#emotionally and phyiscally

[kaikamahine]

.

[mejomonster]

You know when your anxiety is so bad it's physically obvious :/

Yeah I have no idea how to unlearn that

[locketsvault]

「 CUDDLING WITH BSD MEN PT 2/4 」

pairings: chuuya x reader ፥ akutagawa x reader ፥ oda x reader

tags: gender neutral reader, no agab mentioned, first person, fluff, cuddling/phyiscal affection

warnings: talks of canon illness in akutagawa, not proof read

other parts: ada ᨒ port mafia ᨒ doa + the guild ᨒ the hunting dogs

a/n: fyi for chuuya I have not read stormbringer so forgive me. oda is also short because I didn’t really know what to say for him. no gender or sex mentioned, no pronouns either!

// chuuya nakahara ⌇˚.༄

⮑ Is there such thing as classy cuddles? Because he gives classy cuddles.

⮑ The word I’d use for him in a relationship is classy, I can’t help it. But I do mean classy in a good way. Physical affection with him started off small, and he allowed you to pace when you were ready for more. I also see him as someone who always has an arm around you, either over your shoulders or on your waist.

⮑ He keeps pda to a minimum, he won’t cuddle you in public, especially in front his co workers. He’s an executive and he takes it serious. I also don’t think he’d want to show you as his weakness, he wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

⮑ Cuddling with Chuuya is oddly nice. Oddly because he seems rough on the outside. He is very rarely little spoon during cuddle sessions, he feels insecure. But he makes up for it, he’s a great big spoon. He’s a warm, very very warm. I can actually picture you in between his legs cuddling him while he has a wine glass in his hand. Now a many things could happen, one of you is talking, or you’re watching something. Either way, it works well with him.

⮑ The downside is he isn’t home much for cuddles. He’s either away for jobs or at work. So unless you’re willing to sit in his lap while he does paperwork, you don’t get your cuddles.

⮑ 7/10, very good cuddles …when you get them.

// ryunosuke akutagawa ⌇˚.༄

⮑ I just want to know how you managed to touch him in the first place.

⮑ Everyone always says he is touch adverse, which I completely agree, but then people usually say that when it comes down to it he hates it and stuff like that. I have to disagree. I think he’s terrified of it yes, he grew up without any form of physical love, but I do think deep down he yearns for it. He craves it and, when he finally gives in, his entire meticulously built wall completely shatters. Which is how I wonder, how’d you manage it?

⮑ I won’t lie, I believe behind closed doors once he’s comfortable with cuddling or touch and he’s quite clingy. You just feel so warm and well— safe. I can promise you though, it will only be behind closed doors. Do not try to be physically affectionate in public, especially in front of his coworkers. At least not for a very long time.

⮑ I like to imagine that after a time, with lots of reassurance about his ability, he will pull you into cuddles with rashomon. Which, I feel like he’d be bad about verbally asking for affection so he’d do that instead. It’s easier on his illness to use his ability.

⮑ Speaking of his illness sadly, it can make cuddling tough. One moment you could be resting in his arms and the next he’s having a nasty coughing fit. There’s been times when he’s be insecure about his illness and not want to be touched anymore.

⮑ 4/10, I love my baby but his illness + his traumas it’s hard for him to be physically affectionate.

// oda sakunosuke ⌇˚.༄

⮑ He takes care of orphans therefore I am a firm believer he knows how to cuddle.

⮑ I mean it too, he takes care of kids physically and emotionally, he’s got dad hugs. If anyone is gonna hold you and it make you feel safe and taken care of, it’s him. And he knows it too. And he has a six sense for when you need cuddling. And sometimes you end up in a cuddle pile with the kids. I don’t make the rules.

⮑ Oda is 50/50 with pda, he doesn’t mind it, especially if it’s something you love. But it does worry him, like Chuuya, he’s afraid of showing you as a weakness and you getting hurt or killed. But if it’s safe, he usually sticks to holding your hand or holding your waist. I can see him holding you close with your heads rested in each others shoulders while at a public theater.

⮑ Private cuddles are common and comfortable. Oh and he’s always the big spoon. He’s always holding you, I don’t really see him as the type to be held.

