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vivwritesfics · 7 months ago

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"I Don't Know Anything About Dinosaurs"

Spencer was meant to be at the museum on a blind date, not walking around with a mother and son, listening to him as he spouted off dinosaur facts. But then the kid goes missing and it's Spencer's mission to save him.

Spencer x Single mother! Reader

Spencer Reid hated the thought of a blind date. He didn't know if said blind date being set up by Garcia made things better or worse. At least Garcia was a fellow need. She liked some of the things Spencer was into and hopefully knew people who were also into those things.

Their meeting place being a museum had to be a good sign, he thought as he stared up at the recreation of the Parasaurolophus skeleton. But, so far, there had been no sign of her. He looked around with the knowledge that she'd be wearing a green scarf and carrying a museum tote bag, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, somebody was tugging at his sleeve. Spencer looked down to see a boy with wild, dark curls staring up at him. "Excuse me, Mister," the boy said as he looked up at Spencer. "You're blocking the sign." Spencer looked to his left and saw that he really was blocking the sign.

Not that this little boy would be able to read it from his height. "I'm sorry," Spencer said gently as he stepped to one side.

He couldn't help but watch as this little boy walked over to the sign full of dinosaur facts. Just as Spencer had thought, he'd been too short to read it, but he stood on his tiptoes and really tried.

When the boy gave up, he turned to Spencer. "Hey Mister," he said and put his hands on his hips. "Wanna help a fella out?"

Spencer couldn't help but wonder where this kid had learnt this phrase. He looked around before he crouched down, matching the kids height. "Is your mom anywhere around here?" Spencer asked. The kid shrugged her shoulders and, suddenly, Spencer was trying not to panic. "Do you want help finding her?"

Again, the boy shrugged. "She knows where to find me," he said and turned his attention back to the dinosaur.

Spencer stayed by the kid. He looked around, searching for any sign of his mother. But nobody around him seemed like they were panicked or looking for him.

Suddenly, shouts filled the room. "Jimmy!" Somebody shouted. Spencer looked around until he saw a young woman running towards him and the kid. "Jimmy!" When she got close enough, she grabbed the boy and pulled him into her embrace.

But then she stood up straight and looked at him, her expression stern. "James L/N, you know better than to run off like that!"

Jimmy pouted as he looked at his mother. "I'm sorry, momma," he said. "I just wanted to see the dinosaurs."

Her face dropped and she ruffled his dark curls. "It's okay, baby. We can look at them together," she said softly.

Jimmy took his mothers hand, but he turned towards Spencer. Spencer, who knew everything, but didn't know why he was still standing there, watching them. "This fella was gonna help me read the sign," he said.

His mother suddenly turned to Spencer. She tightened her grip on her sons hand and placed her other on her hip as she stared at him.

Spencer jumped into action. "He, uh, he said his mother knew where to find him. I didn't want to leave him here until someone came to claim him," he explained.

She dropped the hand from her hip. "Well, thank you," she said and lifted her son up. She placed him on her hip so that he could read the sign and turned her attention to Spencer. "Do you like Hadrosaurs?" She asked as she nodded her head to the not entirely real skeleton. (Well, maybe a few bones were real, but not the whole thing.)

Spencer shook his head. "No. I'm more of a science museum guy," he answered. He didn't add that he rarely got time to visit a museum with his job.

"Well, if you wanna know anything about any of the dinosaurs, I'm sure Jimmy would be happy to answer you," she said in reply. Her smile was polite, sweet, one Spencer found he really liked looking at.

Spencer took one last look around the museum, one last look for the blind date that Garcia had set up for him. He'd mentally prepared himself for a date, mentally prepared himself to be confident and out going. He wasn't about to let that go to waste.

"I don't know anything about dinosaurs." A lie. "Do you mind if I joined you?"

That was how Spencer spent his day. If his date eventually showed up to the museum, he didn't much care. He was much happier listening to Jimmy talk about dinosaurs. For the first time in his life, Spencer bit his tongue. Jimmy rarely got any of his facts wrong, and Spencer didn't add to his knowledge base, not when he'd said he didn't know anything about dinosaurs.

Once they got back to the museum entrance, Jimmy dragged his mother to the gift shop, and Spencer was only happy to follow. When Jimmy found two soft toys that he wanted (an Ankylosaurus and a Pachycephalosaurus), Spencer helped him to decide which one he wanted.

Jimmy told Spencer everything he knew about the Ankylosaurus as they walked out of the museum. But, once they were on the steps, his mother squeezed his hand. "We've gotta go, Jim," she said softly to him.

Jimmy pouted, but then he turned to Spencer. "It was nice to meet you, Spencer," he said. "You're a nice fella."

Spencer couldn't help but grin. "Thanks for teaching me all about Dinosaurs, Jimmy," he said as he crouched down to his height. "Take good care of, Anky."

He stood up straight and looked at Jimmy's mother. "He's right," she said. "It really was nice to meet you. Thanks for being so nice to him. I don't know many other people who would walk around and let a six year old talk at them for hours."

Spencer shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. "No, I learnt a lot," he replied. Neither of them had spoken about Jimmy having a father, or his mother having a partner. There had been no ring on her finger, and the profiler could pick up no indications that she had a partner.

So, Spencer took a leap of faith. "Maybe we could do this again sometime."

Her grin only grew. "I'm sure Jimmy will find some more facts for you," she said, her hand on his sons head. But then she went fishing through her bag and pulled out her phone. "Give me your number," she said and handed him her phone.

Spencer put his number into the phone and passed it back. She typed out a text and quickly sent it to him. "Until next time, Doctor Reid," she said and walked Jimmy down the museum steps, leading him to her car.

Spencer couldn't help but watch them go.

***

The case must have been local. JJ had told them not to back an overnight bag and they all rushed to the BAU as quickly as they could.

It had only been a few days since Spencer had met Jimmy and his mother. They'd texted here and there, but they were both pretty busy with their jobs. Still, he couldn't help but think of them as the elevator took him up. After this case was done, he'd make arrangements to see them again. To find out what new dinosaur facts Jimmy had for him.

He and the rest of the team sat around the round table. Within seconds JJ was walking into the room and turning on the monitor. "James L/N has been reported missing by his mother," she said as the rest of the team passed around folders.

Spencer felt his heart stop. James. Jimmy. Reported missing by his mother. Jimmy, the sweet boy who knew so much about dinosaurs, had been reported missing. He suddenly couldn't breathe.

"His mother said she put him to bed and went to clean up the kitchen. When she checked on him before taking herself to bed, he was gone," JJ continued.

"Jimmy." Spencer couldn't stop himself from saying it.

All eyes were suddenly on him. JJ took a step towards him. "What is it, Spence?" She asked softly. She always was soft with him, almost treating him like he was a child. It wasn't what he needed right now, but he was grateful.

"I-I know this boy," he said as he flipped through the folder that was passed to him. "He, uh, his mom calls him Jimmy, not James."

"You know his mother?" Hotch asked him.

Spencer nodded. "They were at the museum last weekend. I walked around the exhibits with them," he said.

Hotch sent them on their way. He, Rossi, Prentiss, and Garcia began looking through all the information they could find on James L/N and his mother, while JJ, Reid and Morgan went to James's house.

Before this, Spencer had been wondering if he could count their time at the museum as a date. It hadn't been, really. But he wanted to take her on one, or at least get to know her better.

He couldn't believe his first time inside of her house was going to be because of a case. Spencer couldn't help but feel a little sick as he, JJ and Morgan walked up the steps to the house. There was an array of flowers in the garden. Some in pots lining the steps, some on the windows, some hanging beside the door.

Spencer raised his fist. The stained glass window panes painted a scene. Water, a clock tower, a bird flying above the ocean. Spencer sucked in a breath and knocked between the window panes.

The door was open within seconds. Jimmy's mother stared at the three ages. Morgan said her name. "We're with the-"

But, before he could finish he sentence, she threw herself at Spencer, wrapping her arms around him. Spencer stood there for a moment, unable to move. But then he hesitantly wrapped his arms around her. "He's gone," she cried against Spencer's chest.

"I know," Spencer whispered, his large hand against her back. "But we're gonna find him."

JJ and Morgan hung back as they watched the interaction. It felt intimate, something they couldn't interrupt. But she let go of Spencer and stepped to the side, letting all three agents into her house.

She wrapped her arms around herself as she shut the door behind them. "I... I didn't touch anything in his room," she said as she led them upstairs. At the very first room she pushed open the door.

Morgan and JJ pulled on gloves as they stepped into the room. But it was perfectly clean. The bed was made, the room had been cleaned up, but there was no sign of a break in. "Reid, take her downstairs," Morgan said as he and JJ began combing through the room.

Spencer did just that. He took her downstairs and sat her on the sofa, sitting himself beside her. She drew in a shaky breath. "He has Anky," she said quietly and wiped at her eyes. "If I had known you were FBI I would have called you before I called the police."

He swallowed. "I'm here now," he said, meeting her teary gaze. "And I need you to tell me everything that happened, starting with when you put Jimmy to bed."

She ran Spencer through her entire evening. Starting with dinner, and then bath time, story time and bed. She told him how she cleaned the kitchen after dinner and took some time, only ten minutes to read. By the time she went up to check on him, by the time she was ready to go to sleep herself, Jimmy was gone.

When she started crying Spencer rubbed her back. There was little else he could do to offer contact as he asked as she had noticed anything or anybody strange recently. He'd already worked out that the unsub must have known her usual schedule to be able to take Jimmy and then clean his room.

Before Spencer could piece together any information from her answers, the phone began ringing. She drew in a sharp gasp as she turned her head towards it.

When she looked at Spencer again, he nodded and she picked up the phone. "H-hello?" She said, voice shaking as she put the phone on speaker.

"Hi mommy!"

Immediately, tears sprang to her eyes. "Jimmy?" She cried. "Is that you, baby?"

"Yeah, mommy," he said. He sounded fine and she had to take comfort in that.

Her hand fell onto Spencer's and she squeezed. Squeezed him to the point of pain. But Spencer didn't say anything. He squeezed her back, trying to be encouraging. "Jimmy, baby, can you tell me where you are? I-It's almost time for lunch and I need to come get you."

"I'm with a friend, mommy," Jimmy answered. "Her name is mommy, too. She said she's gonna make me lunch."

Suddenly, Spencer's brows furrowed. She. The unsub was a woman.

"Mommy, she wants to speak to you," Jimmy said. Spencer watched as her eyes went wide and she began rapidly shaking her head.

But Spencer squeezed her hand and nodded his head. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Okay, Jimmy, But, can you tell me where you are first, baby?"

Jimmy didn't answer her.

There was an indistinguishable noise from the other end and then, "Leave my son and I alone!"

It was a woman's voice, an obviously upset woman's voice. As the rest of the team came down the stairs Spencer pressed his fingers to his lips.

"Please," she said desperately as she looked at Spencer. "Please, just bring Jimmy home. He's all I got."

"His name isn't Jimmy!" The other woman suddenly cried. "He's my son and his name is Robert!" She ended the call after that, cutting off the contact.

Her hands shook as she put the phone down.

"His name is Robert," Spencer repeated. He said it to himself a few times as the rest of the team crowded around her to ask her more questions. Desperately, she looked at Spencer, but he pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

***

Spencer didn't sleep much on this case. He couldn't, not until he knew that Jimmy was safe at home with his mother.

He had Garcia look into mothers who had lost their children. More specifically, mothers that had lost children called Robert.

The whole team tried several different angles for the case. While Morgan and JJ interviewed mothers that had lost children, Spencer and Garcia desperately searched through records of institutions.

Their lucky break was when the unsub called once again. Spencer had been there, thank god. All she had to do was call and he was running.

Garcia had set things up to trace the call. When the phone began ringing, she held her hand against her chest. "It's okay," Spencer assured her.

He picked up the phone and placed it in her hands. "Hi Mommy!"

"Jimmy!" She sat up straighter. "Jimmy, baby, are you okay?" She asked desperately.

There was a beat of silence, one that had her heartbeat erratic. "I'm okay, Mommy. I've lost Anky, though."

She swallowed. "Well, when you're home, we can go to the museum again and get you another."

"Can Spencer come with us?"

Spencer nodded at her. Of course they could go back to the museum. The moment they got Jimmy home, Spencer would take the both of them.

"Yeah, Jimmy. We can take Spencer."

Suddenly the call was ended. "Jimmy?!" She cried, desperately. But he was gone.

"Garcia, have you got it?" Spencer called down his phone as he stood.

Garcia listed off the address. Immediately Spencer was using his long legs to stride to her front door. "Wait!" She cried, rushing after him. Spencer turned, his eyes soft as he looked at her. "Bring him home."

Hotch didn't want Spencer going with them. He was too close to the case, and they all knew it wouldn't end well. But Jimmy knew him, and he was more likely to actually go with Spencer.

The team entered the house, guns drawn. With noises from the living room and the upstairs, the team split up.

Spencer and JJ headed into the living room. Cartoons played on the television, and Spencer had to hope it was Jimmy.

And Jimmy it was. "Hi Spencer!" He called the moment the FBI agent came into view.

Immediately Spencer felt his heart stop. He put his gun away and crouched down in front of Jimmy. "Hey, Buddy," he said as Jimmy hugged him. "We're gonna get you home to your mom, okay?"

"Okay," Jimmy said as Spencer picked him up.

The rest of the team arrested the unsub, a woman who had lost her child years ago. She fought to get to Jimmy when she was walked towards the police car, cuffs around her wrists.

***

Spencer held Jimmy's hand in the police station. Jimmy told Spencer more dinosaur facts. "I wanna go back to the museum," he said. "And I want you to come."

"Your mom is gonna be happy to take you," Jimmy," he said and handed him a pen. Jimmy began drawing as he waited for his mom to show up.

When she did, she ran through the police station. She ran straight over to her son and pressed kisses all over his face. She pulled away to look at him, to check him over. "Oh baby," she said and hugged him tight. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, Momma," he said and showed her his dinosaur drawings. "Can we go to the museum with Spencer, momma?"

With Spencer standing behind Jimmy, he wore a matching pout. "Can I?" He asked.

"Please Momma!"

How could she say no?

(It wasn't meant to be a first date, but the treated it as such)

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #matthew gray gubler imagine #matthew gray gubler #mgg #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid smut

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 6 days ago

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not me doomposting about l*ona again

I pointed out in an older post that Leona seems to demonstrate a unique ability to unite others under a common cause. This is in spite of the lore stating that it's very difficult to get different kinds of beastmen to see eye-to-eye, so much so that Sunset Savanna's acting king, his older brother, has yet to really unify their people.

WELL.

***Spoilers for Leona's Nightmare Suit vignettes below the cut!***

A central theme to Leona's Nightmare Suit vignettes is figuring out what makes someone worthy of being "king". At the start, everyone is reminded of Jack Skellington's status as the "King of Halloween, which makes him the most important person in town. However, Leona's quick to point out that the title isn't what's important, but what one achieves is. He then expresses interest in what it is exactly that Jack Skellington does around here to earn his crown. His opinion of Jack isn’t that good; in the event story, Leona thinks Jack doesn’t pay attention and doubts that he can have deep thoughts. Jack describes his duties as making Halloween the scariest it can possibly be. He drives around in his buggy, walks his dog Zero through the local cemetery, studies and conducts experiments, and reviews the proposals from Halloween Town residents. An important part of his job is considering his people's ideas! But Leona thinks there could be a more efficient way to do this rather than having the king read the proposals one by one. We can see a divide between their ways of thinking; Jack is willing to hear individuals out whereas Leona is focused on efficiency. This is also reflected in how they assign tasks later in the vignettes. Jack has everyone going up one ladder to decorate, while Leona commands the witches to do this task, as its much faster for them to do on their brooms. I don't know if this was intentional, but the way Jack rules feels reminiscent to how Leona often describes his older brother, Farena/Falena. So often does Leona mention that Falena is too kind and cares too much for others, which impedes on the political and economic gains he could be making if he were just more focused on his goals. “[Falena] could just focus on the kingdom’s affairs–you know, his JOB–but nooo, he’s gotta be the caring big brother who’s nice to everybody." (If you want to read a more in-depth analysis of Falena vs Leona's priorities when it comes to ruling, please read this post.)

Leona claims that the qualifications for king around here are actually really simple--and yeah, maybe there's nothing more to his line than this, but considering that in his home country one's order of birth is also a strong determinant, a merit-based system like what's seen in Halloween Town probably is simpler to him. And that means it's his time to shine and be acknowledged when he wasn't successful at earning this recognition back home.

Now, what REALLY surprised me in these vignettes wasn't that Leona knows how to boss around his peers and put their strengths to use (for example, he tells Vil, who has an eye for detail, to look over the embroidery, and Idia, who is a science and math whiz, to handle difficult calculations). It's that Leona is also perfectly aware of the abilities of the Halloween Town residents--people he has only known for less than three days--and uses them and their skills well too. That's an insanely short amount of time to get to know an entire TOWN'S worth of people and what each of them are like... yet he just pulls it off effortlessly????? HUH... This earns him the praise of Dr. Finkelstein, the mayor, Jack, Sally, and Skully. Sally in particular highlights Leona's strengths very concisely, stating that he can accurately assess the situation and give appropriate directions on how to act in that situation. Skully adds that Leona technically doesn't move himself or do any of the dirty work, he's focused solely on giving orders. This makes him a "king" and a leader of equal standing as Jack Skellington. And then Skully--SKULLY, THE OBSESSED HALLOWEEN OTAKU THAT THINKS HALLOWEEN SHOULD BE A VERY SPECIFIC WAY--says that Halloween was made possible by not one, but two great kings this year. It just goes to show how much one can truly accomplish when not barred by a negative environment and a lack of social support.

