#cw: implied past child abuse

[imtrashraccoon]

This one was a bit tricky to write and it's a bit rougher in places than I'd prefer, but I wanted to get it out on time. My sister helped me with the basic idea as I would've gone with a more convoluted idea instead lol.

CW: Reference to implied child abuse in the past but nothing explicit.

@scrambledmeggys

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Day 13: First Fight

The moment Papyrus stepped inside the house after work, you instantly knew he was in a bad mood. Besides the stony look on his face, the way he harshly shut the door behind him and didn't bother to greet either you or Frisk like he usually did, proved without a shadow of a doubt that something bad had happened at work.

Frisk seemed to notice as well and when they glanced at you for reassurance, you didn't miss the anxiety that flickered through their eyes. You pulled them into your lap and hugged them tightly.

"Let's give Papyrus some space for a little while, okay?" you whispered in their ear. "He probably just had a bad day."

They nodded silently and you both returned to the book you'd been reading together.

Several minutes passed before you heard Sans come home. He teleported inside the living room like he usually did and greeted both you and Frisk. You smiled slightly and murmured a "Hello" before he went upstairs to his room.

"hey bro, did someone manage to get under your skin or somethin'...?" you heard him ask.

Papyrus slammed a door which caused you to jump slightly. "Numskull..." he growled. "Are You So Blind That You Cannot See I Am In No Mood To Deal With Your Idiocy?"

Sans scoffed, "i just asked a simple question. 's not my fault you're too dense to comprehend it..."

You glanced up at the balcony at this point, both the brother's raised voices were quickly becoming too much to continue ignoring. With a sigh, you scooped Frisk up and moved into the kitchen. Setting them at the table, you held them close and whispered soft words of affirmation.

The brothers continued to bicker, each comment becoming more bitter as they seemed to grow more irritated. You hadn't witnessed them get this frustrated with each other for the whole time you'd been staying with them - just over two months at this point. Sure, they occasionally made snide comments directed towards each other but you figured that was just how they were and that they didn't actually hate each other.

You could see their argument was stressing Frisk out quite a bit and the longer it went on, the greater the urge to do something about it grew. You were normally a pretty non-confrontational person but seeing how anxious Frisk was becoming, it was almost like something snapped deep down inside.

With a sigh, you squeezed Frisk slightly closer. "I'm going to get them to calm down, okay?" you whispered.

Frisk glanced sharply at you and with great effort, managed to sign what they were thinking. "Be careful... I don't want you to get hurt."

"They won't hurt me, Frisk," you said, trying to reassure them further. Spotting Doomfanger over by her food bowls, you got an idea. "See how relaxed Doomfanger is? Why don't you cuddle with her for a little bit? I promise this won't take long."

Frisk seemed to relax slightly as they watched the fluffy cat. They slowly nodded, "Okay..."

You set them down near Doomfanger and after making sure both Frisk and the cat were alright, took a deep breath and prepared for what would surely be a rough encounter.

Maybe this was a foolish decision, but ever since you'd become friends with Frisk, if anyone did anything to upset them, it was enough to stir up some sort of primal rage inside you. They had put up with enough already and you'd be damned if you let anyone make them upset or afraid again.

"And Another Thing, Where Do You Get The Audacity To Act Like You Care So Much? Last I Checked, I Am The Only One Who Keeps You From Getting Dusted Because You Cannot Seem To Get Off Your Coccyx And Do Things For Yourself!"

Sans said nothing and yet you could feel the tense energy in the air change. The room seemed to grow frigid and almost charged, causing the air on your neck to stand up. Glancing up at the balcony, your eyes widened as you realized why.

Sans and Papyrus were staring each other down and red magic was flickering from their eye sockets, as if they were just waiting for the other to make a move. Realizing this situation had escalated further than you'd first thought it had, you hesitated for a moment but still felt the urge to do something.

After a moment, Sans huffed and released his magic. "i don't need to put up with this," he grumbled and pulled his hood over his skull. "i'll be at grillby's if you cool down anytime soon, not that you care..." He disappeared before Papyrus could retort.

Papyrus stared at the spot Sans had been standing in for a few seconds before letting out a heavy sigh and releasing his magic as well.

Against your better judgement, you said the first thing on your mind. "How dare you? How dare you say all those hurtful things about him? He's your only brother and that is how you treat him?!" Your voice was calm at first but increased in volume slightly as you spoke.

Papyrus said nothing and only turned to look at you coldly.

You clenched your fists as the sheer apathy coming off of him only served to frustrate you further. You slowly climbed the stairs until you were standing in front of him. While you were trying to remain calm on the outside, inside you were still seething.

"Does he mean nothing to you?! He clearly was concerned, not trying to antagonize you! What gives you the right to speak like that about your own family?!"

Papyrus continued to remain silent as you scolded him. You were so angry that you didn't register how uncharacteristic it was for him to remain this deathly quiet. By the time you'd run out of words to say, it finally dawned on you how bad of a decision confronting him was. You fell silent and only then did Papyrus finally speak, although his tone was much icier than how he'd ever spoken to you before.

"Are You Done?" he asked quietly.

You took a few steps away from him, all anger dissipating as you realized how badly you'd messed this up. The plan had been to diffuse things calmly, not rake the coals and spark another argument.

Papyrus took a steadying breath and tightly clenched his fists. He made no movement towards you at least, but you could see how desperately he was trying to remain calm.

"Look, I Mind My Business So You Should Mind Yours," he stated and turned towards his bedroom door. "Just Leave Me Alone..."

His comment caused a brief spark of anger to flicker up but rather than retort, you glared at the back of his skull. As soon as he'd entered his room, you returned to the kitchen to check on Frisk.

They'd apparently picked up Doomfanger and had been cuddling them like you'd suggested. When they looked up at you with concern though, you immediately felt regret.

Sitting next to them, you pulled them into a hug. "I'm sorry..." you murmured against their fluffy hair.

< ~ - . - ~ >

You didn't see either Papyrus or Sans for the rest of the day. So instead of focusing on what had happened, you focused on comforting Frisk and helping them feel better. Whether they knew what the argument had been about or not, you weren't sure, but you couldn't let them become disheartened.

Sometime in the early morning, you woke to a light on in the kitchen and a quiet conversation going on. You couldn't seem to fall asleep again and so you laid there for a while, just holding onto Frisk and listening to what was going on.

You soon figured out that Sans and Papyrus were talking and while you couldn't hear everything they were saying, it seemed like they were talking about what happened. It made you feel some relief that things could work out.

You laid there for several hours, drifting in and out of sleep. At some point, you woke up again to find the light still on but unable to hear any more talking. In your half awake state, you assumed one of them had forgotten to turn it off and drowsily got up.

After carefully prying Frisk's arms from your body and sliding a cushion into their grasp, you stood up and wandered into the kitchen. You immediately noticed two things, one, the light by the stove was the only one on, and two, Papyrus was sitting at the kitchen table with his skull resting in his hands. He looked up when you entered and for a moment, you both just looked at each other.

You finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry for getting upset earlier...and for butting in," you murmured. You weren't sorry for what you'd said as you still believed you were right, but even you could admit that you could've gone about the conversation differently.

When Papyrus didn't respond and just continued to look at you silently, you turned to leave. He could still be upset and you'd rather leave him alone if he was.

He grabbed your shoulder and stopped you though. You turned to look at him quizzically and for a moment he seemed unsure of what to say.

"I Am Sorry For Getting So Angry and I Am Also Sorry For Scaring You Like That," he finally said.

You nodded, "I forgive you, Papyrus."

For a moment you both stood there in the kitchen but then Papyrus pulled you into a hug, which you reciprocated.

"We should probably focus on communicating better in the future, huh?"

"Definitely, I Will Also Try Working On Being More Patient," Papyrus responded.

You smiled slightly, "That's a good idea. Going forward, I'll try to be more mindful of how I say things too."

[ravenquingvax]

Vex calls THIS scrawny???

Either that armour beefed our boy up or a certain elf needs his ass kicked for giving his children body image issues.

(Does feed into my headcanon that Syldor withheld food as a punishment though- Fucking Syldor!)

[buddy-arc]

// yui is covered in bandages and gauze. little girls get into scrapes with the environment—little girls will run and trip and bruise themselves, so it wouldn’t seem unusual for yui to always have a bandage on her cheek, wrapping on her forehead, binding around her arm, gauze and wrapping on her leg…

maybe being swathed to such an extent is a little unusual.

truthfully, yui hides scars. each bandage covers an irreparable mark on her skin. some are from her home life before her father died. some are from wounds she tried to care for by herself but didn’t know how to do so properly. some really are just from bad falls and tussles.

the bandages that cover her right arm and hand cover her corruption. the bandage that is on her head covers a nasty mark from when a small rock was thrown at her. she has gauze on her left side on her ribs, covering a scar she got that looks like it was left by a knife stroke, but a far larger one; a bandage on her right leg conceals a similar scar. (quite odd.)

the only scars yui cannot cover properly are the marks around her neck from her death, and that’s because even slight pressure from any bandage wrapping would make her panic. instead, she tends to pop her inner collar up to cover her neck.

yui conceals her scars. she’s afraid of what people would say about them or what they would think about her if they saw. she’s afraid they would somehow make her unlovable or that she would have to explain them. to yui, hiding her flaws is better. let them see only her bright smile.

[luveline]

hii jade are u going to write something about hotchner!reader and spencer any soon?

—You panic when Spencer’s late for a date. He makes it up to you as best as he can. fem, 2.6k

cw implied past child abuse

You weren’t young when you were adopted, so you were instilled very quickly with the need to be grateful. How lucky you were to be given a second chance at a family. How you owed it to your new family to be the perfect daughter and sister to a father who didn’t like you and two brothers your senior. 

Family for you is complicated. It always has been. You didn’t get the unconditional love you’d hoped for in all of them, but you have one older brother who loves you as though you and him are two branches of the same tree, and maybe that’s enough for anyone. 

“Yes!” Aaron cheers, jumping up from the bench. 

You spin around with a grin that’s half shy, half ecstatic. “I did it!” 

Jack runs up to your legs. “You got a strike!” 

You pretend to give him a karate chop. “Boosh! Double strike.” You grin as Aaron sizes up the pins down the long ally. “Think your dad can get one before we run out of turns?” 

“No!” Jack laughs. 

You laugh at his easy answer. His father, determined now in the face of your disbelief, picks up a number twelve ball and stands at the arrows to take his last turn. You brace your hands on Jack’s shoulders and wait for the line to be put down again. 

You’re pretty sure he’s throwing his turns to let Jack win. You’d not done the same until you realised the yawning gap in the scores, and maybe you’d feel embarrassed for not noticing if Aaron ever made you feel bad for anything, but he doesn’t. 

Your phone rings as he pulls back his arm. You ignore it. “Good luck, dad!” Jack says under your hands. 

It’s that good luck that gives Aaron his strike. You cheer with Jack as the ball glides straight into the first pin and veers on a spin toward the third, creating a wave of noise and action as the pins go flying back toward the baseboard. 

Aaron turns around with a huge smile. “Jack!” 

“You did it!” Jack cheers back. “Not first, but you did!” 

You grab your phone from your pocket. “Couldn’t let me have it, could you?” you ask. 

“What do you mean?” Aaron picks Jack up from the floor to hold against his chest, pointing at the screen with love. “Look at that, buddy, you won! Can you see that? You got the most points!” Aaron kisses his cheek, high on happiness. “Wow!” 

You have two missed calls from Spencer. To Aaron’s begrudgement, you and Spencer are actually going steady. The first attraction didn’t fizzle, the dates turned to dating turned to exclusivity; Spencer Reid is your boyfriend, and he’s supposed to be taking you out to dinner in ten minutes. 

“Everything okay?” Aaron asks, creeping closer to you, Jack still in his arms. 

“It’s fine, he’s just running late.” You notice his small frown. “His mom’s doctor wanted to talk to him, that’s all.” 

“How late is he thinking?” 

The plan was you’d go bowling with your family and then meet Spencer outside to eat at the Chinese restaurant just across the parking lot, but it’s not seeming so sure now. 

“He said half an hour. I’m pretty hungry,” you say, “he’s gotta speak to a psychiatrist about something. I can’t eat though, right? That’s rude.” 

“That’s not rude, honey. You can’t help being hungry as much as he can’t help being late.” As you’d noticed his, he notices your small frown. “You can’t go hungry,” he says with a shrug, “so you’re gonna have to come and eat something, but Spencer can join us when he’s done.” 

“Right, because you’ll love that.” 

“I’ve been on more dates with him than you have.” 

You take Jack as he opens his arms toward you. “I forget. I always think of you as his boss, and not his teammate.” 

Aaron grabs Jack’s backpack off of the bench, and your empty cups off of the table to throw away. “I am his boss. Okay, Jack, what do you want for dinner? What sounds good?” 

You, Aaron and Jack leave the bowling alley and end up in the Italian restaurant opposite of your originally proposed restaurant. You carry Jack on your hip and text Spencer with your open hand, content to let Aaron guide you through what little foot traffic there is to your table. Aaron sits on one side of the booth with Jack, and you slide into the other side. 

Spencer’s texts are getting more and more convoluted. He says he’s sorry, and then he says he has to call someone else, and then he needs to talk to his mom. You nibble your fingernail. 

“You okay?” 

You nod slowly. “Yeah, uh… Yes, everything’s fine.” 

“Is Spencer okay?” 

“I think he might cancel.” 

Aaron flattens his menu. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I think his mom is having a bad day…” 

“What else are you worried about?” 

Jack saves you for a moment, “Dad, can I have juice?” 

“Yes, sweetheart, I’ll get you juice. Apple juice?” 

Jack presses his cheek to Aaron’s arm, earning himself a hug. 

“Are you tired?” Aaron whispers. 

“No.” 

“Okay. Hey, there’s a table over there with some colouring pages and crayons, do you see that? Do you want to do some colouring?” 

“Can I go get some?” Jack asks. 

“Yes. Don’t bump into anybody, okay?” 

The table isn’t far enough to worry, but Aaron splits his attention between Jack and you fairly evenly, just a tad more worry following his son. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Aaron asks. 

“You don’t think Spencer would lie, do you?” you ask. 

“Lie about his mother? I doubt it very much.” 

You trust Aaron, and you trust Spencer too, but Aaron has earned that trust over years and years where Spencer has been gifted it. He hasn’t done anything to break it, but he hasn’t proved he should have it yet either. And really, truly, it isn’t actually about what you believe of Spencer. 

You feel a bit nauseous, but your brother is the best person in the world, so you tell him why without preamble, “I’m worried that he’s going to get sick of me.” 

“Why would he do that?” Aaron asks. 

You scratch at the menu beneath your hand rather than meet his eyes. Because you’re awful. That’s what your father instilled in you, and it’s what you’ve come to learn. Eventually, the people who love you get tired of you. Everyone except Aaron, and isn't that proof of something? He’s the only man good enough to pretend you’re someone worth caring about. 

If he could hear your thoughts he’d probably cry. It’s why you’ve struggle to tell him. 

You rub your thumb into the side of your index finger, feeling the texture of your skin. “I think people just do.” 

Jack returns quickly, with paper and a huge fist full of crayons, though there are four colours altogether. “Well,” Aaron says, helping Jack back into his seat, crayons rolling released from a small fist every which way, “I don't. And Jack doesn’t, Haley doesn’t. I see no reason why Spencer would feel that way.” 

“What don’t I do?” Jack asks, frowning at his dad. 

“You don’t think Aunt Y/N’s bad at bowling, do you?” 

“You’re great at bowling!” Jack's eyes go wide. “I’m gonna make us a photo, to remember. We got strikes!” 

You let your face fall into your hand as Aaron strokes hair up the side of Jack’s head. It’s a soothing thing to see, you know the soft touch of his hand well, having been petted and patted through a hundred different bad moments. 

Spencer probably isn’t lying about why he’s late, but he could be. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“She’s very good at bowling,” Aaron says, hugging Jack to his side. “And so many other things, that’s why we love her. Should we make a list?” 

He used to love doing that, too. 

Your father wasn’t a nice or kind man. Aaron doesn’t know how it escalated, only knows what happened to him, and how he’d come to see you and you’d burst into tears the second he asked how you were. 

If Aaron knew how bad it was at the time he would’ve forced you to leave, but you never told the whole truth. He assumed it to be a mixture of everything —school was awful, dad was worse, and you were more isolated than most. 

Make me a list, he’d say. 

The first time you didn’t get it. You were a teenager sitting on his couch, his wife in the kitchen, a weight on your chest. What for? 

A list of the stuff that’s bothering you. 

Do you need a list? you’d asked. He had a knack for knowing more than you could say. 

I think we should make one. 

You realise now it was a strategy to calm you down. If you could quantify the things that were depressing you, you could begin to understand it, and hopefully dismantle some of the bigger problems. It didn’t always work, but it didn’t matter. It made you feel better just to have you and Aaron on the same couch with a notebook and a number two pencil. Don’t see my brother enough, he’d written with a sad face. 

Brother, you’d thought with a secret joy. He’s your brother. 

Jack and Aaron make a list they won’t show you. You order drinks and then dinner, waiting for a phone call or a text back you don’t receive. It’s disheartening, and when your pasta arrives, you can barely eat. 

“Honey,” Aaron says, “why don’t you go call him? You can see if he’s alright.” 

You poke at a shell with a tightly gripped fork. “What if he doesn’t want me to call him? It sounds serious.” 

“Maybe that’s why you should call him. I think he’d appreciate it.” He looks like he wants to reach for you, but ultimately, he doesn’t. “Take a minute for yourself, if nothing else. Everything’s okay, I promise.” 

“Sorry.” 

“For what?” Jack asks. 

You smile regretfully. “I’m just feeling confused today, babe. What about you? Are you confused about where your mouth is?” you tease lightly. 

Aaron gasps a laugh and reaches over to wipe Jack down with a napkin as you slip from the booth. You take your phone, worrying that Aaron’s eyes are on your back as you pass by the host booth and back out onto the street. The breeze kisses your clammy skin. 

Why do you assume that no one really likes you? It’s difficult to comprehend. Your thumb hovers over Spencer’s contact photo, debating, and debating. Should you call him? He might be preoccupied, upset even, and what if you make it worse? But if you don’t call him, you can’t reassure yourself that you’re not in trouble. 

He answers on the third trill. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

“Hey!” There’s a sound like something heavy has been put down. “Hey, I’m so sorry!” 

“Don’t be sorry!” you say immediately. “It’s okay. Are you okay?” 

Spencer’s voice is a little high and fast, but beside that, he has a nice tenor. When he’s calm and feeling up to it, alone at night with nothing else to do, he’ll read to you from one of his infinite books, his syllables catching and tripping over air as you rub your nose into his arm. 

“I’m fine! There was a mixup with some medication at the sanitarium and they realised my mom’s dose of one of her antipsychotics has been charted higher than she was really taking, so she’s been having a hard time, it’s a total mess but I think we have it figured out now. How was bowling?” 

“Spencer, are you sure it’s okay?” 

“It’s fine.” He laughs softly, not a hint of condescension or derision for you, but an emotion you can’t name. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“I mean, it’s fine if it’s not okay. I know you can’t help yourself sometimes, but you don’t have to tell me it’s fine if it’s not fine.” 

“Uh–” You cough around it. “No, it really is. You can’t help it. Family is important, right?” 

“It’s so important. Listen, where are you right now?” 

“I’m just standing outside of the Pasta Factory by the bowling alley. I tried to have dinner ‘cos I’m starving, but… I think I lost my appetite.” 

“What? Are you okay?” 

“I’m having one of those days, I guess?”

“What kind of day?” 

His voice is bouncing strangely, as though he’s talking near you. You pause, turning on your heel to look down the few stairs into the parking lot asphalt. 

Spencer’s walking up them, a bouquet of roses in his hands. 

“Hi,” you say, the phone still pressed to your ear. 

Spencer puts his away. “Hi. 

His hug is full, all-encompassing and warm as he wraps his arms around you, the bouquet a cacophony of crinkling against your shoulder. He smells like aftershave, his Tom Ford one with the woody tinge that has you pressing your nose into the top of his shoulder to just breathe. Your phone digs into his spine. He doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Hey,” he says softly, giving you a similar swaying, back and forth. “I’m sorry I’m late, I had to call them, but it wasn’t fair on you.” 

“Spencer,” you say, holding him tightly. “You’re my boyfriend.” 

“Don’t sound so unsure.” 

“No, but. We can be flexible, right?” 

“Of course we can, but I’m still sorry.” He peels back to smile at you, his eyes gently squinted. “So what’s wrong? What’s making it one of those days?” 

You can’t explain it to him. He likely doesn’t need you to. 

You’re expecting him to pull away —you’re in a public place and affection isn’t his usual expertise— but he doubles down. New boyfriend or not, this hug feels like it’s from somebody who’s loved you for years and years. 

“What’s making it a bad day?” he asks quietly. 

“I don’t know…” You rub your nose self indulgently against his shoulder. 

“Are you sure you have no appetite? Maybe that’s what it is? Stuff tends to feel bigger or more upsetting when we’re hungry because low blood sugar prompts your body to release more hormones that affect your cortisol level, and cortisol plays a big part in how your mind interprets your emotions.” Spencer pulls away, his hand sliding up your shoulder to hold you in place. He grins. “So I think you should still let me take you to dinner. Especially if you didn’t eat much.” 

Why would Spencer lie to you? you think, relieved. He wouldn’t. And the idea that he’s going to get sick of you, that’s rooted in bad lessons from a poor situation. It’s not a reflection on you. 

“We will,” you decide, “I just have to get my stuff. I left my bag, and Jack’s writing me a list.” 

“What list?” 

“A list of stuff I’m good at.” 

He doesn’t waver. “Really? Can I add stuff too?” You turn your nose up in an unsubtle prompting, satisfied when Spencer gives you a quick, smiling kiss. “Sorry,” he says, though his apology is distracted by a fond undertone, “I missed you.” 

You receive a few more gentle kisses for all your worries, and you begin to feel better. Spencer presses the roses into your hand and encourages you into the restaurant with his hand spread behind your back. 

[novacorpsrecruit]

“Must’ve Been Some Dragon”

M | wc 815 | CW: implied child abuse

@steddieangstyaugust Day 15: Childhood

“Must’ve been some dragon.”

Steve looked up across Eddie’s hospital bed at Wayne Munson. They have been sitting by Eddie’s bedside for almost 10 hours, and this was the first words Wayne has spoken.

“I’m sorry?” Steve asked, readjusting in his seat to look more towards Wayne. Wayne gestured at Eddie’s bandaged body. He was worse for wear. Lost a lot of blood. Steve spent way too long doing chest compressions before they could get his heart beating again. Steve still had Eddie’s dried blood on his fingernails.

“Must have been some dragon,” Wayne repeated. “He — uh — used to come over, scraped or bruised. Said it was a dragon. A dragon gave him those bruises or a dragon scraped his knee.” Wayne’s hand hovered over Eddie’s bandaged arm, wanting to touch him, but not wanting to cause any further harm. “Ego,” He settled his touch on Eddie’s bare hand. “Some dragon.”

Steve let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. It was some dragon.” Steve couldn’t help but turn his attention back to Eddie, peacefully still. “He was brave against the it. The dragon.”

“He always is,” Wayne said, his thumb running across the back of Eddie’s hand.

🐉 ⚔️

Steve was jolted awake. The body next to him — his boyfriend — jerked up, jostling Steve off his chest. Eddie inhaled sharply, burying his face into his hands, body shaking.

