#cw prong collar

[writtenbymoonflower]

Hi! Do you think you could write fem!reader with poly!marauders and their first time having sex? If I’m making you uncomfortable let me know and I’ll apologize. Sorry if I sound weird I’m autistic and don’t know how to phrase things sometimes. Thank you.

hi hunny! you didn't make me uncomfortable at all and you worded this great! thank you for requesting!! fem!reader x poly!marauders

cw: explicit smut, slight d/s dynamic, swearing, everything is consensual obviously

1.7k words

The fact that you were the only one breathing heavily was a crime. It was pathetic, really. You felt borderline depraved, considering the innocence of the situation. Your head was in Sirius’ lap, his fingers nothing short of magical against your scalp. You could feel the slight vibration of his voice every time he spoke. Remus’ hand was lazily rubbing your bare thigh, occasionally dipping his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and you were praying that he couldn’t feel the growing heat in dangerous proximity to his hands. James was looking unfairly gorgeous for someone winding down for the night. He was fresh from the shower, his clean scent wafting over to you on the bed as he styled his hair in the mirror. 

You were tightly wound from months of tension. While there had been no shortage of heat-stoking intimacy and dizzying kisses leaving you whiny and breathy, it had always stopped of anything that would actually satisfy the growing beast in your core. And while you hoped you were successfully hiding how much it affected you, part of you wished they would notice it. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. The boyish laughter in the background was not helping with your growing affliction. 

“Angel?” James chuckled, damp hair falling in front of his eyes. 

“Yeah?” You turned your head in Sirius’ lap. 

“We’ve been trying to get your attention, lovely.” James crawled on top of you, muscles shifting intricately under his white tank. You noticed how he was careful not to pile too much weight onto Sirius. He slid down, laying his head on your stomach and wrapped an arm around Remus, making the tall boy begrudgingly put his book down. 

“Oh, sorry. I was distracted.” You ran your hands through James’ hair. 

“Distracted?” Sirius drawled. He was trailing his fingers teasingly on your neck now. You repressed the urge to shiver. 

“Distracted.” You parroted back awkwardly. You couldn’t tell if the heat was from the amount of bodies crammed into the bed or the effect that they were having on you. James looked up at you with a playful grin. He reached a hand up to caress your cheek. His grin grew wider.

“Your face is warm, darling.” Mirth was dripping from his eyes. 

“Is it?” You swallowed hard. Sirius’ painted digits pressed into your jaw. He chuckled darkly at what he found.

“Her pulse is fucking hammering” His wicked fingers dipped under the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh,” Remus cooed, tone indicating that he didn’t feel that bad. “What’s the matter, dovey?” 

“Nothing.” You choked out, knowing that your body was completely betraying you. 

“I don’t know,” Sirius provoked. “I think it’s something. Don’t you, Prongs?” He moved to pet James’ head. 

“Oh, you’re definitely right.” James kissed your exposed collarbone. “C’mon, sweetheart. Talk to us.” 

You wanted to laugh. If they really wanted you to talk, couldn’t they make it a bit easier? You just groaned, hiding your face in Sirius’ thigh.

“No. None of that.” Remus gripped your chin to move your face, not letting you be shielded. “Use your words.” 

“You’re so mean.” You whined. 

“Aw, baby.” James cooed. “We’re just trying to help you. We can’t know what you want if you don’t tell us.” He slipped his hand under the hem of your shirt, gripping your waist lovingly. 

“You know what you’re doing.” You narrowed your eyes. You were trying to look intimidating but failing miserably. Remus turned your face towards his, capturing you in a kiss. You moaned against your will, arching your back up. All your muscles felt so tense, begging for release. Sirius kept stroking your hair. 

“Just tell us what’s wrong.” Sirius’ grin was all teeth when you looked up at him. 

“Gah.” You groaned in failure. “I don’t even know. I’m just so worked up and you’re not helping.” You pouted. 

“Aw, I’m sorry dove.” Remus clearly did not feel bad. “Want us to make it better?” 

You nodded rapidly, eyes wide. Remus cocked an eyebrow at you. “Yes, please. Make it better.” You all but begged. 

“Alright, baby dove.” Remus laughed. "We'll be nice." He kissed you again, moving over your cheeks and neck. James was kissing your chest, tugging the collar of your shirt down to expose more skin. You struggled to hold back wanton moans. 

“Can I lift this up, angel?” James tugged at your shirt, looking pointedly at your nipples peaking through your shirt. 

“Yes please.” 

He tugged you away from Sirius and Remus, though the boys didn’t complain. Sirius was tugging Remus up by his mousy hair to kiss him aggressively, while James lifted your shirt to your collarbone, exposing your chest to his ministrations. He grabbed at your breast with one hand, kissing over your nipple until you were dizzy. He then moved down, kissing lower and lower. 

“Christ, just get this shit off.” Sirius growled at you. He impatiently moved you to sit up, tugging your shirt off the rest of the way. “You too, Prongs.” 

His eyebrows flew up behind his glasses. “Someone’s demanding today.” He complied though, pulling his white undershirt off and flinging it somewhere across the room. Sirius just narrowed his eyes at James and tried to pull Remus back. 

“The two of you.” Remus shook his head disapprovingly but you could see the affection swirling in his irises. “Do I have to tell you what to do with your mouths?”

“I think I know exactly what to do with my mouth.” Sirius sassed, moving down to Remus' neck.

“I know what I want to do with my mouth.” James tugged at your shorts, looking up at you with huge pupils. You choked back a moan. 

“Is that okay with you, honey?” Remus asked you gently. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Just say the word and we stop, okay?”

“I would like that.” You said, barely more than a whisper. James gave you another boyish grin and went back to kissing down your torso. 

“On second thought, I don't think I know what to do.” Sirius tested. He crawled off of the mattress, standing at the foot of the bed. He batted his lashes at Remus, clearly testing the tall boys patience. He stalked over to where Sirius was standing, looking down at him.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” He kissed him roughly before getting on his knees in front of him. Your attention was pulled back to the boy between your legs when you felt thick fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts. 

“I’m gonna take these off, okay?” James waited for you to nod before he pulled them off. He crawled off the bed, pulling your ankles to tug you right to the end of the mattress. Your underwear was removed before he opened your legs wider. This situation was too much in the best way. James was kissing down to your waiting pussy, glasses being knocked up his nose and hair messy while you were being stared down by Sirius, who was close enough to massage your thigh while he was being sucked off, his moans ringing deliciously through your ears. 

James’ tongue met your clit, making you throw your head back in ecstasy. “Oh, shit.” You whined. He was gentle as he pleasured you, wiggling his tongue softly into your pussy, flicking up towards your swollen bead and then back down to your hole. Your thighs started to tense. You knew you were getting there embarrassingly fast, both from James’ expertise and the arousal that had been building in your body. You fought to close your legs around James' head, but he held fast, keeping you spread open for him.

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” Sirius groaned. “You should fucking see yourself, babydoll.” He knotted his fingers in Remus’ fluffy hair, rutting his hips to chase his high. “Godammit.” He grunted, cumming down Remus’ throat. You hid behind your hands to protect yourself from his voyeuristic gaze.

When Remus got up, James pulled his lips off of your clit with a lewd popping sound, making you cry out. You bucked your hips back up, chasing for more pleasure. 

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart.” James chuckled, rubbing your hip comfortingly. He slipped two fingers into your pussy, curling them up. Remus' attention was now on you as he leant over you, kissing your neck. 

“How does her pussy taste, Prongs?” Sirius drawled, petting your thigh with a blissful look in his eyes. 

“So fucking good.” James kept his fingers working a perfect motion. 

“Alright, give me a try.” Sirius pulled James up impatiently. James brought his fingers up to the shorter boy’s mouth, the same fingers that were just inside you. Without hesitation Sirius sucked them into his mouth, moaning around the digits. You whined at the spectacle in front of you. 

“Christ, lads. She’s halfway to death over here.” Remus chuckled, palming at your breast. 

“Alright.” Sirius rolled his eyes, getting on his knees in front of you. “Are you gonna let me have a turn, sweet girl?” He pinched your side affectionately. 

“Yes please.” You moaned. 

Sirius laughed at you, pressing his face into your cunt. You almost screamed in ecstasy. He wasted no time with teasing, licking into you with vigorous hunger as his gray eyes bore into you. Remus and James moved to hold your legs apart, spreading you open completely before Sirius. “Fuck, such a sweet little pussy.” He groaned, before returning to his work. 

“That’s a good boy.” Remus groaned, putting his hand on the back of Sirius’ head to push him further into your cunt. “Y’ making her feel so good.” Sirius moaned into your pussy, doubling down. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Your thighs shook hard, spasms flowing through your whole body. 

“That’s it, angel. Come for us.” James kissed your cheek. It didn’t take long to follow his directions, tumbling off the edge of pleasure. Your moans were shameless, slipping into incoherent whines when you got to be too sensitive. Sirius licked his fingers as he came up for air, face flushed and eyes starry. 

“Fuck, gorgeous. You’re killer.” He praised. Pleasurable embarrassment washed over you. You shut your legs, looking up at the three boys. 

“Are you okay, sweet girl?” Remus stroked your jaw, all feigned sternness void from his face. 

“I’m brain dead.” You giggled. 

“I think that’s a job well done then.” James grabbed your hand, bringing it to his mouth to adorn it with kisses. You looked between him and Remus, playful hesitancy written in your features. 

“What about you two?” You questioned. 

“You still got some steam in you?” James looked at you wide-eyed. You nodded. 

“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you.” Remus opened your legs again.  

[scr11bles]

don't boo me but i like the hybrid au's for cod, maybe even a little a/b/o in the midst (though that's not what this one is about)

so now i'm just thinking about a hybrid! reader who's all sorts of fucked and gets picked up by ghost for the 141

cw: kinda angsty with descriptions of abuse, dog(hybrid?) fighting, and scars

heres part 2!!

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It isn't like Ghost hates hybrids; he's worked with them on missions before and dismissed them as any other soldier, everyone was just doing their job after all. As long as the objective was complete, that's what mattered. Though when Price told him he was being sent to a location to 'pick out" a hybrid from a facility (Laswell thought it'd be good for their team, a new set of hands and efficiency to the group and all that), he couldn't help the disagreeing grumbles that escaped past his mouth as he begrudgingly went on his way to the helipad, cursing to himself the whole way and glaring at his boots.

After the nearly agonizing chopper ride, the wheels touch down on the tarmac of the facility, a worker immediately stumbling towards Ghost as he steps out of the chopper. He didn't catch the guy's name, didn't care either. He was here for some furball soldier that could help his team, that's all that matters. The worker guides the Lieutenant through the stone walls of the facility, the smell of mold and mildew making him wrinkle his nose beneath his mask.

In the distance of the long hallways, he can hear the yells and barks of hybrids, cringing internally as the worker turns a corner and leads him to a large room of kennels and cells. Each step Ghost takes causes a hybrid to look up, many starting to growl or hide within their cells while others lay against the cold cell floor, bodies barely moving with the only sign of life being a rising and falling chest.

He's seen a lot over his years as a soldier, and he's not so easily rattled, but this was a whole new experience of discomfort and pity for him. The conditions were bad, worse than any kind of kennel he remembers when he was young, and that was for full bred animals. Ghost eyes each hybrid slowly, taking in the diverse appearances of breeds and species of hybrid. Though each is a pathetic sort, the one true hybrid that caught Ghosts eye was one that was in the corner, the cell seemingly reinforced with different metal. In the middle of the cage there you sit, back facing the door and simply staring at the wall as multiple chains hand from your ankles and wrists, a prong collar tightly pressing against your throat. Ghost wonders why you were needed to be so heavily contained, your crooked tail wrapped around your leg as your torn and notched ears that press flat against your head making you seem like a harmless broken ittle thing.

"I wouldn't recommend that one, Lieutenant."

The worker speakers quickly, warily eyeing you behind the bars of your cell. Ghost's eyes stay on you, catching onto the small twitch of your ear. You know they're talking about you.

"Why, she broken?"

Ghost says roughly, keeping his dark unblinking stare on your battered form noticing the small twitch of your tail, probably annoyance, he clues, due to his words.

"Not exactly but.."

The worker pauses, causing Ghost to maneuver his unblinking gaze to him, making the worker freeze and fumble over his words.

"But-But she has a history of recklessness, a lack of respect for authority and horrible at responding to orders. Not something you need on a team like yours."

At the workers words you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder, revealing the dullness in your eyes and prominent scars across your face. Scratches, bites, lacerations; Ghost can identify easily each one. The worker grimaces beneath your steely gaze and takes a step back from the cell, practically shaking in his boots. To say that Ghost was intrigued would be an understatement. He knows that look in your eyes; the coldness of someone who's killed and has started to become numb, with emotions raging within just waiting to be unleashed and ruin your very being. He's seen it before, he's seen it in him.

Goddamnit, he want to know more about you.

"How long's she been here?"

The lieutenant questions, maintaining eye contact with you and frowning beneath his mask when you look away, the tiny spark in your eye at his question not being lost to him before you turn your head away.

"Couple of months maybe? She was handed over to us after being used for cage fighting and served for a couple of PMC's- so I suppose she does have some experience in the field if you were really inclined.."

The Lieutenant couldn't help the small frown that is invisible beneath his mask, the words 'handed over' causing a foul taste to coat his tongue. He knew many hybrids were considered lesser than humans, and it never bothered him before, but when in relation to you it ground his gears just that little bit. Ghost clicks his tongue and sends the worker a small glare before returning his flat gaze back to you, narrowing his eyes and watching as you scratch at the stone floor, the movement revealing the numerous scars and burns along your arms. Sure, Ghost had known you (not even really known yet) for a couple of minutes, but he was sold. And when he speaks, he stares straight into the workers eyes and speaks in the flattest most straight forward tone possible, there was no mistaking it-

"I'll take her."

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hey guys!!

uhh tell me if you see this becoming a little story or just want a few parts to it, i love the feedback and it makes me happy seeing everyone like my little works of fleeting words

thank you so much!

-emile :3

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE LADY NA-BARONESS (PART ONE)

First chapter of 2025 is up now, my Darlings! (18+only)

Link to AO3 here

Previous tumblr link chapter here

CW: mentions of child abuse and implied/referenced CSA; canon-typical misogyny; Geidi Prime and the Harkonnens serving as their own content warnings

Additional tags: switching; dom!Feyd; sub!Reader; pregnancy; vague murder plots; dysfunctional family dynamics; minor degradation; collars and restraints; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; titty fucking; oral sex (M+F receiving) facials; face-fucking; ball-sucking; teasing; edging; aftercare; arena fights

When you wake up the next morning you realize that the two of you shifted to your sides, that he’s moved up a little and his breath tickles your upper abdomen; you can see the top of his head just below your breasts and feel one of his legs in between yours.  He’s so warm, so solid yet pliant, making you smile to yourself and gently stroke his back as you remember everything that happened last night.

This man’s been submissive before, has been collared and leashed before, has allowed himself to be used before, and that’s fine.  You never expected to be your husband’s first anything , even before you knew that there were other sorts of firsts.   

You are reasonably certain, though, as he stirs and tightens his arms around you for a moment, that you’re the first person to have him like this.  If you were in a different mood you’d ask him if anyone else has ever slept through the night with him and felt him as wanting.

Instead you turn onto your back, guiding him on top of you as he starts to wake up and shift your legs to give him space to rest in the cradle of your hips.

He seems to properly wake seconds after you do, raising his body up to stifle a yawn against your collarbone before finally lifting his head to look at you.

You get a proper look at his neck; there are faint red marks around it, and if given proper time to inspect it you’d be able to make out the faint outline of the prongs that dug into the column of his throat and chains around the sides of his neck.  You press a kiss there, thinking that no one else is going to risk staring so long that they’d get a close view.

“How does it feel?” you ask, voice still thick with sleep.  You realize that Feyd’s half-hard against your thigh.

“Feels perfect,” he murmurs, smiling for a moment as his cheek brushes against your temple, his chest expanding as your tongue flickers against his skin.  “And you?”

You can’t help but let out a giggle and admit, “Sore.”  You suppose it’s not much of a surprise; he’d had his tongue and then his cock inside of you for over an hour.

“Oh?” he asks, and leans down to meet you in a kiss as his half-hard cock brushes against you again.  “ Too sore?” he asks.

“Didn’t say that,” you tell him as you shift and draw your legs back, giving him more space.  You’re barely awake, barely processing the gray early-morning light but Feyd’s getting harder, enough to properly push inside of you, and you ache for it.  

Still, you’re not quite wet enough when he slides along your slit, so he slowly rubs his fingertips against you until you are, until he can no longer take the distance and presses into you with a low rumble of a groan against your lips.

You belong inside of me , you want to tell him as you clutch at his back the moment you arch your own, pressing your chest against his, keeping one arm wrapped around his shoulders and your free hand against the back of his head to pull him into a kiss.

It isn’t rough, not until the end when Feyd seems close, when his thrusts get hard and fast and he snarls and bites down on the crook of your neck.  Not until you dig your nails into his shoulders and drag them down his back, feeling the top layer of skin break.

I'll take all you can give me, you think when he comes and you coil yourself around him, clenching down and shuddering.

He pumps his hips into you a few more times, wrapping an arm around you as he lowers the two of you down and laps at the bite mark he’s no doubt left.  You tilt your head to give him more access, your fingertips trailing over the marks you’ve left on him.

You’d almost ask him to stay inside you a little longer, before he kisses your mouth, the contact swallowing up your gasp as he pulls out.

He gets up and pads over to the bathroom.  You’ll do the same in a few minutes but for the moment take your time to reach for the nearly-empty glass of water on the nightstand and take a sip and turn to your side, head resting on one hand, to watch as Feyd reemerges.

You tilt your head, watching as he dresses silently; his training shirt’s collar low enough that anyone will be able to see the marks you’ve left.  He turns and catches where you’re looking, the faint amusement never leaving his eyes.  “No one’ll say anything,” he says by way of answer to your silent question.

Certainly not if they want to keep their heads, you think as Feyd finishes getting dressed and fastening his boots.  You wonder if this is what it’s like to feel territorial, to feel pride at marking up what’s yours.

And you are mine, aren’t you? you think, biting your lip as he sips some water and gets ready to leave.

“I expect you in the Training Halls in half an hour,” Feyd says on his way out.

“Noted,” you tell him and get up, slinking into your own quarters, feeling rather pleased with yourself, even if so few of the real conflicts you’ll have to face have been resolved.  For a few minutes you can just allow yourself to be happy, getting ready for the morning until Idrisa arrives with her tray of water, lemons, and coffee.

“Morning!” you tell her from your spot seated on the edge of the bed as you pull on your training shirt and reach for your boots.

“You seem to be in better spirits, my lady,” Idrisa says as she sets the tray down.

You smile at her.  “Well, thank you.  I’d dare say I am in better spirits,” you tell her.  

She doesn’t know yet; you can hardly believe you haven’t told her yet, in the days since you’ve found out.  “Can I tell you something?” 

“Yes, my lady?” she asks, standing at a respectable distance and folding her hands in front of her.

For all there is to fear, you allow yourself to enjoy the knowledge of the life growing inside of you.  “I’m pregnant,” you tell her.  “The Bene Gesserit confirmed it during their visit.”

Her eyes widen and she glances down at your abdomen, as if you could be showing so soon.  One hand reaches up towards you, the other flying to the side of her face.  “Oh, my lady, that’s such wonderful news!” she says.  “Do you have any symptoms yet?”

“Not yet,” you tell her.  “Not any that I’ve really noticed.”

“Well, I’m here to provide you with whatever you need.  You’ll have the best care the Fortress has to offer,” she says.  She glances back at the tray, suddenly looking stricken.  “Oh, if I’d known I’d have gotten some prenatal tablets for you.  I’m sorry, na-Baroness.”

You step forward, reaching for her hands as she starts wringing them.  “You couldn’t have known; I hadn’t told you yet.  I mean, it was inevitable given, well…” you hesitate, managing an awkward chuckle you don’t expect her to be able to share in.  “Hardly anyone knows yet.  We…well, we’ve decided to wait another couple of weeks or however long it will take to get a proper confirmation from a Harkonnen doctor before we make any declarations.  I don’t think I’d have known about it were it not for the visit,” you add.  “So I think it would be not only fine but for the best to hold off on those prenatal supplements until my pregnancy’s common knowledge.”

Idrisa’s hands are smaller than yours, and clammy as she nods, her eyes shining, looking for a moment like they’re brimming with unshed tears.  “Yes, of course, my lady,” she says emphatically.  “And I’ll bring you some ginger tea after your training.  It’s good for energy and digestion.”  She drops her hands the moment you release them and she takes a step back.  Her eyes dart back down to your stomach.

“Pardon me, my lady, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of you when we first met,” she says.  “But I do think you’ll make a very fine Baroness.  And I think you’ll soon realize how important this is to the House of Harkonnen.”

You don’t see her fervor often, and it’s almost enough to give you pause, almost enough to take you out of the warm bubble you inhabited with Feyd last night, earlier this morning.  

Even if the Harkonnens don’t know the significance of your firstborn son to the greater population, this is momentous for them, and you realize you might not have seen yet the fanaticism they’re capable of showing.

At breakfast the Baron undoubtedly notices the scratches along the back of his nephew’s scalp and the indentations along his throat.  He probably knows they came from you.  You’re reasonably sure, though, as he glances between the two of you, that he couldn’t begin to guess how you put them there. 

He doesn’t ask, though, and neither of you indulge him.  So instead of probing he mentions that he’ll eventually join Feyd on Arrakis, to see his progress and results.

“Not to leave you alone here, my dear niece, but I’m sure you understand that such measures are necessary during war,” he says to you in afterthought.

“I do, my lord Baron,” you say lightly, “and I appreciate your consideration.”  You spare just a  glance at Feyd and catch his eye for a moment.

You have a window of opportunity here , you want to tell him.  You can make your move while in enemy territory . 

And not that you could ever hope to communicate telepathically, but his responding look before focusing his attention on the Baron seems to suggest that the thought has already occurred to him.

It makes the Baron’s weeks of petty insults and insinuations easier to stomach.  He can find you disposable, can find you nothing more than a broodmare for the Harkonnens to be dispatched after you’ve served your purpose.  You’ll tolerate it for now.  All that matters is that within months he’ll find out how wrong he’s been.

You're not surprised that there's no blood the following week when your time comes around, just a little surprised that you don't feel any different yet.  A little more tired than usual, but that's about it.  Still optimistic about the future, for now, before anyone can ruin it for you.

You examine your profile in the mirror one morning before you’ve gotten dressed and your belly doesn’t look different yet; you’ve had monthly courses where there’s been more of a curve to your lower stomach.  Your breasts look about the same, although you’ve heard they’ll change first and change soon.  The only difference in your body you can point out from when you first landed on Geidi Prime is that there’s a little more definition in your arms and legs, and you’re not sure how long that will stay. Feyd said once that he’d pause your training sessions once you start showing but that’s undoubtedly changed to “ once he leaves for Arrakis .”

How strange, that something so powerful’s growing inside of you and no one could begin to guess yet just from looking at you.

It’s then that Feyd enters, fully dressed in his training clothes but before doing any training, if the lack of sweat is any indication.  His expression’s inscrutable.  For once he’s not eyeing your naked body with lust, even as his gaze sweeps over you.

“Is something wrong?” you ask him.

“You’re going to want to stay in your chambers today,” he says, voice tight.

You furrow your brow, tamping down on your indignation.  “ Why?”  

A muscle in Feyd’s jaw twitches.  “Rabban’s here on a short visit,” he says.  “Getting a respite and trying to explain why he’s been such a failure.”

You reach for your robe and cover up, feeling almost like he’s here already.  Your brother-in-law has never looked at you with hunger, as far as you could tell, but a certain resentment, no doubt over the fact that he wasn’t the one gifted with the trophy bride and the key to the Harkonnen throne.

“You don’t think he’ll try to–” you start, because at no point has Feyd ever seemed afraid of his older brother, and you don’t think it’s fear that’s causing him to act this way now.

“Never.  I’d kill him before he tried,” Feyd says.  “But he’s coarse and unpleasant at the best of times, and worse when he’s aggravated.  He’ll want to insult you, brag about the size of his dick, and make any number of comments I won’t stand for.”

You’ve heard a number of coarse comments before, mostly ones you weren’t meant to hear, but you’re grateful for the opportunity to avoid any coming from your brother-in-law.  Still, if Rabban’s to lose his post soon regardless, it seems pointless to continue demanding results from him that everyone knows he won’t deliver.

 “Giving him time to explain himself implies that your uncle’s going to give him another chance to fix things.”  Selfishly, you don’t hate the idea, as impossible as it is.  Let Rabban keep putting himself in danger on Arrakis, and let your husband stay with you .

 “And I’m sure Rabban believes that,” Feyd says.  “He’s welcome to, for now.  It’ll make things simpler if he’s not throwing weeks worth of tantrums over having his toys taken away from him.”

You scoff, not because you don’t believe him but because it’s almost bizarre to really think about the difference between the two of them–Rabban so much older, already a man when Feyd was still an infant, and yet so petulant and easily angered.  “He’s really so immature?” you ask.

“He’s a useless oaf who couldn’t beat a ten-year-old in a game of cheops and relied on his fists instead,” Feyd says. 