One definition of "king" that is offered in these vignettes is "the one who can bring everyone together". That's certainly something that both Leona and Jack do, albeit in very different ways. But then, at the end of the Halloween Town segment of the vignettes, Leona acknowledges that "king" can be defined another way. He realizes that Jack is recognized as king not just because he's a leader, but because he's also needed and loved by the townspeople. This, too, is a "king". However, it seems that this is a definition that Leona somewhat looks down upon, as he basically apologizes to Jack for not thinking highly of him at first. Again, Leona prioritizes getting shit done, no matter what the cost of it may be--and even if it earns him the ire of others. This, as I said earlier, puts him in stark contrast to Jack, as well as his own older brother. But here and now, we have Leona finally seeing the strength that a different kind of ruling can have instead of always speaking so disparagingly about it. Even if it's just a little... it feels like he's growing and learning, doesn't it?

The vignettes end on flashing forward to Leona back at Savanaclaw dorm. A few of his freshmen students are goofing off right before magift/spelldrive practice is about to start. As soon as Leona shows up, the freshmen snap to attention and rush off to change for practice. Jack (Howl, not Skellington, lol) remarks that usually the other first years are so lazy, but their attitudes completely changed when their dorm leader appeared. Ruggie chimes in, saying that Leona keeps the entire dorm in line... THJBAEBVUFAEIYAFIOYBVADFILH ThEN HE CALLS THEIR KING THE BEST... AND JACK AGTREESS... WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHUT THE FUCK UPAS ALREADY STOP POGINTONG OUT HE'S A AGOODFK leADER DFOR YOUE AEPEOPLE YADFJKHAFLIYVDGVYUADGVUEGAVN

In response to the praise, Leona says that simply scolding misbehaving students doesn't make you a king. If it were as simple as that, it would be a pretty cheap throne build only on flattery. The vignettes end with him telling everyone to move their asses to practice. lh WDBHFAIYOEAIYEIYF BUT TAHAT'S PRETY YMASSIVE FOR HS CHARACTER... These vignettes demonstrate that Leona's not fixated on the title of king, but what it means to truly "be" a king and leader. He doesn't value being called a "king" if he feels it's easily earned, he wants to prove himself worthy of it and earn that title through his talents. This all circles back to a thought I had a while ago: that what Leona is after isn't the literal seat of king, but all the things that come with it but was denied of in his childhood. Respect, admiration, recognition for his abilities.

And 💦 Leona doesn’t realize it yet (either that, or he’s in complete denial) but… He also fits that second definition of “king” 😭 He’s the type of person that gets things done (like what he believes should define a king) BUT GIS DORM MEMBERS ALL ALSO NEED AND LOVE HIM…

OOoogohoggoOGH... OTL I hate how well it comes together...

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physalian · 9 months ago

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What No One Tells You About Writing Fantasy

Every author has their preferred genres. I love fantasy and sci-fi, but began with historical fiction. I hated all the research that historical fiction demands and thought, if I build my own world, no research required.

Boy, was I wrong.

So to anyone dipping their toe into fantasy/sci-fi, here’s seven things I wish I knew about the genres before I committed to writing for them.

1. You still have to research. Everything.

If you want any of your fantasy battle sequences, or your space ships, or your droids and robots, or your fictional government and fictional politics to read at all believable.

In sci-fi, you research astronomy, robotics, politics, political science, history, engineering, anthropology. In fantasy, you have to research historical battle tactics, geography, real-world mythology, folklore, and fairytales, and much of it overlaps with science fiction.

I say you *have to* assuming you want your work to be original and unique and stand out from the crowd. Fanfic writers put in the research for a 30k word smut fic, you can and will have to research for your original work.

2. Naming everything gets exhausting

I hate coming up with new names, especially when I write worlds and places divorced from Earthly customs and can’t rely on Earthly naming conventions. You have to name all your characters, all your towns, villages, cities, realms, kingdoms, planets, galaxies, star systems.

You have to name your rebel faction, your imperial government, significant battles. Your spaceships, your fantasy companies and organizations, your magic system, made-up MacGuffins, androids, computer programs. The list goes on and on and on.

And you have to do it all without it sounding and reading ridiculous and unpronounceable, or racist. Your fantasy realms have to have believable naming patterns. It. Gets. Exhausting.

3. It will never read like you’re watching a movie

Do you know how fast movies can cut between scenes? Movies can balance five plotlines at once all converging with rapid edits, without losing their audience. Sometimes single lines of dialogue, or single wordless shots are all a scene gets before it cuts. If you try to replicate that by head-hopping around, you will make a mess.

It’s perfectly fine to write like you’re watching a movie, but you can’t rely on visual tricks to get your point across when all you have is text on a page – like slow mo, lens flares, epically lit cinematic shots, or the aforementioned rapid edits.

It doesn’t have to, nor should it, look like a movie. Books existed long before film, so don’t let yourself get caught up in how ~cinematic~ it may or may not look.

4. Your space opera will be compared to Star Wars and Star Trek

And your fairy epic will be compared to Tinkerbell, your vampires to Twilight, your zombies to The Walking Dead, Shaun of the Dead, World War Z. Your wizards and witches and any whisper of a fantasy school for fantasy children will be compared to Harry Potter. Your high fantasy adventure will be compared to Lord of the Rings.

You can’t avoid it, but you can avoid doing it to yourself. When people ask about your book, let them say “oh, you mean like Star Wars” to which you then can say, kind of, except XYZ happens in my book. These IPs will never fade from the public consciousness, not while you exist to read this post, at least, but Harry Potter isn’t the only urban fantasy out there. Lord of the Rings isn’t the only high fantasy. Star Wars isn’t the only space opera.

Yours will be on the shelves right next to them, soon enough, and who knows? You might dethrone them.

5. Your world-building is an iceberg, and your book is the tip

I don’t pay for any of those programs that help you organize your book and mythos. I write exclusively on Apple Notes, MS Word, and Google Suite (and all are free to me). I have folders on Apple Notes with more words inside them than the books they’re written for.

If you try to cram an entire college textbook’s worth of content into your novel, you will have left zero room for actual story. The same goes for all the research you did, all the hours slaving away for just a few details and strings of dialogue.

There’s a balance, no matter how dense your story is. If you really want to include all those extra details, slap some appendices at the end. Commission some maps.

6. The gatekeeping for fantasy and sci-fi is still very real

Pen names and pseudonyms exist for a reason. A female author writing fantasy that isn’t just a backdrop for romance? You have a harder battle ahead of you than your male counterparts, at least in the US. And even then, your female protagonist will be scrutinized and torn apart.

She’ll either be too girly or not girly enough, too sexy, or not sexy enough. She’ll be called a Mary Sue, a radical feminist mouthpiece, some woke propaganda. Every action she takes will be criticized as unrealistic and if she has fans who are girls, they will be mocked, too.

If you have queer characters, characters of color, they won’t be good enough, they won’t please everyone, and someone will still call you a bigot. A lot of someones will still call you a bigot.

Do your due diligence and hire your army of sensitivity readers and listen to them, but you cannot please everyone, so might as well write to please yourself. You’re the one who will have to read it a thousand times until it’s published.

7. Your “original” idea has been done before, and that’s okay

Stories have been told since before language evolved. The sum of the parts of your novel may be original, but even then, it’s colored by the media you’ve consumed. And that’s okay!

How many Cinderella stories are there? How many high fantasies? How many books about werewolves and witches and vampires? Gods and goddesses and celestial beings? Fairies and dragons and trolls? Aliens, robots, alien robots? Romeo and Juliette? Superheroes and mutants?

Zombies may be the avenue through which you tell your story, but it’s not *just* about zombies, is it? It’s about the characters who battle them, the endurance of the human spirit, or the end of an era, the death of a nation. So don’t get discouraged, everyone before you and everyone after will have written someone on the backs of what came before and it still feels new.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #fantasy #scifi #writeblr #what no one tells you about writing

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roosterforme · 9 months ago

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Smarter Than the Average Beer Boy | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: After months of attending your lectures, Bradley has honed his math skills beyond his wildest expectations. A night out with the boys reveals just how smart and endearing your husband really is, even when he has a hangover.

Warnings: Swears, fluff, drinking, oral sex, shirtless Beer Boy, 18+

Length: 3100 words

Pairing: Beer Boy and Sugar! Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (former fuckboy college student Bradley)

Happy birthday to @cherrycola27!

This is a one-shot to accompany my fics Old Habits Die Hard and Right Girl, Wrong Time but it can be read on its own! Banner by @thedroneranger Check out my masterlist

You were on your way to teach your last class of the day, and it was your least favorite one. When the class schedules were being organized for next semester, you planned on begging Dr. Rosenthal to let you trade this awful linear algebra class away for one of his calculus lectures. Because at least calculus was something to which you could add a little spice to keep your students interested, unlike this one.

Even though you already ate the snack your husband packed in your tie dye lunchbox, you were still hungry. You'd have to remind him to pack you something extra next Thursday. But as you were on your way to the lounge to quickly get something from the vending machine, you heard his voice.

"Sugar."

You spun around in your loafers and tweed skirt and saw your husband in full khaki uniform heading your way. "Beer Boy. What are you doing here?" you asked, giving up on the idea of a snack and heading in his direction instead. "I'm about to give a lecture."

"I know," he said with a smirk, voice all deep and raspy. "I got dismissed early, and I stopped at home to get you a snack. Thought maybe I could join your lecture tonight since I won't get to spend tomorrow evening with you."

You almost dropped your notebook as you wrapped your arms around his waist and propped your chin on his chest. "Are you my snack?" you asked as he leaned down to kiss you.

"Nor exactly," he laughed, holding up two small containers. "I brought you some homemade hummus and pita chips. But if you want to skip your lecture and head up to your office, I'd be more than happy to fuck you while I feed you."

"Tempting," you told him with a moan. He was always so sure of himself when he was with you, and it was a massive turn on. But when he grinned and started pulling you toward the elevators, you had to dig your loafers in. "I can't let my students down," you said with a little pout. "Come on. You can sit in the back and take notes."

"Nah. I'll just watch my hot wife in action. Take some mental notes that I can think about at the bachelor party tomorrow night."

You rolled your eyes as you took the containers from him. "You'll have so much fun with Jake and the boys, you won't even be thinking about me at all."

"Newsflash, Dr. Sugar," he whispered as you entered the lecture hall with his hand on your butt. "I'm always thinking about you."

-----------------------

Yes, it was fun watching you work. Your lectures were informative, and you were very passionate about the subject. You were also gorgeous, and Bradley wouldn't mind watching you do this all day long. And sure, he loved that you wrote a few problems on the board for your students to work through so you could eat the hummus and pita chips he brought. And yeah, he squirmed a bit in his seat when you winked at him from the podium as you licked your fingertip.

But the really interesting thing was the fact that Bradley was getting pretty fucking good at math now. If he could go back to undergrad studies, he might even choose it as his major instead of political science. Nobody ever really encouraged him to show off his smarts after his mom died. Well, besides you. There was something about the way you always recognized that he was intelligent that made him fall even harder for you. And since he knew what it felt like to live without you for ten years, he didn't mind watching you teach the same classes over and over. He just wanted to be around you.

When you asked if there were any volunteers to work through the problem, Bradley was able to follow every detail and come up with the correct answer from his seat. And when you finally ended the class, he went up to the front of the room and kissed your cheek right in front of the straggling students. "Any chance you can bring one of the homework sheets home for me to work on later this weekend?" he asked, stealing your last pita chip.

You looked up at him with adoring eyes, and it wasn't fair, because you knew what those little tweed skirts did to him. "You're really going to work on a problem set?"

"Yeah," he told you with a shrug. "Why not? This class was fun, and maybe you can check my answers and reward me?" he asked hopefully.

"If you want to be my top student, you better get them all correct." You ran your fingers along the front of his khakis as you picked up your notebook and started walking away.

"I'll be so good, Baby," he promised as he followed you out. He was planning on working on the problems on Sunday after he spent all day Saturday recovering from Jake's bachelor party. Tomorrow night was for the boys, but tonight he would be spending with you.

When he got you home, he boiled a pot of water for some of the homemade pasta he made and dried last weekend, and he started heating up some of his homemade sauce and meatballs. "This is so fucking sexy," you whispered, rubbing up on him in your tweed while you sipped a beer. "You are really good at feeding me."

He stole the bottle and drank some. "You're really good at everything else." When he tried to hand it back, you just shook your head and dropped slowly to your knees. He was already a little hard from all the tweed rubbing, but then you kissed his zipper, and his dick responded immediately. "Look at that. I didn't even have to do the math problems."

You grinned up at him while he sipped the beer. "Maybe this is just a little reminder for you to be good tomorrow night when you're out with the boys. No drinking and driving. No letting them get into fights. No playing beer pong without me. If you're good, then there's more where this came from."

Bradley was really enjoying the cold beer as you undid his belt and button before you eased his zipper down. "I'll be so good. I'm a hundred percent domesticated."

You moaned as his cock sprang free, and you rubbed your face against him. "I know." He was about to tell you he'd been that way since the two of you were college seniors, but suddenly all coherent thoughts left his brain. You were gently kissing his balls as you ran your fingers up underneath his shirt and teased his abs. "You're a very good boy."

His cock was throbbing and tapping you on the cheek as your tongue flicked out to taste him. "Sugar," he grunted before sipping the beer again.

"Hmm." You were looking up at him as your lips barely met his skin. "What should I do with you?" Somehow you were making Bradley feel submissive even though you were on your knees for him, and he tipped his head back and groaned.

"Fuck me up, Sugar."

"Gladly," you replied, and he felt your tongue draw a slow and steady line from his tight balls all the way to the head of his cock. Bradley watched as you took the very tip of his bouncing length between your pretty lips. All you did was hold eye contact as you sucked on him like he was a piece of candy, your fingers tickling the trail of hair below his belly button, and he was mesmerized.

"Those pouty lips will be the death of me," he whispered before sipping the beer again. "So fucking pretty." You sucked on him a little harder, and he clenched. Damn, you hadn't even taken him deep yet, and he was already eager. But he didn't care, because you already knew what you did to him.

Then you popped him free, rubbed your nose against his trimmed pubes before kissing his tip and said, "I love you." Then you grabbed him by the hips and let him slide all the way so he was tapping the back of your throat.

"Oh, fuck," he grunted, already thinking about you gagging on his cum. You shook your head slightly when he was deep, and tears filled your eyes as you sucked. Bradley gripped the bottle, his voice only a harsh whisper as he said, "That's it. That's it. Fuck."

A few more deep thrusts had you struggling, which was honestly so fucking hot to him. You were making desperate little sounds, but you bobbed on him until you gagged. And that's really all it took.

You moaned as he filled your mouth, and he ran his thumb along your cheek as you gently sucked every drop from him. "Show it to me," he whispered softly and you smiled as you released him. Slowly, you parted your lips and tilted your face up for him, showing off your cupped tongue full of his cum. "Beautiful."

Then you swallowed him down and kissed his drained balls once more before you stood and took the beer bottle from his hand. Casually, you took a sip like you didn't just leave him twitching before you. "Is dinner almost ready?"

He was still thinking about it the next night when he was out with all the guys. Jake was marrying Jessica in a month, and all he asked for was a night of bar hopping. Normally Bradley would have been very good at this, but he was thinking about the way he'd fed you bites of pasta while standing in the kitchen as you moaned over how delicious it was.

"Come on, Rooster, have a shot," Payback said, passing him some tequila. Just a few drinks would help him focus on the night with the guys. "Bottoms up."

But at first, the drinks just made him think about calling you to see what you were up to. Jessica was supposed to stop by the house to hang out for a while, and he wondered if she was still there. Maybe she left and you were already changed into his Grateful Dead shirt for bed. Maybe he could just get an Uber right now and go home and find out for himself. He'd slip right into bed next to you.

"Time for the karaoke bar!" Javy announced, and then Bradley had more shots in front of him before he ended up onstage, and he couldn't be sure where his shirt went, but oh well, it didn't really matter since his favorite shirt was at home with you, and it was suddenly time to sing.

But he did remember to text you and let you know he'd be home very late.

-------------------------

Having the empty house to yourself felt a bit like it did when Bradley was deployed. So in that respect, it made you a little antsy. But on the other hand, it was peaceful when you had Jessica over for some snacks and a glass of wine. It was close to midnight when a bunch of photos came through to your phone and hers.

"Oh no," she groaned as you scrolled through the images from Mickey. It appeared as though Bradley lost his shirt. Typical.

"They are a mess," you muttered, finally getting to one where the guys were physically holding Jake up. "You're going to have your work cut out for you tomorrow."