“Hey, hey,” Steve whispered, sitting up, his hand rubbing gentle circles on Eddie’s back. “Hey, you’re safe. We’re okay.”

Eddie jostled his head, nodding of some sorts. His head still buried in his hands, his breath still uneven. Steve leaned into Eddie, his head against his shoulder.

“We’re okay,” Steve said.

“W-we’re okay,” Eddie repeated, his breath still shaky.

Steve rubbed circles into Eddie’s back, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s bare shoulder. “Was it the bats?”

Eddie shook his head. “It was — uh — a dragon,” Eddie admitted. He leaned against Steve’s touch, closing his eyes and let out a soft sigh. “I haven’t — I haven’t had that nightmare since I was a kid.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Eddie shook his head, turning to bury himself in Steve’s arms. Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie, holding him securely. “It’s fine. It’s in the past. Don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

“The dragon?” Steve asked softly.

Eddie nodded.

“I’ll protect you,” Steve promised. “No matter the size of dragon, I’ll protect you from it.”

Eddie leaned back to look at Steve. “Any dragon?”

“Any dragon that dares to step in the Munson Kingdom,” Steve said. “I’ll fight for your honor.”

Eddie let out a wet laugh, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before leaning back into him. “My knight in shining armor.”

Steve pressed a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, holding him tightly as they both fell back asleep, free from dragons.

🐉 ⚔️

Steve was in the middle of getting ready for his shift at Family Video when there was pounding at the door. Steve sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“Eddie, I swear to god,” he half shouted. Not sure if Eddie could even hear him. He made his way through the Munson’s new trailer — a 2-bedroom that Steve practically moved into, sharing Eddie’s space. “If you forgot your key again —“

Steve opened the front door. A man, slightly taller than him. Bigger too, but not bigger than Hopper. Dark hair, familiar brown eyes, and a soft grin that felt … wrong.

Steve instantly knew who this was.

“I’m looking for Wayne or Eddie,” Ricky Munson said, Steve assumed as politely as he could. Which wasn’t much.

“Wrong house,” Steve said, pushing the door shut. Ricky’s hand shot out, stopping the door. He pushed it open, keeping his arm stretched out.

“I think I’m at the right house,” Ricky said slowly. “You seen my son or brother lately?”

Steve’s eyes dropped to the arm in front of him, holding the door open. To the ink on Ricky’s forearm. A dragon tattoo on his right arm.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

Little Eddie coming to Wayne, bruised and battered by a dragon.

Eddie having nightmares about a dragon hurting him.

And Steve, who promised Eddie that he would protect him from dragons. Of any kind.

Steve reached beside the door, feeling the handle of his nail bat fit perfectly in the palm of his hand.

“Heard a lot about you, Ricky,” Steve said, stepping back, pulling the nail bat behind him. “They’ll be home shortly if you want to come in.”

Ricky gave a sly grin, one that looked innocent at face value but felt slimy. Ricky took the first step into the Munson’s trailer. Steve tightened his grip on his nail bat.

Any dragon, he told Eddie.

Any dragon that dares to step into the Munson kingdom.

Especially the dragon that haunted his childhood.

[cadaveerie]

cw: child abuse and non-sexual grooming

VEILGUARD SPOILERS (from lucanis' writing, a mission towards the ending and a little general)

About Lucanis and the Antivan Crows...

after finishing datv, I can finally say for sure that despite the fact that i find this game was overall fine, there are several things about it that have disappointed me. one of those things is about lucanis (and it's not even the only thing about lucanis that bothers me, but we'll leave that discussion for another time, because there's a lot to say about the writing).

in this game, Caterina Dellamorte (lucanis and illario's grandmother) is portrayed as a woman that's cold and demanding. not particularly nice, lucanis fully acknowledges that she's not exactly the loving type, and it's easy to assume things about her and about their relationship based on that... but for some reason it's never addressed that she abused lucanis when he was a child, by beating him and starving him. this is something that you can read in lucanis' story in tevinter nights, the wigmaker job, which was lucanis' introduction.

"Memories of sweat-filled days without food or water came unbidden Lucanis’s back tingled from where his grandmother’s cane had bruised his flesh for letting his guard down or fumbling his footwork. For years, he’d hated her. But his time as a Master taught Lucanis that Caterina’s cruelty was her way he was prepared for this life—that he survived."

I was waiting to finish the game before I said it, because I expected him to mention at some point but... no, nothing. I don't know if there's anything in a codex or something specific I missed, but even if that's the case, I expected it to be significant at all. it wasn't.

i'm not even going to get into what lucanis should feel about this. before the game came out i talked about some of my hopes for him based on the info we had about him, and imo there was not even half of that level of depth to his character. but i wouldnt have minded if the game went in another direction, or if lucanis simply just wasnt open to discuss it, or if he came to the conclusion that it was fine. i won't get into how "problematic" thinking that is, because i could understand that he tells himself that, and as a fucking assassin, i understand that he's come to terms with it because otherwise he probably wouldnt have survived in such a dangerous enviroment. i won't get into it bc as i said, i can understand it. my problem is that lucanis never says it. he never tells rook or anyone else that caterina abused him, or that the crows overall are very abusive and that they do this to children and break their minds basically in order to become emotionless living weapons. and if this is said in any banter, then i missed it in my 91h of gameplay, and i had lucanis in my party every single time we went outside. or it might be in a codex entry, idk. the point is that even if that's the case, that's not a great way to tell this info, especially when in the story theres no other way to learn anything like this about the crows. ppl that i talked to that didnt read tevinter nights didnt know this fact abt caterina and lucanis' past, they simply didnt cause how could they. I just wanted to say this because I think it's important to know if you like lucanis, or the antivan crows, and it's never even actually implied.

I also have many other issues with his writing, but the antivan crows are unfortunately also whitewashed. at least if you've played dragon age origins you know this, but our first antivan crow companion, zevran, talks about how he was taken as a child by the antivan crows. how he was literally bought by them as an orphan, and forced to become an assassin, and when he tries to flee, they attempt to murder him throughout the game. he even talks about how apparently some crows even made their members go through blood magic rituals to acquire abilities (SOUND FAMILIAR? IT'S LITERALLY WHAT ZARA DOES TO LUCANIS, ISN'T IT. HOW FUCKED UP). i think it's so disrespectful to dragon age's worldbuilding and so appalling that they simply... ignored all of this. I'm very upset that this was completely whitewashed. i wont get into it, but i assume they didn't show the crows being awful because, well... they have to be the good alternative for government in antiva. the bad guys are the antaam, and that's it. but one of the things i always loved about dragon age is how they treat these sort of political things. as i said, in origins the crows were more of an antagonistic figure, but at least it made them feel more real and serious. and people loved the crows like they were, fucked up assassins. in this game... idk, am i supposed to believe the assassin guys are nice? why hide the ugly? of course it's gonna be there, and it's ok. irl it happens a lot that oppressed people have to rely on groups that are less than ideal for their liberation, and a lot of times citizens are kinda ok w it bc no one else will stand up for them, so they have to work w what they have, and they're just relieved theres someone there for them. and it also shows that people are not perfect victims. if you're putting ppl in a corner, at some point ppl are rarely gonna care about being "good", and it's only human. and im not even gonna get into being an antivan crow rook because... sigh, it's more of the same. just disappointing. rook even mentions that theyre an orphan. and im pretty sure in the final mission about treviso, at least if you helped jacobus, he is like "i'll take in orphans and give them a chance". oh man, yeah. cool. please tell me how you'll raise them to be, im so curious to see how you won't groom children and abuse them into becoming mindless cold soldiers. that's fucking insane. this feels like fucking US army levels of propaganda and grooming. i love when we normalize child soldiers that's so fucking awesome i love this "woke" game when it's pro-military and anti-fucking-questioning-anything-a-military-force-does.

i even wondered if all of this has been retconned or simply ignored. i dont have a problem w retconning overall, and it's only natural it would happen in a franchise that's as old as DA, but the thing is... why would you do it. it literally just makes them flatter, it doesn't make any fucking sense.

so yes. im VERY disappointed in this game and the writing. this is one of the many things in the writing that disappointed me. the antivan crows are an organization that bring hope, and im perfectly fine with them being portrayed as "saviors", but im not ok with them conveniently not addressing any of their very bad issues. it's unrealistic. it's disrespectful to our intelligence, to dragon age fans and to dragon age origins. it's disrespectful to characters like zevran, who got into an insane war with them for a fucking reason. it's disrespectful to every antivan crow character to be honest. and im sorry, i dont even think this is insane to ask from them. like.... im literally just asking for consistency. they had it already, i dont understand why they did this. i had faith in them, but perhaps that's on me. im so heartbroken.

and i promise i actually think the game overall is ok. it was fun. definitely one of my least favorite games, if not my least favorite, but still. i appreciate it, and LOVED. LOVEEED some scenes. in fact, it might have at the very least one of my favorite scenes from the whole franchise. i think this game has very low points, and very high points, so it's hard to say what i think about it in few words.... but there are so many things like this in the writing, and it's just SO upsetting and disrespectful. im sorry. im truly sorry, you don't know how much i wanted to love this game and the writing. you have no idea. but i have self respect, and i don't lie to myself when i see something i dont like. it feels like they're whitewashing the crows cause we'd be too stupid to understand complex political issues. i thought this game was mature and could handle mature themes, but it doesnt seem like it's the case anymore. perhaps bioware is dead. i still want to believe they can come back from this but......... the post credit scene doesnt reassure me AT ALL. sigh. im just upset and sad. and as i said, this is only one of my many issues. i'll talk about the rest in the future, but im writing all of it down and i need time for that. i hope you understand that this comes from a place of genuine love. sorry i can't be happy about this game, but some of the stuff i see just ruins the rest for me.

edit: someone told me that apparently theres a banter when you go to dellamorte's villa and lucanis *implies* that he was beat by his grandmother (at least to another antivan crow rook). this whole post still stands though. i think that should have not been a banter that i (and im sure others) missed. and again, it also ties to how i think the crows as an organization and their methods were whitewashed. even if it's not particularly a lucanis problem, it could have been to some extent addressed by him.

[devilfic]

❝honeymoon❞

V. sins of the mother.

parts: previously plot: alfred finds yours and bruce's old yearbook. you reminisce on how you lost him... and how he came back to you all those years later. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, LOTS of angst, eventual fluff, TW for depictions of brief physical child abuse (specifically to the reader), sorry but your fictional mom SUCKS, sweet ending though. words: 3.5k. a/n: I apologize to any british readers for inaccuracies with the whole yearbook thing. from what I gather, the american concept of yearbooks has gotten popular in the uk in the last 14-ish years but if it doesn't make sense, I'm hiding behind the fact that it's a posh boarding school and also- *runs away before I can think of a better excuse*

The rapping at your door is too gentle to be Bruce, and you're proven right when Alfred peeks into your room, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Bruce's guest room had steadily become your home over the course of your engagement. You still had your own place, paying the rent in case all of this fell through in one fell swoop (and it would, you couldn't escape the nagging feeling that it would), but you found yourself feeling some semblance of ownership over the tower. You hadn't even gotten the chance to put your desk up before Bruce was offering you his study—his father's study. He insisted it was because you were CEO, like his father. You dared to think it was because he was starting to see you as family.

The tower felt even more yours when Alfred stopped by like this, checking in on you, making sure you wanted him here. You set the papers in your lap to the side with a tired smile, "What's up, Alfred?"

It turns out he was hiding something behind the door. At first, you think it's a folder, perhaps some work that Bruce needed you to do for the company or some files Alfred kept from his time managing Wayne Enterprises. But when he comes round to your bedside, you realize it's a photo album. A yearbook, to be exact.

The green leather is embellished with the sparkling emblem of Silverstone Academy. It makes your heart jump up into your throat, "Where... where'd you find that?"

"After Bruce graduated, he had me put all of his old yearbooks away in storage. Kept this one, though. Would you like to see?" He turns the book to you with a well-meaning smile, and whether he notices your discomfort and chooses to ignore it is... debatable.

Still, your hands reach for it.

The spine crackles, unopened for many years by the looks of it. You thumb through the pages, flipping past pictures of the palatial school grounds and fellow classmates in freshly-pressed regalia. You're about to turn the page on the extracurriculars when Alfred places a hand on the page to stop you, pointing to a rather large group photo, "This was Bruce's favorite, if I recall."

There are rows of you, each one standing on the bleachers of a court, all of you awkward and fourteen and just wanting the whole thing over with. And then there, amongst the rows of smiling teenagers, is Bruce and you.

"Eyes front, students! I will not say this again. We want to look good for our parents, yes? We want them to see how smart and well-behaved you are, yes? Okay, then. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Smiles on! This is your last chance. There will be no retakes!" Is what your headmaster probably said, but you were far too distracted by Bruce's fingers tugging on the tail of your un-tucked shirt to know for sure.

You bat away his hand but can't suppress the giggle that bubbles out of you. One of your classmates turns to glare, but the heat of it doesn't reach you when Bruce is whispering, "Last one to dining hall does the loser's chores."

"I'm faster than you and you know it."

"Hey, I beat Wilbur in the race on Saturday."

"That's cause Wilbur hit puberty and can't control his body anymore."

Your headmaster's shrill call draws your attention forward, "And three, two..."

You turn and smile. You feel Bruce's eyes still on you. Just as the shutter goes off, Bruce tugs your hand instead. And, even with all your teenage obstinacy wanting to make him work for your attention, make him fight for it, you can't help it.

You turn to look at him and the flash goes off.

"I remember being quite upset with this one," Alfred disperses your memory, gently calling you back to the present, "Bruce always hated taking pictures, but pictures were all I had of him while he was away. But... can't really hate that smile he's giving you, can I?"

You feel breathless at the image of younger Bruce and the look of... adoration he wears. Everyone else is focused on the camera, some eyes closed and some smiles skewed, but Bruce is focused on you and you him. Like you are the only two people in the world. Arguing over chores and who's faster than who. Like best friends.

You don't realize you're holding your breath until your body takes in one big deep inhale for you, "He wouldn't stop bothering me."

"It's funny how we couldn't get you two to talk to each other when you first met, and then years later you were inseparable."

You remembered that. Barely in second grade and being touted around by your parents at galas. You remembered Bruce hiding behind his mother's dress, and your mother guiding you by the scruff to say hello, "British boarding school will do that to you."

Alfred snorts, "I think he just liked that someone was treating him like a person."

You glance up at Alfred's soft expression, fatherly and proud. You've never seen him look any other way with Bruce. "Will you be Bruce's best man?"

Alfred seems to startle at that question, "Oh... well, he hasn't asked, but I suppose I will. Not sure who else he'd ask."

"I don't think he'd want to," you admit, and Alfred looks confused, "ask anyone else, I mean. You're it for him."

Bruce looks just like how you remember his father, but sometimes, when the light hits Alfred's eyes just right (that same color you've come to love and mourn), you think Bruce looks just like him too. You supposed they were always meant to be family, in that inexplicable way.

Alfred watches you for a moment, struck by your statement, and then softens like the teddy bear you know him to be. "And you as well. I'm glad you both found your way back to each other."

You can tell he means it in the heartwarming way, the way you meant it, but it doesn't fill you with warmth. There are no fuzzy feelings in your stomach. There is a whirlpool.

This time, there is no doubt Alfred senses your discomfort. He seizes up. He goes to say something, something no doubt kind and thoughtful, but you beat him to the punch, "Can I keep this? I want to... show it to Bruce later, maybe. Might make him laugh."

Alfred stops in his tracks. Then, as if used to such stonewalling, stands to his full height and begins his trek back to your bedroom door, "'Course you can. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

He waits for your affirmative, then shuts the door behind him.

july, seventeen years ago.

The banging on your door fills you with dread the second you recognize it for what it is.

You are tangled in sheets and limbs—warm limbs, arms and legs and hands wrapped around your body in the witching hour—while the heavy oak door of your dorm room shakes with each knock. You don't know how long they've been knocking, but you fear you have very little time left to answer before you end up in worse trouble than you seemingly already are.

You shove at Bruce and he flounders, half-asleep. He almost doesn't want to let you go until he becomes aware of the banging on the door himself and presses his back to the wall behind your bed, "He snitched."

"He wouldn't! Coulson would never," you grumble, pulling on a hoodie discarded on the floor, too tired to recognize it as Bruce's, "just... get under the bed."

He does as he's told, though he looks rather peeved to do so. You grab the back of your desk chair and twist it out from beneath the door knob, and almost immediately it is thrown open by the headmaster.

Your first feeling is shock. Your second feeling is, undoubtedly, ice cold fear. You never thought you and Bruce would get away with this forever, but to be caught by the headmaster is... way worse than you could've imagined.

Headmaster Collins was a spidery man. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in menace. His features were all gaunt and shadowy in the dark of your room, and with only the light from the hallway to capture his silhouette.

Before you can speak, he raises a single finger to cut you off, "I will discuss you blocking doors later. You have a guest."

You frown. "I..." You stammer. Even with your hand caught in the cookie jar, you don't yet want to give yourself away. Maybe he had no idea it was Bruce that kept sneaking into your dorm. Perhaps Coulson hadn't divulged that much. You and Bruce had paid him in many ways to keep that part secret above all.

You just make out the narrowing of the headmaster's eyes, "Your mother. She flew in from Gotham. She says she's worried about you."

Your stomach drops. Perhaps Bruce being found under your bed would've been better.

To the headmaster's chagrin, you corral him back out into the hall and shut the door behind you, "What? I wasn't... she didn't..."

"She failed to let us know either. I only received the call minutes ago when she arrived outside. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?" Now, in the light of the hallway, Headmaster Collins loses some of that menace. He almost looks... just as concerned as you.

He leads you to the library in complete silence.

When you push open one of the double doors, you see there are a few candles lit, the rest of the lights dimmed low, and your mother standing with her back to you in the center of the room.

She doesn't turn around until you hear the door click shut behind you and, just like that, the headmaster has left you to fend for yourself.

Everyone always said you looked just like her. A spitting image, and one day, "if you're lucky", you'd grow up to be just as powerful. As the eldest of your siblings, it was unavoidable. Your fate had been sealed long before you were born.

She opens her mouth to speak and whether out of fear or anger, your next words come tumbling out before she can, "I already know what you're going to say."

She clasps her lips together. Then, after a moment, smiles down at you, "Well, that saves me some breath. Tell me, darling mine: what was I going to say?"

"That you know why I told you so late. And that you're angry with me for not running it by you sooner... so you could be in control of it."

"I was angry eight hours ago. Not anymore. It was almost clever of you."

Almost. A smarter, more clever you wouldn't have run it by her at all. You would've quietly disappeared off to the Waynes' vacation house in Barcelona and, inevitably, when you got the call, you'd have told your mother you wouldn't be back for the rest of summer break.

But she had her claws in you, and try as you might to defy her, you always felt those fingers curling around your conscience, drawing out of you what little truth you aimed to keep to yourself.

"So you flew all this way to yell at me?"

"To join you."

You blanch. "You... can't." There is nothing else you can say. No argument, no temper tantrum. Nothing.

But your mother is smart. The plane ride over would have given her ample time to cancel her duties for the next six weeks, offload them onto someone else because what was more important than joining the future heir of Wayne Enterprises on a summer abroad in Spain? Most people on the board would kill for that kind of opportunity. That kind of favoritism.

She's smart too in that it's only her. You imagined your siblings had been left to the nannies, and if Bruce questioned her presence, she could argue that leaving Alfred to chaperone two teenagers all by himself would be just cruel. Her presence wouldn't tip the scales too far into dangerous territory. In fact, it would be nothing if not practical.

She takes a step toward you, then another, and then another until she is looming over you. Half her face is lit by the fireplace roaring in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the other side. Like this, she no longer looks like you. She looks something far colder, "You didn't think I'd let you run off to another country and ruin this for our family, did you?"

"What? Wh... ruin what? Bruce is my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend is Bruce Wayne. There is a very real difference."

You feel your eyebrow twitch at that, "What's your point?"

But your attitude is nasty. Far too nasty for a child. The residual sting of her hand colliding with your cheek nearly sends you back into a chair but you manage to catch yourself after a few steps, staring at the rug beneath you in disbelief.

"My point is," her attitude is much harsher, and as you wipe away the bit of spit that dribbled down your lip, she blocks your view once more, "he is not just another boy, a peer, a boyfriend. Bruce is the heir to the company, and unlike his father, he has no foresight. Under him, this company will crumble. His family's legacy will cease to exist. That is why I am here, darling mine. Why you exist. Legacies must be upheld."

You hiss in pain when she takes you by the chin and forces you to look her dead on. At this angle, you can see her whole face lit up by the fire. Through gritted teeth, you whisper in horror, "What are you asking me?"

"I'm telling you that I'm coming along, or you will not go at all."

Your heart breaks a little more than it already has. This is what you'd thought of all week, what kept you up at night and got you up in the morning. And now your mother was going to ruin it all. A tear slips down your cheek and over your mother's fingers, and she releases you to wipe her hand clean, "Please."

"You would only find some way to make him hate you, and all my hard work for the past twenty-five years would be all for naught."

"Mom."

"I've already let the butler know."

"Please let me have this."

"Tell me you understand." You remain silent, teeth almost chattering from the chill her voice gives you. Her eyes harden, "Tell me you understand why I let you have him at all."

"He's my friend."

"He's your future. Tell me." Another tear rolls down your cheek. Your mother grabs you by the arm and pulls you to her, shaking you as more tears fall. You're doing your damnedest not to sob but you're failing spectacularly, "Tell me!"

"He's my future." You gasp out.

"And why do I allow you to be friends with him?"

"Because..." You blubber, fiercely wiping away the tears, "...to uphold our family legacy."

"And?"

"To keep you on his good side."

"Keep us," she taps your chin with her finger, making you flinch, "us, darling mine. Wayne Enterprises will end with him, but it'll begin again with us. With you. Say it."

"With me."

"So we'll go together. And you will do anything he tells you to. And you will make him very happy because he is not your friend. He is our ticket to owning Gotham City."

You would've done anything Bruce asked of you because you loved him, because you trusted him. The way your mother talked about what he might ask of you made you feel sick to your stomach. She shakes you again, expecting you to say it back.

Your lips part to release a shaky exhale meant to be a word, but behind your mother, you stare past the cracked library door and into the eyes of your best friend. The only word you can get out is, "Bruce?"

Your mother drops you completely. She swings around but the door is shutting before she can catch a glimpse, and you're shoving her out of your way before he can get too far.

You throw the door open and find him rushing back down the hall, a flummoxed headmaster lingering by as you run after Bruce. You shout his name but he doesn't slow for you at all, even as your voice echoes off the old school halls. "Bruce! Bruce, please! Let me explain."

It takes more energy than you have in you to catch up with him, but you eventually slide to a stop in front of him, stopping him before he could ascend the stairs and return to the dorm rooms. You expect to see anger clear on his face, or sadness, betrayal even. Instead, he is cold. He looks right through you.

The emptiness of which he looks at you catches you completely off guard. Anger, you could stomach. But this?

"How much did you hear?"

Those eyes that used to look at you so sweetly hold nothing in them at all. He stares you down as if you should already know.

When he tries to side-step you for the stairs, you grasp desperately for his hand but he yanks away from you like you've burned him, sending you collapsing to your knees against the bottom step, "Bruce, please... I don't feel that way about you. I've never felt that way about you. You... you're my best friend. This is exactly why I shouldn't have told her about the trip, I should've just kept my mouth shut-"

"What trip?"

You look up at him and see a wave of something sharp cross his face before smoothing back over completely. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He sees the question in you, the thing you fear to ask when it hits you.

Bruce turns his face away from you, "I'll see you in September."