For a man who rarely discusses his childhood he always somehow manages to say a great deal in so few words.  You pull your robe tighter around you.

“Avoiding him won’t be an issue,” you say.  “How do you think you’ll handle him?”

Feyd holds your gaze.  “I’m not ten years old anymore,” is all he says, before turning and leaving, going off to train.

You bring your hand back down to your still somewhat-flat abdomen.

You know Feyd’s intentions with the Baron when the time is right.  But what of Rabban?  You can’t exactly ask him to dispose of both uncle and brother, even though Feyd probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so if there was nothing stopping him.

But could he pose a threat?  With the Baron gone would Rabban try to challenge Feyd for the Barony?  Regain governorship of Arrakis?  Feyd could banish him back to Lankiveil, sure, but would it take?  Rabban’s power is mostly superficial at this point, but he could still be an issue.

You’ll have to make sure that Feyd knows how to handle him when he has neither Arrakis nor his uncle to prop himself up.

A few hours later your attempts to self-isolate prove to be a moot point when Feyd visits you in your room while you’re nursing a cup of ginger tea.

 “Uncle insists upon your presence at dinner,” is all he says.

You set your tea down.  “To taunt Rabban?  Or to test your patience?” you ask.

“I assume both,” Feyd says.  “And Uncle won’t allow fratricide, so he and I will both have to be on our best behavior.”

You raise your eyebrows.  You’re reasonably certain what ‘ best behavior ’ looks like from Feyd, but you’re not sure.  You couldn't begin to guess what Rabban’s version of it is. You resolve to wear something that covers you up as much as possible, not even just for modesty but to hide.  Rabban won’t attack you, you’re certain, but you don’t want him even looking your way.  

“Very well,” you say.  “Whatever the Baron requires of us tonight.”

You know dinner’s going to be an uncomfortable affair the moment you step into the room.

You and Feyd enter to the sight of the Baron, alone, sitting in his suspensor chair, already eating and sipping from a wine glass that looks like it could hold nearly an entire bottle.

“He’s coming, dear nephew,” he says before Feyd can even think to ask.  “He must simply be decompressing.  Grim, disappointing news as usual.  Do have a seat Feyd, Y/N.”  It probably doesn’t escape the Baron’s notice that your dress this evening is ornate but as physically modest as you can manage, covering you from chin to wrist to ankles, with a hood to conceal you further.  You wonder if there’s a joke on the tip of his tongue about how trying to hide yourself from Rabban will just make him notice you more, as a servant offers you and Feyd wine and you both silently decline.

You also both fill your plates in silence, leaving you wondering if you should wait for your guest before the doors open with greater force this time.

Rabban looks more haggard than you remember, bags under his eyes and frown-lines more prominent than they were weeks ago.  His frame is still bulky and powerful, but his face is bloated from lack of sleep.  It all serves to remind you yet again that despite being his brother he’s old enough to be Feyd’s father.  You avert your gaze for a moment as his eyes scan the length of the table, from the Baron at the head of it, to his brother, and finally to you.  And by mistake you glance up for a split second at just the right time to meet his gaze.

He looks incredulous when he takes in your appearance and you can guess why.  The hood of your dress mostly covers your hair but doesn’t completely obstruct it or your eyebrows from view.  You look back down, holding your breath, as Rabban looks back at Feyd as if he’d just spat on him.  His nostrils flare and he starts to open his mouth as Feyd stares back, expression carefully neutral.

Before he can speak, though, the Baron says, “Have a seat, Rabban.  And do try to be civilized; you are in the presence of an actual lady for once.”  

Rabban’s mouth snaps shut as he lowers his head and pulls out his chair.  He still shoots Feyd another  thunderous look but he must realize that while Feyd’s the one who allowed–even wanted–for you to keep your hair, that to imply that if Feyd insulted the Harkonnens with this choice would accuse their uncle of being so weak or foolish as to permit it.

No one speaks for a while after that.  Rabban loads up his plate almost as high as his uncle’s, but with simple meat, grains, and veg rather than the sauce-laden delicacies the Baron starts with before going in for second, third, and fourth courses.  Granted, Rabban accepts the wine, tilts the glass back and finishes it in one long pull before setting the glass down and rapping his knuckles against the table for a refill.  After that the sound of utensils scraping against plates doesn’t quite drown out the sounds of the Baron eating, and with no conversation to act as a buffer. 

“Just here on a brief visit?” Feyd finally asks.

“A brief visit is all I have time for,” Rabban says, sawing at his meat with his knife so aggressively you’re surprised his plate doesn’t break in half.  “Some of us have important tasks that require constant attention.”

“And I’m sure your attention span can handle it,” Feyd says.

Rabban shoots him another glare, looking like he’s searching for a snarky quip in return and, failing that, wants to simply cuff his little brother on the side of the head.  For a moment you see the two of them as they must’ve been fifteen years ago, except this time Rabban knows he won’t get away with it.

“I noticed you weren’t there when I spoke with Uncle,” he says instead.  

Feyd lifts his head just a fraction, but you could sense him watching Rabban from below his lashes this entire time.  “He wanted to discuss your personal failures with you privately,” he says.

“My–” Rabban gives an incredulous laugh.  “ I’m the one leading the charge on Arrakis, fighting the good fight against those Fremen savages.  What exactly have you been doing?”. 

“Securing a legitimate heir,” Feyd says, and continues eating.

Rabban does a double take and looks over at you, his dark eyes darting towards your belly as you pointedly keep your gaze down and directed at your plate.  He glares at Feyd and you can sense the moment he decides to push his luck.  After all, their uncle is there to intervene if Feyd retaliates.  His lips curl into a sneer.  “It’s hardly an accomplishment to knock up some foreign bi–”

You can feel your hands shaking as you grip your utensils so tight your knuckles blanche.  You look down, ears pounding, as you hear Feyd rise from his chair and pull his blade before Rabban can finish his sentence.  You hear the Baron saying, “ Now, now, let us all be civil ,” as if he doesn’t find this all deeply amusing.  As if this wasn’t what he wanted to see when he demanded you all dine together.

“Rabban, you speaking in such a manner in front of a distinguished Lady from a Major House is why I don’t entrust you with these sorts of duties in the first place,” the Baron continues.  

“Feyd, I specifically said no fratricide.  Rabban still has his obligations on Arrakis.”  For now .  “You’re both grown men now, so behave like it,” he adds, as if he’s not the one pitting them against each other, hoping one goads the other into a fight.

Feyd, for his part, sheathes his blade and sits down gracefully without a word, seemingly calm once more, as Rabban sputters, indignant.  You half-expect him to say, He started it! and are almost impressed when instead he scowls and finishes his second glass of wine, snapping his fingers for another refill.

Feyd glances over at you after a couple of minutes.  You wouldn’t say that you’re full, but you have no desire to keep eating here.

He stands.  “Uncle, I would have my wife return to her chambers.  She’s in a delicate way, after all, and beginning to feel the effects of her condition.”

The Baron settles back for a moment, savory pastry in one hand and his other resting on the table.  He doesn’t look convinced, although you’d be surprised if he knew anything about pregnancy other than conception and birth.  Feyd adds drily, “I don’t think you’ll need her present for any further briefings, either.”

The Baron huffs, takes a bite of pastry, and gives a dismissive flick of his wrist.  “Y/N may be excused.  You can escort her back to her quarters, nephew, just as long as you return.”

Feyd barely has to touch the back of your chair before you stand and curtsy.

“Thank you for the lovely meal this evening.  My apologies for not feeling well,” you say.  “Have a good evening, my lord Baron, Governor Rabban.”  You give them each a nod before smoothing out your skirts and taking Feyd’s offered arm.  On the way out you wonder how many times Rabban even has left to be addressed by that title.

“Are you sure the two of you are related?” you murmur in Feyd’s ear once you’ve made progress down the hallway.  “You look nothing alike.”

“We are,” Feyd says.  “He looks like our father and I look like our mother.”

You pause, not quite knowing how to respond to that.  You’re sure the irony isn’t lost on Feyd.

He senses your silence, and if he senses the reason for it, he doesn’t address it.  Instead he says, “I won’t be much longer.  Rabban hates being reminded of his failures when he’s here even more than when he suffers them on Arrakis.  He’s preparing a ship to take him back tonight.”

“Good,” you say softly, turning to look at him.  Put him in his place when you take over, somewhere far from here, you don’t tell him.  Instead, after a moment of trying to find a proper farewell, you say, “I’ll be waiting for you tonight.”

Feyd looks at you a moment longer, as if he’d like to say something reassuring.  He doesn’t, and you can’t really begrudge him that.  Talk is cheap for Feyd and he’s not exactly the sentimental type.  He just brings one hand under your chin and brings his lips down to yours in a brief kiss before he returns to dinner with his uncle and brother.  You take a moment to watch him go and wonder if for a moment if there’s still residual pain there, if Feyd looks at Rabban and thinks about what he took from him.

Probably not, you realize; Feyd knows Rabban has lost whatever competition they may have had since Feyd was a child, and it's all the worse for him that he doesn't even know it yet.  If you didn’t hate Rabban you’d pity him in his desperation for the Baron’s approval and fear of losing what he’s never really had.  And while perhaps Rabban had a hand in putting Feyd in the Baron’s path, he didn’t directly send his uncle after a seven year-old boy; the Baron would’ve found someone else to kill Abulurd Rabban and pluck Feyd from Lankiveil.

So you don’t think there’s still a part of Feyd that’s ten years old and nursing the wounds his older brother inflicted; whatever old hurts existed have become a thick, unfeeling scar.  Like you, he’s probably thinking about where he’ll put someone like Rabban once he’s Baron.  He’s probably wondering what he’ll need to do to temper him, and you’ll let Feyd handle Rabban as he sees fit, so long as his vindictive older brother doesn’t do anything to endanger you, your family, or your unborn children.

The real issue remains the Baron.  Surely Feyd can see it if you can; it makes you wonder how much the Baron’s not only hidden from Rabban, but how much he’s hiding from Feyd.  Of course he wants Feyd to succeed on Arrakis, but only on his terms, and with the true credit for himself. You don’t trust the Baron, and you know Feyd doesn’t either, not really.  The problem is you’re fairly certain the Baron knows this and is biding his time until he can make Feyd a puppet emperor, an extension of himself for as long as Harkonnen medical tech can keep him alive.

Idrisa helps you out of your gown and asks you if you need anything before she leaves.  You tell her no, thank you, and relieve her for the night.  What you need is to prepare for your husband.

You want to take his mind off of it, make him feel like there is something he’s truly in charge of right now, that’s entirely his with no one to claim ownership or responsibility for it.  He needs this.  You need this.

You think about your wedding night, your instructions to wait “ unwrapped and in bed waiting for him ” as you let your hair down and scrub off the light dusting of cosmetics you wore for dinner.  You still, bafflingly, look similar to the frightened girl you were over six weeks ago.  You spritz a tonic into your hair, one he likes the smell and gloss of, and make your way into his bedroom.

This time when you get into position, laying on your side, you face the foot of the bed and Feyd’s bedroom door.  This time you couldn’t feel further from being frightened of him.  You think of how much you’ve learned these past weeks–not even two months yet, somehow–and the way you just want to forget, help him forget, for now, all the pressures and uncertainties beyond your control.  In this, at least, you have leverage.  In this, it’s just the two of you, and no one else to interfere.  

You take a breath as the door opens and your husband steps into his bedchambers to find you naked in bed waiting for him.

Feyd pauses as he takes in the sight of you and tilts his head.  What have we here? he seems to ask.  The hunger that was absent this morning seems to have returned to his eyes; you’ve gotten to know that look pretty well in a short space of time.

You raise your eyebrows in turn and shift your body a little, resting your cheek on your hand.  “Was I too presumptuous?” 

He starts removing his jacket.  “That I’d want you in my bed later?  Hardly, just observant,” he says, and once that’s off gets to work on his tunic beneath.  Funny that considering how frequently you see him naked, you don’t see him actively undress all that often.

“Remember the other week when you offered to let me use you how I wished?” you ask.

A corner of Feyd’s mouth twitches upwards.  “I’ll remember that night for the rest of my life, pet,” he says.  

Something in your belly flutters.  You bite your lip.  “How about if I returned the favor tonight?”

You could swear that Feyd’s eyes light up for a moment as he steps in closer to the bed.  On instinct you sit up, one leg still bent over the other as you set one hand down on the mattress beside you, the other on your top thigh.  You still have to look up at him as he stops, brings two fingers under your chin, and tilts your head up to meet his gaze.

“You want me to fuck your mouth like you did mine?” he asks.  “You want me to tie you down and use you for my own pleasure?”

Heat floods your core.  He’s done something similar before.  You remember the ache between your legs when he did, coming close to understanding how aroused he gets whenever his face is between your legs. You nod, but that only prompts him to ask, “Will you use your words while you still can?”

“Yes–” your voice starts off hoarse, uncertain, before you try again.  “Yes, Husband.  I want that.”  

Feyd detects no lies; there’s none to detect.  Something like storm clouds seem like they’re building in those blue eyes. “I assume you’ve guessed what those hooks in my bed posts are for?” he asks, nodding over to his bed.

You give him a small smile.  “I may have made an educated guess,” you tell him.  

“Have you thought about it?  Being strapped to my bed while I take what I want from you?” he asks, his palm cupping the side of your face.

You just smile a little wider and lean your cheek into his palm, rubbing your face against the callouses, never breaking eye contact.  

Feyd smirks.  “I won’t make this an endurance test for you, pet,” he says.  “You have nothing you need to prove to me.

“But since you offered,” he adds, “I’ll have my fun with you."

The cuffs are a bit like the collar; not too tight with a reasonably comfortable interior.  You just lay back, spread-eagled, watching and taking mental notes on how Feyd tightens the cuffs and then the ropes that connect them to the bedposts.  

He doesn’t attach any kind of leash to the collar this time.

“The collar’s just because I like seeing you wear it,” Feyd says when he notices the silent question on your face, and sits on the edge of the bed to unfasten his boots.  He takes better care with his clothes than you’d expected, given that regardless of how he treats them, anything he wears today will be collected and laundered tomorrow morning while he’s out training.  You’d appreciate his fastidiousness more if he only hurried up a little to match you in your undressed state.  Perhaps that’s why he’s doing it this way.  You feel warm already between your legs, curiosity eating at you more than lust but you can sense them both within you.

He’s not fully erect yet by the time he’s naked, but he’s close to it, and you’re pretty sure you know how he expects you to get him the rest of the way there.  Your pulse speeds up as you shift your hips much as you can and meet his gaze as he circles around the bed, looks at you for a moment, and then climbs onto it with you.

He starts by sitting astride your stomach and tilts his head as he looks down at you before settling down on his haunches, his partially-erect cock resting on your sternum, between your breasts, where your nipples start to perk up.  What are you doing? you want to ask the moment before he does it.

And then your mouth falls open in a gasp as he presses your breasts together and rocks his hips.

It feels strange, but not awful.  A giggle bursts out of you as you think, Of course men think to put it there.  They must want to put it everywhere.  Feyd smirks back, expression teasing, even fond considering what he’s doing. 

You arch your back as you wonder when he’s going to take this further and if this is all part of the fun, him teasing you.  He stiffens further in between your breasts, never sliding close enough for you to put your lips around him, at least not until he releases you and raises onto his knees again, shifting forward, and holding the back of your head with one hand as he grips himself with the other.

It’s harder to suck his cock from this angle, can’t quite get as much of him in as he controls the rhythm, holding the base of your skull and twisting his fingers through your hair to get a good grip of it.  Not painful, but confident.  You won’t be able to handle him fucking your throat the way he fucks your cunt; the handful of times you’ve taken him into your mouth it was simply impossible.  

And he doesn’t; he doesn’t batter his way all the way down your gullet but he keeps his movements insistent, sometimes going so slowly that it seems like he’s testing you, seeing how long you can keep your mouth around him.

And then he shifts forward, bracing his hands against his headboard and rocking down further, nearly straddling your head.  That’s when he starts to speed up, hips rocking rather than gliding, the intensity of it making you drool, making tears prick up in the corners of your eyes, both of which abate only in the brief moments he pulls off to let you close your mouth and try again; a vessel for his cock and little else.  He continues until you think you might not be able to breathe, and then relaxes, speed increasing in increments subtle enough you don't realize it until he throbs and twitches, precome one your tongue and his breath turning into grunts.

He pulls out and you have just enough wherewithal to close your eyes as with a jerk of his fist and a harsh gasp he comes on your lips, your nose, your left cheek, your left eyelid.  It’s warm and viscous, making you gasp in turn.  When you’re certain he’s finished you look back up at Feyd, still positioned over you, and wait for a sense of shame to kick in.

It doesn’t.  

He brings his hands to your face, swiping his thumbs over the tear stains but not his come, leaving it on you after looking at where it’s landed and giving a quiet, approving hum.  He climbs off the bed, leaving you wondering for a moment what tool he’s going to pull out of his armoire, and then  takes a moment to look at you, tied down and helpless, and reaches down for one of the cuffs.

What are you doing? you want to ask, your brow furrowing, as he unfastens the first cuff from the rope and moves to your ankle to repeat the action, taking each length of rope with him until the cuffs at your wrists and ankles anchor you to nothing.  Surely you’re not done yet?  Feyd says nothing, offers no instructions and gives no orders.  You can get up and pull Feyd back into bed easily.

Still, you don't move, even as you want to wipe Feyd's spend off your face, even as you clench your fingers in the sheets.  You move only your head to watch Feyd put the ropes away, his cock hangs soft between his pale thighs, but you’re certain not for long.  

So what now? you don’t ask.  You don’t say a word, for the way it feels almost like there’s a spell cast on the room, like the quiet blanket of new snowfall.  You part your lips and dart out your tongue to lick them as you watch him turn to look at you.  You don’t know what else he has planned, but the feeling building in the pit of your stomach isn’t dread.  It’s anticipation, and the pressure of it builds lower in your body than your stomach.  You stare at Feyd and he stares back at you, and your heartbeat quickens and whatever he sees in your gaze makes him smile before he climbs back onto the bed.

He shifts to straddle your chest once more, and you tamp down on the urge to bring your hands up and grip his thighs, his hips.  You just stay where you are, trying not to arch your hips against nothing but the building heat between them.  You just wait.

He shifts closer, wraps a hand around his cock and presses the tip against your lips in a silent command to lick it clean.  Your eyes flick up to meet his as well as you can as you whorl your tongue around the tip of him, pressing your tongue against the entrance of it.

You wonder if he looks down at you and sees the same look in your eyes that he had when you’d tied his hands behind his back and fucked his mouth until you couldn’t stand it anymore.  You wonder if he can see that same desire to be used.

“Get me hard again,” he says, but his cock remains limp in his hand that he lifts as he positions himself just above your face and there’s only one place you can comfortably put your mouth.  He offers no explanation, has never told you to do this before, but it’s pretty self-explanatory.

You lift your head and stick your tongue out, running it over the seam of his testicles.

“That's it,” he says softly above you, and you open your mouth further, trying to explore more of him.

He keeps one hand in your hair and rolls his hips as he languidly pumps his stiffening cock, a low rumble in his chest as you take one into your mouth.  You won’t be able to manage both at once, you think as you run your tongue along the underside.  It’s uncharted territory; you weren’t fully aware that this was an option.

You feel the heat of his inner thighs framing your face, can feel him braced above you without putting any of his weight on you, almost but never quite sitting on you.  You shut your eyes as you focus on every other sensation, on the clean but salty sweat of his skin to the way it feels so delicate against your tongue. On the tension coiled in Feyd’s thighs straddling your head, the sounds of his breathing as you can sense his fist moving just above you.  Your heart pounds, your ears ring.  You feel so infinitesimally small and yet there’s an ache in your chest that’s so vast an entire fleet could fly through it. 

You could move, if you wanted to.  He might get annoyed by it but there’s nothing stopping you from reaching out, pushing him away.  Nothing except the fact that your breath quickens at the combination of salaciousness and perverse intimacy of it all.  The fact that he’s more than happy to let you do the same to him, the fact that want to stay, used and enjoyed.

 He guides you, holding your head in place for a moment as he cradles the back of it–the gesture familiar if the parts are different.  He doesn’t let up, doesn’t move off of your mouth, so again you have to breathe through your nose.

You gasp when Feyd does, sliding back and forth on your tongue, from his cock to his balls to just behind, and forward again.  You ache to touch yourself as you dig your hands into the sheets.

You feel it in your gut first, your stomach clenching, and your chest heaving before you realize the moan escaping you–the sound if it’s muffled but anyone could tell its one out of desperation and not protest.

Feyd stills and rises to his knees, shuffling back, and you finally get a good look at his face.

His pupils are dilated, his mouth open.  His lips twitch into a grin as he reaches behind him, not looking away as he reaches in between your legs and tilts his head as he finds the verification he needs, the slick in between them.  He leans down and replaces his fingers with his mouth.

You moan, head falling back, legs falling further open.

“I,” you start, panting, “I thought this was fun for you .”

Feyd smirks.  “It is,” he says, and dives back down.  Briefly you think about grabbing the back of his head, of wrapping your legs around his shoulders, but you do neither, arms still out-stretched, spread-legged, letting him take and give whatever he chooses.  It’s tempting, though, and you fruitlessly roll your hips against his mouth, only for him to pull back the moment you try.  He leans up, eyes blazing, seemingly delighted at your desperation.

“Not yet,” is all he says as he rises to his knees.

He shuffles to the foot of the bed and settles onto his haunches before beckoning you towards him with one arm.

“C’mere, pet.  Crawl over to me,” he says, and you tremble as you go, leaning forward, anticipating it before it can happen, opening your mouth before he can ask.  You hear him chuckle as cradles your face in one hand, stopping before you can wrap your lips around him.

“Spit on it first, pet,” he says.

You glance back up at him for a moment before gathering up all the saliva you can and letting it dribble onto him, and when that spurs on an encouraging grunt from above you dive back on, tongue along the underside of him, lips wrapped around his shaft.

Again he rolls his hips, keeping your head in place with both hands, pushing into your mouth as deep as he’s ever gone.

“What a good, eager come-slut,” he says as he fucks your mouth.  “Getting better at this each time we do it.”

You moan again around him, his words making you want to double down on your efforts; If he had pubic hair, your nose would nearly brush it.  He never chokes you; probably knows better than to try and cut off your airflow, given your current condition.  Still, you gasp for air when he tugs you off of him, your chest heaving.  

“That's it,” he says.  “Now turn around, sweet thing.”

You shake, nearly collapsing as you scramble to do so and chance a look behind you, knowing how you must look–eyes wide, wanting.  And oh, how you want .

Feyd shuffles forward and grabs your hips, hauling you back towards him.  Sometimes you wonder if he likes taking you this way because of how primal and animalistic it must look, the submissive position it puts you in, or because even though you’re wet and pliant, there’s still that bit of resistance from this angle.  Maybe it’s because when he fucks you on all fours he draws noises out of you that you never thought you’d make.  He bears down hard, the ache and stretch almost painful even as you can feel your slick around him, and you can’t get enough.  Especially not when he leans forward, his cock brushing your insides from a new angle that has your upper body giving out, hips raised up but everything else slumping against the bed, helpless and wanting.

“I’m–I–” you’ve never come untouched before, not with him taking you from behind like this, but you can feel it building fast.

“No, you’re not,” Feyd says immediately.  “Not yet.”

You let out a pathetic sob, your come-stained cheek against the mattress, whining as he has the audacity to slow down.   I thought this wasn’t an endurance test, you want to tell him as you buck your hips, leaving behind all attempts to be patient and let him take what he wants.  Feyd snickers behind you and stops entirely for a moment.

“Please,” you say.  Your voice sounds wrecked.  

“Say that again, pet,” he says, leaning forward, his voice now close to your ear.

“Please, husband,” you say again.  “You feel so good and I need to come so bad.  Please keep fucking me until I…” 

He thrusts hard into you once more, holding you to him, his face buried somewhere near the nape of your neck, nose against your hair, one hand braced against the pillows as the other presses against your stomach, and then you’re gone, clenching around him, bright light flashing behind your clenched-shut eyes, feeling a fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks.

After he’s come and has caught his breath, after he’s pulled out, he turns you over without a word.  

He reaches first for the cuff on your left wrist, presses a kiss against the inside of it as he undoes the restraint at last.  He repeats the gesture for each cuff, until he reaches the collar around your neck.  You expect him to unfasten it and your eyes dart down to his lips, waiting for them to press against the bare skin when he does.

Instead Feyd hooks a finger through the loop at the front and tugs you upward into a sitting position.  “Come with me, pet,” he says, dropping his hand from your collar and holding it out to take one of yours as he leads you off and away from the bed.

It’s not far to go; just his bathroom, where he grabs a clean cloth and wets it silently, eyes darting across the tears and spit and dried come on your face, all marked in one way or another by him.  And then when he wipes it clean.  His touch is gentle, which perhaps you didn’t expect but doesn’t surprise you.  You feel weightless as you laugh, eyes closed until he's wiped every trace of tonight off of you.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” you finally ask when he finishes and tosses the cloth into a bin.

Feyd pauses, and flicks at the hoop that would normally connect your collar to chain or rope before he answers.

“Since before I met you,” he says.  “Since I first saw you in a dream six months ago and knew that you had to be a stranger because I would’ve remembered if I’d seen a face as pretty as yours, but knew that you wouldn’t be a stranger for long.”