She shook her head but laughed. "I think I'll head home and wait for him. I don't know if he'll even be able to make it from the front door to the bedroom without help."

"Bradley doesn't look much better," you added as you got to the last photo where he was chugging a beer, the amber liquid dribbling down his neck and bare chest. "Oh Lord."

"Call me tomorrow and let me know how bad it is?"

"Yeah," you agreed, walking her to the door and giving her a hug.

And then you were met with silence again. You changed into Bradley's tie dye shirt and his robe that he'd had since college, but you weren't even slightly tired now. You glanced across the hallway to your office door covered in your own handwriting.

SUGAR LOVES BEER BOY

Working through an advanced calculus problem before bed would definitely help you unwind. You walked to your white board while you looked up a problem on your phone and then scribbled it down and got to work. Oh, this one was a bit tricky with lots of side math to complete first. The squeak of your marker was soothing, and by the time you got to your tenth line in the proof solution, you were yawning.

"Works like a charm," you muttered, capping the marker and heading back across the hall where you climbed into bed.

At one point during the night, you thought you heard Bradley stumble in the front door. "Beer Boy?" you called out, rolling over in bed.

You heard him slur, "It's just me, Sugar," followed by the sound of the refrigerator opening up. He'd come to bed eventually after he got a snack. You scooted back all the way to your side, preemptively trying to avoid him being a sticky, sweaty mess. You smiled and curled up, and you were back to sleep in seconds.

But he never did come to bed, as evidenced by the still crisp bedding on his side when you woke up again at nine. You stretched and climbed out from the pocket of warmth and reached for his robe before you went to search the house.

You started in the kitchen, thinking that being near the refrigerator might have been more appealing than the bed, but he wasn't there. You glanced out back and on the living room couch, but you didn't see him anywhere.

"Bradley?" you called out as you looked in the bathroom, but he hadn't even fallen asleep in the tub. You pressed your lips together as you poked your head inside your office and gasped. "Seriously?"

He was sound asleep on the floor, his shirt nowhere to be seen, and he was snoring loudly. An empty ice cream carton and spoon were next to his head, and it looked like he'd eaten a value sized bag of pretzels. There were a few more wrappers and a lot of crumbs on the floor, and you just gaped at him as he started to roll onto his side and look around.

"What the fuck? Why is it such a mess in here? I just cleaned on Wednesday," he groaned, hair sticking up at every angle. He tilted his head and looked up at you through squinted eyes. "What happened?"

You gave him an incredulous look. "Why don't you tell me?"

He continued to look around the room as he sat up. "I don't know," he replied, pushing the pretzel bag to the side as he cradled his forehead in his palm. "Last thing I remember is the guys making me sing Caress Me Down for karaoke. Where's my shirt?"

Your deep sigh should have been warning enough for him, but he looked down at his abs, shocked that he was only wearing half of his outfit. "Once again, Bradley, why don't you tell me?"

"Baby, how am I supposed to know?" he whined. "God, now I have a fucking hangover, and I can't think."

If Jake was also this bad at the moment, then Jessica might need a reassuring phone call later. Hopefully he hadn't destroyed the carpet in their condo. You needed to get Bradley into the shower and then put him in bed so you could clean up the floor, but your eyes caught on your white board, and you gasped. "Bradley."

"What now?" he moaned as he got to his hands and knees in the crumbs. "My head is throbbing."

Your eyes skimmed from the top of the board to the very bottom, and you started laughing. He was looking up at you, confusion swirling along his handsome features as you had to brace your hands on your knees while you gasped for air and cackled. "Beer Boy!"

"Okay, yes," he grunted. "I'm beginning to think I was actually the one who made the mess in here, but I'll clean it up. It's not that funny."

"Bradley!" you screeched, pointing to the board. "You solved my advanced calculus problem!"

Slowly and seemingly painfully, he turned his head to look and crawled closer to the wall. "I don't think so," he muttered. "I don't even know what all of that means." He was standing on his knees, and trying so hard to figure it out. "Holy shit, that's my handwriting."

"It definitely is," you said through your laughter as you gently combed your fingers through his messy hair. He practically melted against your leg with his big hand on your thigh below his robe. "I am... somehow really impressed by this? You got drunk, got a ride home at four in the morning, and then you solved an advanced math problem before you passed out on my office floor."

"Yeah, I'm impressive as hell," he whispered, kissing you through the robe fabric.

"You know... if you weren't so terribly hungover, I'd offer to blow you again like yesterday. Because this is something only my very best student would be able to do. And I love rewarding my best student."

You stroked his cheek softly with your knuckles as he stared up at you with parted lips. "Professor Sugar," he rasped. "I'm totally fine. Barely hungover at all."

"Are you sure?" you laughed. "You look a little rough. And you made a huge mess."

"Yeah," he replied immediately. "I'm great. Wanna join me in the shower?"

You bent to kiss his forehead and whispered, "If you think you can handle it."

"Hell yes," he groaned, trying three times before he was able to get to his feet. Then he took you by the hand, and you helped him down the hallway to the bathroom.

You pointed out the small closet on the way. "And when we're done, the vacuum cleaner is just hanging out right in there, waiting for you to clean up my office."

"Yeah, okay."

------------------------

Happy birthday, Nik! When you mentioned this idea, it had me cracking up. I hope you enjoy it as a birthday gift one day early! Thanks @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls and @thedroneranger

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bitterkarella · 9 months ago

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Midnight Pals: Hugo Drama

Hugo Gernsback: hey everyone its me, hugo gernsback Gernsback: editor of Amazing Stories and namesake of the hugo awards Gernsback: perhaps you've heard of them? Clive Barker: oh buddy Barker: buddy Barker: we've heard all about them ha ha

Stephen King: they're named after you? i thought they were named after victor hugo Gernsback: ha ha a common mistake Gernsback: but that's fine Gernsback: i'm not mad at all that victor hugo keeps getting the credit Gernsback: i think its funny Gernsback: in fact i'm laughing

Gernsback: ah yes my precious hugo awards! Gernsback: the most prestigious award in science fiction and fantasy! Gernsback: a place for serious business Gernsback: certainly no room for shenanigans here Gernsback: no room for tomfoolery Gernsback: no room for clownish buffoonery

Gernsback: The Hugo -- an award whose very name rings with integrity & honor! Gernsback: it is no mere nebula! no paltry clarke! Gernback: the stoker, the howard, the lambda - none can compare! Gernsback: the L Ron hubbard writers of the future award? pah! dust before the hugo!

Gernsback: only the choicest cuts of science fiction and fantasy would ever achieve the lofty hugo award Gernsback: an award forever untainted by shenanigans or hijinks! Gernsback: now to take a big sip of coffee and read this file 770 report!

Gernsback: what the--?! Gernsback: my beautiful hugos!!! tainted by the foul stench of corruption!!! Clive Barker: yeah boy i bet victor hugo's just sick about it Gernsback: Barker: just sick about what they did to his award Gernsback: Barker: ha ha Poe: clive leave him alone

Gernsback: my hugo!!! you were supposed to be a thing of beauty... not this monstrosity! Dean Koontz: gosh he's so sad about his award Koontz: do you think it would cheer him up if i gave him my nickelodean kids choice award? Poe: i think that would be a very nice gesture dean

Chris M Barkley: [thrusting microphone] Mr gernsback! mr gernsback! a statement for the press? Jason Sanford: [thrusting microphone] how do you respond to the allegations about your award mr gernsback? Gernsback: confound these intrepid newshounds of the 4th estate!

Gernsback: [wiping brow] don't worry, we will be taking measures to fix this Barkley: what are you going to do mr gernsback? Sanford: the people demand an answer mr gernsback! Gernsback: we'll uh Gernsback: we'll nominate an essay called 'Dave McCarty Can Fuck Off Into the Sun'

Gernsback: what a debacle! i cannot believe my good name will now forever be associated with such shady practices! HP Lovecraft: hey when are you gonna pay me for my story you ran? Gernsback: new phone, who dis?

Gernsback: you know who this really hurts? Gernsback: worse than the nominees secretly disqualified for politics? Gernsback: worse than the entirety of Chinese science fiction secretly disqualified for being Chinese? Gernsback: worse than the winners whose awards are now tainted?

Gernsback: the person that this hurts most of all Gernsback: is clearly bitter karella Gernsback: for reasons i can't articulate Gernsback: everyone should immediately go and heap conciliatory praise on bitter karella Gernsback: truly the most wronged person of all

Bitter Karella: [bravely holding back tears] no no it's not about me Bitter Karella: [voice cracking] my only thought is for the hugo community who has been through... so much... Bitter Karella: [stoically gazing into distance] they're the REAL heroes

Gernsback: look how bitter karella keeps a brave face... for our sake! King: god bitter karella is so brave... and so modest! Poe: truly a great goblin Poe: possibly the greatest Koontz: why? what did they do? Poe: dean! show some respect!

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #dean koontz #hp lovecraft #hugo gernsback #bitter karella #jason sanford #chris m barkley

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room-surprise · 9 months ago

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Analysis of Laios and how he hugs/interacts with people, pre and post-manga.

Reading body language in real life is basically pseudo-science most of the time, however, these aren't candid photographs of real people I'm analyzing, they are drawings purposefully made by Ryoko Kui to tell us something about Laios and his relationships with other characters.

These illustrations are designed on purpose to communicate information. So what do I think they say?

Here's the illustration of how things are at the start of the manga:

NAMARI AND CHILCHUCK

They're both rough towards Laios, expressing displeasure with him, using violent physical touch to get his attention or punish him for something.

TOSHIRO

His reaction to Laios is totally passive. He isn't turned towards Laios, but he isn't turning away either. He's staring up into space with a look of discomfort, suggesting he wishes Laios would leave him alone... But that he is too polite to openly reject him.

We know this is partially a cultural issue: because Toshiro is Japanese, he considers it catastrophically rude to tell someone "no" in a blunt way. He is trying to communicate his discomfort and disinterest to Laios, but Laios isn't understanding Toshiro's signals.

Meanwhile, Laios is turning his whole body towards Toshiro, his eyes are wide open, he's smiling. He's very eager to interact, in a way that he isn't with any other character on this page except Falin.

MARCILLE

They are having a neutral interaction. Neither of them seems excited or interested in each other, but they are talking seriously. Marcille is gesturing at Laios in a way that seems scolding, they are standing at a polite distance, and Laios is standing at his full height, perhaps even leaning/straining away from Marcille slightly. There is a physical object (Marcille's staff) acting as a barrier, and it's physically pushing Laios away from her.

But it is worth noting that he has his hand on the staff, suggesting that he's not letting himself be pushed away any further, that he's having a reciprocal interaction with Marcille, not a passive one where he just stands there and gets lectured. Laios is participating and engaged.

FALIN AND SENSHI

The only people having unambiguously positive interactions with Laios on this page, which makes sense since they are the two people who are the most friendly towards him at the start of the manga.

Laios and Falin are touching hands, smiling and their bodies are turned towards each other, showing enthusiasm and a mutual interest. This is less intense than the hug in the post-manga illustrations, which maybe suggests that there's something distant and unresolved between them here, like resentment and guilt.

Laios and Senshi are closer to each other than Laios and Marcille. Laios is sitting or crouched down to get closer to Senshi's height, and they are both smiling and turned towards each other. Senshi may even be laughing!

Here's the "post-manga" image...

What a huge difference!

All of these interactions are basically positive, so I'll just go left to right, top to bottom. Also for some of these, we can't see Laios' friends full reactions, so I'll focus on what we can see, and how Laios is behaving.

SENSHI

They share a gentle hug. They both have their arms wrapped around each other, so the desire to touch is mutual. Laios bends to reach Senshi, and has a calm, content smile on his face while they hug. Laios rests his head on top of Senshi's head, showing trust and intimacy and a desire to be physically even closer to Senshi than just hugging. Senshi isn't pulling away, so I think that's a good indicator that he doesn't mind it, and possibly even likes it!

Which is a big change from how he felt violated by Laios touching his chest earlier in the manga, even though Laios was trying to heal him... I think Senshi isn't someone that easily lets others touch him, so this is a big improvement.

CHILCHUCK

The size difference makes this hug awkward, but that's not the only reason! Laios has both hands on Chilchuck and he is bending down in order to reach him, suggesting that he wants to embrace his friend, however Chilchuck is not straining to reach Laios, and he is only using one hand to touch him, suggesting that Chilchuck doesn't want to embrace too closely. Chilchuck is willing to allow a hug, and he is willing to touch Laios back, but he doesn't want it as much as Laios does.

I think Laios is aware of this, because he isn't trying to push the hug to a higher level of intensity. He's holding back to the level he thinks Chilchuck is comfortable with.

MARCILLE

They share a happy, but not overly intimate hug. Their chests and bodies are pressed together, but they are turning their heads away from each other.

Laios' hands are resting side by side on Marcille's back, and it seems like she is hugging him back in a similarly loose way. His arms are not overlapping, and they aren't squeezing or grabbing each other, just holding on lightly while pressing their chests together.

TOSHIRO

What a fascinating set of drawings!

I'm going to assume that the color drawing is what happens first, and the black and white line drawing is what happens afterwards, solely because if the black and white drawing is meant to just be Laios' fantasy of hugging Toshiro, then surely he would imagine Toshiro hugging him back enthusiastically, and not a more passive reaction like Kui drew.

Kui wrote a note here to remind readers that hugging is not considered normal in "the East", where Toshiro is from, to give context to why the character seems so uncomfortable.

Laios is approaching Toshiro at high speed, arms open and reaching for Toshiro, eyes wide, with a happy expression. He clearly wants to wrap Toshiro up in a big, enthusiastic hug.

Toshiro is sweating with discomfort, and he has a hand pressed against Laios' chest, attempting to stop him… However, the arm is not extended and his elbow is bent at an acute angle, and it looks as if no force is being applied. Toshiro perhaps feels a need to offer a token protest, but he isn't really trying to stop Laios.

In the black and white hug drawing, Laios has both arms wrapped tight around Toshiro, much tighter than Senshi, Chilchuck or Marcille, and he's pressing their bodies together and resting his head on Toshiro's shoulder. He's turning his face towards Toshiro's neck, and smiling serenely.

Toshiro's body is stiff, he's sweating, and his arm is held at a rigid 90 degree angle… But he isn't using it to push Laios away, just holding it uselessly at his side. Perhaps he is half-way towards returning the hug, thinking about lifting his arm a little higher and resting his hand on Laios' back, but he isn't sure if he wants to do that yet.

Toshiro is bending his body towards Laios, and allowing himself to be pressed against the other man. He's staring out into space with a neutral expression that suggests either discomfort or surprise. I think we're meant to understand that he has given up fighting against the foreign, offensive hug, realizing that it isn't offensive for Laios, and therefore it might be okay to allow it...and it might actually be more offensive if he rejected the hug.

FALIN

Falin has thrown herself at Laios with considerable force, and Laios has his arms overlapping across Falin's back. They are both squeezing each other tightly with their arms, and even Laios' hands are gripping Falin tightly. There is an overjoyed look on Laios' face, and I think this embrace shows how Laios has healed through the course of the story.

KABRU

Since Kabru is one of Laios' newest friends, it makes sense that the hug would be the least intimate.

The two of them have a complicated relationship in the manga, but the complete world bible shows that Laios has finally accepted that Kabru is genuinely his friend and not just trying to use or manipulate him. He's made an effort in the post-canon to reach out and try to be Kabru's friend in return, and Kabru has forgiven Laios for not listening to him in the past.

Kabru is turning his body away from Laios, which puts his shoulder towards Laios' shoulder at a perpendicular angle, forcing distance between them. Laios is fully facing Kabru, and has one arm behind his back, a hand resting on Kabru's shoulder, and another hand resting on his chest. The hand on the chest is attached to an arm that is bent at an obtuse angle, holding Kabru at a distance, with no indication that he is trying to pull Kabru in. Both hands are relaxed, like in the Marcille hug, indicating that Laios' grasp is loose.

This arm position is pretty unusual for an embrace. It allows Laios to keep Kabru at a distance where he can see him, and control where he moves, and how close he's able to get to Laios… and Kabru isn't returning the hug in any way, instead allowing himself to be touched and held in place.

Their bodies aren't pressed together, and Kabru's arm is down at his side, neither encouraging Laios nor pushing him away.

Laios has a big smile on his face, and he looks enthusiastic. Kabru on the other hand has a calm smile. In my opinion his expression is less enthusiastic than Marcille's.

I think Laios can't tell how Kabru feels about the hug, and so he's holding himself back. He's not blinded by emotion like he is with Toshiro, so he's not flinging himself at Kabru… And because Kabru is such a new friend, Laios is also probably hesitant to get too close to him.

There may also be some lingering trust issues, if Laios still isn't completely certain if Kabru genuinely likes him or not. Laios has often had trouble telling if people really like him, or if they are just being polite (Toshiro), or using him (former party members), so it makes sense that it would take awhile for him and Kabru to become truly comfortable with each other..

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #kabru #laios touden #falin touden #marcille donato #senshi of izganda #chilchuck tims #toshiro nakamoto #shuro dungeon meshi #theories #my stuff

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taiyaki-o · 8 months ago

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HI NEIGHBOR!

synopsis: your new next door neighbors are…interesting, to say the least.

gojo x gn!reader, non curse AU

You live next door to a strange pair.