You sit on those steps until sunrise.

The elevator stutters to a stop at cave level, letting you out into Bruce's sanctuary. He's standing at his desk and staring at you, as if he had expected Alfred instead.

"Hey," you start, timidly approaching him with yearbook in hand, "Are you busy?"

He watches you get closer and slowly shakes his head, eyes falling to the book clutched to your chest. They widen some with recognition, a cloudy look overtaking them once you're within arm's length of him. You set the book down on his desk, careful not to disrupt his work. You go to flip open the cover but his hand comes down on the Silverstone emblem, forcing you to draw back your hand in surprise, "Where'd you get this?"

"Alfred kept it." At that, Bruce groans. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

You watch as he slides the book closer to himself, nudging away the files he'd been poring over before you'd arrived, making quiet noises of recognition here and there. When he inevitably lands on the class picture Alfred had shown you, he hesitates. You wait for him to say something, anything, but after a moment of silence, he presses on.

It isn't until he gets to the individual headshots from that year that you notice something odd. On your page, where your headshot and name should be, is a hole cut into the paper. Your heart sinks.

Your mind goes for the worst thing first (that perhaps he had hated you so much that putting away the yearbooks wasn't enough, that he had to cut you out of them too), but Bruce simply traces the neatly cut edges where your face should be.

Then he flips to the page where his picture should be, and his picture is cut out in the same fashion.

You look to Bruce for answers, but his expression is... guarded. He almost looks like he doesn't want to entertain it, almost looks like he's about to tell you to leave him to his work for the rest of the night.

Instead, he pushes the book back to you, "I kept yours in my wallet. I was going to give you mine."

You don't know what to say first, but it finds you in the lull in conversation, "You were going to?"

Bruce's mouth twists in discomfort, still not looking at you. He reaches over and shuts the cover to the book, "I thought... you might tease me about it." For a brief second, he looks at you, "Dunno where they are now."

That brief second is, of course, his tell. It was a shame. Bruce had become such a good liar since he left you on those stairs. He had to have been to get where he is now. And yet, you know in an instant that he's not being honest with you. It feels good this time.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

WHAT UP, MY DARLINGS

Sorry for the long hiatus. New full-time job was kicking my ass, and I also realized there were a lot of changes I wanted to make to what I'd already written. That said, new chapter of my Feyd Rautha/Reader arranged marriage!AU is up.

Link to full AO3 fic here

Tags and CW for this chapter: switching; riding; body worship; come-eating; knifeplay; nipple play; oral sex (M+receiving); mentions of past self-harm; masochism; orgasm delay; teasing; subspace!Feyd; pregnancy discussions; dom!Feyd as well as sub!Feyd; both dom! and sub!reader; subspace and subdrop; collars; leashes; blindfolds; face-fucking; implied/referenced past child abuse; implied/referenced past incest; the Reader being an unreliable narrator/having way too much trust in the Bene Gesserit; mentions of Feyd's mommy issues

This takes place seconds after the previous chapter so if you need a refresher I also have the previous tumblr chapter here. Even with the tags up above this is definitely the softest and most romantic chapter I've put up so far. Like, by a significant margin.

CHAPTER TEN: UNLEASHED

For a few minutes all you do is kiss, lazily, trying not to move your hips too much as you lay atop him and his hands pass over your ribcage, your sides, your hips, before curling into your hair.

You're sweet like this, you almost say.  Never thought I'd be able to say that about you.

You drop your head and bring your mouth just below his ear, at the juncture of his jaw and neck.  Past experiences dating even prior to him taught you that this is a weak spot for you, and it appears to be the case for him as well as he gasps.  You remember the knife beside you, think about how he always enjoys a bit of pain to heighten his pleasure, and curl your fingers around the hilt.

You’re almost stunned at your own confidence as you do it, your bone-deep certainty that Feyd will enjoy this, as you lean upwards, taking the knife, and just barely pressing it against his chest, drawing a thin red line that ends just above his left nipple.  The cut’s shallow and the knife’s sharp so it probably doesn’t hurt much,  even as Feyd shifts and arches his hips, browline furrowing and mouth falling open in a silent gasp.  And then you lean down and lap up the blood welling up in slow, deliberate licks.

His dick twitches inside of you, and you gasp as it starts to fill out–slower than before, but awakening all the same.  He gives a rattling breath as you close your teeth around the nipple and tug lightly.  His hand curls around the back of your head but applies no pressure, as if he isn’t sure if he wants you to keep going or pull back, groaning and filling out more as you gently roll your hips and set the knife down  beside you.  You smirk around his bare skin, clench around his finally-stiff cock, and think, Alright.  I think it’s safe to say you’re ready for round two .

You sit up all the way, then, fanning your fingertips over his chest at first, fingertips of your right hand catching the last tear-droplets of blood that you bring to your mouth, sucking on your fingertips as you roll your hips properly.  Will he wear his favorite collar next time he lets you use him like this?  Will he still lie docile, waiting for you to command him?  

You picture it, and groan at the idea: him with his hands tied–wrists bound above his head, or maybe, oh, Great Mother, tied to the bedposts.  Is that why he has hooks on each of his bedposts?  You laugh, the heat already building up your spine, coming swiftly for you as you bear down on him, head falling back as the laughter turns into a moan as you shift your hips in just the right angle.  Incredible .  You can’t help it as the words spill out of you.  “I could do this all night,” you tell him.  “I– oh, fuck– I could ride your fat cock all night.  Would you like that, Feyd?” 

He groans an affirmative, and you feel all the hotter for it, stunned at how quickly the heat builds again, at the obscene squelch of your slick around him.  You move his hands from your hips to your breasts and he immediately understands your instructions, squeezing and fondling them as you topple effortlessly into your third orgasm, leaning back at just the right angle, both hands braced on his thighs.  

Thing is, you meant it when you said you could keep going, if nothing else than sheer force of will. You keep moving, desperate to come again, desperate to keep him inside of you for just a little longer, searching for the moment where you hit your threshold.

“Don’t come yet,” you tell him, panting.  “Not until I come again.”

Feyd groans under you and it takes you a moment to realize that it’s not out of protest, but arousal.  You try to make sense of it as you finally understand the phrase ‘ drunk with power ’ because the hold you have over him right now is utterly intoxicating.

It makes sense; one of Feyd’s strongest qualities is his discipline.  You venture further, trying your luck.  “If you want to come then make yourself useful, Feyd,” you tell him, and he gets to work, spitting on his thumb and bringing it to your bud, as if you’d need the extra lubrication when you can feel his previous spend leaking out of you.

You reach down and pinch both nipples, twisting.  His hips jolt up, nearly knocking the wind out of you as it feels like his cock is all the way up in your ribcage, but he doesn’t come, even as he gives an agonized groan and the cords of muscle in his neck bulge.  He arches his back, jaw clenched, eyes shut.

Oh, that won’t do .

“Look at me, Feyd,” you tell him.  You want him to see your face when you come, and it’s so close you’re about to lose your mind.  Four times in one night .  You didn’t think such a thing was possible.

He obeys you with a low groan, working your bud faster, managing to meet your frantic pace, his pupils blown wide, beautiful and pitiful and vulnerable and entirely at your mercy.  His cock has never felt so good , you think, one final roll of your hips hitting just at the right angle inside of you.

You come with a guttural wail, head falling back, trembling and feeling utterly possessed, hips still moving but quickly losing rhythm, just frantic grinding on top of him to wring every last drop of pleasure you can get out of him.

Feyd gives out a pained growl of his own but you don’t feel the tell-tale sensation of him spilling within you.  You open your eyes as you pant and stare down at his slack face.

Please.  Please tell me I can come, Y/N, he seems to be pleading with you .  I need your permission to come.  Have I not been good for you? he seems to ask.  And he has been good, hasn’t he?  So good and obedient, laying there and taking it, letting you use him.  The grip he has on your hips is going to leave bruises and you’ll prod at them later with fondness.

“That’s it, come for me, Feyd,” you tell him, and he does, spasming, hips bucking up into you as he groans, still sounding like he’s either in paradise or agony and that he loves it either way.  The moment lasts for another moment, him spurting inside of you as every muscle seems locked, and then on an exhale he sinks back down, his grip on your hips and thighs loosening.  

He shuts his eyes as he gathers his breath and his face starts to relax.

“Hey,” you say, voice gentler this time, waiting for him to absorb the words.  “Look at me,” you tell him as you stroke his cheek.  He does, eyes opening wide and bright, full lips parted.  You smile down at him, thinking, you’re so beautiful .  And he is beautiful, in the way that a briefly-tamed beast is beautiful.  For a moment you remain still, sitting on him, feeling him softening inside of you, wondering what he’s seeing when he stares up at you.  If it’s as stunning to him as he is to you right now.  Then you finally dismount, panting, looking at the pallor of his face as close to flushed as he’s ever going to get.  

You wonder–while he’s like this, open and vulnerable, if maybe he’d–?  Even still in a near-euphoric haze, you pay close attention to the way he breathes when you lean down and kiss his neck, when you nip at his pulse point again.  He gives a soft sigh and you slide down further and scrape your teeth across one of his nipples.  This time he gasps, hands leaving your sides to clutch at the sheets.

“Yes, that’s good,” you murmur.  “Keep them there.”  

He does, and you watch the corded muscles of his forearms clench and shift to obey you.  You smile again, feeling strangely fond, as you go lower.

His pants are still around his knees and it doesn’t take much effort to tug them down and toss them over the edge of the bed.  His cock is utterly coated in both of you, and a thought occurs that’s so obscene it surprises you, but piques your curiosity.

After half a second of hesitation, you lick the spend off of his cock and go lower, to where it’s drizzled down one testicle, and then the other.  He’s never let you do this before, never let you taste and touch him on your own terms rather than feeding his cock into the cavern of your mouth, and the idea of continuing to play with him is too tempting to ignore.

His breath hitches and his stomach clenches, and for a moment you pause, waiting for him to tell you to stop, but he doesn’t.  He trembles under you, spreading his legs a little more, and you look up to see his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in a wet gasp.

“Do you like this, husband?” you ask him.  You keep your voice quiet, as if any volume above your near-whisper would penetrate the fog that’s settled over you.  He jerks a nod.

It should probably feel subservient, licking him clean like this.  It doesn’t.  You’ve never felt more powerful in your life.  You kiss the top of one thigh, wanting to bring your mouth to his scars, but refraining. He’s being so pliant, so patient for you–you don’t want to risk ruining it, uncertain if such an intimate touch there would. Instead you finally bring them up.  “These scars don’t match.”

Feyd makes a noise like he’s only starting to come back to his senses, but still foggy.  Still lost.  

“The scars on your legs.  One of the legs has different cuts from the other.”  You stroke his hip and outer thigh as you stay propped up above him.  “How’d you get them?”  You don’t think they came from the Baron.

“Left leg, seventeen.  A woman did it to me,” Feyd says.  “I asked her to.”  Asked .  Not commanded.   Interesting.  “Right leg, a few weeks later.  Did it to myself, wanted to replicate the feeling.”  

You glance back down between his thighs as he’s still obediently laid out before you.  The scars on his right thigh look deeper and angrier with shorter strokes.  “Did it work?”

“Not really.  It’s not the same if you do it to yourself,” he says.  “I just ended up losing a lot of blood and passing out.”  

You give a soft hum and nuzzle your cheek against his inner right thigh before turning your head and licking along the scars.  His breath hitches, and you sink your teeth in.  It’s more of a playful bite, not hard enough to even try to break skin, before coming back up, face to face with him.

Feyd kisses you languidly, accepting the taste of you, of him, on his tongue, and burying both hands in your hair.  He sighs into it, closing his eyes, relaxing into it and letting you control the pace until you break away, coming down from the peaks you’ve reached.  

You’re an utter mess between your legs, you think as you set the knife on your nightstand and the two of you pull up the covers that had been kicked down around both of your ankles earlier.

How did they end up that way, again?  Oh, right, my husband ambushed me in bed while I was asleep and rewarded me by letting me use his body as my personal playground .

“You know,” he says, still seeming somewhat out of it–and no wonder, you are, too– “there are devices, something I can wear next time you ride me.  It would delay things even further, making you able to come five times for every time I come once.  You’d be able to ride me for hours, if you wanted.” 

Part of you would prefer to test his self-control to its furthest limits without the use of an aid, but his suggestion makes you smile as you settle in with him.  “That so?” you ask.

“You took to it like nothing I’ve ever seen, Y/N,” he says, as you settle back, turning off the lights once more.

He turns to lay on top of you; you feel him squeeze his eyes shut as he rests his head against your shoulder.  You can’t help but smile to yourself as you gently stroke the back of his head and neck and wrap your other arm around his back.

It’s something wonderful and powerful he’s given you, and you’re certain that he wouldn’t have unless he felt you earned it.

He takes a deep breath as he wraps his arms around you, as he moves his body down lower and lays his head on your stomach.

“Is this what you need, husband?” you ask.  There’s probably proper terminology for this sort of thing, but you don’t know it.

He nods.

“In a couple of days we’ll find out if life’s growing in there,” you say idly as he nuzzles against the soft skin of your belly.

“There is.  A boy,” he tells you and you laugh.  Wishful thinking.  How could he possibly know?

“I saw him,” he says, as if he can read your thoughts.  “Dreamt about you giving birth to him.”

“A dream doesn’t predict the future, though,” you tell him as you absently run your fingers over the back of his head and neck.

“It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of something that came true, faces I’d never seen before but met later on,” he says.

“Oh?” you ask, and he gives a grunt in the affirmative, but says nothing else.  His breathing grows slower and his muscles slack.  You lay there in silence with him as he drifts off, still nestled against your stomach.

It's not the most comfortable position to try and fall asleep in, but you'll give him this.  You laugh quietly to yourself as you look up at the ceiling.

You have to remind yourself that your husband of one month just pretended to be an assassin to test your training and reflexes, and it’s somehow brought the two of you closer together than ever before.

.

You wake hours later to an empty bed.  There’s enough gray light streaming in to tell you before you’ve even looked at the timepiece on your nightstand that you’ve slept in.  You rub the sleep out of your eyes as the events from the previous night–into the early morning–trickle back into your consciousness.  For a moment you could almost believe that last night had been a dream, but the knife’s still on the bedside table and you feel a delicious soreness in your legs and abdomen and the less-enjoyable feeling of flakes of dried come on your lower lips and inner thighs.  You can’t help but smile remembering Feyd slack-jawed and moaning underneath you, how good he felt inside of you from that angle, how insatiable you were.

There’s a knock at the door and you instinctively pull your sheets up to cover your breasts.  “Who is it?” you call out, to hear Idrisa’s voice muffled from the other side assuring you that it’s just her with some morning refreshments.

“The Na-Baron wanted to let you sleep in, Na-Baroness,” Idrisa says as she comes in and sets down a tray.  

“Oh?” you ask, reaching for your robe to put on as you swing your legs to the side of the bed and sit on its edge.

“He said you could take the morning off, Na-Baroness,” she tells you.  “He said you had an eventful evening and you’re going to have a busy day.  He said he wanted you well-rested.”

Last time he'd given you the morning off, it'd been because he was furious with you.  You can't imagine that being the case today, but you’re also not entirely sure, and that makes you nervous.  His birthday is two days from now; you can't afford to be on poor terms with him right now, between the Bene Gesserit visiting tomorrow and Feyd 's arena showing the day after that.

“How did he seem?” you ask, trying to process everything and imagining that a little caffeine will help. 

“I did not see him, Na-Baroness,” Idrisa says.  “I’d received word from a Fortress guard what his instructions had been.  I heard nothing to suggest that he was in a foul mood, though.”

“Alright,” you say, still thinking, still wondering what the shift last night started will mean for you, in and out of the bedroom, going forward.

At breakfast there’s of course no acknowledgement of what transpired last night; neither of you would ever have that conversation in front of Feyd’s uncle anyway, but there’s a cool detachment in how Feyd treats you that feels tangible.

“Your brother sent word that he will not be attending your birthday festivities,” the Baron tells his nephew as soon as you’re seated, presumably continuing the conversation they were having before you came in.

“Best idea he’s had in months; it’ll save him the embarrassment of showing his face here,” Feyd says, wordlessly passing you a tray of fruit.  The Baron narrows his eyes for a moment, looking between the two of you, as if there’s something conspicuous about a man passing a plate of food to his wife during breakfast.  You look away, accepting the plate with a mouthed ‘ thank you ’ and pretending that you didn’t notice.

The conversation goes back to Feyd’s arena performance, with a brief discussion of the new Mentat, a man named Kalevi Itkonen.  It’s a name you realize is familiar because he was one of the first faces you saw landing on Geidi Prime, and one that made another appearance at your wedding; a lean man who had greeted you and your family with a friendly smile that didn’t reach his dark, deep-set eyes.  Affable, certainly compared to other Harkonnens, but seemingly amused at your dread and discomfort.

“May I ask what happened to the previous Mentat?” you ask.

The Baron sighs.  “An unfortunate casualty during the fall of Atreides.  It’s a shame; he was good.  Of course, Itkonen’s fit for the job as well, if only Rabban was willing to listen to his statistics.”

If Rabban’s this bad at his job then why not reassign him to something else?  Something where he isn’t in charge of Harkonnen lives? you want to ask, but instead offer your condolences.  It’s thankfully the most you and the Baron interact but you don’t get any private time with Feyd to set him aside and ask if he’s alright.  

Not long after breakfast Idrisa escorts you to the Dressmaker’s atelier, and the Dressmaker curtsies low and deep at your arrival.

“As requested, your gown for the Na-Baron’s birthday,” she says, stepping aside to show you the gown she made out of your measurements.

The dress is all black; common but not a requirement, you’ve noticed, for Harkonnen fashion.  Shades of charcoal and gray are also in vogue, even tinted with navy or forest green.  This, however, is as utterly devoid of color as Geidi Prime’s sun.  That’s not what makes your eyes go wide.

“It’s revealing,” you say after a moment.  The top half has thin straps, and you’re pretty sure the leather-like bands around the ribcage were added to make sure to not completely reveal your breasts, because it has a plunging neckline and no real back to speak of, you realize as you slowly walk around the mannequin.  It’s fitted tight from the ribcage to the hips, only flowing once the hourglass shape ends.  There’s a slit in the skirt that will reveal the curve of your thigh every time you walk.  On the floor beneath it are a pair of black boots with a reasonably high heel and around the mannequin’s neck a necklace that looks almost like one of the collars Feyd-Rautha has used on you.

The Dressmaker’s face falls.  “Does the Na-Baroness not like it?” she asks.  “The Na-Baron specifically requested a gown that would show off his wife’s assets.”

“Thank you,” you say, realizing that you won’t be able to wear anything underneath to protect your nipples.  “If that’s what he asked for then that’s certainly what he’s getting.  I’m sure he’ll love it.”

It also sends quite a message.  Look at the fecundity of the Na-Baroness’s body.  Look at what the Na-Baron gets to take for himself whenever he wants .   Look at how he owns her.

But that's the image you're meant to play.  After his birthday will come the news of his upcoming fatherhood, and depending on how you play your hand, either the birth or Feyd 's coronation will come next.

.

You spend the afternoon practicing Harkonnen pleasantries and as such don’t see Feyd until dinnertime; he doesn’t say much, not to you or to the Baron, who reminds both of you about the Bene Gesserit visiting tomorrow.

“I trust you’ll have the results that they want,” he says, leaving the implications hanging open in the uncomfortable air between the three of you like wet laundry.

“We’ve done our part,” Feyd says, voice curt, tearing his bread in half with a little more force than usual.  You’d not blame him for his irritation with his uncle but for the fact that you’re stuck here, too, sitting in uncomfortable silence, supposing you ought to be grateful that the Baron’s little jabs at your potential childbearing abilities aren’t out of any interest in you.  But of course that’s due to the possibility that even though he probably hasn’t forced himself on his nephew in nearly a decade, he may still get some secondhand voyeuristic satisfaction thinking about how he performs in bed and the thought of that puts you off the rest of your dinner.

After the fact, while you’re getting ready to leave Feyd places a hand on your arm.

“Meet me in my room tonight,” he says quietly.  You nod, glancing back at him, hoping for some sort of barometer for tonight and getting nothing.

.

Feyd’s naked, as he typically is during your night-time rendezvous, and you’ve matched him coming into his chambers.  He stares at you for a moment without a word, cock not-yet awakened, his expression inscrutable.

You finally ask the question that’s been bothering you all day, hoping the honorific at the end will appease him.  “Are you upset with me, husband?” 

Feyd tilts his head ever so slightly.  “Why would I be upset with you?” he asks, probably knowing the answer and pulling it out of you anyway.  You fidget and twist your hands, trying to look him in the eye.  Right now they give nothing away.

“Last night…we did something different.  I liked it.  It seemed like you liked it.  But now I don’t know how you feel about me seeing you…like that.”

“Submissive and obedient?” he prompts you. 

“Yes,” you manage, blinking, looking down, forcing yourself to look back up.  Feyd’s gaze is dark, and for a moment cruel in the brief seconds of silence that drag on and make your heartbeat speed up.

“I do like it that way sometimes,” he says finally.  “And I enjoyed it last night.  So no, I’m not angry with you; you passed more than one test.  If I’d known what you were capable of sooner, I’d have allowed you to take control sooner, but I wanted to wait to make sure you’d be equipped.”

“ Equipped? ” you repeat, raising your eyebrows.  “Why?”

“Because in the past I’ve killed people who put me in that role but didn’t do it correctly,” he says.  He sounds so casual and detached as he says it.  “You know me well enough at this point that it won’t be an issue.  My trust is not something I give out easily, so don’t take it for granted.”

“I won’t, husband,” you say quickly.  “I assure you that I,” you take a breath, “I appreciate the…the trust and patience you showed me.  But may I ask, why did you seem withdrawn earlier?  It seemed like you regretted last night.”

A faint hint of a smile appears at the corners of his mouth.  “Because it made me wonder if I could have the same effect on you.”

“I don’t think I understand,” you say.  When have I not been at least to some extent obedient in bed with you?  I’ve almost always been submissive.  

“Don’t be naive, pet.  It doesn’t suit you anymore.  You saw how I got when you were on top of me, like I was almost delirious.  Seemed at times like you were, last night, too.  I wanna see if I can get you to that place where I’d gone last night.  You’ve gotten close, but never quite there.”

You try to think.  Yes, you suppose there have been times where you’ve felt a level of catharsis, exhaustion and relief, when he’s pushed your boundaries and tested how much you could take, what you enjoyed despite yourself.  Thinking about it, though, he’s right.  You never felt quite so dazed as Feyd looked, like he’d disappeared within himself.

Could you get there?  Maybe.  “So how do you want to go about it?” you ask.

“I want to see how much of it’s natural for you, see how much you trust me.”

“What makes you think you haven’t earned my trust?” you ask.

He looks at you and you can tell that if he had eyebrows, they’d be raised right now.  “Because I still frighten you,” he says.  “Not that I blame you; you know who and what I am, but even when you’ve enjoyed submitting to me, you’ve never quite let go and allowed me to possess you the way you did with me last night.”  He crosses over to his armoire and opens a compartment in the lower drawers.  “What’s been bothering me isn’t what happened last night.  It’s that all day I’ve been wondering if I can really do the same to you.”

He pulls out a blindfold.  You stare at it as you think about the collars, the leashes, the floggers, the clamps, the ropes and chains–the moments of shame for being subjugated replaced with shame for enjoying the sensations of it and his hungry gaze on you.  

“So,” Feyd says, seeming to watch for any potential signal on your face.  “Will you allow me to try?”

