they’re about to give out and you can feel Feyd-Rautha’s breath so close to the sensitive skin of your backside.

He seems to be applying the ointment to the worst of the welts, starting in silence and then adding, “You’re sensitive, but you have a decent pain tolerance.  I like that.”

You huff a laugh.  I bet you say that to all the girls, you almost tell him, and immediately think that that’s probably not true.  If it weren’t for the fact that he’s tending to your wounds you’d assume that he’d never do anything like this.  Something tells you that this small act of kindness isn’t to be taken lightly or for granted.

Once he seems satisfied with his work he gets back up, sneaking a glance of your face in the mirror.

Is he thinking about how much you’ve already changed since you’ve met? Since you’ve married?  When you see your reflection you don’t see the same person you did a week ago.  Of course he didn’t know you a week ago.  He barely knows you now.  Still, when your eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you with something almost close to affection before he leaves the bathroom.

“Stay the night,” he says when you walk over to your abandoned clothes so you can gather them up, get dressed, and return to your chambers.

You look over at him.

“I’ll want to sample you again first thing in the morning,” he explains, “so it’s more convenient if you remain here.”

You huff, torn between incredulity and amusement.  “Taking advantage of the situation while we still can, are we?” you ask.

“I doubt it’ll come again for another ten months,” he says, and then strides, still naked, for the door.  He opens it, and a few words of battle-language later he shuts again.  He sees your confused expression and explains, “Your slave was still waiting for you.  I told her to go.”  He tilts his head in the direction of his bed, and after a moment you follow.  It appears that he doesn’t even want you to pull your undergarment back on.

As soon as you’re under the covers with him he tugs down your end of it to get one last look at your marked chest.  And after he’s looked his fill, he reaches for a switch that turns off the lights and even as the two of you can’t quite see each other, you still find yourselves on your sides facing one another.

“I wake up earlier than you’re probably used to and I’m a light sleeper.  Your slave assured me that you don’t snore,” he says.

“Not that I’m aware of,” you tell him.

“Once you stop bleeding I’m going to start having you train in my Halls,” he adds.  “I was serious earlier.”

“But for the next few days I’m chained to this bed.”

“That could be arranged,” he says.  “In any case you weren’t complaining when I was licking your cunt earlier.”

He won’t see your flush, but he must know that it’s there.  “So… is it safe to assume that none of this is…” you try to find the right words, “typical?  For a man, I mean.” And in quite possibly the biggest understatement you’ve ever made, “You’re not a normal man.”

You’ve adjusted enough to the dark to see his smirk.  “I think you've known that since before we met, Y/N,” he says.  And after a moment he lays his head, settling in and getting comfortable.  He doesn’t say another word to you that night, just closes his eyes and within a couple of minutes his breath slows.

It’s hard to imagine being able to let your guard down enough with this man to sleep beside him, even if he falls asleep first.  Like sleeping beside a wild animal.  

Sleep does come to you, though, after long minutes watching him sleep, waiting for him to wake up and scare you, lunge for you, and it doesn’t happen.

You turn to your other side, facing away from him then, and the only signal you get that he’s not entirely asleep is that as you start to drift off yourself, he reaches one arm to pull you in closer to him.

Tag list: @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @richardslady121

Let me know if you'd also like to be tagged!

[ghoultrifle]

aurora noticed her pads were being stolen before she got the chance to use them herself and thought phantom was doing some weird five minute crafts things with them but no, phantom just wasnt given any menstrual stuff that worked for him (“i am NOT putting THAT up there!” and also swiss knowing that with how much he forgets to use the bathroom he’d absolutely accidentally give himself toxic shock syndrome) so instead of asking someone to buy him pads he just stole hers

ahh some trans ghouls on this fine tuesday evening <33 cw for menstruation !!

anon this is such a sad ask, i keep thinking about it and feeling so bad for ant. not only was he summoned in the wrong body but there was no one there to support him through the woes of uteri, unlike with aurora :((

she confronts him in a regrettably aggressive tone, demanding he show her what he's been doing with them. when he breaks down crying and apologising she immediately switches to Big Sister mode though. she takes him through all the different products and how they work. she rates them on lots of different scales like dysphoria, potential sensory issues, effectiveness, eco-friendliness. he settles on pads (and definitely puts them sticky-side to his pussy the first time sdkalfjhasdf).

him and rory are just best buddies and they always hold space for each other. just- them <33

[botanikos]

Holy crap bae what is the story of the iron infusion? If you're comfortable talking about it! Am so glad you're still here!!!