⮑ 9/10 you can feel all the care in his arms.

main hub ✦ masterlist ✦ to do list

[constablequodo]

More valencock hcs in honour of me blowing up the institute:

They're both autistic but Hancock also has ADHD

They both enjoy sitting in silence together when overwhelmed...until Hancock thinks of something and starts rambling

Neither of them talk about their problems very much in a serious way, which put a strain on their relationship multiple times

Whilst Nick is the one to get more flustered when it comes to flirting, Hancock practically melts when they so much as hold hands

Nick didn't realise just how sensitive his synthetic nerves were until Hancock kissed him for the first time

Nick's internal systems heat up when he's flustered

Ghouls don't do well in the cold, and so Hancock's been seen wearing Nick's coat on multiple occasions (he claims it a spare)

Hancock is dangerously self sacrificing, Nick worries over him alot

They both really like cuddling, though since patches of Nick's synthetic skin are so worn down he's numb in those places, he finds the experience more emotionally enjoyable than phyiscally

Hancock purrs when he's happy, though he doesn't realise he's doing it

Nick has carried Hancock to bed multiple times when he's gotten super drunk. Hancock claims he must've "walked upstairs in a chem-induced daze"

Everyone in Goodneighbour knows about them. However, most of the residents of Diamond City don't

[aerequets]

i very much appreciate how Yor, the strongest character, is so feminine

she’s obviously the physically strongest, and arguably the most mentally and/or emotionally strong. what i really appreciate is that this strength and her femininity are complements, instead of the two being treated as mutually exclusive like in many other media.

yor is soft spoken and gentle and kind to others. she feels emotions strongly and cries in front of others and shows her happiness. she has a natural inclination to take care of others. she is good with children, she is great at housekeeping. she may not be good at cooking but by gosh she tries; she wants to get better. she assumes the best in others and finds other women pretty and kind and admires them. she’s family oriented. 

yor is also insanely strong. she’s gone through extensive physical training since childhood, has multiple scars, has dealt with all kinds of people. she can kick a moving car, incapacitate a whole cow, take down a whole fleet of assassins, etc, etc. the list goes on. but despite all this and all that she’s been through, she didn’t become a tough, sardonic, mean-lean-killing-machine kind of character.

 what i’ve noticed in a lot of media is that there seems to be this kind of tradeoff that people think needs to happen in order for a female character to get “truly strong”. basically feminine = weak and masculine = strong. the character cries? not anymore she will never crack that poker face ever! the character cares for others? psh what no, care for yourself she’s not your maid. homemaking skills? useless, all she needs is the strength of her Fists and Harsh Words. she’s not like other vapid girls, she actually cares about the Real Important Fight which, undoubtedly, is also male-dominated. 

of course, all of this is set up as an opportunity for the male love interest to come in and “break down her walls” because women are just waiting for the right man to change them, but i digress.

why? why are the things that are inherently feminine deemed as inferior? 

a good example i can think of is cinderella, or to be more specific, an opinion about cinderella that was popular (and may still be, i dont know tbh): she is weak for needing a prince to save her. 

lets break this down: this girl gets emotionally, phyiscally, and mentally abused from her childhood into young adulthood by the people who are supposed to care for her. despite all this, she remains kind towards others and attentive in what she does. she seizes what she believes could be her one and only chance at freedom, however fleeting, and ends up catching the attention of the person who is ultimately able to pull her out of her situation.

yes, she didn’t bust herself out of the house and shank the stepfam with her glass shoe. but does this mean she is weak? is that kind of emotional resilience within someone after years of abuse what can truly be categorized as weak? 

anyways, all this is to say that yor is built up as the strong one in multiple ways, and the narrative doesn’t act like her nonmasculine qualities are somehow reductive or lesser, and i very much appreciate how rich her character is. i like so many things about this series man im just

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR: A BLOODY GASH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll need to have the sheets changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, husband,” you tell him.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t tell him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all, Na-Baroness,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the scalpel.  Please not the scalpel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you scared, pet?” he asks.

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

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

“Relax,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s licking my wounds .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess he’s done for the night .

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

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

Like his bedroom, it’s larger than yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look over at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mxlfoydraco]

Do you think Harry would struggle with giving phyiscal affection? Or verbal? He grew up isolated and lonely without the traditional love and attention any child would receive and he likes to internalize things... On that note..I enjoy Draco being a very expressive person, who knows the joys of being doted on; I need Harry to showered in hugs and kisses tbh

Oh absolutely. We see hints that Draco’s a physically affectionate person in the books and it’s easy to guess that his parents aren’t super emotionally expreessive people. His love language is physical touch.