He takes another moment to look at you, naked except for the collar you’ve come to see as your own–previously used by others, perhaps, but by no one else from now on–before he unfastens it and gives you a glance in the direction of the bed before he turns back to the armoire.

You get the hint and pad back into the bedroom.  You climb into bed, under the covers, as he sets the collar back and closes up, and wait until he’s slid under the covers with you to sprawl halfway over him.  It’s another thing you doubt he’s allowed with others in the past; this sort of post-coital affection.  It didn’t seem to come naturally to him, at least not those first few days.  You’re honestly not sure if it was a dormant habit he hadn’t needed to develop until you dragged it out of him but that idea makes you nestle closer to him.  Feyd wraps an arm loosely around you and for a moment you think he’s absently playing with your hair, but then he runs his fingers through a snarl and as you wince you realize he’s smoothing out the mess he must’ve made of your hair.  He simply keeps going, until he catches them all, and his passes through your hair turn into pets and strokes.  You have no words right now; you need none.  His touch is soothing, and if you had to pick one symptom of your new condition you have been able to notice, it’s that you’re easier to tire, quicker to fall asleep.

Before you do, you ask, “You ever thought about letting me tie you to the bedposts?” 

You sense Feyd tilt his chin and shift to get a better look at you, and you raise your head to meet his curious gaze.  “Have you? ” he asks, sounding amused.

“May’ve crossed my mind at one point,” you say, even as you’re close to drifting off.  You bring your head back down, ear close to his heart, its beat steady.

“We can give it a try one night before I leave,” he says.  “While we still have time.”

You smile against his chest.

Not that either of you have discussed it, but every night since your reconciliation you’ve slept in the same bed.  Feyd still gets up first and is quiet enough that he rarely wakes you as he gets dressed, but you still feel a little colder waking up than you did falling asleep to his heartbeat against your back.

The same is true of this morning, when you wake to a knock on the door.  

You sit up, rubbing your eyes and getting up to reach for a robe.  “Come in, Idrisa,” you call, voice thick with sleep as you start to pull it on.

You pull it on faster when Idrisa enters alongside another attendant, a woman in long gray robes covered by a black smock.  She’s carrying a synthetic case.  

“Good morning, my lady na-Baroness,” she says, lowering her head and giving a polite curtsy.  “I do hope we did not wake you.  I’ve arrived on orders of the Baron.”

“Oh?” you ask, sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“He said it was time to confirm your pregnancy with our doctors.  An appointment has been made for early this afternoon but first we would require a sample from you.”

You’d thought they’d need a few more days for a doctor’s visit.  “A sample,” you repeat.

“Just some of your urine, na-Baroness,” she says, pulling on gloves and withdrawing a metal box from her case, and from that pulling out a glass canister.  “It should be enough to provide an answer by the time of your appointment.”

You glance at the canister.  “And you require a sample right now.”  She’s clearly not asking you, so you aren’t, either.  It’s the most authority with which you’ve seen a Harkonnen woman speak so far.

“At your earliest convenience, my lady,” she says.  

You sigh and reach for your distilled water on the nightstand.  From the full night of sleep, your bladder is full enough that it won’t take too long.  You finish the glass, set it down, and say, “I suppose now is as convenient a time as any,” as you hold your hand out for the canister.

She steps forward and deposits it gently into your palm with both hands and a bow.  You take a breath, trying to remember that this woman is simply following instruction, and head into your bathroom.

I bet the Baron finds this hilarious, the fat bastard , you think, cranky, holding the canister under you, trying to aim the stream into the canister and not on your own fingers.  Even pissing is done under his orders .

You do, to your credit, clean off the exterior of the canister when you’re done.

She can tell that you’re annoyed when you come back out and hand it over, you’re sure, but she doesn’t act like it.  Instead, she curtsies again before leaving with a pleasant, “Thank you for your cooperation, my lady na-Baroness.  We’ll be able to confirm the results in time for your appointment.”

You watch as she leaves, feeling numb even as you’re still flushing scarlet.  Idrisa apologizes profusely, her head down.

“I apologize, my lady, I had no say over when and how you’d be asked to provide confirmation–”

You hold up a hand.  “I know,” you say.  “It’s alright.  The Baron does what he wants.”  And you understand why he’s timing it this way; first showing off Feyd as a legitimate fighter on his birthday as Rabban continues losing more men, and then providing hope for the Harkonnen lineage by showing off how it’s continuing, and soon securing Feyd’s legacy as an effective leader ready to inherit the Barony.  You don’t even mind playing your part in bolstering Feyd’s image.  What’s vital is that the Baron’s plans end there.

Until then, you are Feyd’s pregnant foreign bride, the vessel for his heir to the eyes of his people, and the Baron can entertain whatever notions he wants about his own future.

You lay back on the examination table, trying not to wince and squirm as the doctor presses a tool inside of you.  You clench your jaw, fingertips digging into the sides of the table as you try not to close your legs.  The tool had looked like some sort of crude torture device and while it isn’t particularly painful, it stretches you in ways that you’re too dry and uncomfortable to adjust to.

Standing in the corner is the woman from earlier, who tilts her head to get a better view of the examination.  Her hands are folded daintily in front of her, her expression blank.

Feyd stands close by, watching the doctor with eyes like a shark; his posture seems locked but it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he’s coiled and ready to castrate the doctor and force-feed him his own cock and balls if the man glances or prods a millisecond longer than necessary.  He’s here at your request.

When you whimper through gritted teeth you hold your hand up, certain Feyd’s going to lunge and stab the doctor to death while the instrument’s still inside of you.

“It’s fine,” you manage.  “He’s just doing his job.”  You try to ignore the doctor, who freezes, trying not to look at your husband.  You meet Feyd’s eyes instead. I’m alright, you hope your look conveys.  It needs to be done .  Feyd pauses as he takes in your expression and folds his arms across his chest as he glares down at the back of the doctor’s head.  

“Well,” the man says after another minute, sitting back, setting the device back with the others, and taking off his gloves.  “Between this and the results of the urine sample we’ve gotten all the confirmation that we need.”  As you pull your skirts back down he gets up, tosses his gloves into the wastebin beside your examination table, and bows to Feyd.  “Congratulations, my lord na-Baron.”

You can’t help but scowl at that, brow furrowing.  You’re the one who’s pregnant.  It won’t be Feyd who carries the future of the house of Harkonnen for the next nine months.  “And how many of these examinations will I be going through, doctor?” you ask, voice no sharper than you intended.  The doctor turns and lowers his head in a small bow.  “Many, my lady na-Baroness.  We must be vigilant to ensure that your pregnancy remains healthy.  However, I will not be the one administering them.”  He turns to the woman who has neither moved nor spoken this entire time, and tells her, “Come forward.”

The woman does, taking a step towards you and inclining her head as she gives a curtsy.

“Oksana will look after you until it’s time for you to give birth,” the doctor says.  “She’ll perform your examinations and be your resource throughout your pregnancy.  She will provide guidance and be at your disposal for whatever you require.”

“It is an honor, my lady na-Baroness,” the woman, Oksana, says, and suddenly her wardrobe makes more sense.  This is a woman with a more elevated position than any you’ve seen who hadn’t married into it.

You glance between them; you neither know nor completely trust this woman, but you’d still rather she poke around your insides than some man by decree of the Baron.  “Very well,” you say finally, raising your chin.  “I appreciate your services, Oksana.”  You sit up and swing your legs over the examination table to allow yourself some dignity before giving the doctor a curt nod.  “Yours as well.”

 You mean it unambiguously as a dismissal, and yet when the words come from your mouth, they both remain where they are, only Oksana looking like she may recognize your meaning but the doctor seeming to wait for the na-Baron’s response and not yours.

“I’d have a moment alone with my wife,” Feyd says, tone sharper than you’d be willing to chance.  Oksana curtsies and leaves without a word, and it’s only after she’s gone that the doctor realizes he’s dismissed as well.  He removes his headlamp, bows once more, and leaves the room with a visibly relieved sag of his shoulders.

You look away for a moment, reaching over for your undergarment to pull it back on, shifting your hips to get them up the length of your legs.  “I’ve never had an examination like that before,” you say off-handedly.

“He won’t be examining you again,” Feyd says.

“So was Oksana your decision?” you ask.

Feyd looks impassive, arms folded across his chest. “That first doctor was chosen by Uncle,” he says, “but I imagined that if you were to have any physician exploring your insides you’d rather it be another woman.”

You smile at that.  “You’re not wrong,” you admit.  “I just hadn’t realized women were allowed to be doctors here.”

“There aren’t many,” Feyd says.  “And they look after the wealthier women in the Fortress as midwives.  If anyone was to be poking at your cunt during my absence I’d also only accept a woman to do it.”

You exhale; a short breath of laughter.  “So we have a second opinion and it’s the same as the first one,” you say after a moment, and reach your hand out to pat the space on the edge of the table beside you.

Feyd gets the hint and sits down.  The two of you sit in silence.  You think about holding his hand, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move yours any further.  Instead you ask, “So how is the Fortress going to announce it to the rest of the planet?”

“Not sure,” Feyd says.  “This hasn’t happened in decades.  Uncle will send out missives to the other Houses announcing it, and he’ll try to time the news before my appointment to Arrakis. If he has anything planned beyond that he hasn’t shared it yet.”

Are you happy?  Are you looking forward to being a father?  you don’t ask.  He’s not that sort of man, this isn’t that sort of culture.  He won’t be that sort of father, the one who bonds with his children, and you knew that since before you met him.  There are ways he’s surprised you, ways you’re reasonably certain you’ve won him over, but this is one aspect you just don’t think you can change.

You’ll wait just a little longer to ask him about spending your pregnancy on your own planet.

You sit in the arena stands once more, next to the Baron this time, in a seat both smaller and raised lower than his own.  As a practical measure, of course, nothing personal.

“We must give the announcement in style,” the Baron had said over dinner the night he’d gotten confirmation from the doctor.  “A new Harkonnen heir on Geidi Prime–it requires pomp and circumstance, would you not agree, nephew?”

And that was the full discussion.  All there was left was to negotiate; now that the Geidi Prime audience had seen Feyd fight properly, especially with his responsibilities going forward, he’d forgo his shield, and his opponents wouldn’t be sedated beforehand.  

Horns blare, and you sit up just a hair straighter.  

Minutes ago, you were adorning Feyd with paint and stuck on the questions you wanted to but couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

Will your people truly be happy about the news? Or will they be angry that it’s a foreigner who’s carrying your heir? you’d wondered as you’d anointed his body with paint and his Darlings had curled up naked on their spot on the dais watching and sniffing at the both of you.  For the first time since your rift with him he’d abstained from sharing a bed with you last night, but from the way he looked at you as you painted his chest and stomach, he’ll practice no such self-restraint tonight.

And now you take your place, almost but not quite beside your uncle-in-law in the same gown you wore for Feyd's birthday--the fit of it the first indication you've gotten that your breasts are starting to grow.  Your hair’s down, face bare, as you hear the announcer’s voice blaring out, once again so loud your teeth nearly rattle and goosebumps raise along the back of your neck.

“Today we celebrate the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha and his success qleighlw an heir!  His bride the na-Baroness cwnawek a son!”

A veritable sea of people who’ve never seen your face and who you’ll never meet erupt into cheers as deafening as they were for Feyd's birthday arena fight.

“In honor of our beloved Harkonnen line, our heir and our heir to be, let the games begin!”

The games in question that open the festivities are skirmishes between a few of the healthier-looking prisoners; a free-for-all battle royale with rounds in between and whatever weapons they can salvage.  You try not to wince at the desperation they all have, ferocity at the chance of escaping a life in the dungeons to a likely menial one mining ore and precious metals. Half an hour later the victor, covered in blood that’s partially his own, gets hefty applause and cheers from the crowd as slaves set the corpses of the fallen fighters to the side to be burned at the end of the arena showing.  

But they don't compare to the cheers for your husband.  They start before he can enter the arena, somehow managing to build when he does with the same long-legged gait as before.

You flicker the settings on your binoculars to get a good look at him when he bows low, as always, to the Baron’s private viewing box and try not to smile when Feyd raises his head and you realize even from a high distance that he’s looking at you.  Your eyes lock for a moment, his expression entirely calm as he gives a small nod and rises to his feet just as a door opens and the first opponent steps out.

Even with the new stipulations it’s not what you’d call evenly-matched.  While the other man is tall and athletic-looking he’s a noticeably less skilled fighter than the Atreides soldier from before.  His coordination is impaired not by any drugs but by his uncontrolled anger, and while it adds force to his movements it’s easy for Feyd to manipulate him.  

So you don’t feel the same kind of terror as you did on Feyd’s birthday, even as your hand not holding your binoculars digs into your seat.  Even as you gasp and wince when his opponent manages a close swipe.

The Baron senses it and chuckles.  “My sweet niece, surely you know your husband well enough to understand that this is part of the show?” he says.

Your fingers dig deeper into your seat.  You can feel a muscle flicker in your jaw as you say without taking your eyes off Feyd, “I suppose it’s just that he performs it so effectively, my lord Baron,” you say primly.

Feyd seems less impressed than he was with the Atreides soldier, despite the match going on for a few minutes, when you notice that his opponent leaves a couple of openings during their match and yet Feyd seems to draw it out.  Sure, Feyd could be drawing it out for theatrics, but surely there’s something else?

And then the arena opens again, with another well-built man coming out.  Another man wincing at the infrared sun but adjusting and catching sight of his enemy.

Ah, you think, as Feyd glances at the emerging opponent and in hardly the blink of an eye turns and slashes the first man’s throat.

The second man looks imposing enough, but it’s clear that he also lacks proper training and is trying to use his bulk to compensate for it.  It won’t work for Feyd, though, it seems, because he knows how to use the other man’s broader frame against him.  He evades and parries swiftly until he manages to catch the man off-balance and slash along his hamstring.

You wouldn’t be able to hear the man’s bellow of pain even without the cheers in the stands, but you can detect the sudden fear curtailing his relentless pursuit of Harkonnen blood.  Perhaps this man had hope somewhere for a victory against Feyd, perhaps he counted on his bulk overpowering the na-Baron’s comparatively lithe frame.  You can’t quite see the look in his eyes, but the sudden way he tries to stumble back as Feyd advances on him is enough.

You can see his panic the moment Feyd grabs his shoulder and sinks his blade into his belly, starting at the waistband of his tunic and slicing upwards.  The man starts to go limp by the time Feyd reaches his sternum.

You can’t make out the moment the light fades from this man’s eyes, but you can sense the disappointment in Feyd’s, and it isn’t the same as it was his last arena fight, looking like he was contemplating the loss of a fun new toy or an interesting playmate.  He’s disappointed there wasn’t more of a challenge.  He withdraws his blade, viscera dripping from it, and watches, stone-faced, as the man drops.

“Are you not impressed with my nephew, young Y/N?” the Baron asks.

You force yourself to continue looking into the stands as Feyd raises his blade above his head and marches back through the entrance into the chambers below.  “I daresay I often am, my lord Baron,” you say.  You try to tamp down on the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach, trying not to think about how these men are dead partially because of you.

You did not order this, would never have suggested this.  You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth and close your eyes for a moment.  You just need to play your part.

“What are you thinking right now, Y/N?” the Baron asks.  “Don’t tell me you’re still squeamish.”

You’re certain your expression is neutral and polite as you turn to look at him.  You’re also certain he can tell that you hate him, anyway.  But whatever response you try to think up in the moment gets interrupted by an older man in long gray messenger robes.

“Good afternoon, my lord Baron, na-Baroness.”  The messenger says, bowing.  “The na-Baron requires his wife’s presence,” he adds.

You Baron narrows his eyes at you with a derisive little smirk.  Enjoy being nothing more than a hole for my pretty nephew to stick my cock in when the mood strikes him , the one little look tells you.  It’s the only use you’ll have until you bear his son .

You smile in return and rise from your seat, pausing only to curtsy and offer the Baron some parting pleasantries before leaving for the cavernous halls down below, where artificial light washes out pale skin and Feyd’s waiting for you.  It’s just him, back in just his loincloth, barefoot and with his body paint now smudged on his bare torso.  The dais is bare; his Darlings must’ve eaten and been taken back to their room already.  

As for Feyd, you think about the first time you ever saw him like this, how scandalous it felt to see him close to naked just the day before your wedding, but how exciting it felt.  How he’d looked like a marble statue made by a sculptor with a perverse sense of humor; almost beautiful but still somehow wrong , unsettling and not entirely human.  You’d felt unnerved, then, wanting to but still nervous to look upon him like this.

Now you step forward with a smile, the heels of your boots clicking against the stone floor.  “Congratulations, husband,” you tell him.  There’s a part of you that thinks that he looks like he belongs in catacombs and dungeons, some unsettling creature of a dark underworld.  There’s a part of you that knows that a year ago, that months ago you couldn’t imagine being married to a man who’d celebrate the news of your pregnancy by killing two, as far as you know, innocent men in front of a cheering crowd.  Maybe the version of you that existed before this would be scandalized by what you’re wearing, would have trouble recognizing what you’re turning into, would refuse to understand why you’d ever choose to be close to the cold-blooded killer in front of you.

But that version of you no longer exists.  You step in closer, the heels of your boots narrowing the height difference between you.  

You think you know how you must look to him; body scandalous, face guileless, and so it takes just a glint in Feyd’s eyes to serve as a signal before he’s kissing you roughly, pushing you up against the wall, and grabbing your thigh to drag his hand under the slit in your skirt.  You whimper against his mouth when his searching fingers find no further barrier between them and your cunt and he curls one of them inside of you.

“Does seeing me kill make you wet?” he asks, pulling away just long enough to ask.

“Your skill makes me wet,” you tell him, and devour his mouth again.

He removes his cup with the kind of finesse of a man who’s done this multiple times before, seamless and without breaking away from the kiss.  His loincloth takes little more effort, the bands around his hips elastic enough that with your combined efforts, it falls to the ground within seconds, leaving him naked.  When he tugs the straps over your dress away to free your breasts, when he tears at your skirt to give himself better access, when all that’s keeping your dress up is the tight waistband, you’re not far behind him.  Under these lights he may look like a slab of marble, more statue than man but his skin’s so warm, his heart thudding against your chest.  There’s more vitality in him right now than there was in the arena minutes ago.

I am your prize today, you want to say.  So go on and take me .

You rise further onto tiptoe when you finally feel it, when he takes himself in hand and pushes inside of you

His body paint mixed with his sweat rubs against your breasts and stomach, leaving black smudges anyone will be able to see even when you try and set your dress to rights later, and you don’t care.  If this is his way of marking you up then you welcome it.  You’ll wear his paint on your skin with pride.  You grab his hips and urge him in deeper with a groan.

He snarls and hitches you up, giving you enough time to jump and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you a few steps to the dais, and for a moment keeps you impaled on him just like this, for perhaps the last time he’ll be able to take you in this position for many months to come.  And then he advances, lowering you down, slithering over you.  He gets a hand under the back of your head before it can slam against marble and then his mouth is on you once more, first your lips and then lower, curling himself to get to your breasts.

When you whine, body open for the taking, one hand cupping the back of his head, it’s because you finally feel tender there, a delicious sting lancing through you when he scrapes his teeth against your nipple.  

It’s changing.  Your body’s changing .

Everything about you is changing.

It’s uncomfortable on your back, probably even more uncomfortable on his knees as he resumes his thrusts inside of you.  You don’t care.  For now, you don’t care if this planet and this marriage has made you a little crueler, a little darker, a little more dangerous.  All that matters right now is you and him and the life you’ve created together that’s growing between you.

Above these catacombs, you hear the sounds of people celebrating.

Tag list: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich @aemondseyepatch and please let me know if you would also like to be tagged!

Also shout out to the wonderful @peggyao3 who in addition to writing wonderful fanfic made a lovely fanart collage of different OC and Reader characters for Dune Part Two here!

[honeycollectswhump]

maybe put a shock collar on Ashtray?

Lightning in His Veins

[masterlist]

CW: shock collar, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation

His Mistress has a new collar for him. Ashtray should be excited at the prospect of being decorated, but something about it makes his stomach churn. It is big, black and ugly. Nothing like the delicate accessories his Mistress usually dresses him in, and that almost feels like a sin.

Maybe it's because the collar is a gift from one of her friends, watching excitedly. Not for Ashtray, of course, nothing is ever for him, nothing belongs to him, that’s how it's supposed to be. But sometimes they gift her things to dress him in, though nothing comes close to her knowledge of style and grace. This collar must be one of those gifts then, and who is Ashtray to question that. A Good Boy never questions his superiors, a Good Boy never questions anything. A Good Boy does what he is told.

So Ashtray does. He bares his neck prettily, taking note of how his torso moves, twisting on fresh burns, knowing that the glitter the servants applied must shine like tiny diamonds. And maybe, silently, he hopes that his Mistress’ friends must be so jealous of her beautiful, perfect possessions, decked in gold and jewels, just what dreams are made of. 

…At least he thinks that’s what dreams must be like. Objects don’t dream, naturally. 

As his Mistress closes the clasps of the collar, as her pristine red nails scratch over a burn scrab, he can’t help but focus on the feelings of prongs digging into his throat in an uncomfortably familiar way. Ashtray doesn’t dwell on it though. He has already learned, there is nothing to fear. The blank rooms are far gone and instead have been blessedly replaced by the shining smiles his Mistress graces him with, her cold hands like glistening ice bringing warm burns, and the golden glamour she has allowed him to be a part of. 

Satisfied, his Mistress steps back. She is saying something, talking with her guest, exchanging airy laughter and warbled pleasant tones, washing over Ashtray like pearly morning dew he can picture in his mind but has never seen before. He could get lost in her voice, riding on it like clouds carrying him through his purpose, and yet never being too distracted, always keeping an eye on the ground just low enough so he’ll never miss a clue he can’t understand, never missing the remote–

The remote being handed to his Mistress, equally as black as the collar, making him suddenly awake of the prongs against his throat and the pit forming in his stomach. 

Ashtray stays still though, perfectly poised, and suppresses the flinch before it had even fully realised. Maybe he hopes, desperately, if he is Good enough she’ll decide against it. Maybe it was all a test, maybe, maybe… Maybe he can see it coming just enough to give her the reaction she wants. 

Almost pleadingly in the silence of his own mind, Ashtray knows he isn’t trained for pain. He is supposed to be an Ashtray, an object with a specific use, it’s all he could ever hope to know. The thought of displeasing her with his reaction scares him more than any pain ever could. What if he reacts too much? What if he is not– Lightning burns down his veins, ripping out his throat, his skin and tissue and soul. Two punctures spread venom down his very being, and there is no escape no escape no escape no escape no escape

Suddenly, it’s gone and Ashtray finds himself curled up on the ground, his limbs still twitching. He can’t remember how but surely it wasn’t graceful and–

His mouth rips open in a breathless scream, a pathetic, garbled screech barely noticeable over the sound of mindless thrashing, limbs hitting the floor, head banging against polished stone. It’s fire and lightning and Punishment and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything, only knows Pain and Punishment and Please Stop.

Pause.

Breath.

Notice saliva dripping from the mouth. Not elegant. Not trained.

Hell. 

Like veins imploding, swallowing what is left of Ashtray, leaving no trace of his purpose. Like poison, destruction, ruin, Ødelæggelse.

Stop.

Gasp.

Look up at Mistress, hope for mercy, hope for anything.

Find glee. Find amused laughter. Please.

It never ends…

• • •

He is still here. Ashtray is still here. Twisted, on the ground, the venom still burning in every vessel, but here. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, dried and bloody at the same time. Somehow, it is all pain, every single cell in his body is pain and lightning and shocks still coursing through him.

Maybe she heard him think. Maybe she felt her Ashtray have stupid little thoughts about things he should be grateful for, like being adorned in a big, black, ugly painful it hurts burning agonising beautiful collar. 

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[mariademetal]

౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ inertia fushiguro megumi / gn!reader ©mariademetal 2024

cw ... codependency, description of a stab wound but no actual stabbing/violence, situationship (😭), megs is an asshole, reader is a little pathetic icl, description of anxiety?? idk what else, lmk if i should add anything note ... OOC MEGUMI. this characterization is sooooo bad don't even come for me i made him soooo much crueler than he actually is but i've been in such an angsty mood i can't bring myself to care this is suchhhh a weird little oneshot but i wanted to write for megumi and had so many ideas and they just all kinda merged into this frankenstein freakazoid fic.... kinda despise it but still had fun writing it :p hope u like itttt word count ... 2.4k

The first law of motion: an object in motion stays in motion. For as long as you've known him, Megumi has been running from one thing or another. He likes it, you think— he likes the feeling of his lungs burning, he likes the feeling of waking up sore, he likes the feeling of pressing down onto his bruises and more than anything he likes it when you do it.

Likewise, for as long as you've known him, he's never slowed down to let you catch up. You don't think he's given anyone an inch in his life, and you can't help but think that it's okay, it's fine, because it's him.

You don't like his friends. You're kept away from them at school, tucked away in the corner they keep for the students without innate techniques, out of sight and out of mind. They're rowdy, they yell, they tug, and most importantly, they take up the attention that Megumi once solely focused on you. You're sure as hell they don't like you, either— you're not a part of their world, not really, and you have no doubt that the way you cling to Megumi whenever you all go out together, determined to make yourself as small as possible, hide behind Megumi until he saves you, makes them just as uncomfortable around you as you are around them.