Sure, I'm comfortable with it! It's not my only brush with death, just my most intense one!

cw for menstruation mention!

☆

To start, among my myriad of issues, I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polcystic Ovary Syndrome). This means I have a hormonal disorder and get cysts on my ovaries. Additionally, and ultimately how we found out about the worsening of the PCOS, I had extremely irregular menstrual cycles. So following a rather harsh 32-day cycle with pain in which i described as "wolverine gutting me repeatedly even though there's nothing left," and a failed trip to the hospital for aid, it was determined that due to these excessive cycles, I was severely anemic! Borderline blood transfusion, anemic. Yaaay!

Fast-forward! I was scheduled to undergo 2 rounds of Injectafer, an iron infusion to help get my levels back on track ( at the time, I wasn't capable of holding iron or producing enough of it ). The first session was fine! I sat with my phone and my mom and watched some Netflix.

Second infusion. . . They hooked me up, I got comfortable, and opened my book. I had enough time to look at my mom and said, "Hey, I'm sure it's just my anxiety, but I felt a small pain in my arm. Probably just the needle, but my chest feels cold and—" !! Everything went black, and I couldn't breathe. I could distantly hear people around me, but I couldn't move or see or breathe. My mom says I flushed red, and then all the blood left my body in an instant. They apparently even started to pull out a crash cart.

But they stopped the infusion and immediately replaced it with Benadryl and whatever steroid they used. The coming-back was ROUGH, and they forced the medicine into me quickly, so it BURNED.

Anyway, the staff there now know me by name; pretty sure it scared the shit out of them coz it doesn't happen so often and was really supposed to be an incredibly low chance of that happening.~

SO YEA, I am allergic to Injectafer! 1 of 2 known medical allergies! BUT I MAKE A STABLE AMOUNT OF IRON ON MY OWN NOW !!!!!!!!!!!! YAY ME!!!!!!

[welcometomonoworld]

transmasc bi-han hcs because i can!!!

also slight cw for (brief) references of things like surgery, medications, menstrual stuff, etc aka what you get from hc a character as ftm

Listen. Listen closely please. I love Bi-Han. even though he stinks, i appreciate his character so i’ll do what any normal person does and project >.o

• I feel like he would start transitioning in his mid-teens (I did too, middle school is strange like that)

• Of course, he’d probably be in denial. One of those “it’s a passing thought, nothing more” kind of situations

• But nuh-uh, it’s real this time

• Probably didn’t tell anyone for a while until nearing adulthood

• Because we all know he has trust issues of some kind

• ANYWAYS xd

• Cut his hair slightly at some point, but gave up and kept it long to better match kuai liang

• I like to think that he hasn’t committed to top surgery yet, he just works out so much the muscle flattens out

• He has, at some point, used bandages to bind due to lack of materials (I have done this too, please invest in a proper binder!!!)

• Another thing is that because of T, he’s quite temperamental since that is a side effect

• (On T or not, he probably has always been temperamental— i am too even not on T yet xd)

• He probably has the gel variant since needles stink

• The rapid growth of muscle? boy is his ego up in the sky (he probably wouldn’t mention it though)

• Consequences? Sore throat, constantly

• He had a habit of making his voice deeper on purpose, and hasn’t let it go since starting T

• That and shaving frequently. Any scent bothers him immensely so he has to fix it as soon as possible

• Still struggles to shave his face though, we have all seen the stubble and ingrown hair under that mask

• Probably used to never wear tank tops when young, and now he takes full advantage of it

• Finally, comfortable clothing

• Except sometimes it’s too small and he has to buy more xd

• In terms of him coming out, it probably doesn’t go normally-ish

• Of course, Kuai and Tomas were first to know

“I am a man.”

“…yeah, that is very obvious.”

“What.”