Harry on the other hand remarks in the fourth book that he can’t recall being hugged in a caring way. Remember how he reacted to Sirius openly asking him to live together, it fueled a patronus. He’s been lied to and had things hidden from him. He values direct/open communication the most.

They’re clashing in that way. Harry’s heart races whenever Draco oh so easily touches him, pets his hair, and drapes himself all over. Harry leaves Draco like a deer in headlights with his brutal honesty because he just doesn’t expect someone to step up for him like that.

They grow together and complement each other in that way too.

[missbaphomet]

hi i've been drinking and i'm gonna rtant about astarion <3

i'm so fucking tired of bad takes about astarion and i've been meaning to so a character analysis for a while and i figured why not while i'm a lil tpsy for comedic effect.

so. asatarion. he's often mis represented as either a tiny smol uwu bean vistim or a irredeemable bad guy and tyhe truth is he's neither. He's traumatized and well written and a complex character and i don't tink enough of you have the media literacy to appreciate yhat tbh

this is already less coherent than I expected (didn't eat before drinking but i'm gonna roll with it) but this is meant mostly as funny hahas and not as a 100% serious deeps dive character analysis. also idk if it's alcohol in general or just tequila but i'm already starting to feel sober shich is annoying so i'm gonna drink more and then continues this postw

i've had another drink now so I'm back!!! anywya this is not going well BUT he's been traumatized for over 200 years sexually phyiscally and emotionally and he's had to adapt for the better and the worse. everything astarion does (at least in act 1 if u romance him) is for hs own protection and preservation. he acts this way because there's nothing more dangerous than letting someone truly know him bc that's just another avenue to be exploited and he doesn't want that!!!!!! he is scared shitless and thew fast he fgell in love with u while trying to seduce him is probably super goddamn scary tp him bc he hasnt had that in 200 YEARS!!!

PERSONALLY AT HIS CORE i DON'T THI NK HE'S A BAD guy he\s just scared and confused and hurting and he doesn't wanna let his guard down and that makes him more scared bc no one has bothered to know him in 200 years. my man is scared of being percieved.

AND DESPITE ALL OF THAT HE TRIED HIS BETS TO BE A GOOD PERSON IF THAT S WHAT YOU ENCOURAGE HIM TO DO!!!!!! He\s selfish and doesn't like to help others bc no one helped him bt that does not make him uncaring or cruel. he is not a good person but he's trying his best ok and it's hard but he does really well all things considered.

i fuckin forgot where I was goin with this and I'll b sure to write a coherent character analysis when I'm sober but fuck man. I love him so fucking much. my own trauma is super similar and i probably project on hi m a little too much bc of that but man he's my fuckin blorbo and I have so many thoughts and feelings that my lil heary cannot process when i'm tipsy. i love him so much. I give up trying to make a coherent point rn byt he\s my poor sping wet lil meow meow and i love him so so sos sos o much aaaaaaa

[astroismypassion]

hii <3 its me again, i wanted to know what do you think about venus in cancer at 01 degrees?

Hello there,

ooh are you one? A Cancer Venus?

CANCER VENUS AT 1 (ARIES) DEGREE

you might not necessarily like your romantic partner to have the same traits (or phyiscal appearance) as your mother does

but you could want your mother to accept or "approve" of your romantic choice of a partner

BUT if you also are a CANCER SUN, then it's the FATHER that needs to be impressed, not actually the mother, your father needs to "approve" of your partner

your mother probably guided you a lot thorughout your daily life and life in general, so at some point your own relationship with your mother could have been a bit codependent (sorry for the blunt honesty, I'm just saying be mindful of this)

you are well-liked in the community and especially by women, they sense stability from you, that they can trust you

you probably always calm people first emotionally, even when stating facts, you always make sure to not insult the person on emotional level, you are mindful of that

you lack clear boundaries with others, but also within self and a sense of stable self

you might still think and fantasize about past lovers, people with whom you had a romantic connection with, you might like to say that you will "always care for them"

but you know---be mindful that other people might not be like that, some new love interest that comes in your life, might not approve of you not having clear boundaries with a past lover, new people might not really like that, especially if they are in a partnership with you now, so maybe learn how to communicate your boundaries (what's okay with you and what not) in advance and stick to them

also, don't really allow same old love come back in your life after you have just got it together

be aware of the hurt and the times you've been frustrated in your relationship, because when looking back after ending it, you might see only positive, nostalgic aspects of it (which is not the whole extent of the relationship), because you tend to overlook this or brush it off too quickly, which tend leads to unhealthy relationship