You don't like his friends, they sure as shit don't adore you, but every time Megumi comes around and you're resolute that this time you're going to stay behind, get some alone time with him, you still end up walking out with him, hand in his, tail between your legs.

He just gives you that look. He doesn't even need to say anything— his lips purse, the corner of his lips quirk down, his eyebrows furrow, and the disappointment in his eyes is so palpable you think you can feel it burrowing under your skin. That's all it takes for your resolution to be all but reduced to dust.

When you concede, murmur a "Fine, I'll go," and reach for your coat, the disappointment on his face has disappeared and the faintest hint of a smile has replaced it. He rubs your arm while he leads you to your door and, just comfortable enough behind closed doors to show you the affection he thinks you deserve as a reward for doing what he wants. His hand feels more like a prong collar tugging at your neck, ready to choke you if you dare to turn tail.

It falls to your own hand while the two of you walk, and where you'd prefer to take your time on the way to everyone else, to prepare yourself for another evening of judgmental glances and keeping to yourself, to get just a few more minutes alone with Megumi before you're forced to share him again, but he moves quickly. Your feet hurt before long, and when you stop to take a break, he just lets go of your hand and keeps going.

Naturally, when you eventually meet up with Itadori and Kugisaki and the rest, he acts like he never wanted to see them at all, but you forced your hand— like he's the dog and you're the one pulling his leash, forcing him to socialize with the people you can't stand.

No one seems to believe him, but no one dares accuse him of anything but being a "..softie, deep down."

God, you wish. You wish there was even a single soft spot on his body. He's dipped his entire being in the river Styx, forged a soul from steel far too dense for jujutsu-less you to penetrate, and has never failed to remind you of it (and your own failures by extension). You wish he would give you the opportunity to massage his shoulders until the knots in his muscles could loosen, you wish you could wash his hair for him so it would finally lay flat, you wish he wouldn't train so much so the blisters his knuckle pads could have the opportunity to fade away. You wish more than anything he would just surrender, let you take care of him, and he knows this, so he taxes extra care to keep you just far enough away to make damn sure you don't, and just close enough to keep you from leaving him.

You need him. This is something you both know. It's never been in question. You've needed him since you were both little, to protect you from the world and the creatures you could both see but only he could fight against. And he needed you too, for a good, few years. He was too mean, too quick to snap at the unfamiliar to make any other friends, and you would've sooner died than give him the impression that he is anything other than the most important person in your life.

Then, he stopped needing you. He settled, trained, made friends. Found his purpose. Yet, he keeps you around— drags you over from the other side of campus just to relish in the way you wrap yourself around his arm while he talks with his friends, the same way you did when he'd send his dogs to kill all the cursed spirits that dared to scare you when you were little. He relishes in protecting you from a situation he has inflicted onto you. But he doesn't need you.

So, one day, you ask him why he bothers keeping you around.

"What're you talking about?" He huffs. He's busy sharpening your only knife after trying and failing to peel an apple for the two of you to share— he's always busy, but you've caught him with an injury while all his peers are healthy, so at least you have a moment alone with him.

"You know what I'm talking about," You insist with a pout, and he just looks back at you with a deadpan. "You don't have to see me if you don't go out of your way to. Gojo keeps us apart for that exact reason. Why do you?"

He's silent, for a while. Just long enough that you think he's opted to ignore you. Only then does he speak. "I'm not ignoring you. I just don't really know what you're getting at."

"I don't want to have to explain how I feel to you like you're five."

"Then don't."

You think it would hurt less if he took the knife he's sharpening and stuck it into your heart. Your eyes burn, and you swallow your saliva, purse your lips and clench your fists to keep yourself from crying. You think about what you'd do if he had opted to stab you instead— you picture yourself with the handle sticking out of your shirt, blood spilling out all around it, staining your shirt and your hands red, your heart beating even faster and harder to replace it. You'd take it out, you think, and rinse it off, then hand it back to him so he can keep his hands busy like you know he likes to while you bleed out on your bed behind him.

It's only when you sniffle, still desperate to hold your tears back, that Megumi finally looks back at you and realizes this is his cue to comfort you in the only awkward way he knows how to. He closes his eyes for a second, puts the knife down, and sits down beside you, stiff as a board. You shift your weight the second he does, leaning on his shoulder, but he doesn't lean against yours. It's not an apology, you doubt it's even intended as one, but you're so eager to forgive him that you still interpret it as one, and thus an invitation to elaborate on what he'd shut down just a minute before.

"You don't need me anymore," you say, and it's only after the words are already spoken that you realize Megumi would've preferred it if you omitted the word anymore altogether. You know him to prefer not to admit he needs water. "You have friends and you know I hate them. They understand you better than I do. They can keep up with you."

"You don't hate them," He says, and you know he's not delusional— just cruel. You wonder if he's always been this cruel, if he inherited it from his father, or if it's the world who made him cruel. You don't think you're cruel— maybe cruelty is necessary for sorcerers. "It's not about any of that. I'd never toss you aside for them. I can barely stand them."

You laugh at that, and Megumi makes a sour face. "You can barely stand them but you still drag me to see them."

"I don't drag you. I can't make you do anything," He sneers.

You know that if this turns into a fight, he'll win, so you raise your white flag before it has the opportunity to and curl into yourself, away from him. Only then does he reach out to touch you.

"Maybe you should leave," You whisper, and he looks like you've scalded him.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, and opens it again. "I'll come back later."

"Don't bother," you say, and you regret it the second you do. It isn't like you to be this petty, it isn't like you to cry as much as you've been crying lately, and you find that every time you speak, you find your own voice just a little bit more grating than the last. You say don't bother but you really don't mean it. You fight down an urge to correct yourself, beg him to stay, not to leave to begin with. You'll drop it. The two of you can lie together, he can fidget with your hands, and when he wants to sleep you can run your fingers through his hair.

You don't because you want to believe that what you said is hurting him just as much as what he said earlier hurt you, even though you know, deep down, that no matter what you say to him, you can't even scratch that steel shell that protects him.

He says your name sternly, but quietly, and you're ready to cry again. "What are you doing? What is this really about?"

"I don't know."

So, he leaves. You can still smell the faintest trace of him in the air, and once he's far enough away that you can't hear his footsteps anymore, you grab the knife he was sharpening and finish the job.

You love him, you think, and he doesn't love you. Or maybe you don't. You don't know. But you're certainly not friends, and you don't think you ever have been. You don't think you've had a friend your whole life. He's not your friend, but if he told you to jump, you'd ask how high.

He's always moving from one place to another. He wakes up and goes to class, then eats lunch with Gojo, then spars with Itadori, then trains with the second years and Kugisaki, then sees Ieiri to make sure he hasn't overexerted himself, then eats dinner with the first and second years, then finally comes to collect you so you can go out with him and the others.

On the other hand, you wake up, eat your breakfast alone, meet with your teacher, and rot in your room, thinking about if and when Megumi will show up. Megumi, Megumi, Megumi. You doubt he thinks about you once before he asks if he can bring you along to whatever plans his friends have already made.

How does he do it? How does he move so consistently, so perpetually, while the best you can do is nip at his heels? The idea of it exhausts you.

He does come back, eventually. After you've fallen asleep. You hear a knock on the door that wakes you, and you know it's him, so you do your best to wake yourself up and make yourself as presentable as you can before opening the door for him. You smile, wholesome and unassuming, perfect for forgiving for any prior transgressions. Then, as he takes you in, you take him in— tousled hair, messy uniform— and realize he's shown you just how capable he really is of leaving you behind.

So, like a hurt dog, you snarl and you bite. "I thought I told you not to bother."

"Stop being like this."

That's what he's reduced you to. A dog. Pavlov'd you into doing things you'd never do otherwise, feeding you with his rare affection and unconditional protection, hit you with his disappointed glances and harsh words.

"What else should I be like?"

He huffs and reaches over you to open your door wide enough to walk through. You don't stop him— even if you wanted to, how could you? You're confused. He makes a display out of just how much he doesn't need you, but still goes out of his way to burrow his way inside of your room.

You watch him from the back as he sets his bag on the floor and takes off his jacket. You can't stand to look at the way his hair is splayed out, so you look at his back, instead. His shoulder blades poke out from under his shirt and make circles in a way you find mesmerizing. Then, he slips off his shoes and steps forward. You follow, dutiful even at your most hurt.

Then, he faces you.

"Why don't you like them?" he asks.

"What's there to like?" You know what answer he wants, and when he just looks at you, waiting for it, rather than taking your bait, you throw yourself onto your bed. "They're all sorcerers," you say sorcerers like the word puts a bad taste in your mouth.

"So am I."

"Exactly."

Your bed dips just by where your legs hang off. You know exactly what face he's wearing, so you don't bother looking. "You don't have to be jealous, you know."

"What's to be jealous about?" You ask sarcastically, and you can feel his glare boring into the side of your face.

"They're my friends, but you're my..."

He struggles to find a word to describe you, just like you struggle to find one to describe him. You know exactly what you are to him, though.

"You're my favorite."

You look up towards him. He looks away. "Really?"

"Really."

He coughs into his fist. You fluster and dig your face into your sheets.

"I still don't like your friends," you mutter.

He snorts at the sound of your muffled voice. "You don't have to."

"And I think you're the only one who likes me."

"That's your own fault."

"I don't mind.”

[being-a-human-isnt-very-fun]

CW-animal abuse ⚠️

The amount of therians/otherkins that spread around pictures of animals in abusive situations is shocking sometimes. Guys. Having wild animals as pets is abusive. Yes, that is including wolfdogs and similar animals (the breeding of wolfdogs in general is abusive and so is keeping them as pets). Yes that picture of a wolfdog sitting on a couch is cute but it is so so stupid and dangerous.

Provoking an animal and then taking a picture of it growling or biting at the camera or another animal is also abusive or at best bad pet ownership! Especially when paired with things like prong collars, shock collars, injuries/blood, tight/too small muzzles, and other things that “add to the aesthetic”.

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

The Winged Servant - 6

cws: nonhuman whumpee, shock collar mentions, multiple whumpers

masterlist

note: this chapter is kinda rough and very short. my apologies, writing it felt like wrestling and wrangling an annoying concept into words. and it won against me. it's because this one is supposed to be set up for some fun chapters that are coming up soon!! so stay tuned!!

I didn’t realize that Prince Ryan had never put the collar back on until I was being handed platters of food in the kitchen. Maybe it was just a small mercy, like the twelve minutes I’d had to myself before dinner—he gave me those, sometimes, if he didn’t have to go out of his way for them—but it seemed different tonight.

Everything was different tonight and no one would fucking tell me why.

It was unreasonable to demand knowledge of these types of things, of course, I reminded myself.. The royal family always had my best interests in mind. Always. Every weird thing that happened today did not change that.

Serving dinner, at least, was the same. Carry three platters of food out of the kitchen and into the dining room, place them on the table, don’t make too much noise, don’t interrupt any conversation going on already. It was easy, as long as I didn’t drop anything, until-

“Onyx.”

Prince Ryan didn't talk to me during dinner. I was supposed to work like a well-oiled machine, serving food without making my presence obvious. I wasn’t supposed to be talked to and I wasn’t supposed to bow and my existence wasn’t supposed to be acknowledged.

I bowed at Prince Ryan's feet as soon as he spoke, trying not to let my surprise show. “May I assist you with something, Your Highness?” Talking wasn't so hard. It was just repeating the script I had been trained to say. Even if I didn’t usually talk here, it was the same script.

“We're going somewhere tonight. You need a pair of shoes. You can borrow some of mine. I want you ready to leave by the time we're done eating. Don't worry about dishes or anything—we have more important things to be doing right now.”

 Repeating the script wasn't bad, except that Price Ryan had been abandoning the script all day and I didn't know where to go from there. “Yes, Your Highness,” I said, because what else was there to say?

“Any questions?”

I swallowed, trying to get used to the feeling of doing it without the collar. It’d had prongs with which to distribute the electricity, and my neck felt bare without them digging in. I could ask about it, but Prince Cardan had started glaring at me, and maybe it would be in everyone’s best interests to excuse myself from the table. “No, Your Highness. Thank you.”

He waved a hand at me, turning away, and I did my best to stay steady and graceful as I practically ran back to the kitchen. This was probably fine, right? It wasn’t going to be that big of a deal, right? I was just- just wearing shoes and leaving the house, like I was a human. And the prince had said it so nonchalantly.

“Onyx,” Jayden said firmly, squeezing one of my hands, and I blinked. From the look on his face, it was not the first time he’d said my name.

“My apologies, sir.”

“That’s alright. Let’s get some food in you before we leave, okay?”

“Okay,” I echoed. It had been awhile since I’d eaten, I realized. This morning, maybe. A meal would get my head back on straight, at the least.

“It’ll be alright,” Jayden told me as he set a plate in front of me, and I nodded. I would be alright. The royal family always had my best interests in mind. As long as I did what I was told, I would be alright, no matter how odd anything seemed to me.

~

taglist: @kaleidoscope-of-thoughts @toyybox @rainydaywhump

[narrators-journal]

A tiger's booty call

I just kinda jumped into this Ao3 ask. Didn't have a good opening, I'm rusty with bsd smut, so I threw set up to the wind and just went right for the porn lol. I hope this is at least a fun read, and sorry if I skimped on the glove kink and details, I did my best while keeping the feeling of harshness and feral desire.

Prompt post: Here

Kinktober masterlist: Here

CW: Biting, mentions of blood, tho mostly from Atsushi's coat, Beast Atsushi wears a prong collar, alley sex, implied dubcon, generally everything in the title with some monsterfucking energy on top.

Atsushi wasn’t gentle, he never was, which Akutagawa was used to. He’d long since adjusted to the weretiger’s habit of dragging him into alleys and dark corners on sight whenever they weren’t ‘on the clock’. Wanting nothing but to sate whatever dark lust he had for the agent. So, the scratch of his worn leather gloves on his skin, and the pain of Atsushi’s fangs in his shoulder were familiar, and to an extent the goth would never admit, hot.

Not that Akutagawa tried to figure that out. Like every other emotion, he left it alone and instead focused on the dark desire the harsh treatment stirred up. The feel of the leather on his pale skin, the thrill of being pushed into the grubby ground in the alleyway, only protected from the stains and mystery substances by the layer of his shredded clothing, the permanent stench of blood that clung to Atsushi’s dark, fur-lined coat, his hips bruised and his shoulder aching.

All of it stuff that shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was, but the goth couldn’t deny how each smack of Atsushi’s hips into his ass sent fresh waves of warm lust through his blood. If only he’d quit doing this shit in public… Akutagawa thought, panting and huffing while Atsushi let go of his shoulder to leave another bite mark on the other. Seemingly oblivious to how exposed the alley was, even under the cover of the night, and was instead focused on nothing but keeping the ebony-haired ADA agent trapped beneath him and marking his bare body with his fangs or hands. “So pretty…” The mafioso puffed out, his voice vibrating with the animalistic song of the tiger his inhumane collar kept at bay. “Pretty...pretty prey…” He continued, his mindless words making Akutagawa moan slightly while his neglected cock twitched and throbbed at any form of praise.

Of course, whatever pleasure Akutagawa got was a happy by-product, he was only muttering to himself. Lost in the throws of his own euphoria and ruthless pursuit of orgasm. Alternating between biting the goth and muttering and grunting out thoughtless half-praise as his gloved hands kept the man’s hips in place while he humped into the naked ADA agent. Only giving him a break from the quick, harsh thrusts and bolts of stomach-clenching pleasure when, finally, his movements stuttered to a halt with one final slam into the goth’s ass. The weretiger burying his cock into him to fill him with warm cum. In response, Akutagawa groaned, pulsing with his own orgasm until his muscles began to twitch and shake. Yet, he kept quiet and still, letting the mafioso regain his breath. “Shit…” was the only thing he said, pulling out of Aku, earning small hiss, and pushing himself to his feet.

While Akutagawa almost crumpled into a shakey, tired pile on what used to be his clothing, Atsushi said nothing as he fixed his mussed clothes and awkwardly left. Leaving Akutagawa to recollect himself and find some form of cover, and a way home. Like always.

[liberatingflame]

got people in here that are just absolute morons, don't we?

[darlingwhump]

shock collar :)

My first @badthingshappenbingo prompt fill! This ended up being a lot longer than I intended it to lmao, but enjoy! Thanks for sending in a request~

CW: captivity, implied pet whump, electrocution, manipulation, self-loathing

Whumpee’s “good behavior” had granted them the privilege of going upstairs instead of rotting away in Whumper’s cold, musty basement. They had even been given free range of the house, and Whumper seemed ecstatic that their captive was finally warming up to their new life. 

Whumpee gratefully accepted this new privilege. They’ve been on their best behavior this week: not shying away when Whumper tries to cuddle up with them, accepting any punishments with gratitude, and even going out of their way to care for their captor’s needs. 

And, oh, life is so much easier when they’re not chained up in the basement. Now, the only thing acting as any kind of restraint is the shock collar around Whumpee’s neck. Whumper has used it countless times in the past as a sort of training tool, as negative reinforcement for whenever they try to talk back or disobey them. They’ve even got Whumpee trained to fear the sight of the remote, as it almost always brings pain and a lingering headache. 

But it’s alright, even that has been accounted for in Whumpee’s elaborate plan to finally get out of this hell. Amidst their constant state of paranoia, Whumpee still thinks this plan is almost perfect. It has to work.

Because if it doesn’t…well, Whumpee doesn’t want to think about that. 

Whumper didn’t seem to pick up on Whumpee’s scuttling each time they were left alone, and didn’t comment on how they’d been digging through drawers to locate keys and searching around for security systems or anything else that could aid them in an escape attempt. They didn’t appear to see through Whumpee’s risky attempt at manipulation, and even right now, they don’t stir as Whumpee slips the shock collar’s remote from a sleeping Whumper’s nightstand drawer. This way, if they do wake up, at least they won’t be able to turn the collar on. 

Hope flutters in Whumpee’s chest as they swiftly tiptoe down the hall, into the living room, and towards the front door. One hand holds the key to the front door (Whumper had made it a point to tell Whumpee that they had removed the inside lock in preparation for their new life upstairs). The other hand shakes violently and feels clammy as it grips the shock collar remote--but not too tightly. Whumpee’s heart hammers as they think about the possibility of accidentally triggering it…but they don’t want to put it in their pocket, because then they could shift and it would go off and everything would be painful. 

It’s alright, the shocks will be over soon. Whumpee is getting out.

They squeeze their eyes shut as they reach for the door handle, as if touching it would set off their collar. They knew it wouldn’t--shock collars didn’t work like that, and the remote was right here. And nothing happened, anyways! They’re fine.

Whumpee flings the door open and feels a breeze of crisp night air for the first time in…had it really been a few months now? It feels so nice, but Whumpee snaps themself back to the present. They have to go, now.

Whumpee doesn’t make it one step out onto the front porch before the prongs in their collar crackle to life.

They immediately lose their balance, crying out in pain as their body is wracked with shocks at the highest setting. But they had gotten the remote--how was the collar going off? They dropped it anyways, their fingers instead moving to claw at the painful sensation crawling up their neck and into their head. Get it off get it off get it off! 

But their twitching hands can’t seem to grasp the collar, and they can’t get it off even if they tried. Why didn’t they try to take it off first? Stupid echoes through their mind and they can’t focus on anything else through the pain. 

They don’t know how long they lay there writhing on the front porch. But at some point, they realize they need to go, they have to try, or else Whumper’s gonna get them and punish them and this is so painful they just want it to stop. Through everything, their adrenaline pushes Whumpee to their elbows and they attempt to crawl towards the front lawn.

They whimper as another wave of shocks rush through their body and hear a chuckle sounding from above them. No, they must be hallucinating, they have to under this much pain, right? Please let this be a hallucination.

Whumpee glances up to see Whumper looking down over their twitching form. Nononono, Whumpee tries to back away, but the shocks only seem to get worse and they cry out in pain. They shake their head, try to will themselves to ignore their convulsing muscles and run, but they can’t move, they can’t think. It’s too much.

“Oh, darling, look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Whumper tuts, and Whumpee learned months ago that they find Whumpee’s pain amusing. In that way, Whumpee has played right into their hand. “Let’s get you back to your room, yeah?”

“N-n-no…” Whumpee whimpers in the first form of defiance they’d shown in weeks, ever since they started cooking up this little plan of theirs. So much for freedom. “...don’ wanna go back.”

“Whumpee.” Their captor’s voice snaps, all prior amusement morphing into stern impatience. “Let’s go. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Whumpee lets out a sob. As if that’s what they’re really worried about right now. 

Whumpee should scream. They should be doing everything they can to wake up the neighbors as a last-ditch attempt to escape whatever punishment Whumper has in mind. Maybe the neighbors could help, call the police, send someone to investigate Whumpee and find them. But through the waves of pain and months of conditioning, Whumpee can’t make themselves carry out their plan. They just want their neck to stop searing. Why did they ever think this was a good idea?

“Whumpee, now. You’ve already lost upstairs privileges, do you want to lose more?”

Whumpee shakes their head, the movement made even jerkier due to the shocks continuing to wrack Whumpee’s body. “N-no more, please.”

“Then let’s go. You have five seconds to get up and walk back inside.”

Whumpee whimpers. The shocks are too much--they can’t get up!

“One…” Whumper sighs, “Two…”

What other privileges could they lose? They were already going back to the basement, back to no comfort or freedom to move around as they please. This collar was already bad enough… 

“Three…”

Despite everything, Whumpee wills themself to stand. They try to take a step forward, but Whumpee’s legs give out from under them as their muscles convulse and they stumble. But this time, Whumper catches them. They’re led back into the house, and then everything stops. The pain is gone, save for the lingering aftershocks and muscle spasms that Whumpee has gotten used to after months of being shocked into submission.

Whumper pockets the remote, seemingly having turned off the collar. There was an off button this whole time?! Whumpee had been so stupid. They thought they had planned everything, that it had to work. Whumpee even took the remote and they dropped it after the shocks started. So there’s no way that they could've accidentally held the button for that long, and there’s no way Whumper would have been able to activate it without the remote…right?

“Good pet,” Whumper coos and lets Whumpee lean on them. Their voice is filled with disappointment as they add, “I’m really glad I bought that invisible fence. I had hoped that it wouldn't be necessary…but clearly, you still need some more training.”

Whumpee’s breath hitches. Invisible fence? Like the ones that…that shock dogs if they try to run off of their owner’s property? Their face falls as they realize that as long as this collar is on, they won’t be able to leave this house. 

Whumper drags Whumpee towards the basement door and tears prick at the corners of their eyes. They failed. They’re never getting out of this place, are they?

[love-toxin]

loser's club initiation - eddie munson

volume two

plot: navigating high school is a delicate operation for most, especially so for those who don't fit the norm. and unfortunately, that's a fact you share with Eddie Munson--the kids call him freak, and you a bully, a loner, an ogre with no friends. but despite your reputation, that hasn't stopped Eddie from trying to initiate you into his club against your will, maybe for a deeper reason than you think.

cws: outcast/antisocial!angelface, gn!angelface, bullying, stature isn't described but angel is strong + has anger issues, angel comes from a broken home/abusive household, implied physical abuse, very mild roughousing, angel doesn't realize they have a crush, eventual enemies to friends to lovers.

a/n: this is a fic i cut into two parts since it got a little lengthy. vol II is in progress ♡

word count: 2.1k

You have never, ever, ever gotten along with Eddie Munson.

For starters, he's annoying as hell. He's the type to poke and prod the people that hate him until they're ready to snap, so he's always getting into trouble on top of having a pretty shit reputation already–but even worse is that one of those people that he's always picking at is you.

And you don't hate him. You haven't said half the things about him that other people have, haven't gotten in his face or punched him, because he's largely just a nuisance to you. But he definitely gets on your nerves, and with your temper, it doesn't help when people already tend to categorize you as a bully. A hotheaded loner with no friends, who tends to be pretty icy with people at first meeting–you don't know if that's a signal beam or what, but you've got the same routine every week. Eddie Munson coming at you and begging you to join Hellfire.

"I'm not joining your shitty babysitting club, Munson."

You speak into your locker, as you put away your books from your last period. You've got a few minutes before you head home, and like always, Eddie was waiting by the spot right next to it to ambush you the moment you got out of class.

"Y'know, I actually think you'd really like it. I'm a pretty good DM, if I say so myself," He puffs the collar of his jacket, and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans against the wall of lockers. You're pretty sure there should be an Eddie-shaped dent there by now from him standing there every single day. "And everybody's pretty cool. You can make some friends."

"I don't-"

"Don't need friends, gotcha, gotcha. I hear you. Buuuut, you should think about it–we really need a barbarian, after all." If he knows your answers so well, you wish he would just understand that they aren't going to change. You slam your locker door shut and stalk past him, but like always, he turns on his heels and catches up with you to keep chatting away into your ear. It's only when you stop that he stops with you, and he straightens up when you turn to him slowly and muster up the meanest glare you can manage. It's pretty easy when that's usually the way you get people to stay away on the daily.

"I'll say this once, Munson, and that's it. No. Besides, you have a paladin and your cleric has a greataxe. You don't need a barbarian, if your players don't suck already."