Not strange in a bad way, but strange as in they seemed more like brothers or distant cousins rather than father and son. Their attitudes and personalities were polar opposites, not to mention they looked nothing alike.

You’d met Gojo Satoru and Fushiguro Megumi the day they’d moved in, your doorway having been blocked by a couple boxes belonging to your new neighbors.

“Um, excuse me?” You tap the white haired man on the shoulder as he’s rummaging through a box, his back turned to you. He whips his head around, peering up at you over his round sunglasses with a questioning look on his face. You chuckle awkwardly. “Sorry, could you just move these out of the way? They’re yours, right?” You point to the boxes.

A look of slight embarrassment crosses his face and he laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, they’re ours. Sorry about that, uh…”

You figure that he’s pausing for your name, and you give it to him with a smile.

He extends a hand out with a smile of his own. “Gojo. Gojo Satoru,” he says, and you shake his hand. “Here, let me get these out of your way.”

You try to help as he starts moving boxes, only to be met with what you could only assume to be an entire set of Olympic weightlifting equipment with how unbelievably heavy it is.

“Jeez, what do you have in here?” You ask in a slightly incredulous tone. “And how are you picking that up so easily?”

Gojo laughs at your bemused expression.

“Been going to the gym recently. Guess it’s paid off,” he says with a confident smirk.

As he opens his mouth to speak again, a small, monotone voice interrupts him.

“Did you get my books yet?”

You turn around to see a spiky haired kid with a slight scowl standing in the doorway. Gojo jumps as he’s startled, before quickly clearing his throat and recollecting himself with a laugh.

“Just wait a bit longer, Megumi. I’ll get them as soon as these boxes aren’t blocking the nice person’s door,” he smiles, but the kid continues to scowl at him.

Megumi then looks at you: his face doesn’t soften, but you can see in his eyes that he simply doesn’t know how to talk to new people, especially adults. You greet him with a smile and a polite wave.

“Say hi, Megumi. Be nice,” Gojo scolds him lightly. Megumi bows his head, averting his eyes.

“Hi,” he finally says softly.

“Hi Megumi,” you smile at the boy softly. “You like reading?”

The boy nods shyly after a moment.

“Well, I’ve got some books you could borrow if you want. What kind of genres do you read?” You squat down to his eye level as Gojo continues moving boxes.

“…I like science books. And history.” Megumi twiddles his fingers, still not making eye contact.

“That’s so cool! You must be really smart,” you chuckle. His cheeks flush a little. “Wait right here,” you say, disappearing into your apartment before returning with a stack of National Geographic magazines, science books, and a number of other genres that Megumi hadn’t mentioned. You catch the way his eyes light up a bit at the stack, and you smile.

Gojo lets out a relieved huff, having moved the final box into the apartment and away from your door. He walks back out, but the scene in front of him makes him freeze, his jaw going slightly slack.

You and Megumi are sitting on the floor, open books scattered around the two of you, a gentle breeze from the still open door gently stirring the pages. Megumi’s expression shows the most emotion Gojo’s seen since meeting the boy, as his eyes widen in amazement as he reads over the words on the books. His gaze eventually lands on you, and he swears time stops.

The sun hits your face at just the right angle, the glow of your skin damn near angelic as he basks in the light and warmth of your soft smile. He thought you were pretty when he first saw you, but here? You laugh, and all he hears is a choir of the gentlest bells and the sweetest music. He could look at this forever, he thinks.

“Gojo! You’re back!” You notice him standing farther down in the entryway. He snaps out of his trance, the tips of his ears turning a shade darker.

“Y-yeah. Um- what are you- what’s going on?” God, he hates how you’ve reduced him to this. You haven’t even done anything!

“Megumi likes reading, so I thought I could let him borrow some of my books!”

“Really? Cool, yeah, very cool-“ Come on, Satoru, get it together!

You bid farewell to Gojo and Megumi eventually, and Megumi clutches his new hoard of texts as he watches you go back inside your own apartment. He waddles away, dumping the books on the recently set up couch and burying his nose in “A History of Greek Sculpture”. Gojo lingers at the door.

Was that your perfume he smelled? Or was it just the flowers blooming outside? What’s your favorite color? Your favorite food? What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies? Are you single? Can he be your boyfr-

“Oi. Grandpa.”

Gojo whips his head around incredulously. “Who’re you calling grandpa, you little brat?!”

Megumi, stoic as ever, looks at Gojo dead in his eyes. “Close the door. You’re letting bugs in.”

Gojo shuts his mouth and then the door.

pt 2?

as of 3/23: pt 2 here!

#jjk #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jjk x you #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk fluff #taiyakiwrites

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navstuffs · 1 year ago

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Project L.S.K.

Pairing: Re4!Leon Kennedy x ScientistGN!Reader

Summary: After Spain, the U.S. government decides Leon Kennedy is too precious to be wasted, so they start a project with you as the leader. (aka the fanfic where you have to collect semen from Leon)

Warning tags: SMUT SO MINORS DNI, slight DUBCON, handjob, subby!leon, cum collecting, dirty talking, needy!leon, bit of exhibitionist!leon

Author's Notes: heey. this isn't what i normally write since i am not a fan of dubcon/noncon, but my husband had the idea and i opened an exception. enjoy your reading!

leon's masterlist

This is probably wrong. Ethically wrong and immoral in so many ways. Having your hands down in the pants of your object of study was clearly not how you decided to make your Saturday about….or was it? The task given by your superiors was clear as day: “Collect Leon fluids. We want blood and all the fluids you can get.”

They really meant it all fluids.

So, as the head scientist of Project L.S.K, you empty the laboratory the day Leon is supposed to come. Just you and him. Not that you have a crush or anything (that would be extremely inappropriate), but meeting the man in person for the first time and having to collect his semen, you wanted him as comfortable as he could be, and with a laboratory full of other scientists examining him wouldn’t help.

Leon was polite enough, shaking your hand. Deep down, Agent Kennedy knows you are just doing your job and just want to get it done and over with. How can you blame him? You lead him to a small room with an exam table, a comfortable armchair, and a regular table with a chair on the other side. There are no windows, for Leon’s relief. Leon turns around as you hand him the specimen cup with his name and date printed.

Leon waits for you to leave the room, but you close the door after you and sit in the chair behind the table. Leon blinks, and you give him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. They require me to stay in case you try to fake the test. It will be like I am not even here, I promise.”

Fantastic, Leon thinks. He drops into the armchair, cursing himself for not suspecting that before. Again, you were just doing your job. All he has to do now is cum in a damn tiny cup. It shouldn't be that hard: Leon can't remember the last time he pleasured himself. So easy peasy.

Ten minutes pass. Leon tries really hard: Guiding his hand inside his pants without pulling his cock entirely out, Leon strokes himself, closing his eyes. He doesn't even know what to imagine, conscious of your presence in the room. He just wants to get done with it.

Obviously, he can’t.

He sighs, frustrated, louder than he should, attracting your attention. If it was purposeful or not, it didn't matter. You pull your eyes up from whatever you are reading, crossing your sight with the vulnerable, pink-faced Agent Kennedy. A few strains of his hair have fallen over his face. You open your mouth and close it before clearing your throat. Now, it is not time to have impure thoughts.

"We have a fleshlight if you need it." Your interjection seems to get him by surprise, hitting him like lightning. Leon pulls his hands out of his pants as if they were electrified, his eyes wide. He looks at you, mouth agape and hair over his face. You look away, embarrassed. Great way to make Leon comfortable.

Before you can even apologize, Leon’s voice confesses low and apologetic.

“I have never done it with someone watching me before…”

Well, crap. The weight of that confession raises the temperature in the room, and suddenly, you feel warm. Mainly by the way Leon is staring at you: vulnerable, pleading for some sort of comfort. Anything you could give him. Your hand closes in a fist as the rational part of your body screams for you to not do it. You could lose your job. But those blue eyes are begging for the release only you could give.

The question comes from your mouth because you are trying to help him. After all, it’s for science, and your superiors didn’t want Leon cheating on the exam, right? What better way to ensure than to do it yourself?

“Do you need help?”

Leon takes a long time to answer, so long you think he will deny you. But he gives you a slight nod, looking down, embarrassed. You pick up your chair, placing it at his side. His body is tense, and Leon doesn’t look up when you sit near him, hands waiting on your lap.

“This wouldn’t put you in any trouble, right?” Leon wonders. You shake your head, finding it adorable that he worries for you. You barely know each other.

“No. I will be fine.” Honestly, you didn't even care if this would put you in trouble at this point.

Leon relaxes under you, and you have the vision of the Rookie who survived the Raccoon City outbreak. He seems unsure of himself, innocent almost, with barely any experience. You lunge forward, your hands on his thighs, not moving.

“I am fine, really. You can go. I haven’t done this in a long time. Hopefully, it means I will finish fast."

You nod, trying to ignore the pressure that gives you. You pull his pants down slowly. Leon raises his hips slightly so the pants drop further, his eyes going down to his lap where you can see the very tip of his cock on his black underwear. You try not to laugh or say it is cute, like a peeking bird. You don’t immediately touch it, focusing on massaging the upper part of his tights in circles to get Leon to relax.

"Is this fine?" You want him to be completely comfortable.

"Yes." Leon trembles. Either the cold or your touch. Or both. You wonder when was the last time he had someone to care for him like that.

“Close your eyes now. I want you to relax.”

He follows your command, relaxing against the armchair. Slowly, his shoulders fall, and his forehead furrow is gone. For some reason (that you thank), Leon seems to trust you enough for you to do this. Your hand goes to your jacket pocket, finding a lube, especially for male masturbation. You thought Leon might need some of that and would have offered for him to use on himself, but oh well. You coat your hand with the gel and gently rub it on Leon’s cock tip. His surprise whimper and how he immediately opens his legs for you tell you are doing something right.

You want to ask him if he liked that but bite your mouth. You gently pull his cock out of his underwear and slowly squeeze his length up and down with your lubed hand, wanting Leon to feel good. This is clearly not about the test anymore for you. Leon seems to bite his lips, trying to contain another moan.

“No need to be ashamed. It is just you and me here, Leon. Let it out all.” Leon’s cock twitches in your hands in response, and you wonder how much Agent Kennedy enjoys dirty talk. Maybe you should try more? For science.

“You seem to really enjoy this. I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist. Imagine if we got caught right here, right now, in how much trouble we would be.” You attempt again, watching Leon’s cock. It certainly seems to answer your stimulus, pre-cum leaking from his cock.

Your other hand, coated in lube, starts squeezing with his balls. Leon’s hands grab the side of the armchair, his knuckles turning white. You can feel wetness in the middle of your legs, and you ignore it focusing on working his cock harder and faster.

“You are doing so well, Leon.”

“Please…” Leon’s low whimper makes you fall out of your chair.

Your body is sweating now, but in no way like Leon’s, with his hair sticking in his forehead. He still doesn’t look at you (better that way), his chest raising up and down with deep breaths. He isn’t biting his lip anymore, letting out a “more” or “fuck” between quick breaths. His hips move against your hand, trying to find more friction.

“Please, what?"

“Please, let me cum.”

You look for the specimen cup, your hand leaving his balls, and focus on jerking his cock. You rub the head of his cock in circles, spreading more of his pre-cum around, and Leon's back flinches from the armchair. He is close, and you can feel it. You stop for a moment to open the specimen cup before leaning forward, close enough so you are near Leon’s ear.

“You did so good, Leon. All you have to do is cum for me now, give me all you can.”

Leon lets out a weak “I am cumming,” and you focus on directing his cock toward the cup. He fills over half of the cup before dropping into the chair, exhausted. You close the lid, ignoring your desire to kiss his parted lips, before getting up from the chair to get some towels and water.

Leon already has his dick tucked inside his underwear when you get back. He accepts your towel, murmuring thanks, his eyes again not meeting yours. You give him a water bottle, and Leon gets up from the chair, pulling his pants up.

It is over, you think, a tiny hint of sadness and disappointment inside your heart. Leon doesn’t owe you anything, you know that. You are grateful to be able to have made this afternoon less miserable. You joke when he finally faces you, trying to lighten the mood.

“Fifty dollars at the table.” His eyebrows arch in question, and you shake your head. “Never mind.”

He grabs your arm gently before you can walk toward the exit door. You look back to Leon, who seems to be debating choosing his words carefully.

“This shouldn’t be the last time we see each other, right?” An idea flares up in your head.

“No. The government will probably need more. I will especially supervise those collections if you allow me.”

“I wouldn’t ask for anyone else.”

You couldn’t agree more. For science.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon s kennecy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fanfics #thank you troye sivan for rush <3 helped me lots to write this fic #you should have seen my face when i wrote reader offering that fleshlight

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honestsycrets · 1 year ago

Text

dedication | young!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | young geneticist!miguel o'hara x scientist!reader

❛ type | oneshot, explicit.

❛ summary | alchemax is a dangerous place to work. miguel's new assistant may be over her head. maybe he can help her, though.

❛ tags | virgin reader, f!reader, shitty science, plot heavy, loose canon references, literary liberties, loss of virginity, overprotective Miguel o'hara, jealous miguel o'hara, some objectification, workplace politics, aftercare (as requested), corruption (is it tho?), bc what bc, Spanish is not translated, young!miguel, heel-foot fetish, somewhat romantic.

❛ fulfilled request | can we please have a miguel x virgin reader and he didn’t even know until he was already putting it in?? And then voila his corruption kink unexpectedly growS? @a--dedicated--fangirl

❛ sy’s notes | miguel sort of works on that whole corruption aspect throughout this fic, but i wanted to meld these two ideas together to create a reader who is entirely dedicated to Miguel. This piece was a bit long for me.

“Miguel, your new assistant is here.”

On paper, you’re an excellent candidate for the genetics program.

An excellent GPA, renowned company internships, decent publications, and a diverse upbringing. It was all good. Great, even. But as the head of the genetics program at Alchemax, he has a little thing called priorities. Interviewing everyone himself was low on the rung of shit he felt like he should be doing. There was, however, one little, itty bitty, tiny problem with bringing you on board.

“Dr. O’Hara? ¿Estas bien?”

That shirt-- is not meant to hold those-- His brain was left field, glimpsing at them. A slightly sheer button-up revealed the outline of your bustier and its inability to conceal your body. They should have been illegal. He was pretty sure they were illicit in the handbook on his table. He should really read that again. Maybe then he wouldn’t be salivating over something as simple as a co-worker-- He needed to get out of the lab. The bleached walls tightened around him, the space smaller than he remembered. He was going to get caught.

Realistically, the lab was full of witty people. Many of them were witty men with subpar looks and stupider dicks. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Not only because your lips were plump, painted petal-pink, and kissable or because the depth of your sultry eyes went straight in the dick. No, but because that would be improper of a man of his stature to tell one of the only women in his care that she was too gorgeous for the job you were clearly qualified for.

“Sí, coño,” He fixed his glasses, crooked on his broad nose. He stood up from his desk and grabbed his lab coat, swirling it around his broad shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, you tracked the movement with your eyes. “Do you want a cafecito? Miss…”

You told him your name. He mulled it over on his tongue, lathing it in a gentle acknowledgment. Cemented it in a place he wouldn't forget. You tinked your head to the side, your lashes fluttering when he cleared his throat. Great, just shocking--

“After you,” he headed for the door. He held it open for you, plastering his back to the wood. It didn't matter. You slid by closer than he’d prefer, your hand catching on his belt buckle with muttered apologies. This wasn’t going to end well.

Cafecito is an excellent excuse to pull his dumbass together.

It also calms his nerves, centers his mind, and allows him to compartmentalize. Whether or not you could hold your own wasn’t his issue, his issue was the necessity of someone he could trust. Ugly, beautiful-- so long as they were efficient, Miguel would make due. The cafeteria was a large and clean space. The many tables were crowded with wrap-around stations for poorly crafted, misery-inducing meals. Miguel paid and took a seat at a creaky table. One where he could see the door open, shut, and keep an eye on the comings and goings of meager scientists and annoying managers.

“You’ll be working with me.”

You pursed your lips around the warm cup of coffee, taking a ginger sip. He noted your lipstick stain that remained as you pushed the cup toward the middle of the table you shared with him. This damn suit vest was stifling. He gave you a long, slow look, tilting his head to the fact that you’d not drunk anything. It’d be rude to acknowledge.

“Delgado told me,” you smiled warmly. “He said you’re a genius. I don’t know that I believe in geniuses.”

Hmph. Delgado, things fell into place. That sycophant knew what he liked. He also knew that Miguel was better than him, always was, and always would be. Miguel offered you a slick smile, convinced he could assure you otherwise if he needed to. “Delgado says a lot of things. I’m surprised he gave you to me.”

“Why is that, O’Hara?” the way his name slipped off your tongue was a hot sin. If only he believed in a god. His eyelids shifted over his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark.

“You’re beautiful. He likes to collect beautiful things,” Miguel tried, curious. Your nails clicked in succession over the table. A repetitive click, click, click. He would be annoyed too if he were no more than a ploy. A distraction. Miguel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t working. His eyes flickered down, catching one of your palms curling into a tight fist, tension rolling through your fingers and up your arms. “He knows I do too.”