You’d gotten so wet last time he’d put you on a leash and collar that you’d been able to feel it trickling down the inside of your thigh.  The only humiliation you’d felt then was knowing what your friends and family would think if they knew you were learning to get off to things like this.  But they’re not here; it’s just you and Feyd.

You look at the blindfold for a moment before meeting his gaze again.

“Yes,” you tell him.

.

Feyd sets out his favorite collar for you alongside the blindfold on his dresser. After he grabs a length of silver chain he takes a step back and looks over at you as if to ask, Think you can handle it?

You simply brush your hair to the side so he can get the collar around your neck and he grins.

“Comfortable?” he asks as he fixes it around you.

“Yes, husband,” you tell him, and he gives a soft hum as he takes the blindfold and wraps it around your head.  It's soft; your eyes flutter closed at the silk.  His touch feels somehow more intimate with one of your senses gone.  

“Good?” he asks again, and you nod.  “I want a verbal confirmation.”

“Yes, husband,” you answer, meaning it.  You can feel your nipples stiffening as the faint gust of his breath against the shell of your ear, hear the clink and swallow at the sudden weight of the chain being clipped to your collar.  If you concentrate you think you can hear him breathing.

“Kneel,” he says, and you do, taking a deep breath, your hands at your sides.  The chain starts to have more give, being tossed to you in increments as he seems to be walking way, to another spot in the room.

“Crawl over to me,” he says.  “Follow the sound of my voice.”

You think you manage the right direction, moving slowly, until you hear him speak again. 

“Stop right there, stay where you are,” he says, and you do, staying on your hands and knees, waiting for the next instructions.  Several seconds tick by, and for a moment you drop your head, wondering what the next signal will be, what Feyd wants from you next.  It doesn’t sound like he’s moved, but he can be utterly silent sometimes, so hard to detect.  He’s still here, at least; you can feel the chain being held upright.

Please say something, do something.   You wait, suppressing a whine, trying not to get agitated as the silence grows. You breathe in, breathe out, and try to focus on what’s grounding you–the marble floor below you, the leather of the collar and the weight of the chain.  The certainty that there’s someone on the other end of it, holding it for you.

“I’m here, pet,” you suddenly hear above you.  “Get on your haunches.”

You exhale.  It occurs to you that a month ago you wouldn’t have imagined being relieved at the sound of a voice as rough as his, but warmth floods your belly as you do, sitting back on your heels and settling your palms on the tops of your thighs, waiting for more.  Give me more.  Push me.  Show me what I’ve been missing and the place you went to last night while I was on top of you .

He leads you up to your knees and without thinking you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out.  He’s only gotten you in this position before for one purpose, so the gesture comes naturally.  There’s nothing to it, you realize. 

Feyd laughs quietly above you.  “That’s it.  You know what to do,” he says as he pushes his cock inside.  “My pretty, perfect cockslut.  You love this, don’t you?”

You feel yourself flush, heat flooding your face and licking up your spine.  No one’s ever called you a slut before; you’d bristle at the term were it not for the fondness in Feyd’s voice, the warmth of his palm cupping your face and traveling into your hair.  Without letting yourself question it you moan an assent, hands at your sides, focusing on breathing through your nose.

“Sometimes I think about claiming you in the arena,” he says, one hand secured on the chain, the other clutching the back of your head as he presses in deeper.  “Showing my people how breedable you are.  But I’d kill anyone else who’d ever see you like this.”

You whimper around him, trying to swallow down, trying not to gag, feeling all the wetter for it even as tears prick up at the corners of your eyes and dampen the fabric of your blindfold.

He pulls out, giving you a few seconds to breathe before pushing back in, and he’s in so impossibly deep, down your throat, that you don’t understand how you’re even taking him, but everything feels as if it’s encased in mist.  All you can feel is the marble under your knees, your husband’s hands stabilizing you, his cock so close to cutting off your airflow until it doesn’t, and he releases you again–this time for an even shorter reprieve.  You whimper again around it, holding still as he rocks his hips.

“You’re getting so good at this, pet,” he says.  “Such a smart girl, learning so quickly.”  He stops moving his hips but holds your head still for a moment, as if he’s simply curious to see how long you can take the length and girth of his cock in your mouth and down your throat, how long you can push past the discomfort and keep him there.  And then in one practiced movement unlatches the leash from your collar, letting the chain fall to the floor.  His grip relaxes in your hair, his hold barely more than a touch.  You could pull off if you want, you realize, but he said he wants to see how obedient you can be, so you keep your hands at your sides as you swallow around him, the tears collecting in your lashes as you try to breathe through your nose.  

The next time Feyd applies pressure, it’s to pull you off of him.  You’re not entirely sure how long you had him down your throat, but you can feel the string of saliva connected to his cock as you gasp for air, coughing and sputtering.  Your head swims.  Feyd swipes his thumb over your chin and lips, collecting the saliva that’s pooled around the sides of your mouth.  You’d give anything to see the expression on his face right now, but you also don’t want to take the blindfold off, not until he says so or does it himself.

Without thinking you nudge your head forward, once you’ve regained your breath and you’re certain you can take more–you can take anything he gives you and you gasp as Feyd stops you, your breath close to the head of his cock, you’re certain, but not quite touching it.

Give it to me, Feyd.  Please, I can handle it.  I want to prove it to you .  You say nothing; you wait.

For a moment the tip of his cock brushes against your cheek and you turn your head, lavishing your tongue along his frenulum, wrapping your lips around the tip of him.  You moan, utterly shameless, to try and encourage him to push in deeper.  He just stays that way for a moment, though, not thrusting in, not burying his head in your hair to push your mouth onto him, either.  He simply lets you feel the weight of him on your tongue before he takes a step back, slipping out, and you wait, unmoving, for what comes next, wet and pliant and ready.  It’s only the marble beneath your knees that grounds you.

And then without a word he takes off your blindfold and you blink against the sudden light before you realize Feyd’s staring at you with his pupils blown wide like last night, chest heaving and mouth open.  He cups your chin in one hand, eyes darting across your face.  Does he see in your eyes what he felt last night?  

“Get back on all fours for me, pet,” he says.

For a moment you feel disoriented.  Does he want you on all fours on the bed or…?

“Right here, pet,” he says, knowing what you’re about to ask before you can ask it.  You can’t speak, can’t form coherent words as you lean forward and brace yourself on your forearms, breathing in, then out.  His voice sounds almost like it’s coming from another room or inside your own head, you think as he kneels behind you.

He wordlessly slides his head along the line of your spine, applying only the faintest of pressure, guiding your top half down, down, until you rest your cheek against the floor, your forearms a cage bracketing your head, your ass raised up to expose it and your weeping cunt to him.  The cool marble feels nice against your flushed cheek.

He trails his fingertips along your slit, getting all the verification that he could need of what this is doing to you.

“Greedy, eager thing, aren’t you?” he says softly, and you sense him gripping his cock in his fist to line up against you.  You can’t help the giggle that spills out of you.  You really are, aren’t you? 

He finally pushes in and you arch your back into it, wanting to slide the rest of the way onto him but waiting, knowing that you’ll accept what he gives you because you can.  

“ Oh ,” you manage when he bottoms out inside of you.  He’s still for just a moment, and for that moment you wait in delicious anticipation before he starts thrusting.

He doesn’t hold back, grabs your hips, kneads your ass, knowing you’ll stay face-down because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.  You probably sound needy and pathetic, but you don’t care.  There’s no one here but the two of you as he pulls you onto his cock again and again, taking you on the floor, the sound of skin slapping skin, his grunts as he changes his angle that hits your insides differently, dragging against a spot within you that has you seeing spots and stars instead of the vantage point you have of the bed only a couple of meters away.  You open your mouth in a silent scream, hips jerking uselessly, stomach clenching.

Feyd, ever so clever, senses your shift immediately and bears down on you from this new angle that’s probably strenuous on him, from the way the muscles in his thighs clench and his grunts become harsher, but he keeps going, giving you everything he can, everything you can take.  You want to touch yourself, bring a hand between your legs, but you’re not going to.  Feyd will handle it or he won’t.  You feel drunk even though you haven’t had anything that could get you drunk in over a week.  

“You want to come, Y/N?” Feyd asks behind you, and you moan an assent.  “You’re gonna have to use your words if you want me to make you come,” he says, tone on the verge of scolding, but still playful enough to keep it from stinging.

It takes a moment to form any coherent words, the four syllables laborious.  “Yes, please, husband,” you manage, voice sounding wrecked, and Feyd obliges you as soon as you get the words out, bringing his fingertips to where the two of you are joined, collecting the slick there, and rubbing circles along your bud.  You can’t help but buck your hips, your moans desperate.

“That’s it, pet,” he says, rubbing harder now, probably relishing the sounds you’re making as he brings you over.  You nearly black out, tears streaming down your face, clenching again and again around him, coming so hard you think you might actually be drooling, and then when you think the most intense shockwave of it has passed, you feel his seed filling you up.

I feel so full, Feyd , you think, delirious. 

You can hear him panting and grunting behind you as he pulls out part way, the last of his come landing hot and viscous on the small of your back.  You gasp, feeling decidedly marked up, but you don’t move, waiting for what’s coming next.

Feyd pauses; you hear his breath even out, and from the shift behind you you’re pretty sure he’s settled back onto his haunches.  It seems to take him a moment to decide what he wants to do with you next before he’s kneading the soft flesh of your ass.  You sigh at the contact, arching your back, and feel your mouth pop open in a surprised “Oh!” as Feyd’s tongue makes contact with your lower back, licking up the remaining droplets of his spend in one long stroke.

And then it’s done, but you don’t move, and for a moment neither does Feyd, who you suppose must just be staring at you and the way you’re exposed to him in a way that you could almost recall being humiliating around the time of your wedding but feels titillating now.  

After a minute Feyd starts to get up, but you stay where you are, still face-down, ass-up, presented to him as if he were to start again immediately.  He might.  You can handle it if he does, you’re certain.  You have no idea how long you remain there, the side of your face pressed against the floor, your body weight on your elbows and knees.  The combination of yours and Feyd’s fluids seeping out of you start to turn sticky, but you’re utterly calm.  You feel weightless.   Your breathing evens out.

“Sit back up for me, pet,” you hear as if Feyd was a thousand leagues away.  You blink and start to rise up on your forearms, stretching like a cat, rising up to sit on your haunches.

Feyd comes back into view, taking your chin in his hand.  You don’t know what he’s seeing in your eyes; perhaps what you saw last night in his.  He drops his hand from your face and extends them both to you in a silent offer to help you stand.

Once he has you up, he tips you, a hand behind your back, and you hardly realize what’s happening before he has you in his arms, carrying you to bed.  He sets you down gentler than you expect before pulling the covers over you and climbing in with you.  Smart idea; you hadn’t realized how cold you suddenly feel, shivering as Feyd gets under the covers with you, braces himself above you, and leans down for a kiss.

You kiss him back immediately, suddenly desperate.  Up until this moment you’d felt almost like you were floating on a string, and now that string's been cut and you’re crashing to the ground.  You gasp into it, clutching his back.  You dig your nails in, your breath ragged, and after a moment Feyd pulls away, eyes darting across the different points of your face.

“You’re shaking, Y/N,” he says.

Yes, you are.  A fresh batch of tears comes and spills down your cheeks and you don’t know why.  If you didn’t know any better, Feyd looks almost concerned, an expression you’ve never seen on his face before that takes you a moment to place.  Has he never reacted this way before?  Never been affected quite this way before?

“Can you please hold me?” you finally manage, and he complies wordlessly, shifting to lay on his back, wrapping his arms around you.  You don’t know what’s wrong with you, why you’re crying.  You’re not sad, not angry.  Just spent in a way that you’ve never felt before.

After a few minutes your breathing evens out again.  The solid wall of the man holding you and the steadiness of his heartbeat against your ear helps.  Feyd senses it and reaches for your collar.

“Let me keep it on for now,” you say, and Feyd stills his hand.  “Please.”

Feyd looks for a moment like he wants to ask why, but doesn’t, instead keeping an arm wrapped around you as you nestle against him.  You can’t explain it; right now you feel kept, like you’re something precious.  

“Better?” he asks after a moment.

You nod against his chest.  “But I wasn’t feeling bad before,” you manage, speaking slowly and trying not to slur your words.  You doubt you have it in you to do all this over again, even if he asks, even if he manages to get you floating again.  “It was just overwhelming for a second.”

“I know,” he says, and when your grip on him relaxes he shifts, moving to sit up, and you furrow your brow, wanting to follow him, nervous at the idea of being alone in this bed.

“I’ll be back,” he says.  “I’m not leaving this room, pet,” he says, getting up.  You notice that this time on the side table the water pitcher has two glasses and he fills both.  

He notices your hands are still shaking and lifts the glass to your lips himself, watching as you gulp half the water down first, then take small sips of the rest, not setting it back down on the nightstand until it’s finished.

“When I first met you I’d never have taken you for such an affectionate little thing,” he says before taking a sip from his own glass.

“Neither would I,” you tell him.  “Definitely not with you.”  

Feyd smirks at that above the lip of his glass before setting it down next to yours and settling back in with you.

“I’m going to take the collar off you now,” he says.

“Okay,” you manage, fading, tilting your head to give him a better angle as he unfastens your collar and sets it on his nightstand.  Not that you want him to get up and leave you alone in bed again, but you’re a little surprised that he doesn’t immediately and meticulously set everything back in his armoire.  He’s not the type to leave things until the following morning.  But he’s doing it now; he turns off the light and quietly turns you around so he can pull your back to his chest and slide one muscled thigh between your own.

You’re not sure what the name is for what you’re feeling, the way he shifts and wraps an arm around you and nuzzles his face into your hair.  It’s a sinking feeling rather than the floating feeling you had earlier, but nice all the same.  You start to drift off, the feeling of his heartbeat against your back, his breath slowing down, and just before you fall asleep you remember the word you’re looking for.

Peaceful .

.

The next morning you don’t wake up until you feel the absence of a solid form behind you and sit up to notice Feyd almost-fully dressed, putting on his boots.

He gives you a small smile when he senses you watching him.  

“Excited for tonight?” you ask him.

Feyd’s smile fades as he stands.  “It’s an obligation like the rest.  We’ll make a good appearance for the guests, Uncle will get the confirmation he needs, and we can plan for tomorrow.”

“So is that a no?” you ask, sitting up against the headboard.

“I obey the Bene Gesserit’s instructions. I don't have to like them,” he says, voice flat.

You look down.  He’s implied it before; you’d assume it’s because the Bene Gesserit tend to make powerful men nervous but there’s likely more to it.  

His mother was Bene Gesserit.  You’re not about to ask if she treated him like a son or a cog in her Sisterhood’s larger plans.  Not this morning, perhaps not ever, you think as he watch him leave.

The entire Fortress is bustling, preparing for incoming visitors; not just the Bene Gesserit but Harkonnens living off-planet in colonies and fiefdoms as well as a few guests from other Houses.  Your family will not be among them, but they’ve sent a gift–casks of some of your planet’s finest liquor, apparently.  

Not that you blame them for not wanting to come to Geidi Prime, but it would be nice to see them, especially when you can feel the mounting pressure on you like a valve you wish you could release.

.

It’s both too soon and later than you realize when you have to change into a different dress that’s thankfully more modest than your gown for tomorrow, complete with long black gloves and a lace cloak meant to evoke the often-veiled and hooded style of the women you’ll be greeting.

Itkonen will be the first Harkonnen official to greet the Bene Gesserit after they receive their medication to help with the atmosphere, at which point you and Feyd will accept them and act as intermediaries before bringing them to the Baron.  The Baron’s also reminded you and Feyd that they’ll examine you to make sure that you’ve secured an heir for the Harkonnen line, as if either of you could forget.  As if that’s not the entire reason the two of you even met.

The anticipation builds as you and Feyd wait in the Reception Hall, you on his left and half a step behind him in deference.  In front of both guests and other Harkonnens, you call Feyd exclusively by his title, because as far as Harkonnen politics are concerned, you may be his wife, but you are not his partner.  You are his subject, and as such you will keep up the appearance of being his doting subject, his broodmare, his doll that dresses and presents herself as he chooses.  You’ll live with it, and some part of you might even want to smirk at how the people won’t be privy to what you and him have developed.  They won’t see how you’ve fucked him into an incoherent state, how worshipfully he licks your cunt, or how he likes holding you against his chest at night when you fall asleep, but the two of you will know better.

You’re also reasonably certain that these women, certainly the Reverend Mother Mohiam, will know better as well.

Itkonen steps in, inclines his head, and announces your Bene Gesserit guests.  His dark eyes slide towards them as they enter, a hint of a derisive smirk on his thin lips that only you and Feyd see as he glances back at him.  Duplicitous whores, the lot of them, aren’t they, boss? his eyes suggest.

All the women are veiled, most with their faces hidden.  You incline your head in a slow, respectful curtsy.  This is what you’ve been training for your entire life.  You were made for this, you remind yourself as you then lift your head with a polite smile.  

You only recognize the Reverend Mother Mohiam, but there’s another just behind her, one who’s quite beautiful with almost cat-like eyes and high cheekbones.  You noticed her, though, not because she’s beautiful but because you could sense Feyd-Rautha just barely stiffen for a moment beside you as they entered the room, and when you glanced over at him saw a glimmer in his eyes that suggested uncomfortable recognition.  If you hadn’t been so close to him you wouldn’t have noticed but it’s unmistakable.

They’ve met before , you realize, even as they don’t exchange a word of conversation and the woman doesn’t spare him so much as a second glance, her gaze on you.

Feyd seems to recover almost immediately as he greets the Reverend Mother.  “We offer our fondest welcome to your Reverence and your Sisters on behalf of the Baron and Geidi Prime, and gratitude for making the trip here for the occasion.”

Reverend Mother Mohiam looks both unsurprised and unimpressed that the Baron himself couldn’t be bothered to get up from his throne but accepts the greeting with the same dignified coldness she’d shown you back on your planet.  She looks over at you, taking inventory of your still-intact hair and eyebrows, and looks back at Feyd.  “We appreciate your hospitality, Na-Baron Harkonnen,” she says.

You’d almost forgotten that Feyd does a decent job despite having a menacing presence at playing the part of statesman and representative.  Not that he was ever quite able to fool you into thinking that he’s harmless–and he certainly doesn’t fool them–but he manages to keep the small-talk polite without being insipid as the two of them lead the conversation towards the Baron’s throne room.

The Baron stays seated in his suspensor chair, which whirrs forward as he nods his head in acknowledgement.  “Welcome to Geidi Prime, your Reverence,” he says.  “We do hope you and your Sisters enjoy the festivities during your stay.  My gentle niece-in-law will be especially accommodating.  She’ll be relieved for female companionship.”

Much as it makes you want to grind your teeth and glare at him to speak as though you aren’t there, he’s right about that.  How he’d even know, you’re not sure.  He’s certainly not asked you.  

“Our services will take only a minute, but we appreciate the invitation to enjoy Feyd-Rautha’s birthday,” the Reverend Mother tells him.

“Forgive me for not knowing the exact details,” the Baron says, “but what process do you use to determine if young Y/N has secured the Harkonnen bloodline?”

“Nothing invasive, Baron,” the Reverend Mother replies.  “Just a private meeting.”

“Well, then, you certainly have your opportunity now,” the Baron says, gesturing loosely towards you.  “The people of Geidi Prime will be happy to know that my nephew has continued the Harkonnen bloodline.”  He looks at Reverend Mother Mohiam expectantly, as if to say, alright, let’s get it over with.  Show me if my nephew knocked up this Y/H whore or not .

She holds his gaze.  “We’ll conduct the test privately, absent of any men,” she says. 

The Baron blinks and looks at her as if to say, Are you dismissing me?  Have you lost your mind?  You can’t possibly expect me to wait outside , before beckoning a servant over.  

“Show the Na-Baroness and our Bene Gesserit visitors to the next room, on the left.  It should more than suffice for their needs,” he tells her.  

It is; a sort of lounge area that tomorrow will be teeming with guests, you notice as you trail in.  There are ample seating areas, tables that can and will hold down trays of food and drink.  The lighting is even somewhat hospitable.

“May I ask,” you start as you’ve all filed in, “how you’ll be conducting the investigation, your Reverence?”

The Reverend Mother looks at you.  “You seem healthy,” she says.  She means, Feyd-Rautha’s been civil towards you?

“Thank you, your Reverence,” you tell her.  “Geidi Prime requires an adjustment period, but I believe I've been able to find some decent footing here.”

The Reverend Mother looks a moment longer at you before speaking.  “Have you met Lady Margot Fenring before?” she asks, extending her arm to the woman you couldn’t help but notice earlier.

“We have not met officially, your Reverence,” you say, looking over at her.  Fenring .  She must be the wife of Count Hasimir Fenring, then, even if she looks like she must be a good thirty years younger than him.

“Lady Fenring here is expecting as well, Na-Baroness Y/N,” the Reverend Mother says.  “She has a certain talent for detecting pregnancy in other women before doctors even can.”  

You glance at Lady Fenring’s stomach and don’t see a bump–a still-recent development, then.  She sees where your gaze drops and explains, “I’m only two months along,” she tells you.  “A daughter.”

“Congratulations, Lady Fenring,” you tell her, cautious, wishing you knew more about Bene Gesserit customs.  Nothing invasive, they said, watching as Lady Fenring delicately pulls off the glove of her right hand and reaches for your stomach.

You take a small step back before you realize it, and Lady Fenring gives a coquettish little smile.

“ Don’t be afraid ,” she tells you, her voice pleasant and melodic, and she slowly places her ungloved hand on your lower abdomen.  For a moment, your heart slows down, your limbs feeling heavy, and you’re not entirely sure if her words were spoken aloud or if you thought of them yourself.

The woman closes her eyes and you can’t help but stare, vulnerable at her gentle touch but unable to move.  You feel lost, reminded of the early morning fog on your planet, before the sun starts rising.  You close your eyes as well to try and snap out of it, but the same murky feeling persists where fear and dread had been.

Did she just…did she just use the Voice on me?

That can’t be right.  The Voice is forceful, commanding, or so you’ve heard.  Margot Fenring is anything but.  You breathe in, breathe out, and wait, until she speaks again.

“Congratulations, Na-Baroness Y/N.  Your union has proven fruitful.”

You open your eyes and gasp, unable to tame your reaction before it comes, unable to stop your smile and breathless, “ Really? ”  You suddenly feel sharper, everything brighter, as Lady Fenring removes her hand and you move yours to where it had been.

“The life growing within you is new, the seed still very small, but it’s there, and it’s growing,” she tells you.

You can’t help but laugh a little, bringing a hand to cover your mouth as you do.  You did it .  How long has it been forming?  A week?  Two?  Three?   Is it smaller than an apple seed?  Can this woman tell if it’s a boy like Feyd claims he dreamt of?

And then you think about the other man waiting for the news outside, probably more impatient for the results than your husband.  Your smile fades and you drop both hands to your sides.

“Thank you, Lady Fenring,” you tell her.  “The Na-Baron will be pleased.”

You need to help me keep the Baron away from it, keep him from c orrupting it.  If you’re anywhere near as invested in keeping it safe as I am then …

This is why they’re here, you remind yourself.  They need you and your progeny to be healthy.  They’ll look after you.

.

You emerge with the Bene Gesserit sisters trailing behind you.

“We bear good news,” the Reverend Mother says.  “The Na-Baroness is with child.”