"Whoa, whoa whoa! Hold up,"

Eddie brushes past you and steps right into your way, hands raised to slow you like you're cattle. Big mistake.

"I have to get home. Out of my way, before I throw you." He's not even listening. You know you could break him like a twig, and he knows that if you really wanted to you would, but he's never been nearly as afraid of you as every other kid in this school. You have a history of violence, truancy, and just generally being antisocial and mean-looking–but Eddie has never once treated you that way. It's irritating to have to account for him when he's not part of the normal crowd, even if it's kind of relieving to be treated as if you're normal.

"You…You know about D&D? You've been listening to me?" It certainly is a two-pronged realization, three if you count the fact that you hadn't even noticed what you were saying until the words were already flying out of your mouth. But he's not wrong. You may be a bitch, but you're a good listener, and Eddie certainly likes to talk, especially in the one class you have together where your seats are the only ones beside each other. Everyone else makes sure to steer well clear of you two.

"I've played it before."

"You've played–okay, you're coming with me. Hellfire club. Right now." Eddie grabs your wrist and moves to lead you away, but he almost hits the ground when you stand unmoving and he's pulled off balance. It doesn't faze him though, you're sure almost nothing does–he keeps pulling, even though there's pretty much no indication that you're gonna move when you don't want to, and you shift one of your feet out in front of you to give you some stability to make it even more difficult for him.

"I'm not going, Munson. For god's sake, do you even listen?" He tugs on your hand this time, and you let him hold it outstretched because even with a little extra leverage, he still can't make you budge. It's getting a little embarrassing now, and people are starting to whisper and giggle in mockery at the sight of the satanic Hellfire club's leader trying to kidnap Hawkins High's resident ogre.

"Jesus H. Christ, you're strong!"

Eddie finally gives up, hunched over, hands on his knees as he pants for air. He's definitely not weak, but you're pretty good at pretending you aren't being fazed even though it actually took quite a bit of effort to keep from being dragged away.

"Yeah, so dickheads can't drag me away to their little club meetings."

He finally stands back up and looks you in the eyes, but he's not any less determined. If anything, the grin on his face proves that he's even more eager. And you soon realize why, because he takes a step back out of reach and holds something up in his hand, something that jingles faintly–your keyring, with both your car and house keys dangling just out of reach. It was a ruse–he must have swiped it from your pocket while he was maneuvering himself around you. And then he's tearing off down the hallway.

"Munson!" You're right on his heels, but he's faster. More used to running away from trouble, evidently, because your strength is equivalent to his speed. And none of the students still milling about in the corridors get in your way, all of them avoiding both of you as you barrel through with threats of wringing his stupid neck bellowing throughout. He has no idea how much stress he's just caused you, fear and tension burning you up as your mind races with what's going to happen to you if you come home without your car, if you have to tell them you "lost" your house key…it'll be some extra pain you just don't think you can handle right now. You're still recovering from the last time, both mentally and physically.

You finally manage to corner him near the science wing–he turns around after facing the dead end and clearly doesn't realize how close you really are, since you grab him by the collar of his jacket and shove him up against the lockers to your left in a matter of seconds. Blind rage blurs your vision, makes your hands shake as you grip him tight, but the hasty, laboured breathing of your victim and Eddie's big, brown eyes filled with true fear actually manage to cool it off enough for you to hear what he's saying.

"Hey! Hey, I'm sorry. Sorry!" Slowly, carefully, you loosen your grip until you've completely let go. It's just humiliating, embarrassing, and never more have you wanted to disappear into the floor even though Eddie is the only one here.

"C'mon, let's just go! You're gonna have fun, I promise! One meeting, and-"

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie! Just stop! I'm not joining your stupid club, and you need to leave me the fuck alone!" Your words are accentuated with a finger prodding his chest, before you use all five to shove him back into the lockers. Why the hell is Eddie so obsessed with you? Why can't he just leave you alone, why can't he just be like everyone else for goddamned once in his life?

"Why?"

"Because I don't want people to make fun of me, okay?!" You blurt out, tired and aching from the run, and strung-out, and stressed–tears threaten your eyes but you turn away before you let them fall, suck them back, take a deep breath so you don't cry in front of fucking Eddie Munson. But that means you don't have the energy or the strength to keep back everything else that just comes spilling out of you. "I have got enough shit to deal with by myself, Eddie! People already don't like me, I seriously don't need to fight even harder just to exist here!"

Those words hurt. You know they hurt, and while that's usually your intention, the look on Eddie's face just twists you up in knots and makes that guilty feeling settle in your stomach. He has a look of pain on his face, one you might have mistaken in the place of pity, but that's the last thing you want. Being felt sorry for, that…that's the worst way people can look at you. You would rather people just leave you alone than look at you as if you're some poor wretch on the side of the street, begging for sympathy.

"I'm…sorry, okay? I understand what you're trying to do, but…I really don't have the time to be doing things just for fun, anyways." You grab your keys from his hand, and pause for a moment that feels like forever, before you finally start to walk away. You want to think that it's luck that would make this the last time you and Eddie ever speak, but you know that's not-

"One Hellfire club meeting. Nobody sees you, I sneak you in, I sneak you out. You still don't want to join, then I'll never ask you again, and…I won't talk to you ever again. Deal?"

His voice stops you in your tracks, halts you right at the precipice. You have a choice now, you've been given a real one for once, and your first instinct is to keep walking. But your strongest instinct, well…you know what that voice is telling you.

"...Fine." You turn around slowly, hand grasping the strap of your bag so tightly it's shaking. His eyes dart down and back up again, and the words "You okay?" play on his lips, but they don't come out. You just stalk back towards him, your gaze set on his half-outstretched hand. You clap it with yours, shaking hard like you're conducting some kind of business deal. It's just business, you want to imagine.

But his eyes light up so beautifully, his smile cracking across his face in near-disbelief–he's so happy, deliriously happy, and it mesmerizes you in a way that has you standing there, staring. He smiles, obviously he smiles, but never…you've never seen him like this. Never so unabashed, so genuine, not a mocking smile or a fake one or even a kinda-fake one, but one that betrays every drop of joy contained within him like he's opened the blinds on a window to let the sunshine in. And it's so embarrassing to think those thoughts about Eddie Munson, to compare him to a ray of sunshine like some fucking Molly Ringwald movie, but it's all you can see in his face. It's all you can see at all.

"Awesome." Awesome. Fucking awesome. You just agreed to sneak around the school with Eddie Munson after hours, and you're gonna be late getting home tonight, and there's a chance, if you're caught, that you'll be branded as even more of a pariah than you already are. Your reputation of being an ogre in school will extend to the town, extend to your family–and who knows what they're gonna do when they find out you're best buddies with the village idiot?

But you can't back out now. Eddie's arm is thrown around your shoulders–briefly, because one glare is enough to lift that arm up and away with a clearly mock-intimidated grin–and now he's beckoning you down the hall, towards whatever avenue he has up his sleeve to get you into Hellfire club and back out again, reputation relatively unscathed. You agreed to his deal, and you're not gonna be a pussy and back out now.

Even though you're really, really gonna want to when you find out what he has in mind, and when the night unfolds in an entirely different way than you expected. And no matter how you choose to play your cards, blood will be spilled before the night is done.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

New chapter is up, my Darlings!

Full link to AO3 fic here

18+ only/minors DNI. Tags and CW for this chapter: mentions of matricide; implied/referenced CSA; implied/referenced sexual assault; implied/referenced incest; questionable consent involving the Bene Gesserit; pregnancy; misogyny; marital strife; vague murder plots; eventual smut; sub!Feyd; subspace; oral sex (F+M receiving) face-fucking/riding; collars; pronged collars; leashes; binding (Feyd has his hands tied behind his back for most of the sex scene)multiple orgasms; overstimulation vaginal sex; riding; dom!Reader

CHAPTER TWELVE: PLANS WITHIN PLANS

Idrisa’s waiting for you in the hallway a few meters away from the dead servant and even with her head lowered in deference she catches your look of surprise.  

“I go where my lady goes,” she explains.

You exhale, closing your eyes for a moment.  You’d lined your eyelashes with black gloss earlier; you can feel the remnants of it drying on your cheeks.  “Then can you take me back to my quarters?” you ask.

Idrisa hesitates, glancing down the hallway towards the rooms where people still celebrate, before looking back at you.  “Are you sure, na-Baroness?” she asks, voice small.

“They won’t notice that I’m gone,” you tell her.  “And if they do, they won’t care.  I just need to get away.”  You shake and feel bile rising in your throat and gag, trying not to vomit as a pair of guards pull the dead servant’s body away.  He leaves behind a trail of blood as you keep your eyes on Idrisa and hold your breath, not wanting to breathe in the coppery smell of blood that lingers in the air.  

No one else seems affected by it, not even Idrisa, who ignores the sight before her and inclines her head while giving a curtsy.  “If that's what my lady desires,” she says.  

“It is,” you say quickly, glancing behind you at the double doors separating you from the Baron’s throne.  You can barely make out Feyd’s clipped, furious tone but not any words.  You don’t want to be here when he re-emerges.  You nod at Idrisa, jutting your chin out as if to say, Let’s go.

As your heels click along the dark marble she trails behind you like a pale shadow, her head downcast.

You feel sick.  You need a moment to decide what to do next.

Stay as far away from Feyd as possible, at least until you have answers.  But where to get them?  You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose as you realize you know exactly where.

Even if they aren’t friends of yours, you still have the Reverend Mother Mohiam and multiple Bene Gesserit sisters on Geidi Prime until tomorrow night.  They’ll have answers and insight.

Answers and insight they deliberately withheld from you .

They must have known, or at least the Reverend Mother probably did.  They’ve had their hands in everything, especially involving looking after their own, which just makes you wonder why they chose to help keep this buried.  Not why they chose to keep this buried from the other Great Houses; if Feyd’s really so important for their selective breeding program, it doesn’t surprise you that they would.  

You’d known that he kills people well before you ever met him.  Many men with his kind of power have killed.  But there’s no way they’d construe him killing a prisoner of war in an arena execution as being the same level of evil as killing his own mother.  They hid this from you, and you want…well, not even to know why they would, because you could answer that yourself, but to know why they’d let him be raised by a monster, why they care so much to preserve his life, no matter how painful it’s been.  Why they chose you for him.  

“The Bene Gesserit Sisters aren’t leaving until tomorrow evening,” you manage as you walk together, and you keep your voice from trembling.  “Can you speak to one of their consorts?  Request a private meeting for me with the Reverend Mother Mohiam before she goes?”

“Yes, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says. 

You don’t know what else to say as she leads you to your quarters and aids you out of your gown, into a chemise and robe.  Was it only half an hour ago that you thought Feyd would be either tearing you out of this gown or simply hitching your skirts up around your hips before fucking you hard and fast?  

“I’ll grab some wet cloth for your cosmetics, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says, and ducks into the bathroom.

You stand there, almost swaying in place, furious at everyone including yourself.  Even at the end of your patience with Idrisa, who gently applies a damp cloth below your eyes to where you’ve wept.

“It’s alright,” you say after a moment, closing a hand around her delicate wrist to nudge her away.  “I can handle that part myself.”

Idrisa drops her hand when you release her wrist but otherwise stays in place, kneading the cloth in her grip.  “My lady is distraught,” she says.  “Is there nothing I can do to comfort her?”

Does she know?  You can’t shake the question, can’t avoid it.  You look at Idrisa and think, she’ll squirm, but she won’t lie.  “Can you tell me about Feyd-Rautha’s mother?” you ask her.

You hadn’t realized it was possible for her to blanche, but she does.  “I am sorry, na-Baroness,” she says.  Your hands shake and you take a step back.  She continues hardly above a whisper.  “Like I said, it was before my time.  I remember hearing she’d died, but I don’t think anyone was surprised when she did.  Her name was,” she pauses, trying to find the right euphemism, “not popular here.”

Of course it wasn’t . 

Idrisa adds, giving you an almost apologetic look, “People called her Abulurd’s whore.  Apologies, na-Baroness,” she adds when you wince.  “I heard she was killed in a home burglary.”

“And is that all?”

Idrisa’s lips part a fraction.  After a moment’s hesitation she asks, “Does my lady suspect anyone in particular?”  Her eyes dart across your face.  

Do you? you almost ask.  “I did,” you tell her.  “It turned out to have been someone else.”

You let the silence speak for itself. Idrisa’s eyes widen before she looks down.  “I’m very sorry, na-Baroness,” she says.  

“So really, no one here has any idea,” you say, finding it almost impossible to believe and yet it makes a disturbing amount of sense. 

“We’d heard no details other than a burglary resulting in a stabbing and that was the end of it. Whatever happened, it happened on Lankiveil, “ Idrisa says.  “None of us witnessed it like…” she hesitates, unsure where to look as she can’t keep your gaze.

“You saw it?” It .  The thing that keeps going unspoken but hovers over your husband, your marriage, your children’s futures.

“Trust me, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says, “I didn’t want to.  None of us did.”

You finally look at each other.  You know Idrisa’s terrified of Feyd, and yet the compassion you see in her eyes is for him as well as you.  You hesitate, then open your mouth, about to ask her what he was like back then.

The door swings open and Feyd strides in, and all at once you remember how frightening he was when you first met him, how much he’d make you feel like prey.  How there’d been something that felt distinctly inhuman about him.

“You disrespected me in front of my uncle,” he says as he slams the door shut behind him.  “He won’t overlook that anytime soon.”   

Your vile uncle can go fuck himself , you don’t say.  You lift your chin and meet his gaze as you tamp down on your instinct to run.

His lips compress into a thin line before he continues.  “I don’t think you understand how fair I am with you.  If you’d been Rabban’s wife and this was his party, he’d be raping you in front of his men right now just for the fun of it.  He’d cut out your tongue for shouting at him, because it’s not as though you need one in order to give him sons.”

“Get out,” you tell him.  You sound more confident than you feel.

“No,” he says.  “If I speak, then you’ll listen.”

Idrisa swallows, glancing nervously at you and at him, looking like she wants to disappear and weighing her options on whether that would be more disrespectful than acknowledging Feyd, before giving a small curtsy and starting to step back.

If he hadn’t had to reach down for his boots you wouldn’t have caught him drawing a blade in time, because he doesn’t look away from you as he strides forward, about to slash the edge across Idrisa’s throat.  But he did, and you have a split second to react, and even if it’s not enough time to run forward and tackle him, you find your voice.

“ Stop! ”  It’s a less angry, more desperate scream from before, but it makes Feyd-Rautha pause, knife centimeters from Idrisa’s neck.

“Don’t you hurt her,” you tell him.  Your voice shakes as much as you do.  “She has nothing to do with this.”

He doesn’t turn his head, but his eyes slide towards her, then back to you, his expression as cold and detached as it was at the start of his arena fight.  Idrisa shuts her eyes.  A tear slides down her cheek.  

For a moment the three of you stand frozen in silence.  Do you take a step forward and try to disarm him, or will that provoke him?  Idrisa certainly can’t move; her fate lies in Feyd’s hands.  He’ll kill her for sure if she tries to evade or resist him.  Feyd, for his part, seems to weigh his options: remind you what he’s capable of and how there’s nothing you can do to stop it, or try not to upset you any further tonight.

Given the turn tonight’s taken, pure spite might motivate him most right now.

“Please,” you blurt out, too scared to take that kind of risk.

A brief flicker of surprise.  You can imagine the thoughts running through his mind.  Why do you beg for the safety of a mere slave?  She’s replaceable .  

“Say that again,” he says, as if he thinks you’d be too proud to beg for the life of the only friend you’ve made here.

“Please,” you say again, slower. “Please don’t kill or hurt Idrisa.  I’m the one you’re angry with”--a statement you’re not entirely sure is even true–“so please don’t take it out on her.”  After a moment you add, managing to keep the venom out of your voice, “husband.”  You try to breathe, fresh tears pooling in your eyes.  How, you wonder, do you try to reason with him?  Why do you try to appeal to his humanity when it’s been called into question that he possesses such a thing?

And yet you stand, silently begging, barefoot and hardly dressed, feeling as vulnerable and powerless as you did on your wedding night, but with another life hanging in the balance between you.

Feyd’s eyes go half-lidded, lip curling in contempt, but he lowers his blade.  For a moment you and you’re certain Idrisa wonders if he’s simply going to swing it back up and slash her across the throat.  The muscles in her face clench up.  He makes no such movement, simply takes a step back.

“ Out ,” he says.

Idrisa sags, letting out a loud sigh of relief that leads to a rattling gasp, tears now streaming down her face.  She lowers her head and scurries away, murmuring, “ Thank you, na-Baron.  Thank you, na-Baron .”  As she leaves she nods towards you.  “ Thank you, na-Baroness .”

She closes the door behind her.  You and your husband stare at one another.  Fear has done nothing to quell your anger.  It takes you a moment before you think you can talk without breaking down.  

“Did you really think I’d never find out?  That I wouldn’t eventually ask?” you finally manage.

“You’d seemed to’ve drawn your own conclusions,” Feyd says, stock-still with his hands at his sides, his grip on the knife looser.  He doesn’t come in any closer.

“You’re right, I did,” you say.  “I’d thought your uncle had her killed to make sure she couldn’t help you.”

“She didn’t help me when she was alive, either,” Feyd snaps, the implication clear, the lines of his face harsh.

How could you think she’d ever have let the Baron touch you? you want to ask.  No mother would ever sit idly by and watch their child go through that.

“She was one woman against Geidi Prime and Baron Harkonnen,” you tell him.  You can’t accept the fact that any sane mother would just allow their son to be raised by a man like the Baron, or that she didn’t know what kind of monster he was.  “There’s no way she just gave you away.”

“How do you know?” he asks, his tone not accusing, not yet.  He sounds almost amused, in a manner you find almost condescending.  It makes you want to clench your fists.  I didn’t think you were still so naive, wife, he seems to be saying.            

“Your father got out.  He defected .  She would’ve known why,” you say.

Feyd tilts his head slightly as he considers your words, looking at you as if you’re the one who’s unreasonable.  “Why did you think I was born in the first place?” he asks.  “Why do you think my mother, a Bene Gesserit witch, chose to get pregnant eighteen years after she had her first son and when she was nearly forty?  It wasn’t an accident. I’ve never heard of an accidental Bene Gesserit pregnancy, have you?”

You look away.  He gives you a moment to respond.  You can’t.

“They always have plans within plans,” Feyd says.  “Their children are never just their children, they’re tools to serve a greater purpose.”  

And they’re always Bene Gesserit first, not mothers or wives or anything else .

“Why do you think they sent one of their witches after a man who was estranged from his own House?  Why do you think he was of any value to them?”

You know what he’s asking.  You shut your eyes as you answer.   “Because his degenerate older brother wasn’t the match they wanted to continue the bloodline,” you say.

When you open your eyes, it’s to the sight of him giving you a grim smile.  “See?  You understand, even if you don’t want to.  Now, why do you think she waited until Rabban was about grown before trying for another son?”

“Feyd,” you start.

“Why?   And why do you think everyone waited until after my father was dead before I was taken in my sleep to Geidi Prime the night after my seventh birthday?”

You don’t realize you’re shaking your head.  Even if she had an agenda, she wouldn’t have just let it happen.  You can’t believe it.

Feyd’s eyes are like a shark’s.  It’s hard to look him in the eye.  “I was only ever a tool for her, for their kind.  They just cared about furthering the bloodline, not what it would cost me to live like I have.”  The thing he never talks about.  The thing he still won’t talk about.  You could scream.  Everyone knows, and everyone’s quietly agreed to acknowledge it.  You finally break, saying it before you’re realizing you’re saying it.

“Did you really kill her because of that or because you couldn’t kill him?” 

The question hangs there after the words spill out of you.  Your ears ring and your heart pounds as you force yourself to look at him. 

His nostrils flare.  His eyes look silver in the harsh light.  

“You killed her after you’d tried and failed to kill him first.”  You can see the rise and fall of Feyd’s chest, his look of warning.  “And I understand why you wanted to kill him.  Anyone would’ve, and should’ve.  He should never’ve been allowed anywhere near you.”

Feyd’s eyes glint.  He doesn’t speak, but he looks stricken, looks livid.  

You try to craft your next thought word by word, unsure where to tread lightly or go straight for the jugular.  “I know it must’ve seemed different at the time, but he was clearly trying to isolate you.  He was trying to make you hate your mother.”

“He didn’t have to try,” Feyd says.  “Did it all on my own, after enough time passed.”

“I…” you start, and stop.  Feyd waits for you to finish a sentence you cannot construct.

“You don’t know what it was like,” Feyd says.  “ You. Weren’t.  There. ”  He enunciates every last word, baring his black teeth in a snarl.

You flinch away.  When you can speak you say, “You’re right.  I wasn’t there.  I don’t know how it feels to go through what you went through.  And you refuse to tell me.”

Feyd’s lip curls.  Something flashes in his eyes.  “You’re saying you want all the details?” he asks.  “Did you want to know how the first time it happened was eight months after I was brought here and two months after I finally accepted that I’d never hear from my mother again?”

“I’m saying that this is more than a marriage; it’s a political alliance.  I’m saying that as your ally I have the right to know things that will impact me.  And as your wife, even knowing that I can’t change the past, it  was still so much worse having to hear it from the Baron than if I’d heard it from you.”  Your chest heaves.  You won’t cry again.  

And Feyd doesn’t respond.  

“You killed your mother.”

“Yes,” he says.  He sounds resigned.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask.

“I briefly did, at first,” Feyd says.  “Mostly I don’t think about it at all.  Thinking about it won’t change the fact that she’s still dead.”

You look down; the silence hangs between the two of you and grows heavier.  You feel cold.  You wrap your arms around yourself.

“I won’t let you fuck me tonight,” you tell him.  “You’re not welcome in my bed, and I won’t come to yours.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not really in the mood anymore,” Feyd says.  He turns towards the door, pauses, and adds, “We’re expected to make an appearance tomorrow.  The festivities aren’t over yet.  Someone will send you another gown.”  

He leaves, and after he shuts the door behind him it feels like the air has gone out of the room.

Not to your surprise, you have trouble sleeping.  

For some, the party’s still going on, and will continue into the morning.  Feyd’s still going to train, you’re sure, and you don’t envy the poor sods expected to spar with him.  You imagine they’ll be bloated and sweaty, desperately hungover or perhaps still a bit drunk from their master’s festivities.  There will be more festivities tomorrow night, and the night after that, although muted by comparison.  You will be expected to be present for at least part of it at Feyd-Rautha’s side.  You think about how most visitors will be leaving after tonight’s festivities.  You think of the cold, detached way the Reverend Mother alluded to Feyd’s abuse.  You think of Margot Fenring and her coy, knowing smile.  The daughter growing in her womb and the bitter way Feyd talked about plans within plans.  

There’s a sick kind of acceptance in your gut that could almost be freeing.

There’s no one here who you can really trust .

You manage to fall asleep at what passes for the crack of dawn on Geidi Prime, even if through the window it’s all just different shades of sickly grey, only to wake up three hours later feeling not-particularly rested.

Your morning knock at the door reveals not only Idrisa but one of the Bene Gesserit nuns; lower-ranking, you suppose, who’s shrouded head to foot.

“Good morning, na-Baroness,” the young woman says, her voice sounding youthful enough to call the descriptor ‘ woman ’ into question.

“Good morning, Sister,” you say, a burbling cocktail of both hope and dread rising in your stomach.

“Would you like to join her Reverence for breakfast, na-Baroness?” she asks.

“I would, thank you.  When does she want me to join her?”

“In an hour, na-Baroness.  Your handmaiden will know where to take you,” the nun says as Idrisa sets your tray down on your end-table.  She seems so poised, as if she hadn’t nearly been murdered last night.

“I’m looking forward to speaking with her.  Thank you, Sister,” you say as you think that for such a meeting it would be most appropriate to wear something with a hood, perhaps something that covers part of your face.  Feels safer that way.  Perhaps the Bene Gesserit are onto something there.

When it's time, the room Idrisa leads you to isn’t within the guest wing, like you’d expected, but in a neighboring corridor you haven’t been in before.  You wonder, for a moment, if the Reverend Mother is more familiar with this vast Fortress than you are after an entire month of living here, and then a pair of Harkonnen guards open the door for you to step inside.

After a month of breakfasts with the Baron, the spread set out for the two of you is quite modest, even if it’s more food than the two of you combined could put away in one sitting.  There’s a plate of different breads and accompanying toppings, eggs, fruit, and pitchers of juice and distilled water set down in the space between the two of you.  There’s also a pot of tea with sides of lemon and honey.

“Thank you for meeting me, your Reverence,” you say as you sit down, and for a moment the two of you sit in silence.  A Harkonnen slave girl pours tea for each of you before leaving the room.  The Reverend Mother waits until the door’s closed to lift her veil and take a sip of tea.

“I'd heard it was urgent that I speak with you at my convenience,” she says once she’s set her cup down.  “It’s convenient for me now.  So by all means, speak.”

You take a breath, twisting your hands in your lap, thinking about how you’d rehearsed this conversation in your head all night and earlier this morning.

“I must confess I got some rather distressing news last night,” you tell her.  “Something that’s fundamentally changed the nature of my marriage, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” she asks, tilting her head ever so slightly.  

“Did you know Feyd-Rautha’s mother, Emmi Rabban?” you ask.  Did you assure her all would be alright?  Did you pretend to comfort her when her child was abducted?  Did you care at all when her own son murdered her?