But that Cancer Venus also really depends on your Moon sign, aspects and house as well

I've seen plenty of Cancer Venuses in toxic relationships, but for example Libra Moon, Cancer Venus combo married their childhood crush and one true love, so it's really a gamble, because every Cancer Venus is so different

I think you pair well with other Cancer Venuses or if they have a Cancer Moon, but surprisingly not that great as one would imagine, with Scorpio, Pisces, Taurus Venus. I've seen these Scorpio, Pisces, Taurus Venus signs can be too loyal, dedicated for a Cancer Venus. But pick your own guess

people could fight for your love since multiple people could crush on you, so make sure again to have clear boundaries with each of those people and define things

try to see your love and love that you give to others as clear water, not as murky waters

you are a fan of sentimental gifts that have emotional value, like a teddy bear from your lover

but also a big chocolate fan (chocolate cakes, pralines, chocolate mousse)

you like to be wined and dined

you love sharing a meal with your lover, close friends

you value your own emotional state, wellbeing and emotions, feelings a lot

you are intuitive when you are choosing your future partner (but try not to ignore the facts as well)

you heal people

lol you might also annoy them, since you don't really value consistency as much, you could act in a fluctuating manner

your values can be fluctuating as well, self-worth too

@astroismypassion

[woomycritiques543]

I really hope they don't turn the 7 archangels into just some random assholes.

If anything I hope they don't make the 7 archangels at all because it would be confusing about what their roles are and they'll just turn them into just entertainment factor and to make hell's royal family look like good people

Hrm...

Seems to be the case so far seeing how Adam is in charge of the exterminators and such, when they could have easily.... I dont know.... had made an actually nuanced villain? What's with this series and giving their characters victim complexes while making the "villains" as generic and predictably evil as possible unless they also give them victim complexes or Sad Backstory 2.0? It becomes too predictable in my opinion, both with Stella, Adam, and to an extent Valentino.

I know I know, not all villains "need" depth, but in a show about being "nuanced" you'd think that there would'nt be so many pitty parties and black and white morals slapped onto both shows. That- and all of the baffingly toxic messages slapped on top of it.

Really not looking forward to Adam (unless ironically) so far....

Also, using him to manipulate people into not listening to anyone with concerns about Hazbin Hotel's body image by using your headcannons that Adam is "fat" (when theres legit no actual proof of this since he's wearing a giant coat.)? Are we really going to use headcannons to be that petty people? You're almost in your thirties- what are you doing?! Lmao! Hell, the only reason why, knowing Hazbin, the show would do that is just to either make jokes at the expense of his weight or to show how "diverse" they are while having the only actually plus size character be the villain. It's such a stupid excuse to cover up criticism- and of course, Spindlehorse liked the post with the manipulative speech because they the fuck not, not like they've been shutting down criticism and emotionally manipulating their audience since day one! Why actually try to be phyiscally diverse as an artist when you can have other people do it for you, for background characters- because only twinks and 80's barbies allowed for your ocs! Oh yeah- and like the post of people trying to manipulate people by labelling the skinnywashers and the people with reasonable critiques as the "same" people. Because of course try to manipulate people into invalidating people's concerns- because as we all know, Vivziepop is our lord and savior, she is our god, and if you say anything that isnt praise im going to send my freinds after you, and laugh at you for crying about it- because fuck empathy too, your soul, your very being, belongs to Vivziepop! Submit. 😃 /j

[thesunshinebard]

He doesn't have phyiscal hearteyes, but emotionally he has heart eyes

[barebcnes]

@paramounticebound asked: [ GENTLE ]: having found the receiver sender in an emotionally compromised position, the sender receiver closes the door and approaches them carefully, gently saying "hey…" to try and get them to communicate what has upset them. (( or reversed if you want! ))

To say that seeing Khan cry, of all people Leonard has met so far, is thoroughly shaking him up quite a bit... might be an understatement.