Funny thing is that before all of this, before you thought you'd get married to a Harkonnen, you'd never had any expectations about how the moment would happen, when you would find out you were pregnant for the first time and told your husband.  It hadn't been a situation you'd ever really entertained even as it was always inevitable.  And yet this feels disappointing, not even being able to say it yourself, and having the news shared in front of your vile uncle-in-law as you try to seem demurely pleased and nothing else.  You try not to make direct eye contact with Feyd.  This isn't for either of you as individuals.  It's for the Harkonnen bloodline, for the Baron, for the Bene Gesserit and their selective breeding program.  So when it stings a little that Feyd 's only response is a nod in your direction as if to say, Well, done, you feel silly for it. 

The Baron says, “We’ll wait until after Feyd’s birthday celebration to make the announcement; we don’t want to overshadow his match.  Still,” he glances at you, “the people of Geidi Prime will be delighted to know that he’s continued the Harkonnen line.”  

You lower your head.  He truly has a gift for being able to suck the joy out of any celebration.  The baby growing in your womb will have to share space with the gnawing twin feelings of disgust and dread settling in your stomach.

After that, though, the Baron makes it abundantly clear that his main purpose for inviting these women has been accomplished and foists the responsibilities of entertaining all but the Reverend Mother onto you.

“Mohiam will speak with you tomorrow, young Y/N,” he says to you.  “But in the meantime, I’m sure there’s lots for you to discuss with our other distinguished guests.”

You curtsy and assure him that you’ll be an exemplary hostess in your most deferential tone before you and the other women are escorted back into the room you’d just been in; servants have already begun laying out plates of foods, various delicacies representing different Houses, goblets with pitchers of water, juices, and wine.  

The veiled women wait until the food and drinks are set out and all the male servants have gone before they show their faces, lifting their veils to take the first sips and bites.  Their ages range from possibly even younger than you to their seventies, all quiet at first.

Lady Fenring ranks above the rest of them both in title and within their ranks, it seems, as they defer to her and she’s the one who initiates conversation with you.

“It appears you’re adjusting well to Geidi Prime,” she says.

“Thank you, Lady Fenring,” you tell her.  “It was an unfamiliar environment to which to adapt, but the Fortress has been accommodating.”

“We’re in casual company now, do feel free to call me Margot,” she tells you, and you blame it on the fact that you haven’t gotten to talk to any of your friends in over a month that you smile, feeling warmth flood your chest.  

“Then feel free to call me Y/N,” you tell her.

“I was curious about your hair,” one of the Sisters says.  “The fact that you still have it–was it your decision or your husband’s?”

“The Na-Baron informed me shortly before the wedding that I could keep my hair.  It’s my preference as well, but I would’ve made a concession if it had been required,” you tell her.  He only allowed the hair I have growing out of my head, though, you don’t add.

“About the hairlessness–is it a personal choice or are Harkonnens simply incapable of growing any?” she asks.

“They are while living here,” you tell her, knowing that everyone’s listening.  “Geidi Prime’s bustling with industry but not organic life.  I’ve heard that it’s only possible for Harkonnens to start growing hair if they live off-planet for long enough.”

“It is indeed,” Margot says.  “The late Abulurd Rabban had not only a full head of hair but a beard when he died, but at that point he’d been living on Lankiveil for over twenty-five years.  Have you ever seen a picture of him?”

“I have not,” you tell her.  “His memory isn’t widely celebrated here, for obvious reasons.”  You’ve never seen a picture of either of Feyd’s parents, but you’ve wondered what arrangement of features they each had that they could have produced such different-looking brothers as him and Rabban.

She looks at you a moment longer, as if contemplating what next line of questions she has for you.

“I’ve done a bit of research,” you say first.  “The Harkonnens are of course better known for commerce and warfare but the library they have in the Fortress is very impressive.”  You wonder how transparently you’re trying to play ambassador.  You wonder how much it’s working.

When you all conclude your meal, and once all the plates are cleared, the other Sisters find conversation with each other, leaving you and Margot alone, and the thought gently scratching at the back of your mind becomes clearer; this friendly conversation is a soft interrogation.  Margot will relay everything, your words and the tone with which you speak them, back to the Reverend Mother.  Whether or not she is actually interested in your opinions is entirely beside the point, but even with this she certainly makes you feel that way.  Her body language is demure but inviting, her questions polite but never overtly invasive as she asks you about your upbringing and your hobbies, how you spend time on your new planet.

You’ve never met someone who seems both serene and somehow unsettling in a way you cannot articulate but feels tangible.  She has a certain poise you realize the longer the two of you sit in the same vicinity, that you just haven’t matured into yet.  She’s older than you and Feyd, more complete than either of you.  

She tilts her head at you at one point and says, “Forgive my questioning, but had you ever been courted or had an intimate relationship before your marriage?”

“A brief-lived courtship,” you tell her.  “Nothing substantial ever came of it nor did I expect it to; neither of us had high hopes that my father would approve of him as a potential husband, and I suppose I’ve always been too practical to entertain the concept of a love-match.”

Margot blinks slowly, and her next words are as diplomatic and polite as anyone can manage with the subject you realize she’s about to breach.  “I ask only because I’m sure you’ve heard some discouraging, perhaps intimidating rumors about Harkonnen men?”

Ah .  There it is .

“I have,” you tell her.  “But I’ve also heard for years about how the best way to temper a man is through catering to his desires,” you tell her.  “Even without any substantial prior experience it didn’t take long to understand what my husband wanted and how to provide it for him.”

You don’t need to delve any deeper.  She’s both Bene Gesserit and married; she’s known this for years before you did.

But there’s a part of you that wants her to know that you’re more observant than people may realize.  There’s an even greater part of you that wants to know what caused Feyd to nearly flinch when he saw her when you’d never seen such a reaction from him before.

“May I ask how you first met the Na-Baron?” you ask, trying to keep your voice a mask of politeness and casual indifference.  

She doesn’t look surprised at your question, which unnerves you further.  “I was assigned to test him,” she says.

“On what?” you ask, fairly certain you know the answer.

“Whether or not he could play into our larger plans.  What I found was interesting.  Despite being a man with no Bene Gesserit training he possessed a level of prescience I’ve seen only in my Sisters.”

He dreamt about our son .  You try not to let your nerves show.

“And then there was his pain tolerance,” she adds, cat-like eyes on you.

You keep a straight face as you wonder how she’d be familiar with it.  Has she bitten him?  Flogged him?  

She keeps you waiting for only a second before continuing.  “Have you heard of the Gom Jabbar?” she asks.

“I think so?”  You weren’t sure if it was a real thing or a myth concocted to instill fear of disobeying the Bene Gesserit, but you’ve heard of a test meant to bring whoever takes it to the extremes of pain, and that many of those subjected to such a test did not live to pass it.

“He not only passed, but he lasted longer than anyone I’ve ever tested.”  She meets your gaze as she says, “I’ve never seen anyone react to it quite like he did.  He didn’t just endure it; he enjoyed it.”

Oh .  Well, that would explain how they know each other, you think, trying to parse your own jumbled thoughts.  That’s probably all she did; she has a husband, after all, and she was testing Feyd to see if he’d be a good match for you , not herself.

But despite yourself you imagine her riding him with slow, deliberate movements rather than the grinding, bouncing desperation that you had doing the same thing two nights ago.  The image makes you inhale and glance away as you try to shake it from your mind.

Weeks ago the thought of him satiating himself with someone else would’ve been a relief.  Now a shameful ball of jealousy blooms in your chest, and she can sense it.  The Bene Gesserit aren’t truly omniscient, you know this, but she seems almost close to it.  It’s embarrassing how transparent and vulnerable she makes you feel, like a child trying to keep pace with an adult who’s skilled at a game you’re still learning.

For her part she seems politely amused when you look away, feeling yourself flush. You won’t ask if she saw him in the arena and took to his bed.  You don’t want to know if she indulged him in some of his darker fantasies or if she was able to coax him into a submissive state that took you a month to discover.

Focus on what she just told you, you remind yourself.

“You've seen it in him,” she says.  It's not a question.  Not from her, in any case, but the Reverend Mother will want to know, and it takes only a couple of seconds to cave.

“I have.  Both his masochism and his prescience,” you admit.  You won’t share any specific details, though; it’s too intimate to share with this woman, even as it feels as though she’s seeing you naked, like she can extrapolate your most personal moments with Feyd from a single glance.

Margot smiles.  “Her Reverence will be most impressed with you.”

.

The evening concludes when it seems as though the Baron’s meeting with the Reverend Mother has, and servants come in to escort the Bene Gesserit to the guest suites.

As you all emerge you see Feyd, stone-faced, glancing between you and Margot as he notices the two of you walking alongside one another.  You look over at her, who curtsies towards you.

“It was a pleasure speaking with you, Na-Baroness,” she says, undoubtedly aware of the attention the two of you are getting.

“You as well, Lady Fenring,” you tell her as you incline your head.

Feyd barely manages a curt nod in her direction before turning away, presenting his arm for you to take as you head back to the private residence wing.

You don’t say it; if you say it you won’t be able to take it back, feign ignorance.  You don’t say a word on the walk back, and for a solid few minutes, neither does Feyd.  He offers no recourse, and doesn't tell you what he, his uncle, the Reverend Mother, and Itkonen were all discussing over dinner and beyond it.  His silence lasts just long enough to set you on edge, make you wonder if he’s upset about something.

“You did well tonight,” he finally says, as the two of you reach your quarters.  “Uncle doesn’t care to entertain female company,” he adds, the closest thing to innuendo he’s suggested when it comes to the Baron, “so while he won’t say it, he was relieved to push them onto you.” 

You smile.  “Diplomacy is what I’ve been training for since I was a child,” you tell him.  “I wasn’t prepared for the intimate parts of marriage, but I trained for the politics of it for most of my life.”  Marriage is politics for a woman in my position .  “Although I’d like to think I’m getting reasonably good at the intimate parts as well,” you say, leaning in, looking up at him as if to ask, Your room or mine tonight?  You start to wrap your arms around his shoulders, thinking about how you’ll get to sleep more easily if he’s there, nestled behind you like he usually is.  

Feyd doesn’t move, instead staying where he is, rigid and unyielding.  “Not tonight,” he says.

You’re confused at first, pulling back, certain you misheard, but he’s completely serious.  Hadn’t he talked about wanting to spill his seed in more places than just inside of you?  How he’d wanted to continue fucking you even after confirmation of your pregnancy?

You drop your arms and take a step back.  Did seeing Margot Fenring put him off?  Is she the type of woman he’d prefer?  Not a Bene Gesserit, he’s said as much, but a woman with more effortless poise?  Or does he intend to find someone else tonight now that he doesn’t need to take you?

“I understand,” you say, trying not to let your hurt and indignation show.  “We’ve done what was necessary to secure an heir and now there’s no need.”  Not for another year at least . 

Feyd looks amused for a moment, taking in your disappointment that he’s not going to bury himself inside of you like usual.  It is sort of funny, in a sense.  Weeks ago you would never have anticipated wanting his touch and feeling disappointed at not getting it.

“I abstain from indulging any kind of carnal desires the night before arena matches,” he says.  “With others or with myself.”

Why? you want to ask, pretty sure the answer lies in something along the lines of discipline or wanting to save pent-up energy to put on a show for his audience.   

“I’m pregnant ,” you say instead, more to yourself than to him.  It’s almost incredible how shocked you are that the realistic outcome to the past month is finally here.  Like being surprised that a seed you’ve planted and watered every day is starting to sprout.

His almost-smile turns as close to soft as you’ve ever seen on him.  “How ‘bout that?” he says quietly, pressing the palm of his hand to your stomach.  His touch is gentle, his eyes drifting to where his hand rests.  For a moment you don’t think you’ve ever felt closer to him.  For a moment you’re not concerned with politics, with the Baron, with your future, and you can insulate the two of you inside the warmth you feel blooming in your chest.

“Can I kiss you, at least?” you ask.  He looks at you and nods, and you take your opportunity, cradling the side of his face and wrapping your other arm around his shoulder as you pull him to you.

He breaks the kiss first, but still rests his forehead against yours, his hands on your waist.  You can’t resist giving him one last peck on the lips, needing to pull away because otherwise you’re going to keep holding on.

“Good night, husband,” you tell him, your voice thicker than you realized, feeling a rush within you.

You finally have allies here; you’ll be able to talk to the Reverend Mother, devise the best way to keep the Baron away from your children so that what happened to Feyd will never happen again.

You will find a way.

.

You wake up in the morning feeling resolute.  It’s not the same quiet dread that you had on your wedding night, but the tension in the air still feels thick.

You won’t be seeing Feyd until it’s time to adorn him with war paint; you will dine separately, prepare separately, and once you have finished painting his body will sit in the stands waiting for his not-match.  After that the people of Geidi Prime will shower him with their praise and adoration and the entire Fortress will celebrate the Na-Baron’s birthday.  You’re not likely to have any real privacy with him today, certainly not until bedtime and even then you imagine it’s going to be a late night of entertaining well-wishers and keeping up appearances.

Your food is brought to your quarters, and you find you don’t have much of an appetite, between the snug fit of your dress’s bodice and the thudding feeling that starts in your ribcage and spreads downwards.  Not just Idrisa but another attendant helps prepare you to look as anointed and pristine as you were on your wedding day.

You wear your hair down, save for two braids starting at your temple and connecting at the back of your head.  It’s not defiance against the Harkonnens; they surely know that you look precisely how the Na-Baron wants you to.

Lips painted black aren’t any less common here than teeth dyed the same color, you think as you apply your cosmetics.  In fact, when you apply it, you think about how your mouth resembles an inverse of your husband’s.  

Your husband .

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is beloved by his own people, feared and despised by others.  He’s a force of violence, a killer and stone-cold executioner.  He’s a sadomasochist who comes from the most dysfunctional family you’ve ever seen and is set to lead the most bloodthirsty population in Landsraad.  He’s also known you with such tangible intimacy that it’s sometimes overwhelming.  He’s brought you to heights of pleasure you hadn’t thought possible.  He’s the man whose child you’re carrying in your womb at this very moment, even if the whole of Geidi Prime doesn’t know yet.

You are going to go out and watch the arena match as the Na-Baroness, and as the bridge between his world and the rest of Landsraad, both of and separate from the Harkonnens.  

You keep your head held high, the quiet clicking of your heels against the floor the only sound you make as you and Idrisa head for the chambers where your husband’s preparing to make his appearance.

At the entrance is another girl whose name you don’t know, and they flank you down a flight of stairs you’ve traversed only once, and two a set of double-doors guarded by two men in white who bow their heads, eyes downcast before opening the doors for you.

On the other side of the room a pair of young women wait, one of them holding a bowl and the other a pair of translucent gloves.  

And there’s the man himself, stripped to ceremonial loincloth, watching you enter.  His gaze sweeps up and down the length of your body, taking in the sight of your long, unadorned hair, painted-black lips, and every feature your gown shows off to almost exaggerated effect.

You stop for a moment and incline your head.  “Happy birthday, Na-Baron,” you tell him.

“Come to give me my gift, then?” he asks, and a month ago you’d have thought his tone cold and mocking.  Now it sounds as close to playful as he’s willing to get with other people present, especially as he’s still staring at you.

“Yes, Na-Baron,” you tell him, and glance to the side, at the raised platform jutting out of the wall.  His Darlings are all curled up in a pile, lazily but contentedly watching the two of you.  They’re wearing clothes this time, matching outfits.

“You dressed them for the occasion?” you ask Feyd.

“I had servants sedate, bathe, and dress them, but yes,” he says.

One has a stripe painted on her forehead; she seems to be the leader of the pack, moving first and the other two deferring to her, and she leans over as far as she can manage, nuzzling against your side

You inhale sharply, picturing her not for the first time taking a bite out of your lower abdomen with those black fangs.

Feyd can sense it.  “They won’t hurt you,” he says.  “They like you.”

I wish I could say the same about them , you think as she purrs–another feature no doubt installed by the Bene Tleilax.

“Do they smell it?” you ask.  The baby?

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” Feyd says, 

I won’t allow them near the baby when it’s born , is a conversation for another place and time, when there aren’t other people around and you don’t have an imminent task.  The girl holding the bowl steps forward, head bowed, to remind you why you’re here.

“Let’s prepare you, then,” you say, and Feyd gives you a small smile before turning his back to you.

Maybe when he first told you to paint him, he thought it would demean you, but it doesn’t.  You doubt he feels that way anymore, either.    He rolls his shoulders back briefly, and you watch the taut muscles ripple under his pale skin.

I was terrified of you the first time I saw you like this, you don’t tell him as you press your fingertips against him, but even then I thought you were impressive to look at.  Maybe not a traditionally handsome man as far as I was concerned, but I liked seeing you in a loincloth back then, too.

One of the girls holds the bowl for you, and the other gives you a pair of gloves to keep you from staining your hands.  You looked up the design–they change depending on the occasion and a birthday or other holiday requires its own set of strokes.

“Is this correct?” you ask, feeling pretty certain that it is.

“Yes, that’s right, Na-Baroness,” the girl holding the bowl says softly, hardly more than a whisper.  

“Very good, Na-Baroness,” echoes the girl just beside her, waiting to take your gloves off for you once you’re finished.

Feyd’s silent as you work, turning his head briefly and giving you a view of his profile as he glances over his shoulder at you as if to speak, but ultimately remaining silent.  You don’t have much to say, either, nothing that you want an audience for.

He’s going to kill people today; you assume prisoners of war, former soldiers who would put up a tough fight if the playing field were even.  Instead they’ll be drugged before meeting your husband, their ruthless and efficient executioner.  It’s not fair, it’s not good.  It’s not something you can call yourself proud to be associated with, but it’s him.  And you’re a part of his life, his legacy.  A knot forms under your ribs as you finish with his back and focus on his chest and stomach.  Does he share the combination of power and vulnerability you feel now, as he stays still for you to adorn his body with ceremonial paint?  Is he looking forward to cutting down total strangers in front of thousands of cheering people?  Because for all the discussion in the Fortress for it, Feyd seems less excited for it than everyone surrounding him.  Does he quietly long for the thrill of a real fight?  A challenge amongst everyone catering to his every desire?

You finish painting him and take a step back, allowing the girl next to you to pull your gloves off before she and her partner scurry to the side.  For a moment it feels like there’s no one else in the room, and you think as you look at Feyd in his loincloth and ceremonial paint that he’s devastatingly beautiful.

“Thank you, Na-Baron,” you tell him.

His eyes look dark in these halls; it’s tough to find the blue of them.  “For making me a part of this,” you add.  “A part of your culture.”

He stares at you for a moment, expression inscrutable, before snapping the fingers of his right hand.  Idrisa and the other girl hurry forward, hands clasped in front of them and eyes downcast.

He still looks at you.  “Uncle will sit in his usual spot, that's his alone.  He’ll have you sit in the private box with the Bene Gesserit Sisters.  It’s a gesture meant to insult you, but don’t take the bait.  Just keep being hospitable to our guests.”

“Yes, Na-Baron,” you say.

A figure enters; a fat man carrying a cushion laden with knives–the swordmaster.  Feyd’s eyes flicker briefly towards him before turning back to you, and he gives a small nod.  Dismissed .

For a moment you’re not entirely sure what to say.  Good luck?   It would be insulting to imply that he needs it.  I can hardly wait?  He knows that’s not true.  In the end you say nothing, opting to curtsy before leaving, taking the same steps you’ve taken once before, ready to play your part as he plays his.

The slaughter awaits.

Tagged: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @blazeflays @wo-ming-bai @cavillandevanssandwhich

Also please lmk if you'd like to be tagged!

Our supporting players for this chapter:

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 13 "Come not with a Sword"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧

A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

A/N: I apologize for the delay, I've been thinking about the Kinktober prompts a little too hard 🥹 But chapter 13 is ready to be served and I want to thank everyone who takes the time to comment because that literally is the one thing that makes actually writing this instead of just playing it out in my head worth it 💕💕💕 I appreciate you so much.

CW: Suicidal thoughts, implied abuse, something like attempted suicide, but also… be not afraidt

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 15

With the opening door breezes a cool rush from the hallway and in comes Lilia, her gold-speckled eyes like coins of color against the black backdrop as she tries to switch off her smile like one might try and fail to switch off the sun.

Mikhail's sharp jaw turns, lips quirked into a crooked grin as the handmaid's shape flutters past him. His cocky eyes drift to the swell of her ass beneath her white servant's robes, his longing glance cut short by the closing door.

"You're in a good mood." The relic ceases the tender rubbing over her healing port and the delicate layer of new skin under the inconspicuous, shaved patch.

"I thought you weren't watching, forgive me." Lilia misinterprets the woman's quizzical look and scrambles to place the stack of new whalefurs and blankets on the lower end of the bed.

"Wasn't I looking right at you?"

The handmaid counters with an openness that might have cost her her tongue with any of her former Lords or Ladies. "Well, sometimes when you're looking right at me, it seems like you don't see me at all." And she doesn't mean the way the hallowed family or the advisors and generals refuse to see her. She feels like she's a ghost to her Lady sometimes, those faraway eyes twitching in hypnotizing patterns like she's a lucid dreamer dancing through a waking dream.

"An old habit. I'm just… Dissociating. Practicing Harkunnin."

"Without looking at any tapes? I only saw you looking at them once."

The relic pulls one of the furs over her crossed legs on the bed. So soft. Her beloved and her new, eight-arm-legged friend will love them. She deflects quickly: "The new guard, do you know him?"

"Oh, uh, in a way!" Lilia turns to the vanity and wipes at an invisible stain with her sleeve. In the mirror, she catches her Lady's glance, this time anything but dissociated. It almost burns her, to be actually looked at by someone of higher standing, but it's a pleasant burn.

Both women are sniffing each other's lies out like a dog does freshly cut meat in the other room, but Lilia breaks first, throwing up her arms in a gesture of giggly defeat. Fine!

"Mikhail's my husband," the maid blushes and lowers her head. "He wants you to know that he's very happy with his upgraded chair."

"Your husband!" The relic exclaims with a bright jolt of her facial features. "Yes, he told me that three times already." She dismissively swats away the talk about the chair. "I couldn't help but notice the look on his face when you passed him. Looked like he wanted to eat you."

"Well, I hope so." Lilia's bold tone contrasts with the way she awkwardly sits down on the vanity stool, one wiggling leg crossed over the other and her chin buried in her palm.

The woman on the bed bursts out laughing and rubs at her eyes, reclining against the headboard. "I feared he was molesting you. If he was, I'd have shown him how we dealt with molesters on Earth."

"I assure you, my Lady, I can give as good as I can get." Lilia's features shift into something as feral as anything living on Giedi Prime is bound to become. Beneath the chiseled mask of unyielding subservience lurk the same baser instincts that incite any organism. The relic has no trouble at all imagining Lilia and her husband fucking each other silly in their sparse free time.

"Oh, good." Snickering, she points at her handmaid with a sweeping finger gun, the motion awkward in its silliness, misplaced among the radiation and murder. "You tell him."

"Mikhail can be all bark and bite until you get to know him. You just need to know how to pet him right," Lilia diligently explains.

"That sounds like Feyd, to be honest."

"Really?" The maid's bobbing leg freezes mid-air. Not only is it improper to talk about the na-Baron in such a demeaning way, it is also deadly. Her shoulders then drop— because it is also true, which almost makes her even more giggly because of the depravity of it.

"Yes, absolutely." The Earth woman's impish smile dissolves into thoughtful tendrils. "But it's not just that. There's so much more that I get to see." The talk of marriage spins the wheel of her thoughts further. "Forgive me the impolite question, but-"

"Nothing to forgive ever, my Lady!" Lilia butts in.

"I disagree, but… I can't help but wonder, did you marry because you were forced to?" 