You leaned in, close enough that he could spot the unique freckles spread out in a crescent moon beneath a layer of makeup on your face. Beautiful. “I’m not here to belong to you, O’Hara. I hope you know that.”

He was off to a great, fantastic start.

“Understood.” Miguel leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping up his lips. Or, believe that you believed that. You spared him any more mincing comments. Appeased by his suggestion, you brought your drink back to your lips.

“Good. What are we sequencing?”

“Me.”

You swallowed. “You? You can’t be--”

Mhm, he stared, lips pressed tightly together. “You’ll code my DNA. Then we’ll splice it.”

"With what?"

"You'll see."

“Is this your little,” you swirled your finger in a circle. “Pet project?”

Unfortunately not, he would have liked to say. That information was confidential, and though you worked on the project, there were levels to his willingness to involve you in the delicate flow of workplace politics. Still, you might make a healthy distraction from his work. Miguel took a swig of his cafecito, boring into the black substance.

“Something like that.”

Having a pretty assistant means things don’t always get done according to schedule. Not quickly enough, not by far. There is a time limit to everything at Alchemax. The quicker, the better. Thus this project demanded more hours of his time. The project was spliced between the work required of him by superiors and you, your quirks, and your preferences.

Miguel has learned a great many things about you in a short amount of time. You don’t appreciate misplaced pet names. You actually can’t handle coffee because of the caffeine or the sugar. He also learns things about himself. How little he likes when Delgado comes to check on progress because he isn’t actually checking on shit. He's checking you out.

He likes to weasel his nasty fingers around the door, peering in to try and find out what specimen he’s actually working on. Miguel was much too smart for that. His beady eyes caught Miguel over your shoulder, mumbling up to him about a new finding in tests you ran earlier that day. Your face mask twirled around your index finger, finally free and at a documentation workspace. Funny, because he clearly redacts information from your well-recorded notes on the daily. You refuse to include less.

“Hey Mike,” he said. “How are things… Oh hey, you. You settling in, honey? Mike treating you ok? I can discipline him for you.”

“As if you could,” Miguel huffed.

But Delgado spying on you, the way you record progress by pouting out your lips, shifting between paper and your lab reports, was intolerable. Because... well, he has sensitive information on there. Your nose scrunches in distaste, but you bow your head just slightly as a hello. He might be his supervisor, but Miguel doesn’t need one to know why this asshole is in his lab turning his smarmy brown eyes over the way you sit: one leg over the other. You seem to realize it too, trailing your eyes over his gaudy suit to Miguel’s sinewy hand on your shoulder.

“Stop being a creep,” Miguel complained, “She has actual work to do.”

“Actual work? As opposed to--“

“Yes, what you do.” Miguel spat out. You eschewed a giggle, turning your face over a pristine white lab jacket that thankfully, you had no qualms in wearing. Otherwise, he might not finish any work in the lab at all.

“I supervise--

“You’re still talking but we’re not listening,” Miguel waved him off, plucking up papers by your side. Your eyes snap up to Miguel’s deep chocolate eyes hidden behind the thin frame of his metal glasses, waiting for a proper response. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Miguel walks to the door, locks it with a click, and returns to your side. You glance at his white lab coat, fluttering around his tapered waist. He loves the way your eyes look at him with a soft, inviting expression, beseeching him to come to sit by your side as he always did. “Not a fan of Delgado, I take it.”

“Are you?” Miguel sits with his legs spread, his fingers threading through his thick brown hair. You set your papers down, swiveled toward him. The wheels of your rolling chair squeak on either side of his thick, black boots. His eye catches your thick thighs, squashed between your midi skirt, its atrocious slip causing him discomfort. His hand leaves his thick hair, dropping in unison side by side.

“I can’t stand being called honey, Mike.”

“Shut up.”

The days proceed similarly. Days filled with brushing past him as he slides in samples and reagents. He might lose a sample, clattering on the floor, and you always rush to help him clean up. Lunch together, because no matter how late he eats, you’re there beside him. Then as night falls, you stay until he has finished whatever he needs to do.

“Time to eat something,” you slipped into his office. The clock ticked past midnight. Miguel flicked through handwritten pages of information that did not need to be recorded in computer files. You watched his eyes scan over the ink on the page, acknowledging you with a grumpy grunt. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing the last section of the project.

“Empanada,” you turned his palm over, placing the flaky pastry in his hand. Caramelized apple. He loved a good apple empanada. He watched as you walked over to the coffee maker, drawing him a warm cafecito just how he liked it. Miguel dropped his pen, stretching out his aching spine.

“Gracias. From where?”

“I made them,” you set down the cup a little harder than intended. The surface rippled, throwing hot coffee drips onto his pages. His eyes flickered up from the pages to your eyes. Without thinking, he blathers:

“That so?” A pause. “Don’t you have a man?”

“Miguel. With this sequencing project, you’re the only man in my life. Shut up and eat the empanada.”

“Huh. Good. I like that.” He swallowed the empanada with a bob of his head, his tongue lathing over his teeth for any more of the sweet sugar. He stood up, finding your expression soft, drawn out by a sense of longing that he couldn’t imagine he saw.

“You like my sad love life?”

Yes.

“No, we have a company event. A ball,” Miguel chided, his tone gentling as he slipped away from his desk, abandoning his steamy coffee on his desk. He backed out of the doorway, “It’s all Stone’s politics. You know how these things are. I have to go. Come with me.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“A date.”

I’d love to. Your words were the only thing that made tonight bearable. Slinking his tanned skin into a dark blue suit that cinched everything too tight was… unbearable. It clung to his skin like a second skin and choked off his air. But it might be worth it to see your face-- just maybe. He tracked the fluttering tails of fish behind bulletproof glass, following them as they fluttered away into their rock. He wished he could too.

“Miguel?”

“You’re here,” he turned around, dropping the champagne he idly held in his hand. It went forgotten by his boot as you called his name again. His gaze fixed on yours, the slinky navy blue dress caused his heart to thrum through his chest, chasing the sight of your body at his feet, picking shards of glass up with the aid of a worker, apologizing profusely for the mess. A soft puff of breath slipped from his lips as you stood back up, gripping your purse a little harder in your hands. He ran his hand over his jaw, drawing himself back to his senses.

“Miggy,” he husked out. “Call me Miggy.”

“You look handsome, Miggy,” his name felt unreal on your lips until he felt the pressure on his elbow. Your soft hands slunk around his, cradling him for some security in the face of the large doors. He shook himself back to his senses. Right, there was a reason he was here. “But shouldn’t we go?”

He should have-- but did he want to? No, not really. He didn’t want to see Stone’s greasy face, let Aaron take a peek at how you looked dolled up, or any of the rest of these fuckers. What he wanted was something else entirely.

“Listen.” Miguel stopped, his other hand coming to the jeweled bracelet on your wrist. The doors to the ballroom lapsed, groups of older men filtering in and out with their pieces of the night: doting wives, longing husbands, and partners that their wives or husbands probably didn’t know about. “Don’t wander off from me. They’re all snakes. All of them.”

“Even you?”

“Hermosa,” you didn’t leer at him. “I’m the least of your worries.”

He wasn’t wrong. The ballroom was dolled up in lush fabrics, fine china, and a copious amount of food as it was every year. Miguel found the attempt to distract from what really went on behind closed doors at Alchemax a bit cloying. This year the music was at least tolerable. It filtered out into the ballroom in a syrupy melodies driven on by the soft, promises of rich men for the exchange of sex. For much of the night, he could stomach the various men poking and prodding at him about his impending research. So long as you were here.

“Miggy,” you breathed, a hot puff of air against his ear. He leaned down, his hand atop of yours. “Will you dance with me?”

Dance? Miguel had two left feet-- it’s why he was a geneticist. For all the work you did on his behalf in the lab, including this very night, he owed you the benefit of whatever you wanted. He searched out a quiet area, one where the only disruption could be the stream of moonlight in through a window. You preferred it over the wall of vivacious men and over-powdered women. He preferred it over the atrocity of his footwork.

“It’s not much of a date,” Miguel’s hand slid around yours. He encompassed your small palm with his large hand, the other gliding across the soft, exposed skin of your back. You swayed with him, side to side. He was an awful dancer, but there was something endearing about that. He saw it in your eyes, the glimmer of curiosity, gliding your dark heels against the inside of his foot. Damn, he still sucked.

“No,” you agreed, shifting to take the lead. He followed your steps. Right, back, left, up. Maybe he stepped on your long dress once or twice, too. Shock, he cursed again, stepping over your foot.

“You’re remarkably bad at this.” You settled your head on his chest, letting your box steps fade into little more than the shifting of your hips.

“I know. Let’s just-- sway?”

“Swaying is good.”

“O’Hara,” boomed Stone. But of course— peace couldn’t last forever. Like a bullet through the chest, a voice caused him to turn in startle. His tan cheeks flushed with warmth, feeling cut off from the cover of others. He was dressed in the most gaudy of clothes that almost seemed to match the crooked expression on his pale face. No matter how many times he tried to fix it, it always looked… wrong.

Stone’s hands came together, clapping multiple times to force the crowd of politicians, scientists, and bought-in participants to fade away. His voice caused Miguel to growl, a low rumbly noise that you soothed with your breasts pushing gingerly against his arm. He could do it. He could handle this pompous little shit-- “And who is this beauty? A new girlfriend, perhaps? Fiance? O’Hara could do with a wife. Settle him down, y’know.”

Miguel huffed out of his nostrils. “This is my lab partner,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “For… the project.”

“Her? A lab partner? Ha!”

Shock. He didn’t have to look at you to know you were insulted. Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing out the tension as you smiled through the interaction, taking over for Miguel. “We have measurable results.”

“That’s what I like to hear, sweet thing. Now, Miguel, Aaron has found a test subject…”

“I’ll interview them.”

“No need! I--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone. I’ll let you two talk,” you slipped away, your heels clicking off into the busy crowd. Stone was talking. Miguel knew he should listen closely. His half-formed plan to see what the future held for his research was wafting into the air, wisps of it in his ear. Tomorrow-- test-- can you? Panic blinded his senses. He could find you nowhere in the room, and even if he did, would he be too late?

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, it’s… excuse me.”

The issue with falling for someone was the scythe of his fear. His position was inherently risky. No matter how many groups of people he cut through trying to find you, you weren’t there. No tiny little appetizers of shrimp on half a skewer. No booze, because your head would swim. Not near the bathrooms, either. He rushed down the steps when he found you, just before the large iron gates, staring up at the stars peppering the sky.

At your feet, Aaron. His drunken fingers trying and failing to guide the strap off of your ankle. You, of course, sat there staring dumbly down at his failed attempts to do something as simple as fix your damn heel.

“I’ll take it from here.” Miguel booted Aaron out of the way. Who, with his sloppy sloshed curses, tried to win a fight with him. He eventually won out. Aaron slunk away, somewhere up the steps. Miguel wasn’t counting. “You didn’t listen.”

“Hm?”

Miguel loosened both straps, sliding his open palm under your foot for one then the other. You gazed at him, sliding the black heels off your feet, tutting his tongue at the blistered back of your feet.

“I told you not to wander off.”

“I just wanted to see the stars. Besides, it was just Aaron.”

“It’s never just Aaron. It’s Aaron and Stone.” Miguel’s eyebrows pushed against one another, recording your failure to listen. You crossed one leg over the other, sliding your toes over his silk tie, kept beneath a vest. He knelt before you, searching your eyes for the right answer. “You don’t know… what you’re getting into. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself, Miguel. Please don’t--” you sighed. “Don’t be like them.”

He knew what you meant. Like Aaron, peeling off your shoes at the sign of discomfort because you were a pretty woman. Or Stone, who couldn’t comprehend your value as a scientist. Those who doubted you because of your color, gender, or a mixture of the two. His mouth twisted in frustration. He was in deep. Whatever you desired, he wanted to give. It came at a price.

“Are you mine,” the words came out stiff, “or theirs?”

“Miggy,” you turned the word over on your tongue, willing him to stand down. His dark eyes settled on yours, unmoving. “Why do I have to pick?”

“You can’t have both. You’ll have to choose. One day.”

Your mind worked. He knew from the way you pursed your lip out, then in, puncturing its pillowy surface with your teeth. You shifted your gaze to the water, the stream coursing down the unfeeling stone. Miguel's fingers ran across your inner thigh, causing you to gaze down at him. The steps of others on the other side of the fountain, fading into the depths of the night caused you to break his gaze. Miguel offered you his hand, fitting the shoes under his other arm as he walked toward the valet. You took his hand and interlaced your fingers.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” you said, though the words felt thready and thin, nary a whisper. Something in the undercurrent of your voice concerned him. A thread that needed to be snipped, convinced of the vileness of the city-- of who you worked for.

He doesn’t make mistakes.

But he left the project code on his desk. It should have been there, yet, the corpse of a decrepit, awful creature withered on the lab floor proved otherwise. Someone had taken it because he was distracted. As a result, someone lost their life... even if it was Stone's doing.

Now, scouring through his papers, his hands tremored like a common drug addict. He supposed he was one, a druggie, tremoring like a shot hungry, Rapture crazed--

“Miggy?”

He snapped around. His gaze melded your figure into one beautiful blurb, even with the glasses on his broad nose. It was your voice, coded in something close to concern. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, long strands falling messily over his eyes and cheekbones. He flattened his hands out atop his head.

“What are you looking for?”

“The notes,” he weathered a breath. He doddered about the room, throwing a stack of paper onto the floor. They crumpled over the floor, mixed projects, notes on the specimen, but none were his. “Where are my notes?”

“You’re sick,” your voice broke gently, as if speaking them alone helped. A horrid crack of laughter slipped from his throat, drawing into a long lament as he repeated the words after you. Sick, you said, he was sick. If being sick was the least of his issues, he would have been a happy man. Your steps rang into his ear, heavier than before, painful and loud. He crumpled onto the couch in his office, his hands cupping them. Your soft hands coursed over his chest, unbuttoning his starched button-up and sliding it down his muscular upper arms. “This might hurt.”

No kidding, needles always hurt. But the instantaneous relief that flooded his system overrode the momentary pain. As your fuzzy figure came into focus, he recognized the drug that you set aside.

“You didn’t--”

“You were right, Miggy, about the-- Mr. Sims.” Miguel gazed at you, leafing through novels of notes with trembling hands. He cursed himself for subjecting you to seeing that. Not quite human, not quite... The twisted look on the poor man’s face. What months of research with one another had offered. He would fix it. He knew the research was on point. It was the application that was lacking.

“I have a copy of your notes,” you murmured as if someone could hear. They likely could. “¿Ay, puñeta, dónde está? Ah! Here, here it is. Your… profile.”

“You kept it,” he glanced down at the hastily scribbled note attached to the clip. ‘Miguel’s profile’ alongside a soft pink heart. He stopped your hands from thumbing through another leaflet. His eyes traced the dry ink of the heart. His thumb moved to stroke it, catching the sight of bubbling tears welling over in your eyes out of the corner of his eye. The tears slid down your full cheeks, triggering his discomfort to well up in his stomach. Miguel shifted closer, flicking fat droplets off your slight jaw.

“Hermosa,” Miguel shifted his head, cocking his eyebrow. “¿Que te pasa?”

“I should have listened to you Miggy,” you began, inhaling air forcefully through your nostrils. Breathe, you murmured. Miguel's soft hand cupped the back of your neck like a collar. You were happy to be collared by his hand, it felt safe.

His eyes narrowed, thumb caressing the loose strands of hair at your nape. “You should have. You know I'll take care of you."

You nodded.

"You have to be fully dedicated to me.”

“I am.”

“Show me.” You fluttered your eyes, the gears of your mind working to understand what he meant. His hand fell away to trace the bow of your black blouse. He tugged on the knot, slipping the bow loose and running his fingers over your exposed cleavage below. “Take off the blouse.”

Was it necessary? Some might have said no-- but sex, in its connective nature-- was the ultimate dedication. At the end of it all, that's what he craved: your eyes, your actions, all born with him in mind. With trembling fingers, you untucked your shirt from your black slacks. Miguel sat back, tracking the soft lace of your balconette bra teasing his eye. You loitered for a minute too long, enough for him to lift his thick eyebrow.

“Don’t stop now,” he said. Your knees knocked together, slipping the shirt over and off your torso before draping it on the arm of his couch. Your bra followed quickly after, slipping out of the twisted straps. You skimmed your hands over your breasts, holding them for comfort.

"No." Miguel flicked his fingers, motioning for your hands to move from your thick nipples. You pushed your breasts together, allowing him to marvel at them a second longer. “Que maravilla... You have no idea how long I’ve waited. Go on, take off the rest now.”

You suckled in breath, sliding the button of your pants loose. Then the zipper, its cloth scratching your thighs on its way to pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, joining them too with your shirt. Miguel sat up, running his calloused fingers over the side of your hip and waist. His thumbs hooked in your panties, drawing them down over your pussy, a moist spot on your panties connecting a small string of wetness to your pussy. His palm slid between your thighs, pinned by your thighs pressed together, whether out of an innate need for more pressure or shyness to show him how wet you were. Hm. Miguel melded your ass, striking your skin with his large palm, it jiggled.