That's probably the case because of different reasons: First, Khan is... well, Khan. He is perhaps the most strongest human (granted, enhanced human) he's ever met in his entire life (or heard of, for the matter), not only phyiscally but mentally as well, if one takes into consideration what he's gone through during his existence. To Leonard, he comes across as quite collected, despite the weight that rests on his shoulders - and hadn't Jim told him about that one time the Augment had cried back at the brig, the Doctor would boldly assume that crying is simply not an action that's existing within his genes, as if a code is missing for that emotion to portray itself.

Second: ... Well, actually... Bones has started to like him, somewhere along the last couple of weeks. Quite a lot, which he knows might be a questionable thing to experience given everything that has happened just a short while ago - but dammit, he's just human himself, and the longer Leonard had mused about what exactly had gone wrong there (not only regarding the whole getting-killed thing, but also the fact that Khan must have gone through so much mental trauma to even end up where he was once Jim, Spock and Uhura had captured him back on Kronos...) the more he'd found himself realizing that basically everything had gone to shit in the most horrific shit ways. Things could - and should - have been handled better from all sides, ended up in a situation that has, effectively so, caused even more harm, with Kirk dying (and being resurrected, thank god) and Khan... well. Having gotten turned into another popsicle before Leonard had been the one to thaw him again.

And now here the man is, the one who has probably experienced so much more pain than any of them could ever imagine - than Bones could ever imagine, for the matter. He barely makes any noises but fuck, Leonard just knows that guy is crying the seconds he spots him standing in that dark corner of the room, back turned toward the door, hiding his front from curious gazes with a hand up on his face---

"...Hey.", is what he decides to say, quietly so, because he's a Doctor, he knows he shouldn't sneak up on someone who's having a hard time. McCoy closes the door behind himself, makes sure no one is entering, before he takes a soft breath and walks further into what has been Khan's home for the last week or such; A glorified prison cell that's made to look like a small one-room-apartment but doesn't allow him to leave. Granted, Khan at least is allowed to own some furniture here - like a bed, a table, chairs, a couch, even a TV for entertainment purposes.

That's bullshit, all of it is, in Leonard's opinion. But he's got nothing to say on the matter, not for the duration of however long all of this might take. So he accepts it, because what else is he supposed to do?

Part of the Doctor wants to ask that one, stupid question everyone does: You okay? But seriously, that's an idiot-thing to ask, especially when seeing someone going through something here, emotionally compromised in any shape or form.

... He's actually here to take a scan, another blood sample, such things. Looks like he might be here for something else.

"---You want to talk?"

The medical supplies Leonard had been holding onto are placed down onto said table, not needed for now. Perhaps later - but whatever Khan goes through right now is more important.

Fuck, it hurts to see him like this. A lot, actually.

[atinyladybug-daydreams]

Rereading WMMAP in it's entirety and then screaming and wailing when I reach Chapter 50. I can't do this. I cant go on. I phyiscally and emotionally cannot read on this is too much for my already breaking heart

[acharnemcntresources]

DOSSIER

name: Armitage Hux

moniker: the general, vicious little squig, planet killer, Brendol's bastard, Sloane's snitch

official titles: Colonel, General, Lead Engineer, Weapons Director, Chancellor

pronouns: he / him

sexuality: homosexual, demiromatic 

species: human

birthdate: January 16th, 0 ABY

place of birth: Arkanis Academy, Arkanis, the Arkanis sector 

affiliations: Imperial Remnant, The First Order, First Order Republic 

residence: The Finalizer, The Imperial Palace

occupation: General of the First Order, Chancellor

spoken languages: galactic basic, arkanisi, ralltiiris, tusken sign language, twi'leki, durese, huttese 

comprehended languages: binary, rodese

PSYCHE

mbti: INTJ-A the architect 

enneagram: type five, the investigator 

zodiac: capricorn sun, scorpio moon, virgo rising

temperament: phelgmatic

intelligence type: logical/mathematical 

perspective: realist

alignment: neutral evil

positive traits: calm, diligent, professional, dedicated, ambitious, highly intelligent, creative, clever, adaptable, confident, charismatic

negative traits: manipulative, dishonest, sly, flippant, guarded, ruthlessly ambitious, cruel, apathetic, emotionally repressed