"Oh, no." Trustfully, Lilia scoots closer to the bed, toes wagging and fingers drumming on her own cheeks. If anyone will understand her, it's the woman from old Earth. "We married out of love. Mikhail would throw a tantrum if he knew I told you but… I was the one who asked him to marry me." The ambers that are the woman's eyes spark to life with a golden glow. Nourishing sun beams. "And he said yes."

Something green then springs into bloom inside the relic's chest, a leaf to her tender sapling perhaps. Hope, she finds, tastes pink and yellow— cherry blossoms and lemons. A single goodness is enough to peel away her lurching belief that the universe of her people's descendants is inherently poisoned into badness.

"That is wonderful, Lilia. I'm so happy for you. I will make sure that nothing happens to you or your husband." I will make your life better.

The maid blushes purple, eyes lowered to her own knees.

"But that's our task, my Lady, to protect you."

"I don't think anyone can really protect me, but that's fine." She'll just have to adapt. The astronaut is unhappy with the course of her thoughts, the tender leaf ruffled by the winds that tug on it from all directions. She is almost thankful when her handmaid brings up the silly chair again.

"Sooo, about that chair." Lilia purses her lips with a jolly quiver of curiosity. "How did you…?" Her glance sweeps to the cryo pod before she lowers it shamefully.

An electric charge of wary caution prickles along the relic's nerves and she weighs her words with care. If this knee-jerk act of empathy on a desperate night is going to cost her the revelations of her secrets, she is going to hurl herself off that balcony.

Unknowingly, Mikhail saves her from the explanation, knocking then strutting into the room with his slightly o-shaped gait, toolbox in hand, folded chair under his arm.

"M'sorry Ladies," he drawls with an exaggerated extension of the last vowel. "I am to seal that ventilation shaft, confidentially."

Mikhail doesn't seem to give a shit about keeping the relationship to his wife a secret. He seems to give few shits about the proper tone in general. 

"Confidentially?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Na-Baron said so himself, eh." He taps the transponder button behind his ear, its placement quite similar to the relic's fine chip port.

Confidentially. So, the Baron mustn't know that his pet has been taking liberties and befriending the unwelcome guest. Feyd has told her of the many deaths, the many rebirths, Gholas, when he held her tight the other night. Memories embedded in the flesh, a scientific breakthrough lost to a universe's political machinations. It makes her sick as much as it fascinates her.

"You know how to seal a ventilation shaft?" The Earth woman questions with a suspicious lilt.

"I know my way around things, eh. Seen some things, done some things before I joined the troops."

"If it really needs to be done, let me do it!" The engineer quizzically ogles the electrical welder that Mikhail swoops out of the toolbox. 24,000 years later, and some tools haven't changed at all. She's almost yearning to get her hands around it, but Mikhail, whistling something low in his throat, disregards her prompt benevolently.

She hadn't seen to the ventilation hatch sooner, hoping that the being named Glugo would come for a secret visit once more. Now she is forced to watch Lilia's husband climb on the plastic chair (upgraded with an unfoldable flap to rest his legs upon) whose statics are not balanced to carry a standing man.

"The Lady said you were looking at my ass earlier, is that right?" Lilia has jumped up from the stool, sauntering over with a swing to her hips.

"So what if I— huurghh!"  She pokes the back of her husband's thighs, causing his ticklish hamstrings to contract into a twitch. "Ah! Woman-" 

Mikhail sputters a litany of curses in Harkunnin and Lilia has to grab a whole two handfuls of ass to keep the wiry guard from flying off the wobbly chair.

The relic can't help but laugh and laugh, even when her cheeks start hurting. So alien, that feeling, as alien as the colors green, pink and yellow have become.

"Give me an hour and I'll print you a ladder!"

So, love, after all.

It turns out, real love can be born out of any sort of wasteland.

Day 20

The engagement - canceled! How delightful! Things couldn't be going much better for Vladimir Harkonnen. Though there is room for improvement. His darling nephew still sneaks into the concubine wing with its single, occupied quarters each night. Vladimir hadn't expected Feyd-Rautha to recover from the blow of rejection so quickly.

No wedding! It's only a matter of time until the order of robed poison whisperers comes knocking on his orbit and demands that he make it happen. They might even want to install a witchy pestilence in his palace to observe the process. It puts him in the mood for good old-fashioned femicide, but for now he has bigger concerns.

Because Feyd almost looks happier than before and that is decidedly against the rules.

The Baron is nothing if not a kill-joy, and so he waits, half-afloat in a bog of oily bath water and self-complacence.

To kill her like the sorry graftling, that might be a bit much, though he had entertained the idea as early as when he first saw the needy gleam in his nephew's eyes when speaking of that woman. Wouldn't it be fun to have her killed and remade as a Ghola, the same flesh but unable to remember a thing about Feyd-Rautha?

No, no, no - The Baron needs to play his nephew like a fine instrument, as tempting as it might be to punch him like a drum with a stick. With well past 80 years of age, Vladimir is slowly growing tired of mind games.

If the Bene Gesserit are telling the truth, the woman has already had her rebirth. A mummy out of the ice. And she might as well be dead to him, the way she stays in her chambers as silent and unmoving as a corpse. That's all right with the Baron. He doesn't need to see the toy his nephew wets his dick with.

But a proper meeting is long overdue.

And so he waits and exhales herbal vapor into the soggy air, the only sounds being the drip-drip-drip of oily, steaming bath water whenever he lifts his heavy arm, and the pistons of his lung machine.

Then, a hollow rumble shakes the bath crypt's vaulted ceiling. The door opens to a rectangle of light from the hallway and a waft of cold air stirs the lazy molecules, quickly swallowed by thick, muggy air.

A figure cuts through the fumes, broad shoulders, dark eyes gleaming past the fog. So anxious that boy.

"Ah, there you are, my boy. You've left me waiting. Too busy to indulge your old uncle in a bit of your precious time?"

There are no guards, no slaves. Feyd-Rautha stands stiff as a board in front of his uncle's tub, knowing what it means. He offers no response.

"You've been spending an awful lot of time with your new toy." The Baron's neck wobbles as he tilts his head.

"So? What's a new toy if I don't play with it?"

Vladimir laughs and laughs until his lungs hurt from the rotting disease inside. The pistons of the bulbous breathing apparatus that hovers like a moon in his back jump up and down with wheezing jolts. "I'm starting to feel a bit neglected."

Anxiety is barely the right word to describe the crippling tightness behind her sternum when she walks down the bug-like bowels of the palace pyramid. After almost three weeks of being huddled up in the illusionary safety of her chambers, her advance down the hallway feels like she had just given birth to herself, more vulnerable even than she had been when the sisterhood freed her from her sarcophagus and she came out spitting the thawed, amniotic fluid.

Guarded by Mikhail, his presence does little to brighten her mood today. And then he stands still in the middle of the corridor, footfall stopping so that the only sound she's left with is her thundering heart.

"Ain't allowed to go closer." His jaws and neck are ramrod stiff as he jerks his chin to the far door. Tall and glinting black, it may as well have led to hell. "But you go. It'll be fine."

Fine is no word that agrees with her when she is invited by the Baron Harkonnen himself without a given reason. She didn't even have the time to have Feyd in the training hall informed.

"Okay," is all she manages with a small voice, not looking at her guard for affirmation. Mikhail is glad for it, because anxiety is ticking in the veins under his temples. He doesn't know what the Baron wants of his new Lady, but he knows of the dead slaves that are frequently carted from the bath chambers to the meat plants. "Please don't let anyone into my room."

"Yes, my Lady."

And so she walks with only a bobbing glowglobe left for company and her gun in its makeshift holster which sits snug against her waist, concealed by a jacket whose armpits have long grown clammy with anxious sweat.

Come quietly, don't knock, the note had said. Gingerly, her fingers wrap around the cold, bulbous handle and quietly push the door open, just a crack so she can slip through.

She finds herself blinded, venturing into the dense fog that nearly takes her breath away. It smells of herbs and metal, the scent so thick she can taste it at the back of her throat. Immediately, her jacket clings to her arms from the humidity. The sound of distant bubbling drones out her quiet footsteps on black, slippery tiles.

The room takes shape and structures emerge from the thick mist, an oval contour, a pale mountain, a person standing at the side. She parts the fog and freezes with a thousand little icicles in her chest.

Feyd-Rautha stands next to his uncle's bathtub, his tunic discarded, his bare shoulders milky and damp as oily, scented steam curls off them, muscles rolling as he turns to face the unexpected visitor. His teeth clench tight, a muscle snapping like a whipcord across his jaw.

Her poor beloved looks at her with such horror, she may as well have been the apparition of her own naked corpse. His hands are frozen at the hem of his trousers, pushed below his hip bones with just the top of his flaccid cock peeking out.

He is the minotaur at the center of a prison-maze and his woman is the gun with its cold muzzle pressed directly at his forehead. Fog slips from the bath chamber into his mind and the world begins to spin.

The woman's dumbstruck gaze sways slowly to the Baron who sits half-submerged in oily liquid. The top of his massive, fleshy chest wobbling just above the surface. Veins are stretched thin across the expanse of skin, each blood vessel leaving a purple imprint against his sickly pallor. Her glassy eyes remind Vladimir of his dear nephew's when he was still young and sweet, afraid and confused.

The Baron smirks, lifts one fat arm on the back of the tub with a playful bat of his fingers, rings clanking on the tiles, as if to say 'Hello, little pawn'.

Glass shatters in her eyes and if she could strike him down with anger, she would. The Baron's meaty finger twitches to his thickest ring that hugs his middle finger like a capsule and the fog around him snaps and ripples. A shield powered by a tiny Holtzman generator, and the first time she sees one in action. The hidden gun at her ribs taunts her with its uselessness.

Helpless like a fly in a web, she averts her gaze from the thick, white tarantula patriarch who mocks her with glinting, beady eyes below his saggy brows. She has no weapon, no tool to obliterate the devastation in her beloved's eyes, the humiliation that has burrowed itself so deep that neither fingers nor knives could claw out its festering tumors.

"Feyd…" Her voice dies with his cold, wet stare.

"Isn't my dear nephew pretty like this?" The Baron drones, stirring the waters with a gooey, fat knee. "But I suppose you've seen him already. Just remember that I've seen him more often." Seen him— and touched him.

Feyd snaps into a crouch, picks up his belt and tunic, long limbs turned into stiff, hard rods. With no sound besides his feverish breath, he rushes past her. The touch of tender fingers on his naked belly makes him jump like a wounded foal and he finds his voice, a low-pitched bellow that echoes off the cavernous chamber walls a thousandfold.

"Get away from me, woman!"

The door bangs open and out the fog bursts a haunted bull, stampeding down the corridor. Veins across his hands and arms are swollen thick from the humidity, blood races through them hard and fast as punches the glowglobe to shards. He slings the belt around his hips and yanks the tunic over his head savagely, his own blood running down his knuckles. Mikhail has wisely removed himself.

"Feyd, I'm so sorry, please wait, please let me—"

"I said get the fuck away from me!" His voice cracks, his uncle's laughter rings in his ears like death knells. The Baron has poisoned her now with an image she will see every time she lies with him, every time she looks at him. Her steps grow quicker. So do his.

"I didn't know what he wanted!" She pleads. "If I had known, I would have killed him straight from the door!"

"No one can kill him!" Feyd-Rautha spits over his shoulder, takes a sharp turn, away from the concubines' corridor, dizzy from the fog, dizzy from the rage. "I've tried, too many times!" Bracing himself against the wall, he runs onward, collecting dirt under his damp soles.

His darling calls for him. This time, he draws his blade and her little footsteps falter at his back. Immediately, his throat draws tight. Wetness blurs his sight and he wants to curl up, curl up with his blade, with his blade tucked against his tummy. His bloodied palm finds the panel to unlock his own chambers.

There is no peace there.

A tiny sob from behind him makes him jolt over the threshold. He doesn't want her pity, he wants her rage. He wants to die.

She is quicker than the closing door and bursts inside his room together with him. A quick glance across the large room, vaulted ceilings, glossy windows with the shutters half closed, the furniture hard and uninviting.

Despite Feyd's build and height, she manages to tackle him to the ground, or rather, he stumbles in his hysterical attempt to pull away from her. He rolls on his back, hand on her tummy in a half-hearted attempt to keep her from crawling over him.

"Please, please, please, you're panicking. I'm here!"

Yes, that's the exact fucking problem. She was there.

Feyd-Rautha laughs, tears streaking from his eyes to his ears, tongue peeking out between his blackened teeth. He presents his blade which gleams in tear-wet astigmatism. Real pretty. It would be even prettier embedded in his neck, dripping with his blood. His darling's belly rises and falls under his palm in quick fearful breaths. 

"What d-do you want with the blade? Please, put it down, please put it down, please—"

Oh God, it's not at all meant for her, she realizes when Feyd-Rautha points the glinting blade at his throat. It's meant for him. 

Her fingers lock like vises around his wrist, nails digging into the thin, white skin. Feyd giggles, biceps clenched as he guides the knife slowly to its soft target, free hand sprawled across her belly, twisted into the flesh. To push her away or to pull her closer; maybe both.

Is he really trying, or just trying to scare her? Her arms aren't really stronger than his, yet she somehow manages to drag the blade away from his jugular, clutching his wrist so hard, his carpal bones are bruising her palm.

"Stop this, stop this, stop this!" She yells with each hearty tug.

The sharp tip jerks down and scrapes over his collar bone, a little curve, a  crescent shape. Feyd gasps a wet little moan, giggling through his stinging tears as blood slips down his shoulder, warm and wet. His woman fumbles for something under her jacket and he finds himself presented with the barrel of a gun made of half-transparent plastic. He nearly goes cross-eyed before he starts laughing.

"Yes, shoot me, my darling!" Feyd-Rautha slurs hysterically, twisting his fingers hard into her stomach. He nearly grows hard from the idea of his rotten brain matter splattering across the gross tiles of this insidious room, finally delivered from evil. No one would be better to do it than the angel from his dreams. She'd have to burn his corpse afterwards, so the Baron can't have him brought back.

He still holds the blade, metal tremoring above his neck, now contained by only the counterforce of her non-dominant hand. Her clammy fingers fumble with the hammer of the gun. 

"Put the blade down, or do I need t-to shoot your fucking hand off, Feyd?" She pleads and his eyes snap up with sudden fury, mouth twisting into hardness, eyes spilling over with shiny tears. His arm flexes, pulling her clenched hand right with him in its pathetic belief that she could stop him with the strength of her body. The black-hot tip kisses his neck.

The relic snaps the gun up and points it at herself, the muzzle cold and grounding against her damp temple.

Laughter fades at once. Feyd-Rautha's brows furrow and his grip slackens, deeply disturbed. "My darling… What are you doing?"

"Drop the blade right now!" 

He obeys without thinking, weapon clattering across the tiles before his palms find her hips, clinging to them in fear. "What are you doing with that gun? Stop that— You c-can't leave me."

"And you can't leave me." With a deep exhale and smoldering eyes, she places the gun right next to Feyd's knife, a tiny click of plastic on marble. His fingers clench, his belly where she's seated jumps with quick breaths. 

"I still love you," she sighs and Feyd-Rautha's entire body goes slack. Maybe that's what he needed to hear all along. "Of course, I still love you!" 

Her voice cracks, her shoulders slump. Crying, she throws herself over him, forcing her arms around his neck to serve as pillows for his head. Cheek to cheek, she kisses his tear-streaked skin. Feyd's arms slide home around her back, holding her to him like a blanket.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she murmurs. "It's okay. You're my love and nothing could ever change that." Brief laughter tickles his ear. "When I woke up, I thought I belonged nowhere. But that's not true, because I belong with you and you belong with me. I think I've been floating through space for 24,000 years just to get to you."

He is so ashamed. He never wants to come back out of her embrace.

"I'll find a way," she promises, a sweet whisper against his ear. Already, the gears have started turning in her head and her interface twinkles like a shooting star to make a wish. "We'll kill him."

Feyd wants nothing more than to believe her. His fingers trail up her spine, to the nape of her neck. His flesh burns with vile memories. "Can you— Can you still touch me and make it go away?"

"Of course, my love. I will make it go away. I'll make it better." Her voice trembles from the decision she's made. "I will make it all better."

Come not here in the sun! Come not with a sword! Come not crying over a naked corpse! Come not with a disturbed mind!

- Druth (Hellblade)

A/N: To distract you from your killing fantasies, I think this is the right time to mention that Lilia and Mikhail are my lovely bestie's and my OCs in Dune disguise and I love them so absurdly much, your honor 🥹❤️

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst

[silaslich]

May I make a request for a sequel to "In A Grave so we feel safe"? Something about it scratches an itch in my brain just right. Idk why, I think I just like it when you make 'im mean. 🫣🫣

Our skin starts to rot

Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab!reader

Summary - following from this. Simon hangs around despite the way he treats you like he can’t stand you. The feeling is mutual- to a point.

Wc - 3.8k

Cw - 18+, MDNI, GHOST IS NOT NICE, reader also is not nice, vomiting/purging, referenced/implied drug+alcohol abuse, coercive behaviour, mention of past trauma, smut, fingering, oral (r!receiving), kinda better dynamic toward the end but not really

Your fingernails scrape harshly over the roof of your mouth, and when you look into the bowl of the toilet- you see red.

You gather what’s left of the bile and blood in your mouth with your tongue and spit. Wanting rid of it. Needing to be rid of every last bit of it. All the shame and the guilt and the anxiety, it’s all churned up in your stomach, bought back up with whatever you’d managed to eat last night. Tears sting your eyes from the force and effort of purging, your spine bowed as you grip the white porcelain. Everything hurts. Your body aches. There’s a headache that is pounding like a drum behind your eyes.

The weight of his stare falls over you and so does the shame. You hear him sneer.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” He doesn’t sound as concerned as he should be considering the subject of his question.

There’s a broken laugh that’s hiccuped from your lungs as you wipe your nose with the back of your hand.

“Would it matter to you if I was?” There isn’t anything he can say to make this okay, you’d be happier if he didn’t answer at all. It doesn’t even take him a second to think.

“No” it’s clipped. There’s no emotion there.

You nod to yourself but you don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. There never is. Holding a conversation with him is futile. It’s a waste of fucking breath.

He moves away, you can tell by the sound of his feet scuffing across the floor. Finally- you’re left alone. Allowed out of his sight. Not because he’s concerned, or because he cares. It’s because he wants the control. He knows that you like your own space. He knows that you don’t appreciate it when he lurks over you like a shadow. That’s exactly why he does it. It’s a tactic, like everything else he does, it’s calculated. He’s smarter than he looks- you’ll give him that.

He’s smart enough to know that, no, you aren’t pregnant. And there’s a very low chance of you being able to fall pregnant. You’ve had an IUD placed for as long as you’ve known him. He’s questioned you enough times about it before. Pinching the device under your skin, smirking when you wince at the pain. He’s asking to embarrass you, begging you to ask the question of what would happen between the two of you if you were in-fact pregnant with his child. He wants you to know that he wouldn’t change. That it wouldn’t make him step up or start to think about his actions.

He’s exhausting to be around, frankly, it’s a living nightmare. You thought you’d miss him. After Price had sent you packing there was a tiny part of you that really thought that you’d miss having Simon near. He’s different here than he used to be back on base or out of country. Maybe that’s because he had the others there, perhaps he didn’t want to let his true colours show for all to see. He clearly thinks very little of you, that and your opinion of him. He couldn’t care less about how you see him, how you perceive him. That does sting, just a little bit.

The water cools your skin as you wash your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes and brushing your teeth until your gums feel sore. This is the routine now. When he’s here at least, walking on eggshells in your own home, pretending that he doesn’t bother you as much as he does. You’re lying to yourself, and doesn’t he know it.

You emerge from your bathroom and tread back to your room to get ready for work. In the few months since he’d come crashing back into your life you’d managed to get somewhat of a hold on it again. It’s rubbish money and the hours are even worse but it helps in its own ways. You’re back to some sort of normalcy, outside of Simon and his whole existence within your life. It’s good, you hate to admit, your colleagues are nice enough and the job itself isn’t hard at all. It’s stable. It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Stacking tins and organising pasta on shelves hadn’t been a career aspiration of yours- but you’re alive.

The need for relief is better managed, if you can say that. It’s not always pretty. Some nights are better than others. Your drinking is controllable and the painkillers no longer have a death-like grip on your mind and needs. Sometimes it’s hard to stay afloat, to resist the urge to drink yourself to the point you can’t stand upright or crush tablets between your teeth and rub them into your gums with your tongue. It’s a slippery slope. You can only climb so high before a strong enough wind blows you back down, but growth is growth in your eyes. There’s a noticeable pattern too, it’s always worse when he’s around. He hardly helps the issue. He raids your cupboards and empties your work bag onto the floor every night to make sure you don’t have anything he deems as contraband. As if you’re a child.

The ironic thing is, that he wouldn’t care if it killed you, not really. Not deep down. It might inconvenience him, sure, but it wouldn’t affect him in his daily life. He’d move on to the next unfortunate soul. Hell, you’re probably not the only one he’s seeing, he’s probably already got someone else on the back burner for when you do eventually fuck your liver to the point of no return. It wouldn’t surprise you at all. Not from him.

You get ready and dress for work and head to the hallway that leads to the front door to grab your bag, you’ll sort lunch out at work, because you can hear him in the kitchen. It’s as your key slides into the lock that you hear him still in whatever he’s doing, you bite your tongue.

“I’m off to work” your voice sounds so foreign in your own ears.

There’s a few seconds of drawn out silence and you take that as your cue to leave. Then his voice cuts in again-

“Come ‘ere” it’s rough from his throat. Not yet warmed up since he’d awoken.

You grip the door handle, you could walk out so easily, pretend you haven’t heard him, but it’s hardly worth the aggravation. You leave your key abandoned in the lock and turn to make your way through the living room and toward the kitchen. It’s there that you find him leaning his hip against the counter, a mug of coffee steaming away in his hand, he’s looking right at you as you enter the space.

“Everything okay?” You ask, a brow raised. You’ll be late if he isn’t quick with whatever he wants. He raises a brow back at you.

“I said come ‘ere” he tilts his chin, eyeing up the space directly in front of him.

You blink long and hard to hide the way your eyes want to roll in your skull. You’ll definitely be late at this rate. You do as he wants, nevertheless, stepping right up to him and stopping when you feel the steam from his coffee under your nose. Practically black, as he always has it, barely a drop of milk and no sugar. He’s looking at you in that way that always manages to make you feel so small. Not physically, because that’s already a given. But small in the way that he sees you as inferior to him in every single way. You likely are, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious to you.

“What is it?” Your temper shortens, just slightly.

His eyes narrow, he notices the shift. His free hand lifts to the side of your face, running a rough thumb over the apple of your cheek, it’s a tender gesture. On the surface level.

“Come and see Price” his voice has softened, just that little bit, the way it does when he wants you to do something he knows you won’t want to.

He wants you to believe he’s on your side. It’s immediate the way you shake your head, he hadn’t even finished speaking.

“Simon- we’ve already talked about this” your patience is thinned to almost nothing. He could have said something earlier, long before you’re walking out the door to catch the next bus.

“Yeah, and you’re not seeing it from my perspective” he eyes you from over his nose, again, making you feel small. There’s a sour taste at the back of your throat.

“When do you ever try to see things from my perspective?” You raise your chin, if he wants an argument over this, you worry he’ll get what he’s after.

He brings his mug to his lips, staring at you from over the lip of it.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever stooped low enough to see things from your point of view, sweetheart” you can’t see his lips but you’re convinced you’d see a smirk there if you could. Your fists clench at your sides.