• Has not been discreet about it, it’s so very clear

• But he doesn’t stress it o.o

• Bonus: On the ace spectrum (same)

• I know that in older games, he was meant to be with Sareena, so another bonus is them t4t (again, i am projecting)

augh. save me transmasc bi-han save me. a personal top fav headcanon

[dragonagecompanions]

In the spirit of the last reaction you posted (chronic pain), could you do the DAI Companions reacting to an afab Inquisitor that has an extremely rough menstrual cycle? Often feeling extremely ill, with pain that leaves them wanting to be kinda huntched over all day or even just cutrled in bed. Yet the Inquisitor is still trying to push through as to not waist/loose time?

–🦊🐦‍⬛

I do not want you to think I ignored this anon, but I cannot answer this. TW/CW: Unpleasant medical stuff

I am only three months recovered from a total hysterectomy, in my thirties, because of these issues. Thought it was normal for me. Turns out it was cancer. LADIES AND PERSONS WITH UTERUSES (uteri?) Listen to your bodies. Heavy bleeding and pain to the floor and being so sick you can't function might be your normal but they are not normal.

I ignored the symptoms for two decades because I didn't want to waste people's time or lose time of my own. It almost killed me. Please get checked. Advocate for yourself. If that is hard, bring someone who will advocate for you. Be safe. Be well.

Mod Fereldone

[writernopal]

I dunno how ur writeblr prompts work cuz I don't go here but I have a question that may be fun for you to share on.

What drugs exist in Oepus? Tell us about the fantasy zaza pls LOL

MY BROTHER HELLO! Despite not going here, you picked the perfect day to ask this question because, around these parts, it's Worldbuilding Wednesday, so this is on brand 😎

There are a few that are mentioned in AASOAF, like starshoot, tobacco, chewing leaves, and opium but for this one, I'll talk about a few that haven't been mentioned!

CW: drugs, drug use

Bricklespine and Lily Of The Valley

These are both poisons (the first fictional, the second real) which doesn't suit the question...for anyone other than Elves. AASOAF's Elves have innate poison resistance to plants, so consuming, smoking, or otherwise ingesting/using said poisons does not have the effect it would on a Human or any other race. Instead, they use them as recreational stimulants, particularly these two. Both must be eaten to obtain any sort of high and are usually used as additives or toppings to different foods. Because of this, it takes a while for them to hit, but when they do, they are quite strong and long-lasting. Users of these two, in particular, report a high similar to that of cocaine or heroin.

Shine

A syrup-like extract derived from the rovos plant, an invasive species similar to dandelions and other types of weeds. They have beautiful white flowers that have a light, sweet smell and tend to branch out in propagation growth style. These plants can be found all over Oepus, with the exception of very dry areas, and it's not the flowers or pollen that the drug is derived from; it's the unopened buds. When crushed, they secrete a type of oil/essence that can be fermented with sugar and a bit of vinegar to form a kind of paste. This paste has a luster similar to egg whites, hence the name, and is wiped on the underside of the user's tongue. It's considered a "downer" type and can cause nerve damage/death with repeated use. Heavy addicts will usually lose their tongues and teeth, often becoming mute, and may experience other dental/oral issues as a result.

Ptham

A particular 'favorite' of The Pale Kings, this is actually a type of pain medication. It is widely used by the Humans of Oepus when performing medical procedures like bloodletting or tooth extraction and also to relieve menstrual cramps. It has a natural stimulant quality, similar to adrenaline, which helps the body absorb the pain-relieving qualities of it pretty quickly. And the reason for this being a favorite is a rather gruesome one. You see, they are known to be very violent and lovers of torture, so they force-feed it to their prisoners so that they remain conscious during even the most grotesque procedures and withhold it during their recovery period.

[cookinguptales]

That last post I just reblogged was fascinating to me because it was obviously a joke but it actually lined up so well with a common PMDD symptom of mine that I was writing about it in the tags. Then I kind of thought about it again and realized OP doesn’t deserve all that in the tags of their joke post so like. I guess I’ll put those thoughts here instead.

(under a cut, cw: frank discussion of mental illness)

Like I’ll warn here that I’m about to talk about mental illness in some pretty explicit terms. I have Premenstrual Dysphoria Disorder (in addition to Major Depressive Disorder) and for the most part I have a pretty good handle on it. My depression is treatment resistant, but I did some hormonal treatments for years to help with that, my endometriosis, and my menstruation-induced EDS complications.

