#emotionally and phyiscally

[kaikamahine]

.

[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

[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

[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

[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."

[piiyo-piiyo]

sorry for posting here when i dont know what else to do But anywa something something complicated about being always acknowledged as a strong person --- not just emotionally but PHYISCALLY, and still wanting to be submissive or weak in a moment... anyway in this essay///////

(i will explore how this effects my masculinity and trans masculinity and privilege and masculine privilege and desire that can't possibly be met... and how that effects my relationship with femininity and SO ON...) ... // There is no essay. that's the post

[lucifersalt]

I hate this.

I hate everything about myself, I hate how loud I am, I hate how annoying I am, I hate how needy I am. I'm like a small child. And I FUCKING hate it. I hate everything. I push myself everyday to make myself look so happy and energetic but I genuinely don't know how much longer I can hold on before I snap and fucking cry. I don't know what I want to be I don't know what I am or who I am. I hate this so much. If I come out to my parents they'll just scream at me. I'm not a real man. I'm just some dumb girl who doesn't understand who she really is. and I honestly I'm getting so tired. I'm getting so close to just harming myself, every day I get closed and closer. why cant I have a normal childhood? why did I have to grow up with her? she hurt me physically, mentally and emotionally, shes the reason why I'm so jumpy, shes the reason why there's scars on my elbows and knees. shes the reason why my systems even exist. AND I HATE HER. SO FUCKING MUCH. I WANT TO BE NORMAL, WHY AM I LIKE THIS?? I WANT THIS ALL TO BE FUCKING OVER. AND I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE. I'M SO FUCKING DONE. THE ONLY RELEASE I HAVE IS MY ART. AND I'M SO GLAD NO ONE LOOKS CLOSE INTO IT BECAUSE IN GENERAL IT HAS THEMES OF ME JUST TRAUMA DUMPING IN EACH LITTLE SQUIBBLE, DOT, AND CURVE. I'M SO DONE. I CANT STAND BE RELATED TO HER !! SHE FUCKING PHYISCALLY HIT ME, SHE PINNED ME AGAINST THE FRIDGE WHEN I WAS JUST A CHILD AND THREATENED ME. I WAS SCARED. SHE SCARES ME SO BAD, AND I HATE HER SO MUCH. I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE.

[rainbowninja00]

Do you think dream is phyiscally incapable of taking of the circlet at some point? he's grown too (at least his body has) so taking it off would not only cause him distress mentally and emotionally, but it would hurt his poor skull too? but it hurts his skull anyways, digs into the poor bone, aches day and night, if anything presses into it, he is immediately given a splitting head ache. Obviously he hides this from everyone, from his friends, from the people, but especially from his enemies, he knows they'll use it against him. but what would his brother think? would he think he wears it out of spite? malice? In truth, Dream only wears it to punish himself for daring to ever think he was allowed to take it off.

do you think dream never takes off his circlet because he symbolizes it as the weight of his sins

[rjalker]

we need to talk about the fact that so many people who worship the ground Chloe walks on are viciously racist towards Alya.

[lynneshobbydomain]

4am Honesty Collections Part 2/?

Chapter Two: What Does Color Taste Like?

Author’s Note: Part one can be read here and on Wattpad. 

Summery: Kanna gets a phone call from Lu. 

The ringtone blasted through her stuffed cat backpack, causing her to quickly shove it onto one shoulder so that she could dig it out. Once she zipped her backpack up, she quickly slid the phone to answer and placed it against her ear.

"What do you think colors taste like?"

Kanna had to hum softly under her breath as she carefully adjusted her backpack, using her shoulder to press the phone against her ear as she thought about her response. She was glad that the train that she was on didn't require her to be quiet. She did get some glares for her phone being too loud, but she ignored it. She was getting off soon anyway, and they were only going to remember her for a day. Twenty four hours. "I think that they taste like the rainbow." She said carefully.

"...Okay but what does the rainbow taste like?" There was a soft noise of annoyance coming from the other end of the phone.

Kanna snickered lightly. "It tastes soft."

"...Okay clearly we're talking about two different kinds of taste."

"Are we?" Kanna hummed a few measures of a song that she recently heard. "I don't think we are."

There was another huff of annoyance on the other end. Maybe it was borderline irritation, she didn't know. She smiled anyway, her grin hurting as it stretched from ear to ear. She gripped onto the pole tightly as the train jerked to a stop. She glanced up towards where there was a sign that was playing over the window. The language wasn't native to her, but she understood that it wasn't her stop yet. "Okay." He sighed again. "Okay so we're not."