“I find that very hard to believe” you know little of Simon’s past, but you know enough to know that he is indeed lying. It’s another tactic, another way to get under your skin and piss you off. For his own pure enjoyment.

“Yeah? Try me” he lowers his mug and places it on the counter. His full attention on you. He folds his arms over his bare chest, his tattoos right in your line of sight.

There’s only so low that you’re willing to go, but whatever you say- you know that Simon will have something worse to say about you. That’s just a given with him.

“No no you’re right” you wave him off, stepping out of his space and turning to face the windows across the living room.

A beat of silence.

“Tommy was the druggie, right? Not you”

It’s audible, the way his jaw clicks. You don’t move.

“That’s right” his voice is flat, but you know him well enough to know that he’s annoyed, pissed beyond belief. Maybe not at what you’ve said, but that you’ve dared to say anything at all.

“Means I know a lost cause when I see one” you hear his body shift, the way his right shoulder clicks. Adjusting his stance.

You nod, silently. That’s his perception of you. It hardly rings true, a few months ago? Maybe. Now? You give yourself enough credit to know that you’re doing the right thing. Keeping this job. Not crawling back to Price. It settles the nagging feeling in your chest. You’re trying, at least. Making an effort.

“Why are you still here?” Still- you don’t turn to face him.

You keep your eyes glued to the way the world ticks by outside the window, there’s satisfaction in knowing he can’t see just how unbothered you are at his words. Before, you would have given him what he wanted and cried. Would have screamed and shouted in his face. An accusing finger pressed into his chest. You’d spat at him, once. Then he’d grab you and pull you close, pressing your snotty tear-stained face into the flesh of his chest and make a spectacle of soothing you. Telling you how he forgives you, how he knows it’s the booze and drugs talking- not you. He’d say that you’ll feel better in the morning and tug you into bed or towards the nearest waist-level surface and fuck you raw and slow and everlasting until you’re a puddle of nothing. Dumb and boneless- everything he already believes you to be.

He makes a noise. One that if it were translated into English, it would sound like ‘what the fuck are you on about?’

“I asked you why you’re here”

“Yeah, I heard you” his tone stiffens, it’s clear he doesn’t have an answer for you, therefore- he won’t answer.

There’s a few moments where the silence tells. There’s the sound of a car horn blaring outside and the birds that live in the gutter above your window chirp and sing, it’s the way life just keeps humming away- despite everything. Despite it all.

Simon moves and you stay stood still. You turn your head, watching out the corner of your eye as he walks toward you, he doesn’t look you in the eye. Instead looking out of the window as you had been. You follow his line of sight, watching the same cyclist ride past as he does.

“You treat me like shit y’know” you don’t know why you’ve said it. The thought had just been there, at the front of your mind and the tip of your tongue.

He turns his head, just slightly, to look at you. You feel his eyes- they burn.

“I treat everyone like shit” he returns his gaze to the glass, hands slid into the pockets of his trackie bottoms.

You laugh. It breezes past your lips so easily, so freely. You turn your gaze to him, noticing the way his jaw hardens when you do.

“No you don’t” you don’t take your eyes away from his face. You can’t.

For a moment you remember who he is- what he is. And in that moment you find yourself feeling sorry for him. Maybe he deserves more credit, because he could treat you a lot worse, realistically. It’s the one thing you tell yourself when he’s around, that he could be so much worse. It’s not a defence, no, it’s a lifeline. He’s suffered as you have and maybe that’s why you let him treat you the way he does, because that’s what you think you’re worth. Rough hands and sharp words and glaring eyes. It rolls off your back better these days, it’s easier to shrug off.

Simon hums, he’s caught out and he knows it.

“No- no I don’t” he rolls his shoulders until the right one cracks- again.

You bite the tip of your tongue. There’s so much you need to say to him and it’s never the right time or circumstance. You walk on eggshells around him because you can’t deal with the consequences of his temper and his irrationality. For someone who commands a platoon and leads so naturally, he’s the most pig-headed man you’ve ever met. He doesn’t want to hear your opinion or listen to you explain your point, even if he knows you’re right and he’s wrong.

“Why are you really here?” You’re still looking at him and your chest squeezes when he casts his eyes to the side, barely eyeing you. You’ve always loved his eyes.

They soften, if only slightly, it shows he’s considering the question. That he might not shrug it off like he does everything else.

“I don’t know” Simon’s voice carries that lilt to it, the one that reminds you of the man you’d first welcomed into your home- into your bed. Soft voice and attentive hands. Like he could actually stand being near you.

For a few seconds, it’s as if the world outside stops. The birds aren’t chirping and the traffic has cleared. Even the breeze stills, there’s nothing but the sounds of the both of you breathing. Out of sync. Always.

There’s a weight that dislodges from your chest. You didn’t realise you’d been carrying it for so long. Ultimately burdened by it. You haven’t got any answers, none that would clear away the ache in your heart when he looks at you in that knowing way. But somehow, there’s a satisfaction to knowing that he’s as lost as you are, the same way that you don’t understand why you let him stay- he doesn’t know why he stays either.

He stiffens slightly when he feels you at his side. Head and left shoulder pressed into his ribs and arm respectively. He quickly slackens his muscles, leaning into you slightly.

“We’re as bad as each other” the words are a little incoherent, your cheek smushed against his arm.

You’re not bothered if he hears it or not at this point. It wouldn’t matter. You only know he’s heard you by the way he sighs, craning his neck to lean the side of his head against the top of yours.

“I’m afraid I’m worse” he says it matter-of-factly. It’s the truth, to him.

“Much worse” his voice dies away, slightly. Not as though he’s embarrassed by the words, but perhaps because he knows you’re acutely aware.

You’re fully aware that he’s worse than you, in every sense of the fucking word. You’ve been sugar coating things, telling him what he wants to hear instead of what he needs to hear. He can appreciate that to a point. But he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need the softness. That sentiment had been beaten out of him long ago, long before the Army sank its claws into him too. He knows what’s right and what’s wrong, it’s as if he doesn’t have the ability to physically stop himself from doing and saying things he doesn’t mean. In a military setting he can be loud and brash and rude; it’s his job. He spends his days as someone else’s superior, telling them when they can and can’t piss, telling them where and when they will die- essentially.

It’s hard for him to kick that habit when he’s out of that setting. When lives aren’t on the line. Yet, you’re right; he doesn’t treat Price or Gaz or Johnny that way. He can’t explain why, and that’s worse than if he could. He’s just a bad person, that’s what it ultimately boils down to at the end of the day.

It’s all he can think of as he takes you by the hand, watching your wide eyes watch him; pushing you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the sofa. Somehow, it’s different, for reasons he can’t think of. Simon Riley has never been a religious man-

Is this what repenting feels like?

He handles you differently, in his own way. The way he thinks he knows how. When he removes your clothes he’s no longer chasing something, that deep-dark spot in his vision that blurs his rationality is gone.

It’s too late for redemption- to prove that he can be something he’s not; because he can’t. He’d be lying and you know that, so you won’t ask that of him, you wouldn’t expect it either.

He holds your gaze as he presses his lips to the mound of your pussy. He watches how your chest heaves, sucking in air through your mouth, like a deer in headlights. This is so foreign from him, the tenderness, the gentleness of his hands and his mouth. No gnashing teeth or bruising fingers. There’s only featherlight touches- to begin with.

Simon warms you up the way he should. Sliding his tongue through the lips of your pussy, gathering the wetness he finds already there- he hasn’t even started with you yet, not really. There’s a slight smile that creeps up the side of his mouth at that. You tell him how much you hate him, but he has this effect on you; that in itself calls your bluff.

He listens to the way your breath stutters, feeling the way your hips cant into the wait of his mouth when he slows down or stops completely. Your juices are smeared across his lips and down his chin, he rubs his face into your pussy, slathering himself in your wetness. He wants to smell you on his skin tomorrow when he leaves, because he will leave, if you really want him to.

“Oh- oh fuck” he plucks these sounds out of you so easily.

He curls two thick fingers into the tightness of your cunt, reeling at how easy your pussy sucks him in. So needy. So eager for anything he’ll give. He watches his digits disappear, barely wanting to take his eyes off of yours but needing to visualise the feeling of your tight hole sucking him in, clamping like a vice around his fingers as he fucks them deeper inside of you.

“There?” He asks, curling his fingers, watching you nod your head wildly.

“So wet f’me” his voice drags, drunk on your pussy.

It’s like electricity hits his bones when he presses his mouth to you again, lapping at your clit while he continues to pump his fingers into you. Matching rhythm. Swirling his tongue, beckoning you with the wet muscle in his mouth, luring you to the edge. When you curl your fingers into the length of hair at the top of his head, that’s when he’s really spurred on. Letting you rub your pussy all over his face, burying his nose in the mound of flesh there, nipping teeth when you get too bold for his liking- because he’s still in charge here.

“Soo desperate” he tries to be cruel with his tone but it goes right over your head.

He feels the way your walls clamp around his fingers. The way your breathing grows ragged, sloppy thrusts of your hips against his mouth and tongue, pushing yourself closer and closer to the edge as Simon fights to pull you there.

“Oh- a-a fuck Si” you’re a stuttering mess. “M’close-”

You’re practically gushing when you cum. He laps at you like he hasn’t before, listening to cries of his own name that bounce off the walls. The sounds of your pussy oozing against his mouth make his cock leak in his boxers. Hard and untouched. He stutters his hips, seeking any kind of friction.

There isn’t any; but watching and feeling you squirm under him like this is a new found thing. He’s had you on your back more times than he can think to count. Yet, none have felt like this- not even in the early days when things were right between the two of you.

Maybe it’s because things have indeed shifted, that maybe you’ve solidified your belief that you deserve better - that this might be it for him.

Even when you almost pull his hair from the roots, riding his nose as he rides you through your orgasm. Your spine arching off the sofa cushion, needing more despite the fact that he’s given you everything.

“Oh -Simon” it’s hissed through your teeth. He’s doing too much now, clamping his fingers into your thighs, not wanting to let go.

It’s the greediness in him. He wants too much of everything, he has no control. There isn’t that little voice in his head that tells him he’s had enough, that he’s done enough. Not that he would listen to it.

He finally lets up, leaning back on his heels, still knelt between your thighs. Eyes watching yours, you’re staring up at the ceiling. Eyes hooded, lips agape, breath ragged- he can’t help but think you look beautiful.

So why has he never said it before?

He leans his cheek against your thigh, eyes still watching your face, then you feel them- feel his gaze. Your eyes snap to his and for a moment, you look remorseful. Then you open your mouth to speak-

“We’re still not friends”

[omiangelic]

shared moments (dabi)

a handful of shared moments between you and your maybe more than friend, touya todoroki, the flame villain.

this is a prequel to the first fic i posted, pheonix, but it could be read as a standalone !

wc: 2.8k

reader is not described but is implied to have a quirk that makes them colder. i also imply that they're a nurse who frequently works with burn patients, including dabi's victims.

cw: 18+ ONLY !!! no smut, just kissing, grinding, and shirts come off but it ends pretty quickly after that. dabi accidentally wounds reader (a small burn from trying to wake him from a nightmare), mentions of abuse, murder, dying, and nausea. soft yet emotionally stunted and avoidant dabi

playlist: maybe by flower face, zombie by everglow, voidstar and longlegs by grim salvo

He’s shaking, head in your lap. You think he might be crying, but his hands are covering his face as he curls up as tight as he can. Dabi didn’t usually spend the night, but on rare occasion you can wrangle him into sleeping a few hours before running off who knows where. Tonight had been fun, daresay cozy, watching bad movies under a blanket so you could use him as a space heater and he could use you as an icepack.

It’s near four in the morning, far past when he usually sneaks out of your tiny apartment, when you awoke to his distress. He’d been squirming on his side of your too-small bed, mumbling and whimpering unconsciously. Even now, you don’t think he’s realized the small burn on your arm from trying to wake him, but you don’t move to soothe it; you’re too busy trying to soothe him. You rub his side over his shirt and pet a hand through his spiky hair even though he’s long since stopped shaking. You pretend you don’t care you have work in a few hours.

Now, he’s completely motionless, arms fallen to the cushion of the mattress. His voice is raspier than normal when he finally speaks, “…Sorry about that.”

“’S okay. I’ve seen worse.”

You both know he’s caused your ‘worse’.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on up here?” You tap your fingers softly against his temple. It’s a miracle he hasn’t moved yet.

“Don’t think that’s something you’d wanna hear about.”

“You can tell me anyways,” you can practically hear him go over the notion in his head. You met almost a year and you hardly know anything about the man besides his preferred snacks and the types of movies he likes to make fun of.

He thinks for a bit before stating, “you’ve never asked about my scars.”

You hum in agreement. The healed tissue is naturally textured but worsened from insufficient aftercare. The skin grafts look like they were done by someone with medical experience, at least. “Were you dreaming about when you got them?” The scar tissue on his face always made it look like the flames had tried to take him in its hands; like it wanted to soothe him. Console him. You want to do the same.

“Kinda,” he says after another long pause, like he’s trying to find the words, “maybe more like ‘why’.”

He can’t see you frown at that. You don’t like the implication it carries.

He’s quiet for a long time while you brush through his hair. It’s gotten longer- you think you can see blonde roots peak through the inky black.

“My old man…real shit guy,” he takes in a shaky breath and subtly curls deeper into your lap, “I’m gonna kill him one day.”

(You didn’t think he was serious, then.)

“All he cares about is power. He bought my ma so he could create a child more powerful than him. I’m the oldest of four- and his biggest failure,” you wince at the way he chuckles, “It’s funny. He got what he wanted. My youngest brother is a prodigy. He’s one of the top students at U.A.,” Dabi stops again, like he has to prepare himself for what he’s about to say, “I hated that kid for so long. Tried to kill him when he was a toddler, wanted to prove I was better than him. When I was twelve or thirteen I told dear old dad I got stronger,” another pause “He didn’t care,” another pause, like he’s debating telling you the rest at all, “I burned down half a forest, woke up three years later. The fucker who fixed me up showed me pictures of my funeral and everything. Ma got institutionalized not long after…but I gave myself a new name, since I died that day.”

“What was his name?” You ask impulsively. You wish you could take those words back, stuff them in your mouth and swallow them down

“Who’s?” He looks up.

“The boy who died.”

Dabi looks away again, contemplates before relenting, “Touya. Touya Todoroki”

“Touya sounds like a sweet kid. I hope he’s resting easy.”

It’s like the words flipped a switch in him. He shoots to sit up straight. His eyes are angry. Scared.

“You don’t know shit about him.”

“That’s not the point.”

He gets up, paces the length of the bed a few times, stops, looks at the ground, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know shit about me.”

“And whose fault is that?” You really need to learn when to shut your stupid mouth.

He looks up. Sees you fully for the first time since waking. He can see the welt he caused on your arm in his post-nightmare panic. His anger dies. His eyes widen. You reach to slap your hand over it to shield it from view, but he has his jeans on and his jacket and boots in hand before you can find words to say. He’s out the door before you can ask him not to leave.

(You call out of work that day. You won’t hear from him for three weeks.)

Later that day, the search results for Touya Todoroki hurt as bad as you expected them to. There aren’t many paparazzi pictures of him, only a handful of him with his dad at award ceremonies.

His dad. Pro hero Endeavor.

The news coverage of his son’s death is minimal, and it’s mostly about Endeavor taking a leave of absence from hero duties to grieve with his family, but the obituary is public. The white haired boy in the picture looks so young. It’s not very detailed aside from denoting that his funeral was a private ceremony.

You open a new tab and search for fire related quirk malfunctions or natural disasters from around the same time. Its not hard to narrow down that the forest fire that destroyed Sekoto Peak was Dabi’s doing. The flames had been massive and unnaturally hot, nearly impossible to contain. There was barely anything left besides charred bone fragments from wildlife and the partial jawbone of the only human casualty they could find. The victim is unnamed, but it says the police were able to identify them through dental records and bring closure to the family.

There’s a handful of pictures of Endeavor at the scene. They make your stomach churn.

A third tab. Endeavor. There are news articles about his most recent achievements and a few about his youngest son, Shoto, who recently passed the entrance exams into U.A., just like Dabi said.

You feel nauseous.

It’s so comfy laying here wrapped around him like a koala. He’s cold and hot at the same time. There’s one hand cradling the back of your head to his chest while the other rubs your back over the blanket he draped over you.

You don’t usually let him in when work gets you like this. He’s usually the cause, being the most prolific fire quirked villain in the country, but you felt like you needed him today. A little boy had come in with his parents after his first quirk manifestation. All you could see was a young Touya Todoroki when you looked at him. Now all you feel is the pain you feel for the real thing who has you cradled in his arms like you’re more than maybe a friend.

Dabi is prickly when it comes to touch- despite the nerve damage, his scars are sensitive- but for you, he makes exceptions, especially since this is his first time seeing you since his meltdown last month. When he woke up in his dingy-ass apartment today, he knew he had to see you, knew something was wrong. His gut was right. You practically collapsed crying in his arms when you opened the door.

You’ve barely said anything since he’s settled the two of you down on your bed. Every time he thinks about saying something, you burrow impossibly closer into his chest like if you try hard enough you can crawl in his ribs and clean out all the ash and soot that make him up.

He wants to apologize for how he left. He wants to tell you he was scared, that he’s still scared, because he’s never let anyone get close the way you have, and he doesn’t know why he yearns for you to be closer. It’s the only time he ever wishes things had gone differently. If he was closer to a normal guy, less of one of the most wanted villains in the country, maybe he’d let himself be happy to be known by you.

But the only thing Dabi can do is destroy. He burns too hot to be anyone’s light.

Dabi is ruthless. He’s a monster, a villain, a killer; there’s nothing that could clean the blood from his hands.

That doesn’t stop him from pretending things are different, even if just for a moment. You’re naturally cooler to the touch and he finds it hard to imagine ever choosing to be anywhere but in your arms. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling.

Dabi’s never had to comfort someone before. He’s never really wanted to, either.

He isn’t one to be soft or kind or comforting. It’s all so confusing. How do you drag this out of him? Why is he so content with this moment? Something about you makes him different. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s scared. He’s angry. He’s unhappy.

You pull yourself away from him completely, scooting to lay on your back on the other side of your bed.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “you can go now. That was probably really uncomfortable for you. You can leave now, if you want.”

Your eyes are so empty. He’s never seen you like this. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks he wants to stay, make his last visit up to you with more time tonight, but would you rather he go? Should he ask about what upset you? This is so new to him.

He leaves.

The next time he’s over, you pretend to not notice the tension in the air. You move around in your usual sync, gathering snacks and scrolling through the worst rated movies you can find. You feign obliviousness to the way his eyes linger on you for longer than usual and curl up on the opposite side of the choice from him, like the months of slowly shifting closer to each other didn’t happen.

The jokes are bored and the laughs are empty.

He doesn’t spend the night. You don’t ask him to. He doesn’t know why he feels so hollowed out when he leaves.

A few weeks later, after watching movies and ignoring elephants in rooms, you fall asleep. Dabi waits, lets whatever’s playing continue to run while he watches you breathe in and out at a steady rhythm.

The credits roll. He turns off the T.V. and welcomes the darkness lit only by the city as he gets up to lay you down on your little couch. He’s never done this for you before- he doesn’t know why he’s doing it now. Your eyes flutter open as he kisses your forehead and tucks you into your blanket you keep out here.

(He did it without thinking, like it was natural, a habit. He was a big brother, once. He hadn’t realized that part of him survived.)

You look up at him as he stares down at you, eyebrows furrowed at his surprised expression. His eyes flicker to your lips without his permission. He’s already leaning over you, it’d be so easy to crawl on top of you, kiss you, wherever and however you want.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Maybe it’s Himiko’s insistence he grow up and take the risk, maybe it’s a moment of weakness where he allows himself to forget who and what he is, but he’s pressing a soft kiss to your lips without realizing. The contact makes your head jerk back, eyes wide in shock, surprise, wonder. You look at him like there’s something worthy of being looked at. His mouth moves to apologize, but you’re shooting your hands to hold his scarred cheeks and pressing you lips to his before he can try. Your skin is so cold against his had surprised at the lack of steam. He thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t reciprocate in his shock. His response is even further delayed by the fact that he’s never done this before. He feels like a teenager- or what he imagines what being a teenager under more normal circumstances would allow him. As you move to pull away, afraid you’ve somehow overstepped, Dabi is snapped out of his shock, and he’s pulling you back in. His kiss is messy, wet, spit slick as his tongue licks into your mouth with no hesitation. The taste of his urgency is unexpected but he feels so incredible you can hardly stand it. You revel in the way his dull nails bite into your skin when you whimper at the sensation.

His hands are heavy as they make their way down your body, nearly pushing like he needs a constant reminder that this is real. Before you know it, he’s on the couch, on top of you, pushing at your shirt and you’re pulling it over your head in compliance. Dabi takes the moment to yank off his own; his torso is a marble of normal and scarred skin with a shiny barbell through each nipple. You wonder briefly if the metal is hot like the rest of his skin as his lips crash back into yours. One hand in your hair, the other on your waist- he’s pushing you down, pulling you in, until he's all but crushing you in his desperation.

You moan when he lets up, “Dabi-“

“No, no- don’t call me that. I don’t want to feel like a villain with you,” he’s equally breathless, practically heaving above you.

“…Touya?”

Your uncertainty is immediately discarded when he fully moans at the sound of his given name on your lips, “yes, yes, thank you-“ and he’s kissing you again, cradling your face like you’re porcelain but grinding down like you’re the farthest thing from fragile.

His grip tightens when the pressure of his hips makes you moan.

The weight of his body makes you dizzy. His lips and hands move down your neck, licking, biting, and sucking at all the skin newly exposed to him and it feels so good you don’t now what to do with yourself. You decide on shoving your hands in his hair; you’re pulling it at the root when he bites down next, and he’s moaning into your throat like it might kill him to be quiet.

What does he want from me? The question crashes through your brain like a bullet. You don’t know if you want to actually ask. Would it be so bad to let this happen, just to have him close like this? Is the burden of wanting from afar easier to carry than having him halfway? Yes. Of course it is.

Your sudden unresponsiveness stills him. He pulls away to find your eyes distant and face neutral.

“Touya?” You ask after a silent minute filled with his thumbs rubbing circles in your waist, “what did that mean? To you, for us?”

He gulps, “I don’t know.”

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He hadn’t thought at all.

“You don’t know,” you echo.

He’s off you before you can decide what to make of his answer.

“Sorry, don’t know why I did that- sorry,” you think you hear as he fumbles around for his coat and his boots. You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him. Instead, you focus on the ceiling it’s almost too dark to see. You think you hear him pause at your door, but your head is so loud and intelligible you aren’t paying attention.

The static doesn’t block out the sound of your front door shutting, though.

(Neither of you realize he left his shirt behind until after he’s already out the door. You pretend you resist the urge to cuddle it to catch his scent on it, and he will pretend he doesn’t imagine you doing just that.)

Ever the coward, Touya runs. He throws up his shame once he’s in his own apartment. He knows he shouldn’t have left. He didn’t want to- but he didn’t know how to stay either.

He hates himself more than he has in a long time for tonight.

His burner buzzes in his pocket. It’s Shigaraki. plans in motion.

He doesn’t think you’ll forgive him for doing this, but it’s been building since before he met you. It’s not like he has any sort of life or future to look forward to anyways. It’s not like he gives you much to miss anyways.