(Have you ever had menstrual cramps so bad that it dislocated your hips and ribs? I have! Every goddamn month lmao.)

About a year and a half ago, I had to stop taking the hormones because they were honestly making certain things worse, so I had to kind of just. Figure out other ways to deal with it. Working with a doctor, a regimen of cannabis tea and ketamine has helped a lot with the physical symptoms, and has helped some with the emotional symptoms. It’s still not perfect (still get bad days sometimes) but my suicidality is way better than it was.

(People with PMDD are apparently estimated to attempt suicide seven times more than the general AFAB population so like. I guess that’s something to keep in mind.)

That said, my ketamine regimen was fucked up recently because of some issues at the doctor’s office and uh. Well, I’m still kind of building the levels back up. The past few periods have been very rough for me. Mostly physically, but I’ve had some emotional issues, too.

This month, my PMDD has been… I guess not as severe as it was in the past, but boy is it lingering. I’ve been very jittery, very anxious, prone to bad mental loops, etc. It’s been about a week at this point, which is on the long side, but you just gotta tough it out, right?

(Don’t worry, guys, I do know when to reach out for help when symptoms get bad, and have done it before in the past.)

Anyway… one of my least favorite symptoms has come out to play and I’m Dealing with it but I hate itttt. It’s the one that the post reminded me of! And that’s the one where you feel guilty for wanting people to love you.

I think… when you’re dealing with something difficult alone, it’s very normal to fantasize about someone helping you through it. Telling you you’re not a bad person, that they love you, hugging you, etc. Normal stuff like that. I think people sometimes use fictional characters, sometimes real people who love them (like family/friends), sometimes people they make up in their head, etc. I think fantasizing about comfort is fairly normal.

But when you’re in the trenches, your mind is like No It Is Not Normal It Is Bad. I have to remind myself that like… in some ways, it’s kind of like an abusive relationship. During bad PMDD spells, my mind wants to hurt me, it wants to kill me, and it wants to separate me from my support systems. Your brain tells you that burdening others with your feelings is Bad and you are Bad for doing it.

This makes it hard to reach out for help when you need it (again, I do know how to do that, I am safe, I know that I have people who would come to my house right now if I needed them to — and failing that, I do know how emergency mental health intake works, too) but also like… it often gets to the point where you feel like a terrible person for even wanting to be loved.

Like — this is hard to explain, so here’s a sample spiral.

(cw: mental illness, suicide mention. I’m going to try and be as realistic as possible here and that might be troubling for some readers.)

I am feeling bad. I am sad and anxious and scared and feel like I am worthless. I want someone to hold me and tell me they love me. I imagine a person I like doing this. I then think — no, you are a bad person. They would not want to do this. You are putting the burden of your feelings on some unsuspecting person again. It is unfair to use a real person as a mental support. You are forcing them into a situation they did not consent to, and you are using them as a crutch. You are a bad, selfish person and they would hate you if they knew you were doing this. You are asking for too much from the people around you; how dare you ask for love and support? You are worthless and no one will love you and imagining them loving you is unfair to them and frankly very invasive. You are being parasitical right now. Stop imagining people doing things they’d never want to do, you’re such a bad person. Don’t you care about their boundaries? Of course you don’t, you always hurt people because you’re selfish and bad and no one will ever like you. So stop imagining them liking you! Just kill yourself and get it over with, etc. You are a bad thing and bad things should go away and you should stop existing. Stop writing RPF about the people you like, that’s even worse than the crime of just being you. Just kill yourself.

And honestly, this will probably go on for a couple hours and there will probably be a lot of crying. >.> It’s good to keep electrolyte solution around because dehydration just makes it worse.

I’ve dealt with MDD for almost my entire life, but PMDD is… different. There’s a sort of exhausted doneness with MDD, like you don’t want to kill yourself, necessarily, you just want to stop existing. PMDD is different. There’s a very loud, very manic aggression to it. Your brain is very actively trying to kill you. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s like being in a crowd of people all screaming at you at once until you cry, and then screaming at you for crying. There is a mob in your head and it hates you.