“I spoke to her a few times when she was alive, yes,” her Reverence says, and doesn’t elaborate.  Seconds tick by and she offers nothing else, eyes tracking every minute muscle in your face.  She seems content to let you torment yourself in the ensuing silence, and it works.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you finally ask.

The Reverend Mother pours herself some more tea. “I imagine it must’ve been the Baron who shared the news with you if you’re only just finding out,” she says.  “If his nephew hadn’t used that bit of family history to keep you in line, he must not have wanted you to hear about it at all.

“Of course,” she adds, “It was a little naive of you, young Y/N, to be so shocked when you knew everything else.”

“It’s not something he ever chose to share with me,” you tell her.  “I’d thought…I’d have expected matricide from his uncle or his brother, but not him, not even in the state he must’ve been in.”

“You’d thought better of him?” her Reverence asks and you flush.  The woman who’d assured you that he could be tempered, that he had a sense of honor, is acting like it’s your own fault for trusting your husband to be above the act of matricide.

“I mean… yes, ” you say, unable to keep the incredulity out of your tone.  “With everything I’ve learned about the Baron I’d just thought…I’d thought Feyd had tried to find asylum on Lankiveil after the assassination attempt and the torture that followed.  I’d thought he’d tried to defect from the Harkonnens.  I’d thought the Baron had been the one to have her killed so Feyd would have no one left to turn to.”

“The thought occurred to him, I’m certain,” her Reverence says.  “But that would’ve been too simple, wouldn’t have gotten his would-be heir to truly embrace his inner darkness. 

 “If he’d had her killed she would’ve been immortalized as an innocent in Feyd-Rautha’s eyes and he would’ve hated his uncle all the more.  But poisoning her image, fanning his separation into hatred, would ensure that he lost her well before she died.  The Baron has a talent for manipulation.”

“I realized that after I found out who really killed her,” you say in your defense.   “Then it made sense that the Baron convinced both of his nephews to each kill a parent.  I can see how he manipulated Rabban as well.”  From your limited interactions, Rabban seems more concerned with his uncle’s approval than his younger brother is.  

The Reverend Mother tilts her head in acknowledgement and gracefully spears a few berries onto her fork but doesn’t eat them.  “It took far less work.  Rabban was already a man by that point, young but too old for the Baron to break in his preferred ways and not as bright.  Good enough to work for his uncle, not promising enough to carry on his legacy or serve our plans.”

You and your fucking plans , you think.  “Is that why you let the Baron cover up Feyd’s matricide but not his brother’s patricide?” you ask.  “Because it doesn’t matter how negative Rabban’s reputation is outside of his own House but Feyd-Rautha,” you shrug, angry, vaguely aware of how petulant and emotional you must seem despite your earlier intentions of treading carefully, and finding you don’t care, “now, if he’s as important to your plans as you say, then he has to be as respectable as a Harkonnen can be in the eyes of the other Houses, the Empire.  He has to be someone close to redeemable, and there’s no redemption for someone who murdered their own mother.”

He killed their mother; his brother killed their father.  Oh, Great Mother, is Rabban going to be sent back here?  You don’t want to be anywhere near your brother-in-law, not when he’s going to be bitter and vindictive over losing his governorship.  He’s going to want to go after his little brother’s toys–and you’re certain that’s how he sees you.  

Please just keep him on Arrakis or send him to Lankiveil.  Fuck it, just send me back to my home planet.  It’s not like anyone needs me to be here right now.

“So you knew all this, and you chose not to prepare me for it,” you tell her.

“What good would it have done you?” her Reverence asks.  “You have no Bene Gesserit training, you haven’t learned to overcome your own fears and desires.  It would’ve clouded your judgment, plagued you with self-doubt that you could temper him and gain his devotion.  You wouldn’t have been any more prepared to bed him and gain favor with him with that information. Without it you’ve been more malleable, more open-minded to the strengths of your marriage.”

I didn’t tell you because you would’ve tried to resist the marriage if I had .  

You try not to think about the machinations of it–not that you’ve ever wanted to picture it, but the image of the Baron’s swollen fingers groping his nephew’s bare skin when Feyd’s a grown man is enough to make you want to throw up, let alone…you suppress your cry of disgust. 

“You knew all this , knew what the Baron would do to him, and still allowed it all to happen,” you say, voice rising in pitch before you can reign it in.

“He needed to ascend to a Major House,” she says.  “We’d have had no use for him as a whaler’s son.”

“But you did as someone driven to matricide?” you demand.  “What greater use do you even have for him beyond siring a boy?  What are you going to do to him when you’re done with him?  What are you going to do to me? ”  Before you can stop yourself, because the thought’s been lingering in a way you cannot ignore now no matter how much you’d like to, you add, “Whose child is Lady Fenring really carrying?”

“ Silence! ” her Reverence snaps and you feel your mouth shut tight, jaw muscles clenching of their own accord.  You’re shocked.  You feel so utterly stupid for feeling shocked.

She watches your face as you glare at her, your anger and fear so transparent it’s embarrassing.  You’d wanted to be poised.  You’d wanted to keep your fears if not abated then suppressed.  You wanted to be able to play a sharp mental game of cheops with a Truthsayer.  You just failed.

“I must say I’m disappointed in you,” her Reverence says.

I feel the same way, your Reverence, you don’t say even if you could; it’s like there’s a vice, like clamps keeping your jaw clenched.

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is going to lead one of the Great Houses, and one of the wealthiest Houses in Landsraad.  If he needs to be brutal to ascend and take his uncle’s throne, then so be it.  It’s entirely expected among his people, and if anything you should be grateful he didn’t adopt his uncle’s tastes for himself.

“I never lied to you about your purpose with him, young Y/N,” she continues.  “It’s always been to combine your genetics with his, create a bloodline with him, and provide a son.”

For me and him or for you?   You take a deep breath.  In.  Out.

“I told you when we first met that you were under the protection of the Bene Gesserit order.  I didn’t lie to you about that, either.  You insult me by questioning my abilities and that I will not tolerate.  You are safer on this planet than anyone else who inhabits it.  You’re acting like a petulant child.”

You feel yourself flush, angry and ashamed of where you are right now.  You still can't’ speak, can’t even open your mouth, but you can feel your lips tremble and feel heat pricking up at the corners of your eyes.

“You have our protection and for all of your husband’s violent past and likely violent future, you have his protection as well, and for that you ought to be grateful.  He’s a vicious enemy and an even more vicious guard dog.

“As for Lady Fenring, it’s nothing personal.  Our Sisterhood needs daughters from every major House.  She and her husband will raise the girl, she’ll receive the best Bene Gesserit training of Landsraad, and neither of you will ever have to think about her.”

Did Feyd know her purpose in taking him inside of her?   Will her daughter grow up knowing who her biological father is?  

Did she use the Voice on him?

And suddenly you feel like the clamps have loosened.  You run a hand over your jaw as her Reverence asks, “Now that I’ve explained everything to you, do you think you can handle a quiet, civil breakfast or will you continue to question me?”

You want to curse.  You want to tell her that she’s full of shit.  Without the Voice’s influence you clench your jaw of your own volition to tamp down on everything you wish you could say.  “I have no further questions to ask, your Reverence,” you say.

“So will the na-Baroness behave in the manner expected of her title?” the Reverend Mother asks and in that moment you hate her.

“Of course, your Reverence,” you say.  “What sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t entertain my guests?”

Your head pounds and your hands shake as you get back to your quarters and find the gown for this afternoon laid out on your bed.  It’s not as provocative as yesterday’s, but you’re no more excited to put it on.  Idrisa silently helps you with the bodice and the new jewelry of fine silver corded necklaces that lay over your chest like a row of chains.  Idrisa assists with your hair; for someone who’s never touched real hair until recently, she’s gotten quite good at helping with it.  Doesn’t even seem confused or repulsed by it anymore.  Your cosmetics manage to cover up the shadows under your eyes.  Neither of you talk much, even though there’s a lot that needs to be said.

“I’m sorry, Idrisa,” you tell her as she puts away your cosmetics and you’re ready for her to escort you to the Banquet Hall.

She looks bewildered as she turns to you.  “Oh, no, my lady,” she says.  “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

I could’ve gotten you killed, you think, wondering what else she's been through that makes her so quick to try to forget last night when the two of you are flanked by two guards once you reach the main hallway.  She’s probably trying not to think about it when the doors to the Banquet Hall open and Feyd’s already there in long black robes with a silver chest plate, standing by the door awaiting your arrival.

The politics of marriage, you think to yourself, as the two of you match the body language you’d shared in front of everyone last night; no more and no less affectionate.  Even though a trained and watchful eye can see that the way he gives you a quick kiss on the lips and how you rest your hand on his arm is stiffer than yesterday, as is your posture.

You wish you could drink.  Instead you make polite little smiles at everyone who acknowledges you, as visitors stop by to show their respects, bid the na-Baron a happy belated birthday and to offer their congratulations on your nuptials.  The tables are laid out with platters full of imported delicacies and you pick at a few, but your breakfast sits like a brick in the pit of your stomach.  Feyd’s appetite is marginally better, and he nurses the same goblet of wine, twirling it absently more than he ends up drinking from it.  Finally he leans over and whispers in your ear, “I’m going to one of the private pleasure rooms and you’re going to join me.”

You raise your eyebrows, incredulous, as you look back at him.  He holds your  gaze, nothing in his flirtatious or suggestive.  He simply rises from his chair and holds out his arm.

You clench your jaw, remember all your etiquette training, and rise to take it.  Not everyone’s going to notice the two of you leaving together, let alone leaving together in the same direction, but those who do will interpret what comes next.

You know the Baron sees.  You can feel his smirk like a trail of slime. He's probably thinking, Good; my nephew’s breeding his brat-whore of a wife into submission .

Feyd leads you past two guards who wisely don’t react beyond lowering their heads in respect and down a hallway where there are opaque slots in the middle of each door.  Some are black, some are white.

“White means unoccupied,” he says, and presses a button to open one of the doors.

The room’s fairly sparse, you notice as the two of you step inside; there’s a bed, a nightstand, a chaise.  A small chest of drawers, the contents of which you don’t want to know.  All the anger from the previous night, from this morning, comes flooding back.  You want to slap him for this humiliation, for having the audacity to drag you in here.

The door closes behind you and the  two of you stand opposite each other, the bed a threatening presence at your side.  You speak first.

“I don’t want this,” you tell him.  

“I know,” he says.  He doesn’t come in any closer or make any effort to undress.  Instead he stays where he is and you cross your arms, waiting for him to speak again.

“You spoke with the Reverend Mother Mohiam this morning,” he adds.  It doesn’t surprise you that he’d know this; every guard in this Fortress reports to him.

“I did,” you say, your tone clipped.

“I imagine she told you everything,” he says.

You shrug, looking down, your arms folded across your chest.  “She said enough,” you respond after a moment.

“About my mother?”

“A little.  We spoke a little bit about multiple topics.”

“Such as?” Feyd prompts.

“Your uncle, your brother.  Lady Fenring.”  Feyd’s jaw tightens and his eyes narrow for a moment.  “You know Lady Fenring’s carrying your child, too?”

“The bastard in her womb belongs to me less than it does to her cuckhold husband,” Feyd says. 

“I’m not jealous,” you add.  

“There was nothing to be jealous of,” he says, the tone in his voice leaving an implication that has you furrowing your brow.  Do you mean what I think you mean? You open your mouth to ask, but he speaks first.  “So what else did you discuss?”

“What else did you discuss yesterday?  With the Baron?” you ask.

“Plans within plans,” Feyd says wryly.  Of course; plans within plans within plans .

“Such as?” you ask.

His mouth twitches upwards.  It's almost a smirk.  “I’d wondered why after centuries of tension it was only now that we took down the House of Atreides.  I’d thought it was in retaliation to them being gifted Arrakis.”

“Was it not?” you ask.  “Even if it was the Emperor who handed Arrakis over to them in the first place?”

Feyd’s eyes glint.  One of the corners of his mouth twitches upwards again.  “Why do you think he handed Arrakis over to them, then?” he asks.

That…you shake your head.  The Houses Corrino and Atreides were allies.  The Emperor and the Duke were friends.  “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do,” Feyd says.  “The other Houses can find us as brutal and unforgiving as they want, but the Emperor was the one who gave us the orders, lent us his soldiers, and had us wipe out the House of Atreides in the dark.”

Impossible.  “ Why?” you ask, voice higher than intended.  

Feyd sighs.  “Uncle withheld that bit of information from me, if he knows at all.”  

You try to think.  How far does this go?  Who else knows and what are they hiding?  What did they have to gain from massacring an entire Major House?

“And what do you suspect?” you ask.

He considers something, and his response throws you off.  “The Atreides boy–the Dukeling.  Did you know him?”

What does he have to do with anything?  He was years off from inheriting Caladan.

“You mean Paul?  Not well, but he and I spoke a couple of times over the years.  He’d be turning twenty-one around now,” you tell him. The interactions were brief, polite, and uneventful, a potential match between the two of you always unlikely.  The Duke had clearly been hoping for one of the princesses’ hands in marriage for his son and your father had been hoping for someone a bit more intimidating than the skinny, affable Duke’s son.   ( Of course, he did end up getting what he’d been hoping for, much to his chagrin .)  “Why?”

“The Duke’s Bene Gesserit whore was meant to bear a daughter,” he says.  “That daughter would’ve been my wife; it had all been planned out.  She refused the order and gave the Duke a son instead.  Screwed up all their plans.”

The Reverend Mother told you about their years of planning, selective breeding.  How plans had recently changed and the new plans involved feeding you to the heir to the Harkonnen throne.  

Your brow furrows as you ask, “Did the Baron tell you this?”

“I've known since before I met him.  I remember hearing my parents arguing about it around my fifth birthday, when the Dukeling was born,” Feyd says.  “Thousands of years of planning out the window.  From what I could gather, they decided they could choose either the Atreides boy or myself to continue the bloodline they want.”

You think back to this morning.  You think of Margot and her growing number of daughters who aren’t her husband’s.  You remember what Paul Atreides’s face looked like when he was nineteen and making polite small-talk with you about the similarities between Y/P and Caladan and for a moment you imagine what he’d have looked like as a girl.

“I’m not certain exactly how or why,” Feyd continues, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if those witches impacted the Emperor’s decision. It’s almost funny how often they’re spotted lurking in the shadows when powerful men fall.”

“If they had something to do with it, do you know why they chose your House?” you ask.

Feyd shakes his head.  “Not yet,” he says.  “But I know this: Uncle wants a Harkonnen on the Imperial throne.  He’s wanted it his entire life, more than anything else.  And he thinks we’re closer to it than ever before.  He might even be right.”

You collect yourself, try to think, and when you do you can’t help but be selfish.  You flex and clench the fist of your right hand to avoid bringing it to your belly.  “Did he say where I fit within these plans within plans?” you ask.

Feyd doesn’t look away, but he also doesn’t speak for a moment.  He seems to look at every curve, angle, and slope of your features as if trying to commit the sight to memory.  “Your place is by my side, Y/N Harkonnen,” he says.  “As my wife, as the mother of my children, as the bridge between Harko and the rest of Landsraad.”

All very nice words.  Not a real answer.  “I notice you didn’t say if those were your uncle’s plans or not,” you tell him.  

“I know you did,” he says.  “What he thinks about you doesn’t matter.”

You take a step back, unable to help the incredulity within you.

“How does it not matter?” you ask.  “After everything he’s done, after everything he’s done to you, you still do whatever he wants.  If he decides that I don’t fit within his plans, then how can I believe you’ll keep me safe?  After everything you’ve done?”

Feyd recoils and he looks like he’s never been more insulted in his life, and he does not deserve to give you the reproachful look he’s giving you now.  “You think I’d go back on my vows?” he asks.

“You mean them now, but what about after he’s born? What about after I give you more children?  As I get older and I start reminding you more of your mother?” you demand.

“You don’t remind me one bit of her and that’s not going to change,” he says.

“But how do you know that?” you ask.

He doesn’t try to touch you, but takes a half-step forward.  “Because when you talk about our son you don’t talk about the greater plans for him.  You talk about him like he’s our child, not any part of an agenda.  You talk about nurseries, not who you’ll breed our son with. Because you don’t.”  He pauses.  “Because you aren’t one of them.  You belong to me, not them.”

You look at him as your heart pounds.  You shouldn’t be so naive to believe him, but you’re certain he means it.  The next thought that comes to you is one you can’t shake away.  It’s a risk; walls have ears.  But it’s a question you’ve been wanting to ask for weeks, and one you can’t avoid anymore.

“I read up on Harkonnen wedding vows,” you say.  “You made a vow to protect me, keep me safe.”

“I did,” he says.  “I will.”

“And our children?” you ask.  Feyd’s spine goes rigid.  “Will you keep them safe?”

He knows what you’re asking; he says nothing.

“Will you keep him away from our son?” you ask.  “No matter what?”

He looks at you, his jaw clenching for a moment as he looks down, lashes fluttering.  You wait.  

Finally he speaks. “When I ascend, my coronation needs to be honest.  The rank needs to be earned or I’ll never truly have the respect of my people, let alone the other Houses.”  Not quite an answer to the question you asked, but to what you really mean.  You take a breath, nervous.  “But my priority will always be the future of the Harkonnens, not what will soon be past,” he adds.  “That’s you and that’s our children.”

Yesterday showed you that Feyd isn’t always forthright, but he doesn’t lie when you ask him a direct question.  It’s something, a step in the right direction, and certainly a better one than last night.  

“Alright then,” you say on an exhale.

“Alright then,” Feyd echoes.

“Shall we?” you ask, gesturing for the door.

Feyd looks at you and his eyes flicker to your neatly-arranged hair.  “Not yet,” he says, and closes the distance between the two of you and tugs a few strands askew before burying his hands in your scalp, scrunching with his hands, and then releasing.  He shifts the silver strand adorning your hair just a little askew.

“What are you–?” you start, and he moves his hands down to pinch your cheeks.  You squawk and slap his hands away.

He gives a small smirk.  “Trust me, Y/N,” he says, “you’ll want them to think we were fucking instead of talking.”

And so you keep your head held high as you leave the room and re-enter the Banquet Hall, primly ignoring the few pointed looks you get.  They don’t linger, anyway; no one wants to get their throats slashed by the na-Baron for gawking at his, as far as they know, freshly-fucked wife.

The festivities continue, albeit a little muted compared to last night, and without further incident.  When it seems like an appropriate time to take your leave, you take a few minutes to thank everyone for sharing in your company.  Even, begrudgingly, the Baron, who gives your mussed hair a pointed look and a snide comment about how you must need some rest.

You don’t go into Feyd’s bedroom.  As the hours tick by, you realize he won’t be coming into yours, either.

You’re hit with twin feelings of relief and doubt.  You know you’re going to have to share a bed with him again; everyone has made it abundantly clear that it’s a part of your obligations as a married woman.  He’s going to Arrakis soon; you don’t want him to leave with memories of a newly frigid wife. You don’t want to lose any more of the momentum you’d been building with him that you’d created in no small part through near-constant intimacy.

And still, you stay alone in your bed, not even wanting to touch yourself.

The following morning you could almost swear that things are normal again, or as normal as they were before the Bene Gesserit arrived.

Feyd calls on you to train with him early in the morning again.  He double-checks to make sure your shield’s activated before having you practice with Korvo, and then with him.  

Breakfast is a bit different, though.  The remaining distinguished guests join all of you and the spread is even more vast than usual with dishes both savory and sweet.  You’d noticed over the course of the past month that Feyd almost always eats the same thing for breakfast: eggs and a savory porridge cooked in bone broth.  This morning, however, he doesn’t have much of an appetite, perhaps because of the couple seated across from him.

Among the last remaining guests are Count Hasimir and Lady Margot Fenring, the husband looking a little like a rat in fine robes with a velvet brocade, his beautiful younger wife in a fetching blue dress that’s formal enough for the occasion but looks comfortable enough for her trip back home.  

“Her Reverence has departed early, along with the other Sisters,” Margot explains to you.  “But she appreciated the hospitality you showed.”

I snapped at her and she used the Voice on me last time we spoke, you think.  “We appreciated her guidance,” you say, knowing she probably knows what transpired between you two.  Presumably so does her husband.  You glance over at the Count a few times and wonder, does he like the idea of his wife fucking other men and carrying their children?  Or does he merely tolerate it?

“Did your brother give reason for not attending your birthday celebrations?” he asks.  “Surely he attended your nuptials, at least.”

“He did,” Feyd says, “but his presence wasn’t required for either.”

You hesitate, wondering if it’s going to exacerbate rather than ease his tension, before finding his hand under the table and brushing your fingertips against his knuckles in a silent invitation to take his hand.  He doesn’t look over at you, but after a moment’s stillness, takes your hand in his and sets it on his leg.  

Since it’s the na-Baron’s belated birthday and another chance to show his statesmanship, the Baron delegates the two of you with seeing off your foreign visitors afterwards.  It also conveniently saves him the strain of having to continue staying upright and making small-talk instead of lounging in what Feyd has described only as “the tub” in a tone that makes you glad you’ve never seen it.

Count and Lady Fenring are finally leaving–you bid them farewell for the last time alone while Feyd sees off a representative from the House Corrino.  After what he told you about the Emperor, you assume his reasoning for this is two-fold.

Hasimir Fenring’s in the Emperor’s ear as well.  You wonder what he’s going to report about you as he kisses your gloved hand.  You wonder what Lady Fenring really thinks about you as you smile at each other for what you hope will be the last time for the foreseeable future.

“Your visit has been most educational,” you tell her.

She knows what you mean.  You don’t even have it in you to hate her all that much.  You don’t think she’d ever have done anything with Feyd if given the choice, and that makes it somehow more fucked up.

And then they’re all gone, docked and shipped out, and things can go back to normal.

None of this was ever normal, though.  And even with the understanding you think you’ve reached with him, it’s never going to be the same.  

Neither of you talk much at dinner.  The Baron shares some of the more salacious details about Count Fenring, knowing neither of you want to hear it.

“He’s not just sterile, he’s impotent,” he says, picking up a piece of lamb by the bone and dipping it in a cream-based sauce.  “The man’s testicles are purely decorative, and on top of that he’s hardly an intimidating man to look at, but he commands respect and why?  Shrewd political mind.  It will get you farther than just muscle.  Bodies age and break down but that’s all fine as long as you keep a sharp mind, Feyd.  Remember that.”

“I will, Uncle,” Feyd says, ignoring the sauce for his own lamb.  “But I don’t think my body will be breaking down any time soon.”

He looks like he regrets it the moment he says it, because the Baron smirks.  “Oh, certainly not yours , nephew.  You’re still a handsome young man.  Eventually, though, age comes for everyone.”  He turns to look at you with the closest thing to an affable smile he possesses.  “Believe it or not, young Y/N, I didn’t always look like this.  I was never as attractive as Feyd here, but I was leaner, had a more defined jawline.”

There’s something unsettling about him trying to be friendly towards you, especially as Feyd looks downright thunderous as he stares at the knife clenched in his fist like he’d rather use it to cut his uncle rather than his meat.

“Well,” you say, shifting in your seat, “as you said, my lord Baron, the sharpness of the mind is the most important thing, and you certainly still have that.”

Something’s wrong.  It was far easier to overlook when there were multiple other people to entertain at dinnertime but the tension between Feyd and his uncle is palpable, even as the Baron ignores it.  It lingers and follows you after dinner, when you and Feyd walk together to your quarters, and you know a conjugal visit is in order and you know that perhaps it would be more prudent to just let him fuck you first and then interrogate him when he’s spent and pliant.  But with everything Feyd’s talked about, the way he spoke of the Baron, sends whatever desire you might have been trying to build up cratering. 

So when you get to your bedroom door you turn to him and blurt out, “Can we talk first?”

Feyd looks at you and nods, his movements serpentine in their grace as he follows you inside and you shut the door behind you.  He waits, and for a brief moment you think about speaking evasively before dismissing the thought entirely.  This is neither the time nor the place to play coy.

“What did your uncle really say about me?” you ask.  “On your birthday?  What are his plans within plans for me?”

Feyd doesn’t look surprised at the question.  A muscle twitches in his jaw.  Dread rises in the pit of your stomach, threatening to evict your dinner.  His eyes look darker than usual.  

“After you bear my son, my uncle wants me to wed the princess Irulan,” he says.

And even as you can’t say you’re surprised you can’t help but gasp, hand flying towards your belly, because whatever conversation they had about this didn’t involve the words annulment or polygamy and Feyd doesn’t need to spell that out for you.

Feyd’s lips part just a fraction at the look on your face and he reaches a hand out, stopping for a moment when you flinch, and then moving slower to cup the side of your face.  His palm is warm.  

“I won’t,” he adds.  “ You’re my wife, and I’ll have no other.  You’re not going anywhere, Y/N Harkonnen.  You’ll be my na-Baroness and them my Baroness and perhaps even Empress.  We’ll have more children after this and you won’t have to worry about him .  Neither of us will.”

“You said your coronation would have to be legitimate.  You said you’d have to earn your ascension to the throne,” you tell him.  “You were so adamant that it was the only way to take over,” you tell him.  Your heart beats like a rabbit’s, chest heaving, feeling like you’re about to throw up.  You force yourself to look at him as he uses his free hand to cup the other side of your face.  He looks so calm.  How can he look this calm?