PHYISCAL

height: 1.82m/ 6'1 ft

weight: 70kg/155lb to 72kg/160lbs 

hair: A vibrant natural red. Naturally soft and wavy. Falls an inch and half past ear length. Often parted on the left and elegantly coiffed to maintain a professional appearance during work hours.

eyes: round but slightly almond shaped, jade green, pale red lashes 

complexion: pale, cool toned, dotted with freckles that are often covered by protective bb cream during working hours.

body type: slight of frame, lithe, toned for swiftness and agility. 

accent: feigned aristocratic coruscanti accent; clipped, smooth. Clear and authoritarian whilst commanding his staff. Soft and drawling when speaking to his political allies. The soft hint of his original Arkanisi accent will surface when he is angry, overcome with emotion, or deeply comfortable with another person. 

posture: Stiff & upright.

attire:

The General― The First Order General’s parade uniform, often accompanied by his General’s great coat. Perfectly pressed and starched. During working hours Hux exclusively dons his uniform. During political liaisons he may wear his uniform or First Order ceremonial attire. If his intention is to sway his guest or make an impression, he may alter his uniform or opt for formal civilian clothes. When outside of uniform he often wears cool tones; slate blue, ice blue, mint green, white, gray or silver. 

The Chancellor― The Chancellor often dons elegant embellished ceremonial garments while addressing the public. He actively uses color theory in his choice of apparel. White, silver and champagne are the colors he primarily wears during public appearances. Speech and ceremonial apparel are often more structured, while garments chosen for galas or socials often consist of supple, flowing fabrics. Beneath all of his public ensembles, lay light armor and concealed weapons. The Chancellor's public wardrobe is carefully curated by his assistant, Chloe. At home he opts for simpler wardrobe— light, elegant fabrics that will not restrict him whilst carrying out his many responsibilities.

scars: he has blaster wound scars on the left shoulder, right abdomen and left side. light scarring on his knuckles. jagged scars across his his knees. lash scars across nearly the entirety if his back, leaving raised uneven skin in some areas. a dagger scar near the collar bone. an uneven ring around his throat from scarred bruising. and a few scarred burn marks upon his forearms.

face claims: Domhnall Gleeson, Charlie Plummer ( teen, Aftermath era) , Jonathan Tysor ( child, Aftermath era )

FAMILY

father: Brendol Hux

(step) mother: Maratelle Hux

birth mother: unknown kitchen woman

brother: archex @fcalty

legal guardians: Chikao & Amira Mitaka

fated guardians: Rae Sloane & Pienna al Trel ( @altrel )

adoptive uncle: Orson Krennic @debelltio, modern verse.

husband: Kylo Ren. @cruoren, main verse.

MISCELLANEOUS

special skills: eidetic memory. natural liar and manipulator. heighted engineering skills specializing in battle simulation, weaponry, tracking systems, and defensive software. short and long range shooting skills. knowledge of various poisons and antidotes. trained in guerilla-warfare-style hand-to-hand combat. practiced in echani. high pain tolerance.

weapons: SE-44C officer's blaster pistol, RK-3 pistol, monomolecular blade, vibroblade, DLT-19D heavy blaster rifle.

[cowboy-romance]

8, 38, 58?

8. Describe your crush

I haven't had one in real life recently honestly, but my imagination is always running rampant with swarthy, stocky, protective daddies 😭

38. Have you ever liked someone you didn’t expect to?

One of my exes, actually. I usually had a hard, masculine type in mind, but he was pretty different: skinny and nerdy, for the most part. But he had a lot of emotional/personality qualities that I fell in love with earnestly.

58. What are five ways to win your heart?

Being authentic and emotionally/phyiscally intimate with me and yourself

Enjoying nature and naturism/nudism

Loving and being able to connect over music, movies and art

Having a wicked sense of humor

Not being afraid to eat and enjoy food and drink, even in excess

[mouthymercx0x0]

🕯

".....I don't know if he will miss me that much when I start not coming back to this universe. I do love him but, I don't know this universe beats me up too much. I keep getting hurt by it....phyiscally....emotionally. I can't handle much more."