It is… very, very loud and very difficult to drown out. I can usually catch the warning signs and head things off before I get into a spiral. Going for a walk is good. Helps break the cycle. Creating is good, too. Makes me feel productive and useful to others, which is a whole other can of worms, but it is effective. And if all else fails, I usually weaponize my hyperfixations lmao. Start up an old video game that I know will take all my focus, or start a new tv show that I know I’ll get fannish about, whatever.

This month has been hard because, frankly, it took me by surprise. It’s a little earlier than it should be and I haven’t had to deal with it as much in the past six months, so I guess I got out of the habit. I didn’t notice that I was starting to get kind of stressed and anxious over small stuff and was beating myself up for feeling normal human emotions. This is usually the big warning sign to me. I will latch onto a negative feeling I’m having and feel very guilty about it. I scratch at it like a healing scab. Then the spirals starts. So I have to keep a watch out for that.

But… like I said, I do tend to withdraw and feel guilty about talking about these things. I feel guilty for wanting to depend on others because I feel like that’s asking too much, a miserable person like me demanding attention from people who are too good for me. And once I start withdrawing into myself and not talking to those around me, things get worse.

Like I said!!! Your brain is abusive and it wants to separate you from your support system — so it makes you feel like a bad person for even wanting a support system.

(I find that it helps, actually, to frame it like that. I can tell that my thoughts are starting to get irrational and it’s like “oh, THIS asshole is back to say mean things to me again.”)

So… idk, I’m trying to talk about it. I figure that I tagged this post appropriately and put multiple warnings on it, so anyone who is reading this wants to be here. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of support, maybe because they deal with these things, too. idk.

I’m basically telling my mean brain that fuck you, it’s good to talk about my feelings and no one hates me for it.

Because… this is the big thing… I was thinking about that one Tumblr post… the one that was like “the me in your head is nice to you, right?”

I want the me in your head to be so nice to you. I want the me in your head to hold you and tell you you’re a good person and that I love you. Even if I don’t know you. I want the me in your head to be so damn comforting.

I love the idea of being a comfort to people. That’s… why I write so much of why I write, I think. There’s nothing that chokes me up like finding out I’ve managed to comfort someone that I don’t even know. Is there anything more beautiful than comforting and supporting others in this bitch of a world?

NO we gotta be kind.

So… if I want the me in your head to be so, so kind, why do I feel so guilty for wanting the you in my head to be nice to me, too? Why do I feel like I am so innately unlovable that even fantasizing about someone loving me could stain them somehow? Like I will stain their clothes with my own awfulness.

I DON’T. I don’t feel that way. I have been doing so much better lately. I have been reaching out to people and doing fun things and spending time with people and thinking about loving people and them loving me back. I’ve thought about people loving me!!! And I’ve started to have the creeping hope that it could happen! That I am worthy of love.

Guys, I’ve been better. I know that all sounds like not much, but it’s been so easy for me to convince myself that no one will ever love me because I’m sick, I’m disabled, I’m unattractive, I’m unkind, I’m cringe, I’m annoying, I’m selfish, etc. It’s been so easy for me to find a million excuses for why I, out of all the people on this earth, will never be loved.

So… feeling hope that that’s not true is actually a very big thing for me, and something that I’ve been delighting in recently.

All the things in my head are fake and mean and… you know, hormones. That’s all.

Idk, this was meant to be a discussion of one small part of PMDD but I guess it ended up being a ramble about a lot of things. I’ll admit that it’s much more difficult for me to be focused and eloquent when I’m dealing with these symptoms. I had a moment where I wanted to apologize to anyone still reading this, but — instead I’ll thank you for spending your time with my words. For whatever reason you decided to do it, for whatever reason you’re still here, I appreciate that you did it.

I want the version of you in my head to be nice. And I want to thank you for being nice. And I want to be nice to you, too.

In conclusion

Now I’m gonna go take my medication and be quiet for a while.

[galaxy-manticore]

Genuine question to the intersex community, I mean no offense at all - could I call myself intersex if I believe I could be, but have no real way of proving it?

Context under the read more

CW talk of menstruation, puberty, minor bodily injury, minor genital descriptions

The facts: I am afab. Growing up, everyone in my life who wasn’t explicitly told I was a girl assumed I was a boy - until I grew breasts in third grade. My menstrual cycle came in fourth grade.