"So soft." She answered, "oh...but I guess that depends on the shade of color doesn't it?" She made a soft noise. "Like there's a shade of purple that taste like grape right? But then there's a shade of purple that can taste like neon."

"...I think you'd die if you tasted neon."

"Where's your sense of imagination." Kanna's cheeks puffed, "Kore's better at this than you are, Lu."

Lu made a noise at the other end of the phone. Whether it was because he was being compared to his best friend, or that he was being insulted by his lack of imagination, it was hard to tell. She rolled her eyes as hard as she possibly could. "Still." She softened a little. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't stretch the muscle too far. "Neon."

"Okay." He said slowly, like he didn't believe her. He probably didn't. "So is there a blue that tastes like rain?"

"Hmm. I always thought grey tasted like rain. Grey-blue. That shade." Kanna had a particular shade in mind, but she doubted that she could transfer that to the person on the other end of the phone. She wasn't an artist in any means. She didn't know how to describe the correct ratio of what cool or warm blue needed to be mixed to a perfect fifty percent grey. If that was even accurate. Fuck what was color theory?

"So pastels." Lu pressed. "Cotton candy's a light pink or a sky blue right?"

"I always thought so." Kanna blinked. Maybe Lu really did have an imagination after all. "I mean. That soft yellow color reminds me of marshmallows."

"Yellow ...is marshmallow." He repeated, his tone dry as a river bed in a drought. "So what the fuck is white?"

"Hmmm....vanilla icing on a cake." Kanna replied thoughtfully, her voice practically singing. "Though transparent blue tastes like ice. Then again any transparent color tastes like ice."

"I...can see that yeah." Lu sounded a little ruffled. Like he was the one that was going around in circles. She wondered what on earth even brought this conversation on. Did she even want to know? "Black?"

"Uh...wow." Kanna wished that she could rock on her feet, but the train's movements were too jerky for her to consider that safely. "I'm not sure what black tastes like."

"Really?"

"I don't usually hang around black." Kore's hair was black. Kanna's hair was always a different shade of color that wasn't black. Lu's hair was blonde like..."Oh soft yellow pastels remind me of sunflowers."

"Uh...I don't think you can eat sunflowers." Lu was skeptic.

"Sunflower seeds." Kanna deadpanned. "You can eat sunflower seeds."

"So...yellow that is blinding like a nursery in a new home is a sunflower seed." Lu was the one to have the deadpanned tone now.

Kanna shrugged and she could hear him sigh. She had to grip the pole tightly again as she felt her body jerk as the train stopped. She glanced at the sign and pushed herself off of the support beam, heading towards the doors. The station was loud with different conversations. The grey surroundings bounced back light in a way that was a little blinding. There was a swarm of different colors, different people, all trying to get on and off of the train.

She kind of missed home, where everything was neat and organized and no one was trying to murder her for wanting to get off of the damn train. Getting through the crowd itself was a nightmare, trying to swim through different bodies of color, of all sorts of different kinds of perfumes and tastes.

She was really grateful this country had escalators. She immediately pushed herself up against the side of one so that if people wanted to rush up, they didn't try to take her down with her.

"Well that was loud." Lu commented suddenly on the phone and she startled, forgetting that she was even on the phone with him. The phone nearly fell out of her grip and she was certain she jumped five feet into the air.

"Sorry, I was on the train."

"I heard rattling, but I wasn't sure if it was bus or train." Lu commented. "Where are you?"

Where was she indeed? "In an area that reminds me of...huh...I don't think this kind of grey has a...no it does. This grey tastes like metal." Kanna winced a little. "I guess so does this white."

"Oh white has a different flavor than that vanilla." Lu teased her.

"Bright white has vanilla. This ungodly white is like...blood." Kanna pursed her lips together.

"...You and Nicky had such weird ways of describing blood. You know that?" Lu's voice suddenly turned soft and Kanna wanted to hang up the phone. She didn't want to hear this conversation. She didn't want to be apart of this conversation.

Hearing her name hurt.

"Did we?" Kanna was quick to change subject. "I wouldn't know. Anyway, I always thought red would be like...cherries. The ones you get on top of the sundaes. Not the other ones. Those deep red colored cherries always make me disappointed."

"Oh yeah?" Lu probably caught on that she wanted the subject change. Maybe he wanted the subject change too. "What color do you think it was supposed to taste like?"