“Miggy,” you breathed, shy and intimidated. “I have to tell you something…”

“Lay down,” he told you.

“But Miggy, what if someone…” Your eyes darted away from his, chewing on his cheek as you slid back down beside him. You settled on the couch, your legs thrown over his thighs. The couch was stiff, hard against your neck. You stole a haughty glimpse at his face, focused entirely on coursing his palms over your calves and thighs, then back down to your slight toes. He ground your feet over his stiff cock, obscured by the fabric of his slacks. He felt big-- bigger than you could have imagined from the look on your face.

“¡Basta!” Miguel growled, “No one is going to come in. Let me see you.”

You flushed.

“You want me to…” you glanced down, your curls were soft to the touch.

“Touch yourself for me.”

With your heart strumming in your chest, you shifted your hand down, spreading your lips, soft and wet. You were so wonderfully shy to follow his orders, the pads of your fingers rubbing along your outer lips, massaging them warm and swollen. You buried your eyes into your other arm, dragging up and down, over and over. A delightful sigh greeted his ear, ensuring that though you were too embarrassed to look at him, you loved it. He allowed it for now-- because he was a gracious, forgiving man.

“Shock,” Miguel shuffled at the button and zipper of his pants, freeing himself from his slacks. He spat into his palm, stroking over his fleshy length, squishing his cock against your foot. Your toes curled over his cockhead, engrossed in Miguel’s rumbling pants, the soft pleasure that bloomed from his chest. Your eyes trained on his lips, the slight breath suckled between his teeth. Your fingers glazed over your stiff clit, pausing as though you needed his permission, just how he wanted it. Your sweet submission.

His eyebrow perked. “You can touch it.”

“Oh,” you glanced down, tracing the way Miguel fisted himself, swirling up to his cockhead, along fat veins and the bubble of salty fluid on his tip. His permission seemed to spur something else in you, flicking your swollen clit to the sound of his pleasured growling, your own pleasure growing in tandem with his.

“¡Ya!” he annunciated, watching as you failed to stop. All at once he stopped his ministrations. A sigh escaped his chest as he pushed himself up, smacking your hand away from your puffy cunt. His cock bobbed between your bodies. You wanted to touch it, but couldn’t.

"Wait," you cried out. His cock twitched as he lowered his hips down, drawing sweet lubricant on his cock, stroking your pussy. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a warm kiss. He dipped his hand down, his cockhead prodding and poking, dipping lower with the aid of his hand.

“MiggyI’mavirgin,” you said all at once, his cockhead nudged against your entrance. Miguel’s head about snapped as he looked up, eyes popped wide open in disbelief. Before he could quite form a coherent thought, your hands shot out to grip his suit vest, stopping him where he was.

“¿Qué dejiste? Say that again?”

“I haven’t… I haven't had sex,” you murmured. He hadn’t put it together. Your shyness, the awkward way you shuffled around, loosening your bra and hiding your perfect breasts from his eyes. The words were finally out in the open but didn't register.

"A..." Miguel fisted his cock, once, then twice, shifting back to kneel before you. Your eyes fell on his muscular thighs, the way his hand fisted his dick. “You’re a virgin?”

“I’m too old for this,” you mumbled, hiding your eyes with your palms. Miguel shifted to cast aside your hands from your eyes, his muscular body caging you underneath, looking for an explanation. “I just. Between school, work, I never had time.”

Not that he was complaining.

"No boyfriend?"

You shook your head. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only were you gorgeous, but you were untouched. His, completely and fully. He liked it better that way-- to be the first memory smeared in your head. So that when you looked back on this moment, right now, it would forever be marked by his face.

"It's mine," he blurted out all at once. "I want your first to be mine."

His hand dropped down to your cunt. The pad of his middle finger worked at your entrance as though he were exploring the truth of your statement, stretching you with the aid of his fingers. You were tight, it had to be true.

You nodded, face buried deep in your arm. It didn’t take but moments for him to draw his hand back, suckling the lubricant from his fingertips. You distantly registered his words, “Damn it, you... you don't know what you do to me.”

Before you could say a word more, Miguel positioned the head of his dick against your slippery virgin hole. You clenched, glancing down between your bodies again, as you had a dozen times, anxiously waiting. Miguel hushed you, the repetitive shushing of his lips soothing you into complacency, forcing your muscles to relax. “It might hurt. But the pain won’t last,” he assured you.

He rolled his hips forward. His sharp exhale shook with every centimeter that gave way. Your walls were forced apart, suffocating you on the shock of adjusting to having someone, no not someone, Miguel-- your Miguel, sinking into your tense body. He throbbed, twitching in your body. His hands fisted in the aged couch, catching the breath in his chest.

“Ay, Miggy,” your nails dug into his shirt, loose around his firm muscles. “Miggy, no puedo,”

“You can, you’re so good, eres tan buena,” Miguel swept your lips between his, taking the moment of your surprise to bury himself further, swallowed by your cunt that resisted his intrusion. Your lips fluttered in the kiss, keened out a cry. The pain of his dick, forcing its way through your passage is quelled by the knowledge that he’s here, with you, his girth forcing you apart, stretching you apart, seating himself flush against your womb. His voice was caramelized, sugared over, and so good. “Look at how well you’re taking me already.”

“Coño, that’s a tight pussy,” He slid his hips back, the warm sensation of his withdrawal pulling free before shoving back in, a cry shoving forth from your lips, filling his office and the connected lab with your cries. He might have heard someone draw the door open, his hips driving back in, centered on the magnificent groans that stuttered free from your chest with Miguel’s careful thrusts. You keened his name, a repetitious Miggy, Miggy, Miggy-- it was Aaron, probably. He recognized the way his feet drug on the floor.

He hoped he didn’t just hear it. He hoped he saw it too, the way his balls slapped against your ass, the mess of blood soaking the already unhygienic couch, the way his cock pulsed. You were blissed out, so full and well of him like no one else ever had-- because you were his, and his alone. It wasn’t just sex. It was more than that. From Aaron, whose shuffled steps fell out of his office, to any other little bitch in the office who had their own gain.

“Damn,” Miguel shifted back, hooking his hand around your thigh to drag you back onto his dick. He swirled his thumb against your stiff clit, whirling it around in one circle, then another, and by the third your knees knocked together, bearing down on his cock to hold him still. “I can’t--” you stuttered out, I can’t--”

“You’re going to,” he hissed. “You’re going to cum right here, right now, split open on my dick.”

With another circle, you croaked an ugly cry, a terrible, ugly cry that Miguel couldn’t find any more beautiful as your body buzzed around him, tightening and squeezing your already tight cunt around him. Blissful pleasure radiated there, riding his dick for the friction against your virgin walls, your thoughts fading into a realm of insistent pleasure, where thoughts were space mush.

Miguel withstood the pressure on his cock, clamping his hand down on your hip. His thrusts stuttered, filling your belly with whip after whip with his full hot cum. Your body twitched in the throes of his orgasm. He tracked his eyes down to your body, withdrawing with a bubbly pop of his dick from your abused hole, the intermingling of cum and virginal blood dribbling down your cheeks.

Your gaze tracked Miguel, pressing his lips toward yours one more time. You shifted on the couch, legs pathetically tremoring. Miguel chuckled and walked toward his electric kettle, papers crunching underneath his feet, “Don’t bother moving. Not that you could, anyway.”

He warmed a warm cloth with hot water, testing its temperature on his palm before sitting beside your crumpled legs, spreading your legs to clean his mess and sooth the abrasive way he took you. He spread your lips, ensuring you were clean before he would flip the cloth, dropping it on top of your vulva.

“You know you’re mine,” he asked, though it came out as a statement. With another cloth, Miguel cleaned his soft cock of the mess, exhaustion of the sex and what was to come returning to his gentle, deep voice.

“Sí,” you answered.

“And you’d do anything for me. Only me.”

The words were laced with something more than a suggestion, but an affirmation of your loyalty. Your love. You pushed yourself up, hanging off his arm after he tucked himself into his pants. “Para siempre.”

He leaned down, plucking the bundle with his sequenced DNA information. Your eyes coursed the information on the page, darting up to his tired eyes. You wanted to ask why or what he knew. Miguel knew it didn't matter. You were his now, from the top of your head to the bottom of your gorgeous toes. You trusted him fully. As you should. With the empty vial of Rapture sitting beside him, forgotten, he spared you a mincing smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Good. Let's fix our project.”

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spider 2099 imagine #across the spiderverse imagine #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #spider 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara smut

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cauliflowercounty · 8 months ago

Text

Knives Dance (Part III)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

Summary: It was hard to have a prose summary so here are some bullets of what’s happening in part 3

Baron Feyd missing you + heartfelt reunion

Feyd being totally infatuated with you

SCIENCE!!! and POLITICS!!!

Rabban being pitiful

Reader being a badass

Feyd vs Paul on Arrakis (what will happen? You’ll never knowww… [unless you read this chapter **wink, wink, wink**]

Warnings: Violence, blood, death (woohoo)

Word Count: 10.3k (whoops… I went typey-type)

A/N: I wanted to say a sincere thanks to everyone who's read Knives Dance up to this point. This series is some of the most fun I've had writing in a long, long time. Sending lots of love your way :)

Part I | Part II | Part III

Stirring gently in his bed, Feyd recoils slightly as the light from Giedi Prime’s black sun hits his eye line through the wall of windows that separate his bedroom from the private balcony that overlooks the cityscape. He extends his arm to your side of the bed and runs his hand languidly across the surface, feeling the cool, silky sheets under his fingertips. His heart feels heavy in his chest, and he lets out a low growl of frustration into his pillow. It has been a long three weeks without you.

You’ve been off-world on a visit to Youra to see your father and bring back equipment for the laboratory you’re constructing on Giedi Prime. He knows that he doesn’t have to worry about your safety because he insisted on a full Harkonnen security detail accompanying you, which should have put his mind at ease, but he’s laid awake each night since your departure, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of disasters befalling you during your travels. One night it’s asteroids colliding with your ship, tearing gaping holes in the walls, and sucking you into the vacuum of space. Another, it’s an ambush by an undiscovered society, hellbent on killing alien peoples for sport. Perhaps a novel virus wiping out the entire population of Youra and you with it in a matter of days? No farfetched scenarios were off limits when Feyd allowed his mind to wander.

The foreign feeling of loss due to your absence has not only plagued him with anxiety, but allowed Feyd to slip into a state of abject melancholia. None of his old vices have come close to fulfilling him, let alone make him feel much of anything. Watching his servants cower in fear or making foreign ambassadors quake in their seats wasn’t giving him the same gratification as it once had. Even hearing the roar of the crowds in the arena didn't given him any satisfaction. Everything had felt unbearably pedestrian. The only thing that brought a smile to his face was the thought of having the other half of his bed full again and listening to your tranquil voice. With every passing moment, he’s yearned for the life you had built together on Giedi Prime to resume.

Your mornings together were simple and easy. They were a time when he could always experience a drop of serenity within the political quagmire he’d gotten himself into since assuming the title of Baron. He’d wake up with you already in his embrace, your head laid delicately on his chest. He'd listen to your soft breathing and savor the way your limbs would entangle with his. The image of you blinking your eyes open to look at him with the special glimmer of affection reserved just for him never failed to make his heart flutter.

Overtime, Feyd noticed you had been taking very well to Harkonnen dresses, which you now wore more often than not. He had the best seamstresses on Giedi Prime make and tailor custom outfits for you, though he didn’t expect you to always wear them, knowing how important your heritage was for you. Nevertheless, you continued to grab one of the black gowns from your shared closet for your daily tasks and tell him with a smile “I’m Baroness Harkonnen now. Shouldn’t I dress the part?”

Before leaving your quarters each day, Feyd always took the opportunity to take your hand in his and bring you in front of the floor length mirror in your shared closet. With his hands around your waist, he would pepper gentle kisses from your cheeks down your neck, whispering in your ear “you are a vision today, my Baroness.” You'd always smile and blush bashfully in return, returning his kisses in kind. Moments like those when it was just the two of you had become one of his favorite parts of the day.

You made the meetings, filled with diplomats groveling to win his favor, bearable. How he loved to watch you as you sat on the grand Harkonnen throne beside him. You never failed to command the room with your head held high. Power and dignity seemed to drip off of your being and fill every room you entered. You were truly worthy of the title of Baroness, and with every passing day and every interaction, there was more and more for Feyd to admire about you.

In private, you took to training together, where he would bask in your shared might. With every blow he endured from you, all he could think about was that he, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, was the only person alive to witness you so animated with ferocity and passion from battle, as all others who have seen you this way have been slain and buried. Sparring sessions between the two of you almost always ended with you both on the floor, limbs entwined and chests heaving after one of you would get the best of the other and take the opportunity to pin the other to the floor.

At the end of the day, you'd always assume your position on the balcony in a flowy, white nightgown. With a gentle gesture, you’d beckon him to accompany you while you observe your shared domain, watching the shuttles flying through the gaps in the dark architecture and the stark white floodlights passing over the cityscape. He’d hold you close by your waist and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you start to shiver from the evening chill, at which point he’d tug at your waist to take you back to the bedroom to retire for the night. Every day, Feyd was falling deeper and deeper into you, and he’s loved every moment.

Bringing himself upright, Feyd stretches his arms and stands up, walking over to the closet. Across from his sets of Harkonnen formalwear and battle gear, your gowns are neatly hung. Half of them are the sleek, black Harkonnen designs he had made for you. The other half are gorgeously vibrant Youran gowns. He sighs, imagining sharing one of your moments again in front of the mirror like always, but alas, you are not beside him. Once he’s dressed, he emerges from his quarters and is met with a nameless servant.

“Good morning, Baron,” the servant says, bowing deeply and trying not to give Feyd an excuse to kill him. “I am here to inform you that we have received a signal from the Baroness’s craft. Her arrival is imminent.”

Hearing those words, Feyd turns on his heel toward the landing docks, dismissing the servant who heaves a sigh of relief because his head is thankfully still connected to the rest of his body. As Feyd walks the halls, his pace quickens, feeling the anticipation rise in his chest. People bow and salute him in the hallways, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. He’s too preoccupied with his thoughts of you; he can already smell the aroma of rainforest flowers you carry around with you. The thought that he’s so close to having you near again nearly drives him mad.

When he arrives at the landing docks, the fleet of Harkonnen vessels is already touching down. As he hears the machinery’s loud whirring die, the ramps of all the crafts to meet the floor. Lines of Harkonnen soldiers file out first, each soldier with weapons in arms. The steady pulse of their synchronized footsteps echoes through the space with perfect adherence to Harkonnen military standards is satisfactory for Feyd. The commander in front barks orders, and the guards immediately step into formation, making an aisle that extends between Feyd and the craft closest to him.

He is at a loss for words when he sees you walk down the ramp. You are undeniably gorgeous in Harkonnen clothes, but you look positively ethereal in the Youran gown and golden headdress that adorn your body today. Instead of shrouding yourself in the cloak you’ve worn in the past to hide your weaponry, you’re wearing a traditional dress reserved only for Youra’s utmost nobility. Layers of sheer, olive and cerulean fabric flare behind you to create your dress’s skirt out from under a ribbed bronze and mahogany corset. Seeing how it’s cinched your waist and accented your silhouette, all Feyd wants to do is hold you and drag his fingers up and down the length of your figure.

Through the abundance of delicate golden chains that are symmetrically draped over your exposed shoulders and chest, Feyd can see how the corset and the off the shoulder neckline cradles your breasts in a way that makes him feel lightheaded. The entire skirt of the dress is decorated in dazzling embellishments and the characteristic Youran golden thread that Feyd has come to love on you. The fabric of the train seems to flow like water behind you as you walk.

The high front hemline of the gown that ends at your upper thighs gives Feyd a good look at your legs, the lengths of which are delicately wrapped in the thin, tan ribbons from your sandals. The crosshatched pattern of the ribbons allows him to see just how beautifully your legs are sculpted from years of training and exploration. The sight makes his mouth water. He is truly breathless gazing upon you, his Baroness.

You return his affectionate gaze and call his name excitedly, reaching down and bunching up your skirt in your grasp before breaking into a run between the lines of Harkonnen guards. Your footsteps are the only noise reverberating throughout the area. Before he even realizes it, Feyd’s running for you, too. As you approach each other, he extends his arms out to you, and you leap into them, wrapping your legs around his waist. As he lifts you up into his arms, he spins you both around as you nuzzle yourself deeper into his hold.

Your grips on each other are desperate. Without a moment to waste, he cups your cheek with one hand as the other holds you tightly by the small of your back. A tear threatens to fall from his eyes as he considers saying that he hopes that you’ve missed him, but the look in your eyes already tells him the answer. This is truly happiness like he’s never experienced before. It washes over him when you finally bring your lips to meet his. His breath is warm against yours as he exhales into the kiss in satisfaction. He feels your hands come up to clutch the back of his head to deepen your kiss and growls hungrily, quickly losing himself in your embrace while attempting to resist the urge to devour you on the spot. His brow furrows when you finally break for air.

“Hello, my love,” you whisper softly, pressing your forehead against his, as if what you’re saying is a secret meant for only his ears. He grins at the pet name you’ve picked for him. “How have things been at home?” Your words make Feyd pause. Were you calling Giedi Prime “home?”