My cycle was debilitating. Pain bad enough to put me out of commission for a week, passing blood clots the size of quarters, going through three or more “heavy overnight” pads every day. My doctor put me on birth control to try and help me.

Flash forward to sophomore year of high school. I’d been feeling like shit for months, so I got some minor testing done - my body wasn’t producing any estrogen. I was going around without any sex hormones in my body. At this point, I was already out as trans masc, so my doctor let me get put on testosterone early into my senior year of high school. (The year gap is due to the pandemic)

Now, I’m about 2 years on T. I feel like because of that, why tests to figure out if I’m intersex or not would be impossible since I’ve already gone through a second puberty.

Speculation: I believe when I was a young child (like, 2 or 3) I had a minor labial fusion. The reason for this is because around that time, the bottom part of my vulva “split open” because I “sat down too hard” on the side of the sink during a bath. I had to go to the hospital and, I believe, get stitches. Now, as an adult, I do not have the bottom half of my labia minora.

My doctors never found out why my menstruation was so debilitating. Additionally, the canal itself was very “tight” and I have to use dilation therapy to make sure I don’t get pain down there.

I also have a lot of other health issues but I don’t know how many of them relate to this or not.

Thank you for your time if you’ve read this far. I’m just confused and would like clarity. I know asking strangers online isn’t the best thing to do, but I’ve been to so many doctors in my time that I’m honestly just tired.

[ashers-transition]

2 Months T Update (February 13, 2023)

If you're wondering if I'm ever going to post one of these on time, the answer is no. Anyway, here's my two months update!

Just like before, I will be skipping over anything that hasn't changed and only discussing the changes that I have noticed.

My other transition logs can be found here:

Pre T 1 Month

Please check my pinned post for more info about me and why I started this blog!

CWs: eye contact (in video), discussion of menstruation, discussion of appetite and disordered eating.

(If I’ve missed any content warnings that I should include, please let me know and I will add them in).

Facial Hair

Prior to starting T, I already some darker hairs around my upper lip. It's hard to tell for sure, but I believe I not have slightly more in that area. It's still not very noticeable, especially at a distance. Here are some comparisons, with the first image in the set being pre T and the second being now (2 months on T).

Menstrual Cycle

In my pre T post, I mention that I struggle with chronic pain, and that I get a flare whenever I get my period, with the first day being the worst. I started a new pain medication around three months ago that has lessened those flares enough for me to be functional during them.

For my second period on T, things started to change. This time around, I did not have any extra pain while on my period (at least, not enough for me to be able to tell in addition to my usual pain). That being said, I did have a much longer period than usual, with a much much lighter flow. It was light enough that I could go through a whole day without bleeding through a liner, but my period itself did last for three weeks. I talked to my doctor about this and she did say that this is something that can happen, so there isn't any need for concern.

I know having a month long period sucks, but considering my usual pain when I'm on my period, I honestly would rather have longer, lighter periods with no pain than more "normal" ones with pain.

Acne

I have once again noticed a slight increase in acne. It still is within the realm of a normal breakout for me, but I might try switching up my skin care routine if it gets much worse*. If anyone has any tips let me know, lol.

(*note: I fully believe that acne is a neutral feature and is not inherently bad. It only becomes an issue if it starts negatively affecting you; for example, if it becomes painful. I personally struggle with BFRBs, and acne can be a trigger for me).

Energy Levels, Pain, and POTS

I already struggle with fatigue quite a bit, but honestly this past month was more rough than usual. I think it might be related to being on my period for a full three weeks, but I ended up taking multiple naps most days and sleeping odd hours in general. This isn't completely unusual for me, but I haven't had it to that extent in a while.

As for pain and POTS symptoms, I haven't noticed a difference. I did faint once, which is not common for me, but it was in a controlled environment (medical testing).

Appetite

I have noticed a bit more of an increase in my appetite. It isn't that big of a difference, but I am more consistently eating 3 meals a day, sometimes with snacking in between.

Voice

I'm starting to notice more of a difference in my voice. While still not too bad, my voice has been cracking more than usual lately. I'm unable to pretend-scream as easily as I was before (I get dramatic when playing video games), and I also am struggling more when singing in the car lol. That being said, no one has mentioned noticing a difference in my voice other than one of my partners, who I showed a direct comparison to my pre T voice.