"Raspberry or sweet or something. They're always too sour for me." She answered.

"Maybe if you stopped assuming what they are, you wouldn't be disappointed."

She felt like she got sucker punched. She tripped as she got off of the escalator and she felt her cheeks burn. She jogged her way out of the station and breathed in fresh air. "What do you mean by that."

"There's no hidden meanings with me," Lu said and that was exactly why she knew this phone call was a bad idea. Kanna pursed her lips together. She could hang up the phone, there was nothing stopping her from just hanging up. Lu would get upset, he'd send her a fifteen page rant, and she'd read every bad thing he would say to her, and then they'd continue as normal.

Because normal was all they could do anymore.

Her grip on her phone slipped and she realized that her hands were sweaty. It wasn't hot here. Warm yes, but not hot. She started walking down the street, wanting to be carried away by the crowd and away from this conversation. She literally could hang up the phone.

She was still listening to him breathe on the other end, and her brain was screaming and her heart was crying.

She needed to hang up this phone.

She needed to listen for once. "Okay." She wasn't sure Lu could hear her, her words were soft and easily carried off by the crowd.

"...I'm not Kore." Lu finally spoke. "I don't know how you two can talk about these kinds of things without getting a damn headache. I have a headache from this." He paused. "What does color taste like? There isn't a taste, Kanna. It's all fucking made up. Everything is made up. You're made up."

"...Now that's mean." Kanna's voice shattered a little at the end. "Calling me a fake."

"Aren't you? You promised to be by Kore's side and where are you? On the other end of the world, I bet." Lu snapped at her. "You run away. You run away from everything. I don't know how Kore can put up with that. I can't."

"Then...leave." Kanna never closed that door. He can close it for himself, if he wanted this.

"I want you to come back." Lu's voice still was snapping at her. "Come home. It's time to stop running away. He's dead, Kanna. He's dead and no amount of traveling. No amount of waiting....no amount of crying...is ever going to bring him back."

She didn't want to hear that. "I'm not running away."

"Oh? Then what is this? A soul-search? Trying to find yourself?"

"Trying to lose myself, maybe." Kanna snapped finally losing her temper. "What is it to you what I do, Lu?"

"You're my friend." Lu's voice was the one to shatter now. "It hurts when I try to call you and ask you to hang and knowing that you're nowhere near."

Kanna felt her heart sink right into her stomach. She missed him too, she missed Kore. She missed home. She wanted to be at her house, she wanted to be in Kore's arms. She wanted to see Lu face to face again.  Kore would never reach a hand to ask her to come home, trusting with every fiber of his being that she'd come back on her own.

Lu wasn't like that. He was faster to grip on with both hands. Selfish enough to demand her to stay, to come back.He was selfish enough to play a game he didn't understand, just so that he could get her to talk to him.

It was really cruel of him. Really cruel. Kanna felt a few tears slip down her cheeks as she finally pressed herself to the side of the sidewalk, to the edge of the building, breaking apart from the crowd she wanted to get lost in.

It took her a moment to open her eyes and notice that the sea of people that she was running through, she didn't know. Not the streets, not the buildings, not the language. Everything around her moved at a molasses pace, but also was fast enough that it could be considered a  whirlwind at the same time. A whirlwind molasses.

She was out of her comfort zone. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know why she was here. She was disconnected and she was afraid. Maybe that was why she hated this phone call. Even though Lu was demanding her to come back, she was starting to understand that she wasn't really traveling for the same reason as she was giving.

Finding herself wasn't the problem. No one could run away from themselves, the past was always there at the edge of memory. Lies were easy to build and easy to live, but oh they were so fast to fall apart if one truth even managed to widdle itself into the brick.

She closed her eyes, she breathed. "I think..." She said after a moment, listening to Lu's impatience on the other end. "I think..."

"You think too much." Lu said quietly. "Or maybe you think too little and act too much."

"Hey. What time is it over there?"

"Four. In the morning." Lu replied, and she could guess that he looked at his watch despite that his alarm clock was right across from him. She could take a gander and presume that he was in his bedroom, in the apartment that he shared with Kore. She could suppose that Kore was awake too, looking at the phone and wonder if he should join in on the conversation, or if he should let it be.

A part of her prayed that he'd just randomly come on the line. She didn't want to deal with this by herself. But she knew how this would go. If Kore joined in, Lu would hang up because it wouldn't be his invitation. This was a conversation only meant for the two of them, and she hated it.

She hated facing this.

She didn't want to face this.