“Everything has been adequate,” Feyd says, kissing you again. “But I do prefer it when my Baroness is beside me.”

“I guess you’re in luck then,” you smile at his words. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling his prominent pectoral muscles underneath his shirt which makes him sigh in satisfaction. You swiftly squash the temptation to kiss him again as you meet his gaze because if you do, you’d never want to stop. Feyd sets you down, even though he’d gladly carry you all day wherever you want.

“My father sends his regards. He’s very pleased with House Harkonnen. He also sends his condolences at your uncle’s passing,” you say, which makes Feyd scoff silently to himself. “I’ve also gathered all I need for the laboratory. I hope I didn’t bring too much back with me. I hope it’s not a burden…” you trail off.

“You could never be a burden. We have plenty of servants. They can handle the labor,” Feyd assures as he turns to one of the closest guards. “Start unloading the Baroness’s things. You know where to take them. Don’t you dare damage any of it. There will be repercussions if anything is found broken.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the guard responds before beginning to bark orders to the others. One by one, the guards disappear into the vessel, and emerge moments later, carrying large wooden crates by the bronze colored handles attached to the sides of each. They all file out and disappear into the fortress, headed for your lab.

“So,” Feyd says, turning back to you. “Home is Giedi Prime now? I wouldn’t have expected you to call anywhere but Youra home. It’s not that I’m unsatisfied that you’ve found comfort on Giedi Prime, but I was surprised to hear you say those words.”

You smile and glance down at the ground before looking back to him, responding. “Younger me would have agreed with you. Youra is my first home and will forever be such. However, my feelings have changed. Home is wherever you are,” you explain, intertwining your fingers with his. At your words, Feyd pulls you in again by the waist for another quick kiss, and he wonders what he did to deserve a wife like you as you both turn to follow your belongings.

Weeks ago, you and Feyd had set aside the largest of Baron Vladimir’s personal recreation spaces to be converted to a laboratory for you on Giedi Prime. You both had celebrated the initiation of the transformation by gathering all the Baron’s belongings and smashing them to smithereens, which was quite cathartic for the both of you. In particular, you loved bashing Vladimir’s pipe and ripping his bathtubs apart piece by piece. The day of eradicating every trace of Vladimir, except for his portrait in the hallway, culminated in you both basking in the warmth of a glorious bonfire, fed by what remained of the Baron’s belongings.

You both arrive at your laboratory. The Harkonnen workers have been very efficient installing the necessary infrastructure in the time you have been away. The room that was stripped to the bones the day you left for Youra is now a proper lab, outfitted with fireproof surfaces, chemical hoods, gas lines, and plenty of storage cabinets.

“Wow, Feyd,” you say. “This is amazing. I can’t believe this got done in the time I was gone.”

“Only the best for you, my love,” he replies as more servants arrive, and you begin to instruct them how to unpack your belongings. Feyd stands back on the sidelines and watches you, seeing the sparkle in your eyes now that you’re able to bring part of your life from Youra to Giedi Prime. Many of the instruments and objects he sees being unpacked are unfamiliar to him, but you seem unphased, perhaps even comforted, by the diversity of items. He marvels at your proficiency with handling all of them. With the help of the servants, you quickly have all the crates unloaded and the items put away and organized. You dismiss all the workers promptly, so you and Feyd can be alone. Once the doors are closed, you let out a sigh of relief.

“Is the space to your liking?” Feyd asks, coming to your side and slipping his arm firmly around your waist.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, looking around with elation in your eyes. You reach into a drawer in front of you and take out a jar. Inside, he sees it’s full of the iridescent indigo scales of the fish you had shown him the night you were attacked on Youra. “I wanted to wait until I got back to Giedi Prime to do the extraction on the scales for your batch of the elixir. …Would you like to stay while it happens?”

Feyd nods without hesitation. He knows that watching you work is something only the people closest to you ever get to see. “Of course, my love. It would be my pleasure,” he says. You smile at him, delighted at his interest. You point to a little door in the corner and tell him to wait for you before disappearing into it. A few minutes later, you emerge having shed your gown and jewels for a tan lab coat. When you smooth your hands over the new coat, Feyd thinks to himself how put together you look. You seem even more at ease now that you’ve changed. In your arms, he sees another coat and two pairs of safety glasses.

“To protect your clothes and eyes,” you say, walking over and handing him the other coat and one of the pairs of glasses. Inside the coat, he sees “Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen” delicately stitched in with golden lettering. As he puts it on, he realizes it’s been tailored to his measurements perfectly at your behest. His heart swells once again. Your foresight is obvious to him. Beside him, you take out a mortar and pestle and pour a few of the scales into the mortar. He hears the scales clatter like pebbles against one another as they fall.

Over your shoulder, Feyd can finally get a closer look at the scales from the fish you had shown him. The scales are shaped like rounded trapezoids and glimmer even in the artificial indoor lighting. Through the striking coloration, he can see delicate silver ribs that flare out from the narrower end of the scales, making each scale look like a pocket of moonlight rays shining through an inky night sky. Feyd thinks how it’s truly a wonder how nature produced such a creature that bears such beauty.

You grasp the pestle in your hand and start striking the scales with firm, downward motions. Upon impact, the scales fracture at the ribs. Little by little, the scales become smaller, and you change your technique, beginning to roll the pestle around the bottom and up the sides of the mortar. You reverse the direction of the circle every few times. Because of your expert hand, the scales are soon reduced to a fine powder in the bottom of the mortar. The dust glistens beautifully as you pick up the mortar and tip it around in a rolling motion, observing the results of your grinding.

“It’s time to perform the extraction and then the purification. Hopefully the crystals will be well formed,” you say to him, taking the mortar over to the fume hood behind the two of you and flipping the on switch to the hood. “Have you ever watched any of your scientists work before?”

Feyd shakes his head as he follows you, memories of his childhood passing through his mind. “My uncle always instructed me to remain in the arena and the training grounds growing up. The laboratories on Giedi Prime were never our places to be. Our scientists would always come and report to us rather than us going to them. It has always been that way. Everyone in House Harkonnen works for the Baron. Everything they do is in service to him. It is inappropriate by our standards for him to go to them.”

You nod at his words, reaching for the glass sash that separates you and Feyd from the compartment of the fume hood. “Unsurprisingly, it’s the opposite on Youra,” you say, putting the mortar with the powdered scales inside before lowering the sash again until it’s almost closed, leaving gap a couple inches tall for continued access. “Yes, all workers serve my father and me, but we are all colleagues, in a way. They are the workers and my father is the hub for all of the departments on Youra. Much of my father’s success is tied to them, so he would often visit our workers to acknowledge their efforts and dedication. He always wanted to see their work for himself, too. He’s always been the curious type. My father had me follow him to the laboratories as soon as I was old enough to understand safety protocol. I’m sure if it wasn’t for regulations, he’d have brought me into the labs in a baby sling.”

The image of young you in a laboratory, holding your father’s hand as Youran chemists show you both what they’re working on comes into Feyd’s mind. Even though he didn’t know of you when you were children, he can imagine you then, much shorter with a rounder face but with the same bright eyes brimming with curiosity. The idea makes his heart warm and a smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m sure those laboratory visits were most influential for you,” Feyd says. You nod in return as you put on a pair of gloves and reach under the sash to grab an amber bottle containing a clear liquid from the side of the hood.

“Absolutely,” you reply as you transfer all the powdered scales into a glass Erlenmeyer flask and add enough of the liquid to cover the solids. You move the flask onto a raised plate in the hood and press a few buttons to begin the heating process. “I loved watching them do their work. They knew so much about our world, but were still determined to know more. The way they moved in the lab was like a dance. I desperately wanted to be a part of that, so I began working with them when I was fourteen…”

As Feyd listens to you talk about your past as you work, his admiration of you grows. Your determination and tenacity through failed experiments and stalled projects are astounding to him, and the fact you’ve been able to become a swordswoman on the side this is truly a marvel. Your skill and years of training are evident today, as your body seems to know this process by memory. This in front of him is the product of all those years of effort.

The liquid in the vessel begins to bubble gently. As the moments go by, the liquid takes on the iridescent nature of the scales and becomes a vibrant blue. Removing it from the heat, you strain the liquid through fine mesh into another container, removing all the powdered scales from the mixture. Looking at the collected solids, Feyd can see the scales have lost their original coloration and turned a chalky off-white. You smile to yourself, knowing that the extraction was effective while you prepare a large volume of a different liquid, also clear and colorless, in a large beaker.

“Are you ready for the recrystallization?” you ask him, grabbing a syringe and drawing up some of the extract into the barrel. You return to the beaker of liquid and gently tip it sideways with one hand while pointing the tip of the needle at the side of the beaker. Carefully, you begin to squeeze the syringe and the indigo liquid begins to drip out the needle’s tip and trickle down the side of the beaker. As the extract hits the surface of the clear liquid, deep purple crystals seem to flutter out from the point of impact into the liquid instantaneously. Feyds lips part in amazement, unable to tear his gaze away from the process

“How does it work?” he asks, watching as a batch of thin, needle-like crystals start to gather at the bottom of the beaker while the bulk liquid remains colorless. It’s as if all the color of the extract has been contained within the crystals.

“I use the first liquid to remove the compound from the scales and make a concentrated extract. I then add the extract to a bulk solvent which our compound of interest is insoluble in. The compound forms crystals when the liquids meet because the second liquid is in great excess compared to the first,” you explain, drawing up more extract and adding it to the beaker in the same way. Once you’re out of extract, you squat down to bring your eye level to that of the beaker. “It’s perfect. I don’t think the crystallization has ever gone that well.”

You’re absolutely beaming as you swirl the crystals suspended in the liquid, admiring how they twinkle in the light. He can’t deny that your excitement is contagious. You collect the crystals by filtering the mix through another filter and spread out the crystals on a metal sheet to allow them to dry before removing your safety glasses, and Feyd follows suit.

“This is the compound I was referring to that night at the Pools of Ashora,” you say to Feyd. “If we dissolve the crystals in water and drink it, it allows people to retain their body’s water content and reduced the frequency at which people needed to drink water.”

“Fascinating…,” Feyd trails off, staring at the delicate crystals scattered across the surface inside the fume hood.

“When I was on Youra, I tested the elixir myself,” you say. Hearing you say that you’ve done that, a bolt of fear goes to his heart at the thought of you just drinking a novel chemical. Feyd’s eyes quickly lock onto you, and his neck stiffens. His mind swirls with distress at the possibility of you getting hurt. You may look okay now, but was the elixir difficult for you to stomach? Did it hurt you in the moment?

Looking at him, you’re immediately in tune with his reaction, and you lift your hand up to rest on his arm to calm his nerves. At your touch, he immediately relaxes. “Don’t worry, Feyd. I am alright. There’s nothing to be worried about. We’ve done plenty of trials since I first introduced this fish to you. I assure you it’s safe. I’ve had all of my best scientists on this project, and I had the best doctors in Youra monitor my vitals for two days after the fact.” Feyd nods, knowing if anyone is competent enough to keep you safe, it's yourself and the Youran doctors and researchers. “We still don’t know the exact mechanism of the compound in the body, but we do know there aren’t significant negative side effects on people. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Feyd replies, taking the opportunity to bring his hand to your waist and pull you close enough that your lips are almost touching and you’re both staring into each other’s eyes. “I will always put my faith in you and your work.”

“I’m glad to hear,” you reply, your breath fanning out across his face, which sends shivers down his spine. “That means a lot, Feyd, we’ve been working hard the last few weeks for this.” Grinning at you, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tips your head up toward his, catching your lips in his. You quickly take off your gloves and hold his cheeks in your palms, savoring the intimate moment.

A knock at the door sounds through the room. Feyd grumbles in annoyance as the tension between you releases. You and Feyd look at each other before ending your embrace. You call out “Enter!” in the direction of the doors. A military advisor enters the lab in full uniform with his head low. He immediately drops to his knees in front of both of you to show his respect.

“Baron, Baroness,” he says. “I am deeply sorry for interrupting you both, but I bring critical news from Arrakis.”

“Very well,” Feyd says, straightening up and peering down at the man kneeling before him. “Out with it.”

“There has been an attack by the Fremen. They destroyed eighty percent of the most recent spice crop.” You can tell by the way the man shivers that he is afraid. Nobody ever wanted to be the one to break bad news to Feyd-Rautha. “Count Rabban attempted a counterattack.”

“‘Attempted?’ What happened?” Feyd growls, his eyes flashing in dissatisfaction. You catch Feyd’s hand in your palm as it flies in the direction of the knife he keeps on his person. You shake your head. You tell him there is no use in killing this man because it would be a waste with just a look.

“Y-Yes, my Lord,” the man says, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. You can hear him beginning to hyperventilate despite his best attempts to steady his breath. “Rabban went after the Fremen, but the dust and debris from Rabban’s initial artillery attack made the visibility so poor on the battlefield that only Count Rabban and a few others survived. They were ambushed in the haze; it was a massacre with a casualty rate of seventy two percent and climbing.”

“Over half?!” you gasp, your own fists beginning to clench at Rabban’s blunder.

“Rabban says he saw the Fremen prophet, Muad'dib, on the battlefield before he fled. The Fremen… they are dedicated to him. They kill for him, Baron. Our spice operation is in jeopardy. We await your command.”

Feyd stiffens, a vein threatening to pop on his temple. He sucks in air through his teeth, infuriated at Rabban’s continued incompetency. The advisor recoils at the noise, shuffling backward toward the door.

“You are dismissed,” you call to him with a huff. A wave of relief washes over the man as he bows and thanks you before slipping out the door.

“Rabban is a damned fool!” Feyd shouts once you’re alone. “He has had every chance to rectify his mistakes on Arrakis, but he seems to leave his brain behind when he makes decisions and lets this Muad'dib win every time! And now I hear news of abandoning the battlefield at the sight of this prophet? He is a coward! An absolute imbecile! If something doesn’t change soon, the Emperor will take Arrakis from us!”

You reach your arm out and rest it on his shoulder. In moments, you’ve quelled Feyd’s initial outburst until he’s only seething with fury instead of being on the verge of trashing the entire lab. “I think it’s time to relieve my brother of his duties,” Feyd says after he takes a deep breath. “We shall go to Arrakis to do it. I want to see the look on his face and the hope drain from his eyes when he knows he’s failed. I will take over the operation on Arrakis. We will do what my brother was incapable of.”

“In that case…,” you say, preparing two glasses of water, adding a pinch of the crystals to each. The water immediately turns a luminous indigo, and you hand Feyd one of the glasses, which he gladly takes. You raise your glass in the air. “To victory and to House Harkonnen.”

“To victory and House Harkonnen,” he replies, connecting the rims of your glasses and drinking the entire glass in one go. The elixir is salty and rich on his tongue as if he’s drinking the essence of the tropical ocean. As the elixir flows into him, he feels a warmth pulsate throughout his body. He isn’t sure if this is truly the effects of the elixir or just a placebo, but Feyd feels powerful, like he could slaughter a thousand men and still have a hunger for more. As he meets your gaze, you give him a knowing look. You feel the energy, too. You both shed your laboratory coats and leave the room to prepare for your journey to Arrakis.

The preparations before and journey to Arrakis went without a hitch. You had opted to choose Harkonnen battle gear over your own, but you and Feyd still agreed on concealing your knives under a black Harkonnen dress cloak, still not eager to let anyone know of your true nature. Arriving in Arrakeen, you notice the striking architecture, made up of geometric slabs of tan stone layered to create a fortress to protect its inhabitants. This time on Arrakis, Feyd doesn’t feel the heat like he used to. It’s as if his body is fighting back against the harsh environment on the desert planet. You feel it, too. You were initially concerned because you had only tested the elixir during the dry months on Youra, which paled in hostility in comparison to Arrakis, but seems the elixir’s protection is more than sufficient.

You and Feyd walk the halls of the fortress side by side, heading to the room where all of the Harkonnen strategists and military officials are. You see them gathered around a digital map projected by a computer in the middle of the room, which shows the locations of all the Harkonnen forces in the north of Arrakis. Upon seeing their Baron and Baroness side by side, they all freeze and bow.

“Welcome to Arrakis, Baron, Baroness” one of them says. He opens his mouth to continue but Fed cuts him off.

“Enough,” Feyd hisses at him. “I have orders for you. You are no longer to follow the word of Count Rabban. As of today, he is relieved of his duty as Planetary Governor of Arrakis. You will report directly to and receive orders only from me and your Baroness.”

The room of men immediately shout “Yes, My Lord!” in response. A smirk forms on Feyd's lips at their responsiveness, and he instructs them to hit the Fremen with old-fashioned artillery. As the orders are executed by the Harkonnen military, you watch the map intently as the targets on the map turn green, indicating the Fremen bases are hit successfully. All of the military advisors’ eyes widen in surprise at the genius of Feyd’s strategy as the reports of complete annihilation from the ground forces roll in.

They all begin to applaud Feyd and as their chants fill the room, your heart fills with pride. Feyd has finally proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was always meant to be the leader of House Harkonnen. As the applause continues, you see Rabban appear in the doorway, a look of surprise disgust on his face. You notice he’s still wearing his nightclothes, and your eyes flash between him and Feyd as Rabban approaches Feyd, Rabban’s legs still stiff from sleep.