[Video description: A waist high video of Asher talking to the camera. End video description.]

[Video transcript: "Hi, my name is Asher, and this is my voice 2 months on T."]

Other

In my last update I mentioned that I'm planning on switching to taking injections due to a reaction I had to the gel. I have not switched yet (gotta wait for insurance stuff), but I have started rotating the application area more than I had been previously and it has helped a bit. By my next update, I will be on injections.

[miscellaneous--bones]

ways that sebastion and saoirse could have kids and the hypopups that would come from each different method.

UNDER THE CUT: genetic overview of the parents, what I think their reproductive genitals/methods would be, and then the actual coopulation methods & outcomes.

CW: SEX, the culmination of various google searches, uhhhh idk how tf else to tag this? im morbidly curious, marine animals are fucked up, sebastian fucks??

GENETIC OVERVIEW, AND ASSOCIATED CHILD REARING METHODS

SEBASTIAN: Blue Whale> similar to human, spem+egg=baby, live birth, normie shit. take care of their babies for 6 to 9 months. ███████> ????? sea snake> ovoviviparity, snakes have the hemipenis which is the fandom norm. sperm, baby in egg in womb, egg hatch in womb then live birth. babies are on their own. great white shark> ovoviviparity win number TWO! otherwise live birth. babies r on their own. mutated anglerfish> sexual paratisism freak shit. females lay eggs in goop like frogs. eggs r on their own from the start lots die lol rip silver spinyfin> regular eggs. babies like plankton? mantis shrimp> internal fertilization, regular eggs. eggs are cared for until they hatch.

SAOIRSE: Grey? Seal> goes into estrus in spring and fall, mammal birth blah blah blah, babies stay with mom for about 3 weeks and then weaned. milk is like 60% fat Human> menstrual cycle

HOW IT ALL FITS TOGETHER:

Sebastian

Goes through a rut more or less yearly, after which he lays (unfertilized) eggs from an oviduct through a cloaca. also has testes that connect to at least one penis, which can produce (often inviolable) sperm. PAST: has never had viable offspring, by himself or with a partner. could theoretically fertilize his own egg and create a genetic clone of himself.

Saoirse

menstrual cycle (periods/ovulation/etc) ovaries, womb, vagina, the lot of it. already overly fertile, then goes through a more or less yearly estrus which bumps it up to an 11. PAST: has had 2 children, 1 a selkie who passed because of her inability to take it to the ocean leading to illness, the other a human that would've lived a long life if not for sepsis.

1) fuck nasty

Saoirse going into estrus, which would have to line up with a week shes otherwise ovulating, AND sebaston would have to be in rut. otherwise a LOT of sex to insure that an egg made it into the womb & is successfully fertilized. even then the egg needs to develop enough to not be pushed out by a shedding urturine lining. from there the egg will develop and hatch within the womb and have saoirse would have a live birth.

kid would look near identical to sebastion, basically being a genetic clone.

2) Get lucky

holy shit viable sperm!!!! otherwise very human pregnancy and birth. this has such a low chance of happening that at LEAST lesley would constantly call the kid "Lucky" regardless of their real name.

kid would be a total wild card.

the safest would be a mix of most of Seb's human attributes and all of saoirse's selkie stuff, making a selkie baby. kid would have to be in the ocean with sebastion for the first 3 weeks before being able to healthily be raised on land in "human" form. could also be more like sebastion, though that could lead to various health issues (mostly physical deformeties. again, if they're LUCKY, they'll have 2-4 arms, a tail, esca, and extra fuzz. if they for some reason tried to have legs AND a tail that'd probably end up with muscular/skeletal issues) also probably intersex. now take into account that Saoirse is a twin btw^

3) Test Tube Time

Lesley would take reproductive/genetic shit from the two and grow them a baby. this would be safest for the kid in the long run and probably the most stressful for the parents (sebastion mostly) might take a few tries to get a dice roll that produces something that can effectivly move and eat and stuff.

big seal serpent monster. maybe it'd have a more or less Human form bc of the selkie genes?

[zuckergussprinzessin]

It is again one of these days where I really wish bleeding uncontrollably were accepted as a reason to call out of work.