Soon. Endeavor’s head. Soon.

dividers by @/issysh3ll and @/thecutestgrotto

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[whoreseason]

RANDOM JAMES MARCH HEADCANONS

CW for murder, drug use mentions, and discussions of trauma/implied child abuse

I think he excels at doing cocaine. I don’t know how to explain what I mean though

He's done quite a lot of it in his life but no longer does, not only because his ass is dead and he can't get high but because such crass indulgences remind him of his younger days

He’d wear women’s perfume if it were more socially acceptable but his ideas around masculinity refuse to let him do this

His hair is naturally a bit curly and he has spent years gelling it into submission

Is 5'8 and rather small build-wise

Despite his size, he can really, really hold his own in a fight, though he fights very dirty. Hand to hand fighting triggers something in him and he does it with pure rage. His opponent will be on the ground before they know it and he'll probably have killed them before he realizes what he's doing

Is a bit resentful of his babyface, as well as his height, and wishes he were both taller and more mature looking

Growing out a mustache was influenced by this

Also deeply resentful of the phrase “prettyboy”, which he’s heard a fair amount

Either puts lifts in his shoes or wears slightly heeled ones. Do NOT bring this up

Has been smoking since he was 12 or so

His eye twitches just slightly when he’s annoyed. It’s often his only outward tell

His only two modes of expressing irritation/anger are “irritated but not showing it” or “literally screaming”

I feel like we as a fandom don’t talk about his canonical temper enough. This individual has probably thrown a fork into a maid’s eye because she got the placement of a napkin wrong

His original accent is lower class Boston, and while this may not be a headcanon, I feel the need to bring this up. His actual voice may sound more like Kit's than anything

Speaks a bit of French and Latin, largely in an attempt to fit in with the old money upper class

Started drinking pretty hard very young, maybe when he was around 12 or 13? And was basically an alcoholic throughout his teenage years

Barely went to school growing up and was more or less able to charm his way into university

Is embarrassed of his Irish heritage. He's a product of his time

Killed his first victim in a rage episode in an alley behind a bar somewhere when he was 16

His first victims were impulsive kills along these lines, but his motives switched from triggered anger to relying on it as he went on, and by the time he was in university he'd get tightly wound and restless if he'd gone a week without it

Took various traits from his first victims-- ways of lighting a cigarette, vocal quirks, body language tics, that sort of thing. As the number racked up and his designed personality become more fleshed out he stopped doing this, but he carries his first kills with him through certain mannerisms, though it's now subconscious

Also took various traits from movie stars and book characters. Spent a lot of time at the cinema as a young man finding things on screen to make a part of himself

Is so very, very fake. Has constructed basically every aspect of his presentation and outward personality

He hates being reminded of who he was before, who he truly was-- he’ll reference parts of his childhood in the context of who he is now and what he's had to overcome, but it’s more like he’s using pieces of his past to construct a story about himself. Anything vulnerable or authentic to that part of his life he won’t bring up, he doesn’t even let it cross his mind

Has worked very, very carefully to suppress his flinching instinct at sudden noise or movement, but sometimes it still comes out when he’s snuck up on

Used to wake up screaming sometimes when he was alive

Would just as often wake up crying, which he quite hated. He never remembered what those dreams were about

He’s glad that he doesn’t sleep anymore and can thus avoid all that. Which is what he loves to do with his memories or any sign of emotional vulnerability, avoid it. Good luck trying to get him to open up about anything

Love you grandpa

[stevesjockstrap]

Digging Holes

@steddiemicrofic prompt ‘hole’ | 404 words | rated G

cw: implied past child abuse • read on ao3

Steve watched the kids playing in their backyard, digging happily in the sandbox Uncle Wayne had made for them. The neighbor boy had come over, and his girls sometimes needed to set some boundaries with him but otherwise everything usually went well.

He brought them juice boxes or granola bars from time to time but tried his best to let them play uninterrupted. Eddie always claimed he was a helicopter parent, but he felt he was more than entitled to a little paranoia.

Smirking as his youngest again reminded the neighbor to not fling sand around, he watched as she looked around the backyard for him. Once she knew he was just on the patio, she went back to playing. That was something else he enjoyed, that his girls knew to keep an eye out.

Eddie snuck out of the house and slid in beside him.

“How are you going to helicopter from all the way over here, babe?” He teased, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I am not helicoptering. How are you going to rile them up from all the way over here?”

Things seemed to get tense all at once, both of his girls’ heads popping up to locate their dads.

“We reached the bottom of the sandbox! How are we going to dig a hole to China?!” The neighbor kid yelled louder so the adults could now hear him.

Suddenly Steve was back at recess as a small kid, watching a classmate with shorn dark hair and a black eye explain that he was digging a hole to China with his spork from the cafeteria. He had taken one long look at the kid and grabbed a nearby stick to help him.

“Woah,” Steve whispered, shaking himself out of the thirty year old memory he had completely forgotten about (suffering several head injuries since then).

“What?” Eddie looked at him strangely.

“I dunno. I just remembered, I think. Helping you in, like, elementary school, maybe the same age as they are… dig a hole to China? You were using a spork?”

“Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes taking on a faraway look. “That was you?”

Steve nodded.

“Everyone always thought it was really weird. You were the only one who helped. I, uh, really wanted to get away. That was before, um, before I went to Wayne’s.”

He squeezed his hand on his knee. “I’m glad I helped.”

“Me too.”

[steddieas-shegoes]

even with the hole

for @steddiemicrofic prompt 'hole' (yes, again) rated t | wc: 404 | cw: implied and brief mention of child abuse, implied parental death (in the past) | tags: getting together, first kiss, angst with a happy ending

📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷📷

The cigarette burned a hole through the picture, the last remaining image Eddie had of his mom.

His dad was crying, mostly out of anger, fear. His glossed-over eyes kept glancing at Eddie sobbing a few feet away, begging for him to stop.

It felt cruel that the last time he saw his dad was also the last time he saw his mom.

The picture in his wallet when Eddie nearly died had a hole where a woman should be. Steve could tell that much.

He wasn't trying to be nosy, he just needed to try to get his driver's license out so they could confirm his information for the ER nurse. The picture fell out when he pulled cards and slips of paper out of the front pocket of his wallet.

He quickly slipped it into his own pocket so they wouldn't see it or take it, and handed over the things they needed.

But the more he looked at the picture, the more confused he got.

In the picture, Eddie was no older than four or five, sitting in a woman's lap while she showed him a chord on a guitar. Some of the top of Eddie's head had been burned off along with the woman's entire face.

Steve may not know much about Eddie, but it was pretty obvious this person was important to him.

He hoped he got the chance to ask about it.

He waited. Eddie woke up to a lot of questions, about what happened, how he was, where did it hurt. Steve didn't wanna add to it.

Days later, Steve managed to stick around after visiting hours were over.

Eddie was tired, but insisted on the company.

Steve pulled the picture from his pocket and watched Eddie's face go through a series of complicated emotions.

"I didn't want this to go missing. Seems important," he said.

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, gulped.

"She taught you guitar?"

"She tried. I was still too young. Wayne taught me."

Steve placed his hand on top of Eddie's. "You remember our first grade play?" Steve handed him another picture. "She was there."

Eddie looked down and saw his mom.

"How?"

"Nancy knows how to find anything," Steve shrugged.

Eddie let the tears fall. "Kinda wanna kiss you."

"Wouldn't say no."

"Pretty unsexy to kiss while I'm crying, don't ya think?"

Steve leaned in and pressed his lips to Eddie's. "Not to me, Eds."

[superlarva]

Happy Father’s Day!

Okay, okay, considering what my fic is about I felt obliged to post something today :)

Here is the prologue. It’s just Rex finding out he’s a dad (he’s gonna be happy about it I promise, he’s just a little overwhelmed). Also, sorry, no baby domino twins yet, we’ll get there soon (Next Sunday).

Next chapter: 01

Rated: Teen

CW: Implied child abuse

Rex turned restlessly in his sleep, his forehead dotted with sweat despite the chill of the December night air. The room was silent but for his quiet breaths, dark but for the soft red glow from the digits on his alarm clock. It was not set to go off for another two hours.

Rex shifted again, rolling onto his back and throwing off the covers, a small, uncomfortable groan escaping from his parted lips. Then, his breathing hitched and stopped completely, his chest failing to rise. His face paled, shining against the dark sheets in the dim light.

Nothing moved.

Not the flutter of a curtain or the twitch of a muscle.

Everything was still.

Then, in an almost imperceptible movement, Rex’s eyes cracked open. Not quickly, the way one does when pulled from the depths of a nightmare, but slowly, as if from a dream one cannot quite place, a dream that is forgotten as soon as it is over.

The stillness was now broken, and the silence soon followed as he gulped down ragged breaths to refill his depleted lungs. He did not sit, not yet; he lay, content to breathe and stare at the ceiling above him.

It was Tuesday. Before dawn. Yesterday he had closed one of his biggest cases. Today he would be writing up his reports. A thought like this normally bothered him. He would itch to get back into the field, to be assigned a new case, not to sit at a computer painstakingly entering information into charts, but today he felt this desire eclipsed by another. Perhaps from the dream or something else, he did not know.

 Rex pulled in next to the only other car parked outside the 501st district police station. He did not need to look to know it was Cody’s. His brother always seemed to be in the office and for once, Rex was grateful towards Cody’s insomniac tendencies. He could use the company.

Rex cut the ignition and sunk back into his seat, closing his eyes. He had felt off ever since he woke up. There was a strange feeling in his chest he could only describe as anticipation: a mixture of excitement and dread, nervousness and hope. The feeling was not new to him, but the way it sprouted seemingly out of nowhere was.

He sighed, opening his eyes, and running a hand through his short blonde curls. He had thought the hot shower and quiet 5 am drive down to the station would have soothed the feeling away, but clearly he had been wrong. Rex took a few more minutes to collect himself before he stepped out of his car and made his way into the station.

Cody was sitting behind a large oak desk, hunched over a thick stack of papers lying on top of an opened manilla folder. When Rex moved into the doorway of his office, he looked up, eyes going wide before darting over to the clock above the door, then narrowing in on Rex.

“Rex?”

“Cody.”

“You’re here early.”

Rex nodded, dropping heavily into the chair in front of his brother’s desk.

Cody glanced down at his papers, hesitating, before pushing them aside and leaning his forearms on the desk, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Rex fidgeted, suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t even know how to explain his feeling to himself, how could he explain it to his brother?

Cody cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Rex to elaborate. When he didn’t Cody leaned back in his chair, “You look tired. There’s a cot in the closet, I could—”

“No,” Rex cut him off, standing abruptly. “I just… I just need to work. To focus on work.”

Cody hummed knowingly, sliding the folder back in front of him as Rex made his way out.

 Work that morning was slow and by lunch the past six hours of typing up reports felt more like six days. Rex dragged himself into the kitchen to make a second cup of coffee and maybe grab something to eat from the vending machine since he forgot to pick something up on his way in.

As he was flattening a crumpled dollar bill to fit it into the vending machine, he heard rustling behind him. Rex turned around and saw Wolffe holding out a brown paper bag.

“Apparently I’m Cody’s delivery boy now,” Wolffe said, nodding to the bag, “It’s a Reuben.”

Rex took the bag and mumbled an apology before ducking his head and reaching for his wallet in his back pocket for more money.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s covered,” Wolffe said rolling his eyes—well, his eye—and hitching his thumb towards Cody’s office. Before stalking out of the kitchen, Wolffe leaned in and smirked, “You look like shit, man.”

Rex grimaced and sat down with the sandwich. It was good, he had to admit, but hard to enjoy. His mind kept wandering to the feeling of anticipation coursing through his veins that had only been growing as the day wore on. He had been doing so well recently. He had wrapped up a major gang related violence case and gotten a promotion, been best man at Bly’s wedding, and had just agreed with his therapist that he no longer needed weekly counseling sessions.

His heart felt like it skipped a beat, and Rex took in a short sharp breath, then shook his head, chuckling; maybe Kenobi had been wrong in his assessment of his wellbeing. He sighed, dumped his half-eaten sandwich in the trash, and made his way back to his desk.

 Rex was in the middle of a meeting when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. All eyes turned to him, and he quickly reached into his jeans and switched it to silent mode without checking the number.

Cody paused, crossing his arms in front of his chest before continuing to brief him and the rest of the 501st on… whatever it was he was briefing them on. Rex was too focused on counting his breaths and trying to suppress the awful feeling that kept washing over him. It only became worse with every passing minute. He felt his eyes glossing over and he diverted his gaze to the floor, vaguely aware of his hands fidgeting in his lap.

“Rex?”

Rex’s head snapped to attention, eyes focusing in on Cody’s creased brow as his older brother knelt down in front of him. Rex shifted in the chair looking anywhere around the now empty room except at Cody.

“C’mon, old boy,” Cody said trying to catch his eye, “What happened?”

Rex shrugged; he honestly did not have an answer for that.

“Do you…” Cody trailed off, eyes darting back and forth, “Do you want to come over for dinner?”

Rex began to shake his head to refuse the offer but stopped when he met Cody’s pleading eyes. His brother was just as worried as he was. About what, he had no clue, but it would be better to have something to distract himself with, even if that something was Cody grumbling at the TV about which play they should have made during the football game.

“Okay.”

Cody smiled and straightened up, “Alright, give me five and we’re out of here.”

As Cody left the meeting room Rex dug his phone out of his pocket and scoffed as his screen showed the time to be 4:55 pm. Of course Cody would make sure they left no earlier than 5. The scoff died in his throat as he caught sight of two new notifications.

A missed call and a voicemail.

Both from the same number.

The caller ID was labeled “KCPS.”

Rex blinked. His face went pale, and he clutched his chair like at any moment the gravity in the room might reverse.

He was done with the system. He had been done with the system when Cody, one year his senior, had aged out and assumed responsibility for him seven years ago. They couldn’t make him go back. They couldn’t—

Rex shook his head, trying to steady his labored breathing. They couldn’t make him go back because he was a 24-year-old man. He was no longer a child. He no longer depended on the system.

His breathing evened out and slowed. He clicked open his phone. If CPS wasn’t calling to collect him, then what were they calling for? He hit play on the new voicemail and held the phone up to his ear.

Hello. This is Taun We from Kamino Child Protective Services. We are trying to reach Rex Fett. If you are Rex Fett, please call this number back immediately. Our number is…

Rex dropped the phone from his ear and redialed the number. His heart was pounding in his chest. As the first tone rang Cody appeared in the closed glass doorway. Rex held up a finger and turned so the phone would be visible to his brother. Cody gave him a thumbs up and a quick smile just as the call connected.

“Hello?” Rex started, his pulse beginning to beat in his temples.

Hello, this is Taun We from Kamino Child Protective Services. How may I help you?

“I, uh, received a call earlier today asking for me to call you back,” Rex said before hastily adding, “This is Rex. Rex Fett.”

Yes, of course. Mr. Fett.

The woman on the other end of the line paused for a moment to shuffle around papers. After a few seconds she found what she was looking for and continued.

Your children Echo and Fives Se have been removed from the custody of their mother Nala Se. Because you are their biological father, they will now be placed in your care. Are you currently residing in the country?

“Yes,” Rex froze, unable to do anything other than answer her question.

And you are currently employed as a police officer of the 501st district?

“Yes.”

Are you physically and mentally fit to care for a child?

“Yes.”

Rex couldn’t breathe.

We will be waiting for you at the Kamino CPS office at 32 and Broad Street where you will be able to collect your children. At what time do you expect to arrive?

Rex opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked to Cody for help.

Cody’s mouth was set in a tight line, brows pushed together, concern written across his features. As soon as he saw Rex’s eyes meet his, he pushed his way through the door.

What? Cody mouthed, stopping an arm’s length away from Rex and eyeing his phone.

All Rex could do was shake his head, eyes wide and teary.

A woman’s voice crackled to life from the phone. Excuse me, Mr. Fett? Are you still there? What time will you be arriving?

Now that Cody was in the room, he could hear the woman on the other side of the phone clearly. He extended his hand towards Rex’s phone, seeking approval from his eyes before taking it gently from the death grip Rex was holding it in.

Cody held the phone to his ear and put a hand on Rex’s shoulder, gently squeezing, “Good afternoon, this is Cody Fett. Rex’s brother. He had to… step out for a moment. Where are we to be arriving to?”

Please report to the Kamino CPS office at 32 and Front Street. Mr. Fett will be able to collect his children there. Will you be arriving this evening?

Rex was just starting to be able to sort through his thoughts as he felt Cody’s warm hand suddenly tense up on his shoulder. Rex looked up at his brother, whose tan face was quickly draining of color. His brother felt his gaze and looked down at him, flashing a quick, sad smile before responding to the CPS worker.

“We can be there in 45 minutes,” Cody looked over to Rex for confirmation and received a small nod. “Thank you. Have a nice night.”

Cody hung up the phone before the woman had a chance to respond, turned to his brother, and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

After a minute Cody pulled back to look at Rex. Rex’s tears had remained unshed, and he quickly blinked them back, “Cody, I—”

Cody held up his hands, “I know, Rex. I know. It’s alright.” Then, only after seeing Rex relax a little, “Let’s go bring them home, okay?”

Rex nodded, “Okay.”

[judesmoonbeauty]

Jude Jazza Route Theories Pt. 2: Hidden Rooms, Burning Smells & Human-Trafficking ☾.

MDNI - Solely for brief mentions of sex CW: Brief mentions of SA, Child abuse, Death.

This is another post I also delayed for months, and it's a bit more of an odds and ends post. I had these notes written, but got busy translating and they just stayed stuck on paper. Then I had a nice chat with @shatcey the other day which reminded me about Jude's Crown’s S-Rank 95k Bonus Story story.

Under the cut due to event and route spoilers. As usual, this is just for fun, it's nothing groundbreaking, and we can't be dogmatic.

Burning Smells: “Shit, that burnin' smell...” - Jude Jazza, Crown’s S-Rank 95k Bonus Story

To my knowledge, this is where we are first introduced to something very odd - a Jude who doesn’t like burning smells. In this scene, a merchant whom Jude has collected evidence against for human-trafficking, started a fire within his own mansion to get rid of evidence. He intended for Jude and Kate to burn with him, so the two run for their lives as usual. Interestingly, we get a bit more insight about this vague statement at a later event……

“The smell when I smoke reminds me of that stuffy ass room. All the smoke n’ the fumes, n’ the gloom in the air would make me cough up a lung.” - Jude Jazza, Roger Barel’s Past Records-Record No. Four

This didn't hit me until I was writing this post, but I love how I Cybird expounded on that tiny morsel so many months later, and yet there's still not a lot of info. While it's implied the room Jude was in was filled with cigarette smoke (and for all intents and purposes, it probably is just cigarette smoke), Cybird doesn't explicitly state what type of smoke was actually in that room. It only says that cigarette smoke reminded him of it.

And if you think about it, cigarettes would just be an easy way for Jude to have access to the smell of smoke (which he uses to feed his hatred and vengeance).So, it could also be something like fumes and smoke from a furnace? Something that would constantly be spreading and harming them versus the potential intermittent smell of cigarette smoke. Maybe not though.

Regardless of the type of smoke it was, it’s both a source of trauma and a motivator for him, and he abhors it. Now about this room he was in.....

Hidden Rooms: So far we know that he was in a dusty attic (from his first BD event), and then this stuffy room that was filled with smoke.

Going to back to the mansion that is on fire in the 95k story, Jude wants them to escape by means of climbing down a drainage pipe from the fourth floor, but Kate tells him to do it alone, fearful the pipe won’t support them both. She explains that there maybe a hidden passage way to a detached outbuilding, where it’s rumored a sickly child the couple had at one point lived inside. When they reach the the wall that divides the mansion with the outbuilding, Jude says:

“……It's somethin' you often find in aristocratic mansions. They’ll dig underground and make somethin' like this.”

Now, how would he know this? He’s not an aristocrat. True, it may be that it’s something he’s noticed on Crown missions such as, Ghost House Report. In that mission, they find Anne’s skeleton in an under ground basement that’s hidden beneath the first floor staircase. It could also be that he worked as a servant in an aristocratic mansion and saw things no one should ever have to see. However, I feel like in Jude’s case, it might be……

Human-Trafficking: “Now, if ya were just buyin’ ‘n sellin’ guns ‘n other dirty shit that’d be fine. But don’t ya remember the contract ya signed with me? When I toldja, NO human traffickin’.”- Jude Jazza, Wrapped In Wicked Romance, Premium End

From the very beginning, we know at least one thing about Jude, and it’s that he HATES human-trafficking. In fact, majority of his personal missions involve this disgusting practice, and that point is further driven home in Ellis’ route. In chapter 13 of the route, they find 12 children who’ve been abducted by a lunatic, and Jude is absolutely furious about it.

A quick side note, before they discover the children, Jude tells Kate that it’s never acceptable to lock up a child without food. To me, it solidifies other evidence that Jude may have been a victim himself along with his sibling(s)/mother. Oh, and it also contributes to his medical records stating that he suffered from malnourishment!

There are ton of theories that I have about how he and his sibling(s)/mother were sold if that was the case.

Simple street abduction. There could’ve just been a bunch of bad guys looking for a quick buck and sold children to earn it. Ellis’ route has something similar happening.

Jude and his family may be from another country who were sold to someone in England. (I’m using First Class Ticket, Dark IF, and Guard IF as a basis for this.)

Jude and his family may have been offered up as collateral by their parent/guardian at an illegal gambling den. (Jude’s & Nica’s versus SE is what makes me think this).

Jude and his family may have been born into captivity by a mother who was sold to someone, and assaulted.

Jude’s mother may have been a prostitute who snagged herself a nobleman customer, and thus he was born and was simply mistreated within the home, and/or was found by the father later on and shoved into a cage.

Or, his mother may have been the one who disappeared after being sold, and he was simply left to live on the streets and earn a wage any way he could.

Final Theory? It's kind of hard reigning it all in, but I think Jude and his family may have been victims of human-trafficking in a nobleman’s home. There must've been constant burning smells of smoke that irritated baby Jude's lungs (who already suffers from seasonal asthma). This no doubt contributed to the illness of the other two who were with him as it seems they had trouble breathing too.

They may have been starved (as supported by Jude's medical record of suffering from child malnourishment), assaulted (physically and sexually), and/or at least exposed to the indulgence in vices such as drugs, sex, murder games (as Jude's mentioned once before in an event or Ellis' route...I can't remember where exactly), and other things…..we will stop at that because I can’t bear to think of what they may have had to endure or witness.

Assuming, Jude was locked away in a mansion like that as a child himself, I think it’s plausible that he escaped the mansion using his wit, not necessarily the way he did using cigarette smoke in the story, but somewhere along those lines:

Without putting the cigarette in his mouth, he held it out toward the underground passage. Then, the cigarette smoke trailed into the passage from the back of the hallway. “…..Thankfully, there's some air flow. Looks like there's an exit on the other side.”- Jude.

Of course, little Jude could’ve also climbed out a window and down the drain pipe if he was making his way down from a dusty attic instead, and I wonder…..was his family (?) able to make it out too, or was it too late by that point?

What we do know is that Jude escaped that life, and he even went to a public school (which is a paid school for the wealthy and the aristocratic). According to Past Records, it was either a scholar or a doctor who supported Jude in this endeavor.

Why? Why did they fund Jude's schooling? A selfish one? A genuine one? Did they notice how intelligent and clever Jude was, and decided it would be a tragedy if his brains were left to waste in the slums? Did they meet Jude while he was locked away? Did they meet Jude on the street? These are questions I want to know.

Again, this is just what I think could’ve happened. Let’s see how wrong I am! Please feel free to add-on to the theories.