“I’ll say this only once,” he says.  “He’ll be gone by the time you’re in labor.”

Your eyes dart across his face, looking for a sign of anything that could contradict the conviction in his voice and you find none.  He means it.  

“Care to explain how?” you ask.

Feyd tucks in his bottom lip for a moment and exhales.  “Better not,” he says, “for the sake of plausible deniability.”  He pauses.  “At least, not yet. ”

You take a breath.  “Is that why he didn’t want us to have time to be alone together on your birthday?” you ask.  “Or were you never planning on telling me about this, either?”

“I wasn’t sure how I would, or when,” Feyd says.  “But you said it yourself that you’re my political ally as well as my wife.”  He tries to give you a smile; it’s a twitch of the lips.  “I wouldn’t withhold information about a potential assassination from my greatest political ally.” 

He kisses you once, slow but not deep, as if feeling out how receptive you are to it, and trying not to seem too disappointed that while you don’t resist, you barely reciprocate.  

“Not tonight, then,” he says.  

“We can,” you offer.  He can hear the reluctance in your voice.

“Not for nothing, Y/N, but I tend to enjoy it more when you aren’t morose and I must assume dry as a bone,” he says.

You sigh, looking down.  He’s not wrong.  You haven’t been aroused once since his birthday party a few nights ago and this conversation hasn’t helped in the slightest.  “Tomorrow night,” you tell him.  “Tomorrow night, your bedroom.”  We can do whatever you want, you almost add before he leaves, but you don’t want to offer something you’re not sure you can fulfill.

The following morning you get up early to train with him.  If anyone dared comment, they’d note that you seem a little aggressive with your offense when sparring.

During breakfast it seems like Feyd has an appetite again.  The Baron probably notices.  He also probably notices that the air between the two of you feels less tense than it has for the past couple of mornings, and of course he narrows his eyes in sidelong glances at you.  You ignore it, offering a couple of vague pleasantries about how efficiently-run Feyd’s birthday festivities were.  

“So,” you ask Feyd as you set down your distilled water.  “What’s the process like?  Moving to Arrakis?”

The Baron sits a little further upright.  “You told her about Arrakis, boy?” he asks.  You glance away from him, thinking, He told me about much more than that you sick man.  

Feyd glances at you before answering, his tone unfazed.  “If I’m leaving her behind for months then she should know why,” he says.

The Baron looks between the two of you as if he can get more answers from a single glance, and you look down at your food and spread a pat of butter onto your toast.  So far your appetite hasn’t changed.  It probably won’t for another few weeks.

When you get back to your quarters you write to your parents to give them the news of your pregnancy.  You want them to hear it from you first rather than a formal announcement from Geidi Prime a couple of weeks from now.

In the letter Mother sent you, she had asked, her tone vague but concerned to the point that you could imagine her voice faltering as she dictated the words, if the Baron was being kind to his niece-in-law.  You’d laughed bitterly when reading it, knowing what she was asking.  He has never shown any untoward interest in me, you’d responded, thinking, that’s not the problem at all .

You’re going to take to Feyd’s bed again tonight, as you told him; even as you’re still not looking forward to it, you’ll power through.  You don’t want the bed to grow colder.  You don’t want him to get frustrated and find other bodies to fuck, even as you know that will likely happen anyway in your upcoming months of separation.  You were able to get leverage with him in the first place by catering to his desires.  That’s how you’ll keep it.

And that’s what you tell yourself when you strip and shower that evening after dinner, and don’t bother to dress after drying yourself off, padding naked into his bathroom and past it into his bedroom.

You’d wanted to feel arousal, and you’re certain you’ll get there eventually.  You weren’t aroused the first couple of nights of your marriage but he’d gotten you sufficiently wet enough for him to fuck, even if it was a rough passage.  

Feyd’s sitting naked on the edge of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees.  “So what’s keeping you from getting wet tonight?” he asks as soon as he gets a good look at you.

“How would you even know that?” you ask.

If he had eyebrows you’re certain he’d raise them at that.  “I’ve gotten to know your body pretty well, pet,” he says, and you don’t normally mind the nickname but tonight there’s no appeal to it.  “If you’re wet I can practically smell it.  When you’re feeling desire it shows, and when you’re not it shows even more.”

“I don’t know,” you tell him.  “It’s not important.”

“Last time we fucked you were drooling and practically begging for my cock,” he says.  “I’m not interested in going from that to you only tolerating it and I want to know why that is so I can fix it.”

You sigh, trying to think, trying to find the words, embarrassed when you do.  Because it sounds so shallow and petty when you do. “I guess it’s because I’m yours but you’re not mine,” you say finally.  It’s not something you ever allowed yourself to think about, not even as a child who knew you’d have to get married one day and knew you might not like or even know the man you’d marry. 

But now you are married and you think you’ve gotten to know the man you’ve married pretty well, especially over the last few days.  You even like him sometimes, despite everything.  

Feyd blinks and tilts his head, his lips curled into a faint smirk.  “You think I’m not yours?” he asks, his tone shifting.  Teasing.   You bristle.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you say.  “Not right now.  Not after everything that’s happened.”

“I’m not.  I’m just surprised, pet,” he says.  He rises and stands, walking slowly towards you, his movements almost serpentine.  “You really think I’ve ever willingly given as much of myself up for anyone as I have with you?  Servants and enemies alike fear my very name, run from my shadow, tremble before me.  But you have me in a way no one else does.”

You hesitate.  You didn’t expect his words to send heat through your lower body.  You lick your lips before you realize you’re doing it.  

“Do I? ” you ask, your voice deeper than normal.

Feyd senses the shift within you.  He can probably smell just like he says.

“Use me,” he says.  “Take as much as you want from me, as much as you can.  I can handle it.”

You glance down at his full, plush lips.  They curve into a real smile when he notices where you’re looking.

“We can start there.”

The collar’s heavier than yours.  There are prongs on the inside–they’re dull, they won’t pierce Feyd’s throat, but they’ll still dig into his skin, potentially even break it.  You look at it and look at him and your heart beats faster.

You glance back at the armoire; the leash isn’t the same fine silver chain but a heavier length of metal chain.  It’ll be an effort for him to comfortably keep his head up after a while.  It’ll be an effort for you to hold it after a while.

“You sure I’m ready for this?” you ask him.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t,” he says.  “Do you think you’re ready?  More importantly, do you want this?”

You picture him on his knees wearing nothing but the collar you’re holding and you answer without a drop of hesitation, “ Yes .”

He guides your hands as you unfasten the collar and wrap it around his neck, when you fasten again, but he brings his hands to his sides and keeps them there when you clip the chain to the center of his collar.  You take a step back for a moment to get a better look at him, how he stands proud while naked and leashed, your handsome plaything, and thinks he looks perfect.

Or rather, almost perfect.

“What else do you want to do?” he asks when he sees you thinking.

“I want to tie you up,” you admit.  “The way you’ve tied my hands behind my back.”  The memory of the way he’d fucked you relentlessly from behind with one hand pressing your head into the mattress and the other holding up your hips as you’d felt utterly, deliciously powerless flickers.  You want him to have the same feeling.

“Alright,” he says, unfazed.  “I can talk you through it.”

And as it turns out he’s a decent knot-making instructor.  He crosses his arms in an X across his back, turning his head to look at you as best he can while you stand behind him and cinch the ropes in–not tight enough to cut off his circulation, but to keep the knots intact.  You smile as you circle around him once it’s done, caressing his biceps, his shoulders, the parts of his back not marred by scars before crossing in front of him.  His pectorals look especially prominent this way, pressed forward and impossible not to play with.  So you do, groping the warm flesh, pinching the stiff peaks.

“On your knees, Feyd,” you say softly.

He’s far more graceful than he ought to be as his knees hit the floor in one long smooth movement.  You gasp at the sight, nearly dropping the chain as you take in the way the long, pale muscles in his thighs look as he kneels before you.  You look at the elegant lines of him from an angle you only now realize that you’ve never seen before.  Feyd’s eyes dart everywhere, zigzagging across the different planes of your body, and you smile as you take a step forward and cup your own breast, watching how Feyd’s pupils dilate, how his semi-stiff cock finishes filling out.  You stare back at him as you trail your hand down further, in between your legs, idly stroking and rubbing, letting your fingertips collect the growing slick down there before pushing two fingers inside.

You see his breath hitch, chest expanding, as you pull your fingers back out and step in close, just above him.  His mouth falls open the moment you bring your fingertips to his face; his head tilted back as he gazes at you with the same delirious, worshipful look he’d had a week ago.  He laps at your honey coating your fingers, gaze burning into you, his cock hard.

You grin down at him as you tug on the chain.  He closes his eyes for a moment, lips parted and twitching upwards in a brief smile.

You know what you want; when he’s licked you in the past it’s always been when you were on your back or on all fours, and never with the same domination as when he’s gotten you on your knees for him.  You know the physiology will be different, and trickier to navigate, but you’ll both manage.

Feyd moans softly as you grip the back of his head with your free hand, nuzzling against your bare cunt, his nose against your bud and his tongue reaching out to lap at what he can access.  His forehead rests against your mons for a moment.

“You’re so eager for it,” you tell him as you try to sound like you aren’t eager yourself, like you aren’t fucking dripping for this.  “So desperate.  You’d beg for this, wouldn’t you?”  You don’t wait for an assent before adding, “You don’t have to.”

You shift your feet, legs going wider, and slide one thigh over Feyd’s shoulder. 

He moans again, desperate, breath ragged, as you grip his skull tighter and grind your slit down onto him.  

If you didn’t have all night, you’d be embarrassed at how quickly your momentum builds the first time, moaning shamelessly, breath hitching, as you ride his mouth.  You think about how the first time he ever put his mouth here that you’d wished he had hair you can pull but realize now that you can manage just fine.  You think about how it’s been over a week since he’s licked you here, and nearly that since he’s touched you at all and that could be why you’re getting so close so fast.  And then you can’t think at all.

You have to hold onto his head and neck for support when you come and you gasp for air, raising your hips off of him enough to breathe.  

“You could come just from this, couldn’t you?” you ask, dazed, hardly able to speak, pulling him off long enough for him to groan an assent.  “Don’t.  Not yet.  I’ll take care of you when you’re finished here.”

And with that you bring his face back in, nails digging into the back of his head as you move his mouth for a moment, dragging his eager tongue inside of you.  You can’t help the snarl in the back of your throat as you feel his nose against your clit, building yet again, so close.

He seems to forget he needs his mouth and nose to breathe, and a couple of times you nearly do, too, grinding his face into your privates as you dig your nails into his skull, tugging on his chain as you keep your thigh draped over his shoulder, the metal digging into your skin as the muscles in your inner thigh squeeze his cheek .  “That’s it. Fucking take it, Feyd,” you hear yourself say at one point.

You wonder how he can enjoy being nearly smothered in between your thighs, but when you manage to get a glimpse southward, he still looks achingly hard, precome glistening at the tip.  Well, alright then .

You’re just as much of a desperate whore for this as I am, you think, and collapse forward for a moment, and bring your leg down, sliding it off his shoulder, realizing that if you keep going like this you won’t be stable enough to stay upright.  You take a deep breath, spread your stance, and tug Feyd’s collar down so he has to sink down lower, going from kneeling to sitting on his haunches, tilting his neck.  You switch his chain from one hand to the other, dragging your nails down the back of his head as you yank his chain forward.  

How is he still going with this kind of enthusiasm?   You feel like you're pushing yourself nearly as much as him when he’s the one being put to work.  Can he lick your cunt, his face buried in it, for hours?  Can he last longer than you can doing this?

Well, now you certainly intend to find out. 

You don’t know how long you keep going, grinding his mouth against you until you shudder and come, and then releasing him so you can both breathe before you pull him in again.  It’s too much.  It’s agonizing.  It's perfect and it’s actually starting to hurt but you also want to keep going, addicted to everything he’s giving you, and you stumble, legs shaking, vision going white for a second.

“Hold on,” you manage.  “I need to sit down.  I–I can’t…”

You relax the chain, stepping back so you can sit down at the edge of the bed.  Feyd shuffles forward on his knees and for a moment you wish you hadn’t tied his wrists so you could watch him crawl towards you.

My beautiful obedient beast , you think, as he reaches you, sits back on his haunches, and leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy.

“Wait,” you tell him before he can.  “Just stay there for a second.  I need a moment before I’m ready again,” you add, still feeling fluttery.  You hold the back of his head in place with your free hand, close to your swollen, slick cunt, his nose not-quite brushing against it, his cheek resting against your inner thigh.  He gives the closest thing a voice like his could make to a whine, desperate to dive back in, not daring to move as you curl your fingers around the back of his head.  You spend several minutes this way, him on his knees, in place, hardly moving a muscle.  You feel his lashes flutter, but otherwise he remains still.

There’s something so deeply intoxicating about having this kind of power, about his warm breath against your cunt, about how obedient and submissive he is.  He’d stay down there all night if you asked, kneeling before you, wanting to but not touching you, not tasting you, until you commanded him.  

You smile, eyes shut, tamping down on a fit of giggles and the urge to say, Down, boy .  You loosely wrap one hand around his throat, just above his collar and then trail your fingers over his scalp.

You finally open your eyes and look down at him.  His bright blue eyes shining with hope, but not daring to say a word, waiting for you to tell him what to do.

“Oh, alright then,” you tell him.  You feel delirious as you tug his chain forward and he dives in, desperate, as if grateful for the chance for you to fuck his face again.  As if you’re the one doing him a service.

You groan, spent and running on fumes at this point but still not willing to let up, curious to see how much more he has in him.  How much more you can handle.  “That’s it, Feyd.  This is what your mouth was made for,” you say, and at this moment you’re pretty sure it’s true.  Your nerves are frayed and you’ve been so thoroughly tasted it’s becoming painful and your muscles feel as taut as if you’d just had a strenuous training session when really all you’ve done is have your cunt feasted on.  And still you persist out of sheer stubbornness until the tension builds again.  You shift and spread your legs a little wider, sitting closer to the edge of the bed and rolling your hips against Feyd’s face.  He can hear your breath hitch, your moans getting more desperate.

You start babbling, unable to keep the words from spilling out every image that pops into your head.  “Next time I use you– ah, fuck!  I, I’m gonna tie your wrists to the bedpost and fucking use every part of your body.  I’m going to ride your dick and then ride your face until you get hard again, just gonna alternate between the two until I drain you.  I’ll never get sick of it your fucking magnificent body and that mouth –”

And then you come, one last time, doubling over as you clutch the back of his head with both hands, burying his face in as deep as it can go, his nose scrunched up against your bud and his tongue buried inside of you.  You hear your own guttural scream as you shudder, moving his head side to side for a moment to wrench every last bit of pleasure out of it before you can come down.

For a moment you hold him there, just enjoying the closeness of him.  He’s still breathing, thankfully.  What an embarrassing obituary that would be.  Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, dead at twenty-six.  Cause of death: suffocated on his wife’s pussy.   You can’t help but laugh as you pull him off, but the laughter fades as you get a good look at him.

He’s a mess, his face drenched.  His eyes blaze, his cock leaking precome.  He stays where he is as he gazes up at you.  He’s still looking at you with hope and desire.  Did I do good? What else can I do for you?  Do you want me to go back in?  I’ll go back in .

“Wow,” you say softly, thinking, You’re so beautiful like this .  

It takes what feels like a full minute to be able to stand again, your legs trembling, and you give Feyd just enough slack on the leash for him to continue kneeling.  His knees must be in agony right now.  He probably wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Stand up,” you tell him anyway, watching as he slowly manages to rise, biting back a groan at the effort.  “Good.  That’s good,” you say softly, looking up at him once more.  He keeps his head bowed, breath smelling of you and ghosting over your lips as he waits for further instructions.  You smile at him as you unclip his leash and let the chain fall to the floor between you.

You touch his chest again, made more prominent as he squeezes his arms behind his back as if standing at attention.  You decide you won’t untie him just yet as you run your hands down his torso, spread them to his sides and down his hips, your fingertips just barely digging into the flesh of his ass.  You haven’t talked about it yet, aren’t sure how well or poorly he’d respond to being touched there, so you keep the contact brief.  You don’t want to ruin anything when he’s been so good for you and seems like he’s still in that space in which he’s inclined to do whatever you want.  Feyd stays stock-still, like a good soldier awaiting your orders, and you find your voice.

“Have a seat, husband,” you tell him as you step aside to let him, and he does, where you just were, and waits.

You start by standing in between his legs, pressing your breasts together, and leaning down to rub them against his face.  He dives in eagerly, licking, kissing, sucking marks into the soft flesh.  It only briefly feels strange to feel your own slick there, but your mind seems to discard that after coming to the conclusion that it isn’t unpleasant.

“They’re going to get bigger in no time,” you say aloud.  “Will you like that, Feyd?”  He moans an affirmation, albeit a muffled one as you guide his face in the space between your breasts and keep him there for a moment.  “When they’re full and juicy and there’s more to play with?”

He moans again, chest heaving.

“You’ve been so good for me, Feyd,” you tell him as you caress the back of his head.  “So sweet, so devoted.  Are you ready for your reward?  I think you’ve finally earned it.”

And then you get on your knees.  His mouth falls open in a gasp, as if he hasn’t seen you in this position before.

Granted, he’s never come in your mouth before, even as he’s said he’s thought about it.  You caress the tops of his thighs, your thumbs trailing along the insides, before you grip his cock, tilt your head, and give him one long lick from sac to tip.

His breath comes in rapid pants, the salt of precome making the slide of him in your mouth all the easier.  You take him down as far as you can manage, your tongue along the underside of his cock.  Maybe next time you’ll tease him a bit more, take more time with this, but tonight you want to give him his reward.

“A- ah! ” He shudders and gasps as he comes in your mouth for the first time; it’s viscous and briny and you choke a little as you swallow it down but you swallow it down all the same, sticking your tongue out to swipe at what's left around your lips.

You get up and nearly stumble as you settle on his lap, kissing him, reaching for the ropes that bind him because you need him to touch you and you’re certain that he needs it, too.  You kiss your own slick off his lips and taste it on his tongue as he tastes himself on yours and perhaps someone else would find that disgusting.  A while ago that someone probably would’ve been you.  Right now it feels devastatingly intimate as you fumble with the knots and finally set him free, the rope dropping onto the covers.

Feyd’s hands slide over your hips and waist, into your hair.  He buries his face against your neck for a moment, his breath a rattle.  And you’re straddling his hips and his chest is pressed against you and, somehow, despite how overstimulated you are, you need him inside of you again.  It’s been multiple nights.  It’s fine if you don’t come; you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come tonight, it’s all a blur.  You just want him nestled within you, just like this.

“Do you think you can get hard again?” you ask as you caress the back of his head, which he lowers to your breasts.

“I…” he starts, voice muffled as he holds on to you.  “ Augh, I…” he pauses, shutting his eyes.  “Yeah, I can.  Anything.  Anything you want.”  

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” you say, rocking against him.  It takes a few minutes, all dignity gone as you dry hump him slowly, your slick gliding over his spent cock until it starts to stiffen again, but there’s no one else here to see or judge it.  You can barely think as you raise up on your knees and spit into your palm before reaching down and wrapping a hand around him to work him to fullness.  It brings him face-level again with your breasts, and he takes advantage of the fact for the moments he can.  It makes you smile.  For a man with no particular voices it sometimes seems like he’s downright addicted to your body.

“Alright now,” you murmur once you feel Feyd’s cock hot and rigid in your grasp again and start to slide down.

It’s almost languid at first.  You just want to feel his cock inside you.  You hadn’t thought you’d miss it when it’s been less than a week.  You might go mad with frustration when he’s on Arrakis, you think, rocking slowly down onto him.

But that’s when a thought occurs, and you start to speed up, rising and falling on him with greater fervor.  You’re going to milk this man dry, you think, and giggle to yourself at the thought.  Between now and when he ships out to Arrakis you’re going to fuck him so good and so often he’ll be satisfied for the weeks, even months you won’t see each other.  You’re going to replace anyone else he could ever want in his mind’s eye.  

That’s what you’re thinking as you start riding him harder, faster.  Feyd’s gasps and grunts grow in volume alongside yours, his hands wandering everywhere now that they’re free to, but letting you take full control of the rhythm of him inside of you, letting you slake your lust on him rather than insisting on the other way around.

And as such you didn’t think you’d be able to come again tonight, but you were wrong.

“ Mmm! ” you shudder and shut your eyes as you can feel yourself start to clench up, almost at the precipice.

You nudge Feyd’s shoulder with one hand and he goes down, back hitting the mattress.  He gapes open-mouthed at you, eyes cloudy with lust and you gaze down at him until the pressure makes you shut your eyes again, until it’s too much and you’re grinding on him hard and fast.  You feel his hands cupping your breasts the first crest you wave, and then him coming inside of you on the second and stronger one that has you crying out.

Your mouth, your hands, your cock, they all belong to me, Feyd .  You can’t speak.

You can’t quite stop moving in the moments after you come, hips jerking awkwardly before you still, taking a deep breath, feeling the contracting and relaxing muscles of Feyd’s abdomen under your hands.  It takes another moment for you to come to your senses enough to open your eyes and look at the timepiece on your nightstand, and then you can’t help but laugh when you see that the two of you were at this for over an hour.

You look down at Feyd, who sits back up to meet you for a kiss.

“So,” you say, smiling into the kiss.  “Do you feel sufficiently used?”

“Dunno,” he says.  “Have you taken all you want?”

You nod against his lips.  “For tonight,” you tell him, and give him one last kiss before unfastening his collar.  The skin around his throat is red, indentations where the prongs dug in, and you press your lips there before nipping at it with your teeth.  He just holds onto you for the time being, tilting his head to give you access where you want it, breath coming in soft pants when you use your teeth on him.  You bring your mouth to the shell of his ear and murmur, “If you give me a second, I’ll put everything away.”

It takes some effort.  Your thighs shake as you slide off of him and grab the collar and rope.  You remember as you pick up the chain and walk over to the armoire that he’ll want some water as well.  If you’re thirsty from the amount of noise you made, then he certainly will be, too.

You sense movement and see Feyd shifting to the edge of the bed, about to get up, watching as you set everything back in place.  “Just relax, husband,” you tell him over your shoulder, proud of the fact that you can walk and sound coherent when you feel like you might pass out.  “I’ll take care of it.”

And you do; you wonder if this is how he feels on nights he pulls from his armoire.  You wonder if he feels the same kind of smug pride putting his equipment away while you lay in bed, exhausted and recovering.  You wonder if the reassuring calm as he does it is just as much of a facade, because tonight you’re pretty sure he took you to your limit even more than you took him to his.

You lay back, afterwards.  He nestles in between your legs, his head on your belly as you absently stroke his back and neck.  There will be visible scratches there and along his scalp, conspicuously at the back of his head.  The indentations of the collar will need to be covered; while people will certainly notice the scratches you doubt anyone will dare comment. 

“How soon is too soon to tell everyone?” you ask.

He turns his head, gradually coming out of his dazed, heightened state you don’t have a name for, and kisses your stomach before resting against it once more.  “If I felt it was appropriate, I’d burst out of this room right now and shout it to the whole planet and the Emperor himself that you’re carrying my child,” he says.  “Realistically, I’d say we should wait a couple of weeks, though.  After a doctor’s visit to confirm it.”

“Will you be there for it?” you ask, stroking his cheek and lifting two fingers under his chin to tilt his head towards you.  His cloudy blue eyes brighten a little.

“I’ll be here.  I don’t ship out to Arrakis for another month.”

“And after that?” you ask. 

“I’ll fix Rabban’s mistakes.  I’ll recover our lost Spice.  I’ll extinguish the Fremen rebellion.  And then I’ll come back to you,” he says.

And what will I do before you come back? you don’t ask.  You’ll need to.  You’ve thought about asking to go home, to Y/P, where you can be with your family and foster the life growing inside of you in an actually hospitable climate.  

You shift your legs a little further apart to get more comfortable.  Feyd gives a soft sigh and shifts as well, his breath tickling your bare skin and his arms loosely wrapped around you.

You’ll bring it up later. 

Tag list: @aemondseyepatch @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for future chapters!

[spookyboywhump]

A snippet was the most I could manage I wanted to write something longer but you know what this will do

CW: pet whump, prong collars, asphyxiation 

***

 “You know what your problem is?” Nicholas said casually, Zander trying to ignore the dread in the pit of his stomach as his collar was removed. 

 “Yes, it’s you.” He said bluntly. “If you dropped dead right now it would solve most of my issues. At least, it would be pretty funny.” 

 “Your problem is that you resist everything.” Nicholas said, clearly pretending he hadn’t heard him. “You resist orders, you refuse to accept your place, Cain hurt himself trying to get you to fucking move-”

 “How is it my problem that he can’t lift anything heavier than a bag of flour?! He fucking earned that back pain as far as I’m concerned.” He said bitterly. 

 “I think,” Nicholas said, still intent on ignoring him, “That you just need some extra motivation.” Zander felt cold metal close around his throat, he instantly recognized the feeling of metal prongs digging into his neck. Nicholas made sure to lock the collar so that even when he tried to pull it away from his neck, there was nothing he could do. 