"I just want to pretend for a moment that I'm okay." Kanna finally admitted. It was too early in the day for these kinds of conversations on her end. "Is that so bad?"

"It is when you're running." Lu wasn't going to cut her any slack. She hated him for it. She loved him for it. "...But at the same time...Kanna...this is you."

"Hm?"

"Kanna the runaway." Lu's tone wasn't mean. There was no mocking condensation at his voice. She could hear something drop at his end and she wondered what it was. "Kanna the runner."

"Don't be rude."

"Don't be a dick." Lu replied simply. "I want you home. You want to run. In the end, you're going to do what you need to do, because Kore's too much of a coward to ask you to come back."

"And I won't listen to you."

"You never listened to me, even when you should." Lu replied. "Even when..."

When it was honest. When it was raw. When it was too fragile and Lu only knew how to break.

He only knew how to break.

Kanna was breaking.

"I should let you go and get some sleep." Kanna said, losing all momentum. This trip wasn't fun anymore. She wanted to call Kore. She wanted to pretend that she was okay.

Lu wouldn't let her have fun. Lu wouldn't let her pretend anymore and she hated it. She hated it, she hated...

"Hey...Kanna."

"What."

"I break too."

Kanna's breath hitched and she felt like something slipped from underneath her. The sidewalk that she was on had carpet, and the carpet was tugged and now she was falling into a big black hole, much like in the cartoons back when she was a kid. She didn't have a way to grip or magically pull out a stick to keep her from falling.

"Are you...breaking now?" Kanna felt ice go down her veins and she could taste copper in the back of her throat. She felt like the crowd around her has become too big and she was too small. She felt like a child lost in a sea of people and language, and all she wanted was something familiar to cling to.

"No." Lu said quietly. "You stopped me from breaking when you picked up the phone."

Suddenly, suddenly Kanna was glad that she picked the phone up. She was glad that her phone was covered in sweat. She was glad that her heart was racing and her stomach was nothing but acid. She was glad that she was breathing, but oh she shouldn't be crying. He was the one that needed to cry and she was taking that all away from him.

Now the colors started to make sense. Lu wasn't trying to play a game. He wasn't trying to pretend that he knew how to talk to her. He was begging her to get him out of his head. The only way she knew how.

To drag him into a world that was much kinder in her imagination than his own.

His demons probably tasted like black and now she understood what helplessness tasted like.

"Oh." She squeaked finally. How to proceed now that she knew? "Lu..."

"I just want you home."

Now the words took on a different meaning didn't they? Him, calling her a runaway...

She closed her eyes and breathed. "Kore is..."

"Not good here." Kore wasn't good here. Kore wouldn't be good for anyone right now.

They were two souls breaking and they could only break now.

"Lu...you are loved." She didn't know what else to do. Kore was the one with the words, and the thoughts. He saw things she didn't see. Her eyes were rose-colored and everything tasted like cotton candy and vanilla and helplessness.

"...What?"

"You're loved," she repeated, like it could somehow save him. "You're loved. So loved. You know that right?"

"Hold on a minute. You don't think I-?"

"I think that...you wanted to." Kanna took a breath. "If I'm the one that runs physically, aren't you running emotionally?"

The phone clicked on her end and she felt more tears slip down.

A stranger came up to her, dark and foreign and a smile white like vanilla. "You look like your soul is dead."

Oh well that sucks. "Sorry." She said, trying to speak slow and soft, like he was the scared animal and not her. She slipped her phone into her backpack and she gave him a kind smile. "I'm a bit lost."

"Probably." The stranger agreed. "Come. This city is community. You need a community."

Did she need people around her? She'd like to say no, but her mouth answered for her. "Yes. I do."

"Follow me. Best community around."

Without much thought to her safety, she followed.

[bleachintothemultiverse]

Zeus: How does my muse feel about thunderstorms? Do they want to be a parent? - for aizen :3

Aizen doesn’t mind thunderstorms he thinks they are pretty interesting especially if lighting is involved . But for the second question- at the moment no. He doesn’t see the appeal of having kids and he knows good and well he wouldn’t be a good parent . It’s Something hypothetical he would talk with his partner but over all- he wouldn’t have kids on his own with some one unless the person he is with is willing to do most of the emotional bonding with the said kid as Aizen doesn’t easily bond with people nor can he fully sympathize/give the nesscary empathy with kids and give them the honest emotional care kids needs . So for now - the current answer is no he does not want to be a parent unless he finds the right partner and are willing to try to make it work .