 “You fucking bastard!” He hissed, trying to get away from Nicholas instead. He didn’t get far though, he hadn’t noticed the leash already clipped the the collar, Nicholas snatched it up and pulled hard, causing the prongs to dig further into his throat and cut off his ability to breathe. He was struggling to gasp for air, which got even worse as Nicholas wrapped the leash around his hand, shortening it and forcing Zander up on his knees, the man smirked as he leaned down closer to his face. 

 “Now, sweetheart, is that any way to speak to your master?”

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

A Good Boy

CWs: BBU, OCD (specifically harm OCD), anxiety, beating, shock collar, institutionalized slavery, babies

Masterlist

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

847481 was being rewarded. Handler Wiley had said he’d been a very good boy for long enough that he deserved something nice. He deserved something other than pain and suffering and endless orders that ‘481 forced himself to pay attention to, no matter where else his mind was running.

‘481 had been doing everything right for days, maybe weeks now. He had stopped begging when Handler Ellis hurt him for fun. He stopped trying to remember bad things that made his head hurt and the rules slip from his mind. He obeyed without hesitating. He stopped twisting his collar around his neck four times in both directions before his handlers got him for training in the morning. Stopping that one was much harder, and he still sometimes did it in secret and then spent the rest of the day worrying that he would be caught and punished for it, the imagined discipline worse and worse every time. But that was okay, too, because Handler Wiley had taught him how to hide the worry he’d been drowning in for as long as he could remember.

Think of things you know. Recite your rules. Think of the positions. Do anything and everything to keep it inside, so your prospective doesn’t see your fear. If they do, you’ll be sent right back here. You’ll be a failure ‘481. Do you want that?

N-no Handler. I don’t want that.

Good. Then stop breathing so hard, and control your thoughts. Next time you’ll get the serum, understand?

Yes Handler.

So ‘481 pushed everything down as far as it could go and only thought of training. Not the scary parts where he got hurt, that was pushed down too. He thought of the correct way to hold a baby and how to do the Heimlich and what to say to lighten the mood and how to properly iron a dress shirt. He thought of only good thoughts, approved thoughts, and ignored the worry and the things that itched at the back of his mind as much as he could.

All his hard work had paid off in the end, and Handler Wiley had said he deserved the reward. ‘481 had thanked him profusely, so grateful for the handler’s mercy.

Part of his reward was a collar. Not the awful shock collar ‘481 had been wearing ever since he’d signed the contract he couldn’t remember, but the normal leather collars the good pets he passed in the hallway wore. Now he was one of those good pets.

“Th-thank you, Handler,” ‘481 had said as the new collar was buckled on. It felt so much better without the metal prongs stabbing into his neck, threatening him with their presence.

“That’s not all, trainee,” Handler Wiley had said. “You don’t have any training tomorrow.” ‘481 looked up at him in surprise. The shock must’ve been apparent on his face, because his handler laughed. “Tomorrow you will have the opportunity to work in the WRU daycare and prove your skills. Won’t that be nice, ‘481?”

He nodded, eyes still wide. Another spark of anxiety started in his stomach, his mind quickly running over all the things that could go wrong and all the ways he could mess up and be given all the bad things again.

Position one; stand with hands at sides, back straight. Position two; kneel resting on ankles. Position three …

He forced the bad thoughts away and focused on all he needed to know. “Thank you, Handler.”

“Only good pets are allowed to work in the daycare. This is work you’ll need with your prospective, ‘481. Don’t disappoint me. Your rewards can be taken away very quickly.”

‘481 resisted the urge to hold on tightly to his new collar. He nodded. “Yes, Handler Wiley. I - I’ll be good.”

Handler Wiley reached out a hand and ruffled ‘481’s hair, briefly. He chased the touch as his handler pulled away and headed to the door. “I expect nothing less.”

So ‘481 was standing with the other Box Boys and Babes chosen to work in the daycare as a handler gave them some last reminders about the job they had and the possible punishments they would face if they failed in any way, shape, or form.

‘481 pushed away the fear, tried to settle his trembling hands. He thought of how he was taught to talk to toddlers with gentle authority, establishing that he was the one in charge of them. It went against all his other training, to think of himself as the one in charge, but it was different with the young kids, he was told. They don’t understand the difference between him and a person.

He was assigned to the infant section, along with three other trainees. One for each of the four babies that were here for next few hours. The other trainees, the ones working with the toddlers aged 18 months to four years, were working one trainee to two or three children. ‘481 told himself he was lucky, that it was just the one baby for him.

But he couldn’t ever remember caring for a baby before. Sure, he knew what to do and he’d practiced everything from changing diapers to handling a seizure on the dummy babies, but it would be the very first time in waking memory ever handling a real live one. That baby’s wellbeing, and his own life, depended entirely on him doing everything correctly.

The trainees were let into the daycare, each led to their respective areas. The area for the infants was in a different room than the toddler area. It was colorful, with half a dozen cribs pushed against the far wall. Shelves lined the other walls, each one full of toys and snacks. There was a door off to the side they were told held a fridge and sink, along with a couple chairs, to feed them.

The babies were in the cribs, right then, taking their morning naps. The trainees were instructed to choose a baby and get them when they woke. There was a normal daycare worker just outside, in case of emergencies the trainees couldn’t deal with themselves. But other than that? They were totally on their own.

That thought alone made ‘481 nervous, but it only got worse when the handler left and the babies began to wake.

Each crib had a changeable plaque on it, reading the infant’s name and age. ‘481 went to one quickly, reading that he was a ten month old named Ben. He picked the baby boy up, trying to calm his pounding heart and shaking hands. He had to focus. He had to be a good boy. If he was, then maybe Handler Wiley would reward him again with something even better, or he’d finally be purchased and be able to go home to the happy family he was always being promised. He just had to focus.

Hours passed by relatively uneventfully. ‘481 changed baby Ben’s diaper a few times, fed him and gave him snacks. He had a couple teeth, and he used them to gnaw on toys when he was sat on the ground with a pillow behind him.

He’d been doubting his handler, when he called this a reward at first due to the huge amount of stress and responsibility put on him. But spending the day with a little baby boy instead of being meaninglessly hurt? He found himself thanking his lucky stars for allowing him to be taken as a Platonic so he could do this.

The other babies played on the ground, throwing around blocks. One of them could walk on unsteady legs, making her way around the room with her assigned Box Babe watching her closely. One of the babies was only a few weeks old, and his trainee spent most of their time in the other room, rocking him as he slept.

Near the end of the working day, when the children’s parents were beginning to show up, the baby Ben had started to drift off. ‘481 laid him carefully in his crib, cradling his still-soft head, and then went to help the others clean the room.

Ben’s mother was the last to show up. She walked into the room swiftly, asking with a smile how her baby boy was, reaching her arms out to the crib. ‘481 went to pick up the baby, answering her softly and telling her how long he had slept. He was looking at the mother, not the boy, so he had no idea that he hadn’t lifted him high enough before moving, and the baby smacked his small head right on the wood of the crib.

‘481 froze, the baby still held midair, as his blood ran cold. Baby Ben’s face scrunched up as he opened his mouth in silence for a moment, then gasping in air and beginning to scream. His mother rushed to him, taking him away from ‘481’s still frozen arms.

She held the baby close to her chest, bouncing and shushing him. She looked angrily up at the trainee. “What’s your number?” she asked, almost shouting over the sound of her baby’s crying. When ‘481 didn’t answer fast enough: “What’s your number? And who’s your handler?”

‘481 took a sharp breath and his hands began to shake. “847481. M-my handler is Handler Wiley. I’m so sorry ma’am, it was an accident, I swear, I would never --”

“I’ll see to it that your handler makes sure it never happens again. Understand trainee?” she hissed. She patted her screaming baby’s back, shushing him.

There was nothing ‘481 could do but nod as she turned and left, the sounds of the baby in distress getting further away with every passing second. He didn’t move for a very long time, letting the horrible feelings run through him one last time before he had to push them all deep down again. The other trainees moved around him, cleaning the room before their handlers came back to fetch them.

The baby was hurt. The baby was hurt because of him. He hurt that baby boy, he hurt the little baby boy that was trusted in his care. Did he do it on purpose? His eyes widened at the thought, his breath picking up just a little. No, no he didn’t do it on purpose, it was an accident. Then why wasn’t he watching the baby? Because he was talking to the mother right? Wasn’t he? Oh was he? Oh no he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what happened and what was or wasn’t his fault. His head was getting all full again, the thoughts getting foggy and jumbled and incoherent except for the blaring panic that was filling his chest. Was he not fit to be a Platonic and watch over children? Would he be put back on the Drip and wiped all over again? Oh he didn’t want that, he really didn’t want that. It was an accident, it was a total accident and it wouldn’t happen again. But what if it did? his brain whispered. What if, when he was with his prospective watching over their children, they got really hurt under his watch? What if his prospective decided to just kill him then and there? No he couldn’t die if he died who would watch over --

He felt a light hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance. The Box Babe that watched over the walking baby gave him a sympathetic look, biting her lip. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He only nodded, looking back at the ground. His brain was so full of nothing and everything all at the same time. He had the same thought, over and over, that his handler would bash his head into the wall to teach him his lesson. He thought about how his blood would look, dripping down the pristine white tile, staining it. He thought about how he’d be the one to clean it later, when he could barely stay awake and the cleaning products burned his hands. He twisted his collar back and forth sixteen times, praying it was enough.

When his handler eventually got him, he was led wordlessly to the small room he was unfortunately becoming accustomed to.

“Position two.”

‘481 dropped to his knees before his mind processed the order. He shook from the cold and the fear that he was having a very difficult time trying to pretend he wasn’t feeling.

“I heard you were a bad boy today, 847481. Is that true?”

He nodded, once. “Y-yes Handler.”

Handler Wiley removed the baton from his belt, making the trainee tense up. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you knew better than to make mistakes.” He pushed the button that filled the baton with electricity. ‘481 locked his jaw. “Better make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.”

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

In the end, ‘481 could only lay on the cold tile floor and cry, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks. Most of his exposed skin was bright purple and blue, breaking up the dull monotony of white and red on the walls. He thought one of his ribs might be broken, from the way Handler Wiley had kicked him with his heavy boots. He knew his nose was.

He didn’t cry because of the pain, though. He cried because he’d had his soft new collar taken away, replaced with the one with the heavy box and the prongs that pierced his skin. He cried because he wasn’t a good boy anymore. He was a failure. He failed in training and he would fail when he got purchased, just like he failed taking care of Logan and Kyrie and --

‘481 whimpered at the sharp pain in his head that followed the thought. He blinked against the bright lights as the pain slowly faded. A couple weeks ago he might have tried to follow that thought, see why it hurt and where it took him. Now, though, he only allowed it to pass by and fade away.

Not all his thoughts faded on their own, but he appreciated the ones that did, no matter how guilty they made him feel.

He was bad. He knew he was bad. He knew he would probably be sent back if he was ever sold in the first place. He knew he’d been a failure his whole life, that he’d failed some people a long time ago he couldn’t know or remember.

He threw an arm over his eyes and sobbed, letting the guilt and anxiety take him over while there was no one else to see.

[cowboy-anon]

It’s a short one, but guess what? It’s pre-Apple content! AKA a little bit of Apple (Auggie currently) while he’s with the salesman. After all, there’s a reason why he’s so quiet during Clay’s punishments. Set about halfway through his eight months with the salesman. :)

CW: Biting tongue, blood, collar mention, dunno if this is necessary but hellfire mention (?), heretic’s fork, implied exhaustion, implied neglect, implied stabbing by heretic’s fork, kinda stress position (?), pet whump, punishment, screaming, whipping

(Not going to tag just because it’s kinda short, but let me know if I should still tag you on shorter pieces! :D)

“Quiet”

Auggie bites his tongue. He has to, to keep the gargled cry from breaching his lips. If he screams…

The salesman grunts again, and the whip comes down on his back like hellfire.

Apple barely manages to swallow down the strangled scream that follows.

It catches his neck this time—that and the thin leather collar digging into his throat. Auggie lurches forward just barely, but the sharp pain against his breastbone and beneath his jaw is enough warning not to let himself go much further.

A heretic’s fork, the salesman had called it. The thin iron bar had two prongs on either end. The salesman secured it against his Adam’s apple by its thin leather strap, and even before the true punishment began, Auggie had no choice but to hold his head uncomfortably high, lest the prongs dig into the delicate skin by his breastbone and underneath his chin.

He couldn’t breathe properly, let alone—

The whip comes down again so unexpectedly that Auggie can’t help it. He wails. He clamps his mouth shut as soon as it opens, but the damage is done.

Blood. Auggie feels it trickling down his throat, that and a deep burning ache that momentarily overwhelms the sting of his back.

“Bad dog,” the salesman scolds, drawing the whip back again. “What did I say would happen if you couldn’t keep quiet?”

Auggie wipes away some of the blood with a trembling hand. “We’d—you said the fork would correct me,” he mumbles, head still tilted towards the sky, “and then you said w-we’d start again...”

The salesman chuckles. “Good dog. Your master will either love your cries or hate them,” he continues. “Better to learn to control them now. All good pets do.”

Auggie… he nods. He’s too tired to object, too weak to fight the fact.

Not two seconds later, the whip comes down on his back.

Auggie bites back a scream.

[salazarslytherin]

player, heartbreaker (wolfstar)

requested: nope! written for @acosmis-t ’s writing challenge! send in your own request here

summary: in which sirius breaks remus’ heart- not for the first time, but definitely the last.

prompts: 6. “i love you.”, “no you don’t” 8. “how was i such an idiot, to believe that you, out of all people, could ever love me?” 13. “maybe they were right. you never did change.”

cw/tw: angst, cheating, just tears, and a whole lot of em

word count: 2.4k

🃛 masterlist!

a/n: if you enjoyed this oneshot please consider reblogging and/or dropping me a follow! it’ll help me out a lot :)

I love you.

Those three words meant so much to Remus. Shunned by so many throughout his life, coming to Hogwarts and feeling the warm embrace of friendship and the overwhelming amounts of love that came with it made him lightheaded, feeling as if he were floating on air.

Those three words had made Remus excuse so much. Times he’d gotten in trouble with McGonagall because of a stupid prank Sirius had pulled and blamed on him.

“She’ll pull me out of quidditch for this! You’re the perfect student, she’ll let you off the hook! I love you Moony!”

Remus wasn’t let off the hook, but he never held it against Sirius.

Dangerous and idiotic pranks were forgiven- like the Full Moon Incident with Snape in fifth year. The Black heir had grovelled and apologised, spending many nights on his knees, begging for Remus’ forgiveness.

“Moony I’m so sorry, I was just, infuriated by the sheer audacity of Snivellus. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I love you, and I would do anything to prove to you that I can make it up to you.”

It took another full moon for Remus to forgive him, but he never forgot the heartbreak and betrayal that the incident had brought him.

Yet, he didn’t hold it against him. Because it was Sirius Black.

The first boy to show him friendship, the first boy to show him affection, the first boy to show him love.

⚔︎.

Not long after the Incident, the love between the two had blossomed- growing from a platonic, brotherly love to one that was more complicated.

One was the Prince of Gryffindor; the biggest player and heartbreaker that Hogwarts had seen in decades. Flirting and fucking girls and boys alike, Sirius Black left behind him a trail of tears and heartbreak. Yet he was never resented for it, because that’s just who he was.

Sirius Black, the serial heartbreaker.

The other was quiet. The most unassuming member of the Marauders- studious and always willing to help others regardless of house and year. A Werewolf littered with scars, but the gentlest person you could ever meet. Remus Lupin was the kindest soul you could find, but vicious when you needed him to be. Although quiet, he was charming and outgoing, the kind of person you could have a beer with, but also come to for your troubles.

Remus Lupin, the kindest boy at Hogwarts.

The two were best friends, but perhaps there was always a little bit more.

Sirius was openly bisexual, flamboyant and flaunting of his sexuality, he flirted with anyone and everyone.

Rumour has it he tried to flirt Filch out of detention once.

Remus was gay, but only told others when asked. He didn’t think his sexuality was anyone’s business, perhaps except his and his partner’s only.

As a result of these two polar opposites that were too similar for their own good, there was always an underlying sense of attraction. Remus would watch Sirius from behind a book, smiling at his jokes, laughing at his antics.

Sirius always admired Remus’ scars, equating them with bravery and beauty.

One day, the attraction had just clicked, and the words “I love you Moony” became “I’m in love with you, Moony.”

The stolen glances turned into shared, lingering looks in classes after a make-out session in an alcove- Remus turning red when he realised he was wearing Sirius’ shirt instead of his own, one that was just a tad bit too small for the Werewolf, then vermillion when someone pointed out a hickey Sirius had left on his neck.

Nights were no longer lonely– neither of the two was plagued with nightmares anymore as, much like the year before, many nights were spent with Sirius on his knees- albeit under very, very different circumstances.

⚔︎.

Not long after they had gotten together, Gryffindor won yet another quidditch match against Slytherin, and a Marauders party had exploded in the Common Room. Students from every house, save for Slytherin, partied the night away with bottles of firewhiskey and cake from the house elves, which ended up more on people’s faces than in their mouths.

Remus, not one to “party hard” like Sirius or James, found himself sitting on the window seat, chatting with passersby, sipping on a cup of firewhiskey while watching his friends on the dance floor.

“Hey there Lupin. Not out there with the rest of your marauders?”

Lily sat herself down next to Remus, clutching her own firewhiskey as she watched her boyfriend dance with Remus’, Peter bouncing awkwardly between the two.

“Not really feeling up for it. Why aren’t you out there yourself? Thought you’d be out dancing with James, you two seem awfully close these days.”

A blush graced Lily’s face, coughing slightly to cover her embarrassment as she turned to face her fellow prefect.

“Well, you and Black seem awfully close yourselves. Are you actually dating him?”

From anyone else, Remus would’ve thought the question rude and blunt, intrusive, even. But over the years, he began counting Lily Evans a friend almost as close as the Marauders, so he shrugged, and let it slide.

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

The redhead shrugged, looking out onto the dance floor where a Ravenclaw had grabbed onto Sirius, grinding onto his front as the Gryffindor seemed to welcome him, holding his hips close to his own, the pair lost in the music.

“I just worry about you, Remus. I know you two are best friends, and you should always trust the people you’re with, but, we all know what Black’s like. I don’t want to see you become one of the ones he leaves behind.”

Remus clenched his jaw at the sight of Nathan Sulzer grinding on his boyfriend, his heart clenching slightly as Sirius did nothing to stop him.

“I’ll be fine Lily.”

James wandered towards the two of them, pressing a kiss to Lily’s lips as he shoved Remus lightly on the shoulder.

“Alright, Moony?”

Remus felt his heart break slightly as Nathan peppered kisses on Sirius’ neck, the same spots he had kissed that very morning before the quidditch match. James followed the werewolf’s gaze as he failed to reply, his own fist clenching in response.

“Merlin Moony, I’m so sorry. I swear I thought he would’ve changed for you. I love that man but I swear he can be so thick somedays.”

Remus shook his head, feeling tears well up that he willed away, putting down the cup and pushing himself off the seat.

“It’s fine. I’m going to head upstairs first. G’night you two.”

“I love you Moony.”

“Love you too Prongs. Night Lil.”

⚔︎.

That was not the night Sirius Black broke Remus Lupin’s heart for the last time. Later that night, the beater had come up, small hickeys staining his neck and collar overturned as he begged Remus for his forgiveness.

“I was so drunk baby I didn’t even realise what he was doing. Just celebrating, I didn’t even know who I was dancing with! I love you so much Re I’m so sorry. It will never happen again.”

Remus forgave him. He always did.

After all, this was Sirius Black he was faced with.

And if we know anything, it’s that Remus Lupin always forgave Sirius Black.

Later that week, when Nathan Sulzer came to Remus to ask for help with a transfiguration essay, he merely turned and walked away, causing Nathan to wonder what he’d done to earn the ire of the kindest boy in Hogwarts.

⚔︎.

It was the last day of exams in sixth year. Remus and Peter, being the only ones in the Marauders to take NEWT level Ancient Runes, were the last to finish their exams. Excitedly discussing what was to come in the summer as well as the final weeks of school, the two made their way back to Gryffindor tower.

“So what are you doing over the summer Wormy? Have your parents settled on a vacation spot yet, or are you going to finally stay around for once?”

Peter smiled softly, shrugging as he clutched his books to his chest.

“I’m not really sure, but I think we should be around for the last few weeks. You’re staying with Prongs and Padfoot for a while, right? I think I’ll probably be able to join you if you’re still there by the time I get-”

The pair’s conversation was cut short as they ascended the stairs to their dorm, hearing a piercing feminine moan coming from their room.

“Merlin, never pegged Lily for the vocal type.”

Peter frowned, uncomfortable.

“Clearly you’ve not been around the Potter household when she stays with Prongs during Christmas. ”

Shuddering, their soft laughter was cut short as footsteps thundered up the stairs behind them, muscular arms landing on the two Marauders’ shoulders.

“Alright, lads! Finally finished with your exams?”

James Fleamont Potter stood behind his two fellow Marauders in all his glory, making the boys freeze in their actions.

“I- you-”

Remus’ mind was moving a mile a minute, the reality clocking in but he refused to admit it. This had to be some sort of a sick prank.

“If you’re out here, then who’s that in there having sex with Lily?!”

Peter pointed at the door, the confusion and adrenaline running through the three boys making them miss the soft moan of ‘Sirius’ coming from behind the doors.

“What?! Nobody better be having sex with my Lily!”

The heavy wooden doors flew open as James kicked it with all his might, revealing Emmeline Vance naked and on top of the one and only, Sirius Black.

“Padfoot?!” emerged out of Peter’s mouth at the same time as the words “That’s not Lily!” came from James’, before reality dawned upon the two, turning to face the werewolf.

“Get out.”

“Moony I-”

For the first time in a long time, Remus felt a fire rise in his stomach, his temper snapping as he threw his books on the ground.

“All of you, get out!”

The werewolf’s head snapped up at the naked boy on the bed, who was stealing fearful glances at the girl quickly redressing next to him.

“Except you, Black.”

⚔︎.

Sirius had awkwardly finished putting on his clothes as Remus stood beside his own bed, feeling nothing, his previous anger had sizzled out and left him hollow.

“Moony I-”

“I don’t want to hear you speak. I don’t, I just,”

A memory flashed by Remus’ mind, that party after Gryffindor’s first win of the year. Lily’s words echoing in his mind: we all know what Black’s like.

“Maybe they were right. You never did change.”

A cold laugh emerged from the prefect’s lips, looking up at the ceiling he’d become so familiar with over the past year. The one he’d studied night after night with Sirius in his arms, the one he’d memorised when he wondered whether he did anything wrong when Sirius apologised to him for this thing or that, breaking his heart bit by bit, day by day.

“How was I such an idiot, to believe that you, of all people, could ever love me? Sirius Black, prince of Gryffindor. The biggest player Hogwarts has ever seen, the biggest heartbreaker there’s ever been!”

Remus continued laughing his emotionless laugh, one that made Sirius wince and shudder. It was so unlike him, so hollow, so cruel.

Nothing like his Remus.

“Of course I love you Moony. I love you.”

Sirius made his way over to Remus, his calloused hands reaching out towards Remus’ scarred ones.

“No you don’t.”

Remus’ hand was enveloped for a mere second, the familiar warmth begging him to stay before his sinking heart reminded him of the hurt he was pushed under by those same hands, and ripped himself away.

“If you loved me, you would never have done this. If you loved me, you’d never have made me doubt whether you really wanted to be with me. If you’d loved me,”

Remus looked at Sirius for the first time since James and Peter left the room. As their eyes met, Remus felt the tears welling in the grey eyes he loved so dearly pulling at his heartstrings, clenching his jaw before continuing, willing his own tears not to fall.

“We wouldn’t be here. I was in love with you, but you were in love with the idea of me. The chase, the excitement of a relationship you couldn’t flaunt all across the halls.”

Muted ‘no’s and soundless protests were made as Sirius fell to his knees in front of Remus for the umpteenth time that year, but this time out of desperation, an attempt to salvage something that couldn’t be salvaged.

“But you got tired, and you found the excitement in sneaking around with others. Pushing the boundaries to see how far you could get without being caught.”

Tears fell freely from Sirius’ eyes now, clutching onto Remus’ trousers as he cried out.

“That’s not it. Please Re, I love you, I love you so much. You’re everything for me, my home, my only. Please don’t do this.”

Remus’ own eyes flew shut, but he continued, tears escaping as rapidly as the words did.

“And now you’ve gotten caught. I hope it was worth it, because I’m done forgiving you. I’m just so, so done. I’m tired of not being good enough for you, I’m tired of second guessing myself and wondering why you end up in other people’s arms.”

Sirius shook his head fervently, incoherent words and sobs wracked from his throat as he hugged Remus’ legs with more strength than he knew he had, shaking his head at the werewolf’s words.

“You know, I would’ve done anything for you. I forgave you each and every time you crawled back to me. No matter how many times you broke my heart, I turned to putty in your hands every time you told me ‘I love you’.”

Remus’ hands landed on the boy’s shoulders for the last time, a motion so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time, pulling him away. He took Sirius’ chin into his hand, tilting his head up to meet his tearfully hopeful eyes.

“I love you Remus.”

Desperation dripped from the animagus' voice, his eyes searching Remus' face for one last bit of mercy, one last "I love you".

“I love you Sirius. But I don’t want to love you any longer.”