“Leave us,” Feyd instructs the others in the room, who promptly file out. They keep their eyes on the floor, not daring to look at Rabban. They know people who end up alone in a room with Feyd after repeated blunders usually don’t exit the room outside of a body bag.

“What are you doing here?” Rabban growls at Feyd.

“It’s early morning. What are you doing here?” Feyd quips back. Rabban lets out a frustrated huff.

“You can’t just waltz in here,” Rabban says through gritted teeth. “And how can you bring that woman into the inner sanctum?”

“How dare you refer to your Baroness like that!” Feyd roars, grabbing Rabban by his collar. “If you have forgotten, dear Brother, I am Baron now. I will do as I please and take my wife wherever I wish!”

Feyd throws Rabban back and he falls on his back hard. In desperation, Rabban tries to scramble to his feet again, but as soon as he’s almost upright, he feels his knees buckle from under him as you kick the backside of his knees in. Rabban’s forehead collides with the stone floor with a visceral crack, and he feels his arm caught in your grip behind him. He groans as you push his arm to the verge of overextension. On his neck, Rabban feels the cool tip of a blade threatening to pierce his skin, which sends a chill down his spine, his head still spinning from impact.

“You should learn to respect your superiors,” you whisper to him as Feyd’s gaze is fixated on you. The picture before him has a fire rising within him. His breath turns thick and heavy, seeing you over Rabban, your blade on his neck and your foot on his back with a fiendish smile on your lips. “I would have expected more from my brother-in-law… You are a disgrace to House Harkonen,” you drawl, pressing your dagger’s tip into Rabban’s neck enough to draw blood. Dark crimson blood trickles down Rabban’s neck and he squirms. You remove your foot from his back and step forward to place your shoe by his face. You take the opportunity to kick his cheek in a little with the toe of your shoe before the heel of your combat boot hits the floor by Rabban’s face with a firm thunk. “Kiss my feet, and I may spare your life.”

Rabban quivers under your hold, his palms spread over the stone floor. He considers trying to escape. He could try to press his body up and avoid the blade on his neck and try to sweep your legs out from under you, but he quickly realizes that you are in control. Any movement like that would end with your knife in his chest, back, or neck. Despite his position being compromised, he hesitates to kiss your foot How could he, Glossu Rabban, kiss a woman’s shoe in submission?

“You heard her, Brother,” Feyd hisses, stepping toward you both as he basks in his brother’s terror. Feyd stops in front of his brother and squats down to look at him. “Kiss her feet. Now.”

After a moment, Rabban quivers and presses his lips against the leather of your shoes. As he does, you see how miserable and pathetic this man below you is. It's truly a shock that this oaf is the brother of your Feyd, who is confident, domineering, and skillful in every way.

“You made a good decision obeying, Rabban,” you say, releasing the blade on his neck. “I would have wasted a perfectly sharpened knife slitting your throat if you hadn’t cooperated.” You step back from him as he clambers into an upright position. His hand flies to his neck, feeling the blood trickle down his neck and seep into his nightshirt.

“You are hereby relieved of your duties as Planetary Governor of Arrakis,” Feyd grins at the pitiful sight before him. “You will return to your quarters in the meantime and wait for future instruction.”

Rabban leaves in defeat. Once the doors shut behind him, you and Feyd smirk at each other, and Feyd rushes to you giving you a tender kiss. “I love you, Baroness,” he murmurs, completely infatuated with you.

A few days later, you stare up into the atmosphere of Arrakis. The Emperor’s craft has just entered the atmosphere. You and Feyd share incredulous looks and you immediately make your way to where the emperor will be docking.

“What could the emperor want?” you ask Feyd as you walk.. “We restored spice production. It’s never been more efficient.”

Feyd shakes his head, deep in thought. “I do not know, my love.”

“I don’t like this, Feyd.” you whisper to him, trying not to let anyone else hear and Feyd nods in return. “What could have summoned the emperor to Arrakis?”

“We shall see,” he replies. Rabban arrives and bows to you both, which makes you frown. Rabban hasn’t been involved in House Harkonnen’s operations since he was removed. Nevertheless, he still proceeds into the throne room before Feyd or you can dismiss him.

Inside the throne room, the emperor is perched on a large throne up a large flight of stairs with his daughter and a Bene Gesserit standing by him. Your eyes narrow seeing the witch’s presence, knowing they have tricks they are not afraid of using to manipulate the great houses. You, Feyd, and Rabban kneel in front of them, bowing your heads. Before any of you speak, the emperor’s voice rings out.

“I am sure you are curious as to why I have come to Arrakis,” he begins. “What do you know of the prophet Muad'dib?” Rabban speaks up first, saying that Muad'dib is a madman.

“Mad?!” the emperor says.

“All Fremen are mad!” Rabban counters, and the Emperor’s fist clenches around the arm of his throne. You and Feyd shoot daggers at Rabban, and he closes his mouth immediately, putting his head down again which casts his face in shadow.

“We apologize for my brother speaking out of turn,” Feyd says to the Emperor. “Rabban has had no part in the latest work of House Harkonnen. He is not a reliable source of information. We know Muad'dib is a figure of the Fremen, and they follow his command.”

“Yes,” you say. “He organizes their forces, and they have been effective in battle against many of our forces by hiding in the sands and staging ambushes. They’ve been effective at destroying our spice harvesters in the past, but we’ve been able to successfully retaliate.” The Bene Gesserit flashes some hand signs at the emperor. She must be able to tell if people are lying or not.

“What of the prophet’s whereabouts?” the Emperor asks, his voice darkening with frustration at your lack of knowledge. The emperor’s suggested scorn directed at House Harkonnen is sour on your tongue, and you grit your teeth.

“We control the north of Arrakis and spice production, Emperor,” you reply, keeping yourself collected. “We believe Muad'dib has fled to the south to hide in the storms after my husband’s last military tactic was successful in neutralizing their northern bases.”

As you utter those words, you feel a tremendous boom propagate through the air, causing the building to shudder. Everyone in the room looks up. Some of the diplomats that have accompanied the emperor swallow thickly. You and Feyd exchange knowing glances. Something isn’t right. The Sardaukar forces, who have come to protect the emperor, raise their weapons and get into formation with one line in front of the emperor, who has abandoned the throne in favor of shelter.

The other line of Sardaukar forms a line opposite the entrance way, as more explosions can be heard beyond the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rabban slip away, ever the coward. You feel Feyd’s touch on your arm as he beckons you to position yourself behind the defenses with the other diplomats. From your shared position, you both wait and listen intently. The others in the room are paralyzed in a cold sweat, but you and Feyd are silently watching, waiting, and listening, already gathering information on the situation to calculate your next move.

Dust fills the room as another bang resonates throughout the room and the barrier breaks down. The frontline of the Sardaukar advance, weapons at the ready. As they disappear into the dust, you know they aren’t coming back. The room is almost entirely quiet, but through the haze you hear the barely audible but familiar sound of daggers piercing armor, slitting throats, and tearing flesh. The remaining Sardaukar dig their heels in as a figure emerges through the orange debris, wrapped in tan fabrics caked in others’ blood. His face is concealed by a scarf, and the only flesh of his you see are his eyes, blue from spice. He is accompanied by an army. Judging by the amount of noise they made on their arrival, you and Feyd know there are probably hundreds of them. Fighting your way out is not an option. This must be the prophet Muad'dib.

Muad'dib looks around with his blade drawn, seemingly searching for someone as he enters the room. You see him and Feyd make eye contact. Feyd’s eyes narrow at him in curiosity. When Muad'dib does not find who he is looking for, he turns the crowd of people behind the Sardaukar guards. Most of the diplomats instinctively take a step back. He makes eye contact with the emperor before turning to his own forces and hissing something in a foreign tongue which you presume to be Chakobsa, Fremen language. He exits the room back into the crowd of Fremen who chant for him, waving their war banners. You see they bear the hawk insignias of House Atreides. The son of Duke Leto Atreides is alive.

The Fremen advance, easily slaying the last remaining Sardaukar. Many of the diplomats shudder and jump in surprise as the Fremen plunge their daggers into the Sardaukar warriors, who are powerless to stop them. Once they are all dead and their blood is spread across the floor in crimson red pools, the Fremen start grabbing the rest of you by your arms, and you are all dragged away one by one. You are being taken prisoner. You look to Feyd, who gives you a subtle nod as if to say “go along with it,” and you do.

You’ve laid low all in the confinement the Fremen have kept you in all night, not eager to give any of them a reason to kill you. Silently, you’ve been analyzing your situation, trying to figure out a way to achieve an optimal outcome, which you feel is slipping through your fingers. Since you have been taken prisoner, you can only presume that the rest of the Sardaukar and the Harkonnen army have been slaughtered and their bodies burned before daybreak. You and Feyd are likely the last living Harkonnens on Arrakis.

After sunrise, you are called upon by a faceless Fremen, who orders all of the prisoners to follow. You are reunited with Feyd, who takes your hand, careful not to let the Fremen see this gesture of affection as to not allow them any leverage. His touch automatically makes you as at ease you can be, given that you are both captives without allies.

Arriving in a room with the other prisoners, you see the surviving Fremen mingling and congratulating one another. The man from before stands in the clearing of the room without his face covering, his black wavy hair framing his face. Feyd turns to you and mouths “Atreides.” You nod in understanding, and watch as Paul Atreides addresses the Emperor, challenging him for the throne. Looking out the window, you see warships in the distant sky. The other great houses have arrived and Paul Atreides threatens to destroy all the spice fields if the houses intervene.

“Stand yourself or choose your champion,” he orders the Emperor, who turns to Feyd.

“I select Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” the emperor declares. “Get him a blade.” You inhale sharply, knowing this means Feyd must fight to the death against a man who has already slain many in battle and emerged victorious from the bloodbath of the previous night. You trust Feyd’s skill, but you know not to underestimate Paul Atreides. Feyd’s eyes flicker toward you. He knows what you’re thinking and gives you a slight nod as if to promise he will fight his hardest, not for the emperor, but for you. He is presented with a blade by one of the members of the emperor’s council. To your surprise, Feyd pushes it away and turns to you. Coming to stand in front of you, he gestures downward toward your legs, where your daggers are still strapped to your thighs out of sight.

“Feyd, are you sure?” you say to him, your voice small.

“I want to use your blade. Please let me fight for you,” Feyd whispers. You nod and reach down to fulfill his request, drawing one of your Youran weapons from your garters. When you hand it to him, Feyd feels the familiar heft of your dagger in his hand, which makes him grin. Just as he remembers, it’s expertly balanced and perfectly crafted, its pointed tip shining in the low orange light of the room. He smiles, recalling the night you handed him the same blade, the first time he saw your true nature. He twirls the knife in his grip with a flourish of his wrist as he stands opposite Paul Atreides.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, cousin,” Paul says.

“Cousin…” Feyd says, continuing to evaluate Paul for his weaknesses. “You wouldn’t be the first family member I’ve killed.”

His words don’t phase you. You’re well aware of Feyd’s family history. You clasp your hands in each other in front of your chest, willing Feyd to be the victor. Paul Atreides straightens himself and salutes Feyd. “May thy knife chip and shatter,” Paul says with a gruff tone, lowering himself into a battle stance and pointing his knife at Feyd. Feyd smirks, raising your weapon. The sight of it in his hand is gratifying for Feyd. Despite standing alone against Paul, it’s as if you are both in this fight together with him wielding your weapon.

“May thy knife chip and shatter,” Feyd returns and within moments, they're after each other, having an all out brawl in the middle of the room. They each swipe at each other with reaction times like lightning. The sounds of blades crashing against one another, the low smacks of their bodies colliding, and their grunts of exertion fill the room. You have to admit, Paul Atreides is an impressive fighter. He’s quick on his feet and swiftly dodges and counters many of Feyd’s attacks, but it is obvious that Feyd is the one with strength on his side. The only way for Atreides to win is if he is able to find a way to use that strength against Feyd.

You’re barely breathing at this point. Your facade of stoicism threatens to crumble when you see Paul Atreides’ forehead connect firmly with your husband’s nose. To your surprise, you don’t see any blood on Feyd’s face. Paul Atreides’ head is thrown back after almost bouncing off of Feyd’s nose. Paul’s head seems to be spinning as he stumbles backward on uneven footing. Feyd recognizes Paul’s debilitated state is fleeting, and takes advantage of the moment, striking Paul again. The tangle of limbs is intense, but in the blink of an eye, you see Feyd disarm Paul, taking Paul’s knife for his own.

As they break away from one another, Paul Atreides is heaving, struggling to breathe as the leather bound hilt of your dagger protrudes from his abdomen. He’s wheezing as his own blood seeps into his battle gear. His allies gaze upon the sight in shock, some wincing in second-hand pain.

Feyd approaches him promptly, and grabs Paul by the scruff of his neck, raising Paul’s own knife at him. Paul Atreides uses his own gloved hand to grab the blade, trying to push it away, but Feyd leans in, forcing the blade to slip further into Paul’s grip, cutting the flesh of Paul’s hand open with a sickening noise, the tip of the knife getting closer to piercing Paul’s neck.

The next moment, you feel like screaming. The dagger, once poised to slice open Paul Atreides’ neck, is no longer in the air visible to you. Paul Atreides has used his grip on Feyd’s blade to redirect the tip toward the stomach of your husband. Your hands fly to your mouth, tears threatening to spill. The force Feyd puts behind his blade at that proximity is fatal.

The memories of meeting Feyd on Youra, fighting by his side against Ozran, plotting into the early hours to kill his despicable uncle, your wedding ceremony in front of House Harkonnen, and the moments of tenderness and affection he’s given you in private flash through your mind. Your stomach writhes, and your heart shrivels into itself, and your mind begins to confront the idea that you now must mourn the life you and Feyd had assembled. Another thought flashes through your mind. You’ll likely be killed after this with the rest of the prisoners in this room, and die alone without your husband, lightyears away from your people on Youra and Giedi Prime. You’ve failed.

Through your tears, you stare at the scene as the air and the people surrounding you are completely still. However, something gives you pause. You hear something hit the floor look down to the area under Feyd and Paul’s feet. You spy fragments of metal, broken into uneven shards, scattered across the floor. However, there is no blood to be seen. Your eyes shoot to Feyd, who is also looking down to where they both hold the hilt of the broken knife.

Without a second to spare, Feyd’s hand flies to your knife in Paul’s side, ripping it out of him. Paul cries out in agony, the removal of the knife causing a blood curdling squelch of skin and muscle ripping. The next moment, Feyd slits Paul Atreides’ throat with a grand swing of his arm, sending blood splatter fanning across the floor. The pregnant woman seated in the wooden throne bearing the Atreides crest lets out a high pitched shriek, and she begins to wail, seeing the light from her son’s eyes fade as his body crumples to the floor. A Fremen woman across from you lets out a shaky breath, her lip quivering and tears pool near her bright blue eyes as Paul Atreides’ fresh blood collects in a puddle on the stone floor under the gaping hole in his neck.

Feyd turns back to you, bloody blade in hand and lets out a deep exhale, allowing the tension in his own chest to dissipate. He had thought he was dead, too, but no. He is alive. He is victorious, and he gets to look into your eyes again, knowing that he has done his job for you.

Kneeling, Feyd presents the emperor with the soiled blade. The emperor smiles and pronounces Paul Atreides, the prophet Muad'dib, to be dead and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen as the victor. In defeat, the ally of Paul, identified as Gurney Halleck, relays a message to the great houses of the outcome of the fight. The emperor’s reign shall continue, and your husband is alive. You push your way past the others in the crowd and throw yourself at Feyd, who cradles you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair, whispering to you “Please don’t shed any more tears, my love. I am still here… I wouldn’t leave you that easily.”

“I thought I lost you,” you choke out and Feyd shakes his head, using his thumb to wipe away the tear stains on your cheeks.

“You haven’t and you won’t,” he replies, his hands holding your body steady. “Let’s go home.”

—

Holding your knees to your chest, you sit in a private chamber on the Emperor’s vessel as it leaves the atmosphere of Arrakis to take you and Feyd back to Giedi Prime, which was the least the emperor could do given that Feyd nearly died for him. One of Feyd’s hands rests on your waist, holding you firmly in his grip while the other rubs gentle circles on your shoulder with his thumb. Feyd watches as your eyes dart side to side, which happens when you’re deep in though.

“What is on your mind, my love?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m thinking about your battle with Paul Atreides,” you reply. “The knife broke when he tried to turn the tables on you, didn’t it?” Feyd nods, bringing his hand down to the spot on his abdomen where the knife was. “May I see where it was?” you ask and Feyd obliges, creating a small bit of distance between the two of you so that you can get a good look at his torso.

You bring your hand to where Feyd’s armor has been sliced open by the blade. Bringing the other hand to his body, you gently spread the layers of fabric and leather apart to look through the hole. Underneath, you see Feyd’s familiar pale skin and his chiseled abdominal muscles that you’ve always loved to drag your fingers across. His skin appears to be absolutely pristine without a single nick or bruise in sight. You bring your head closer to get a better look before saying, “There isn’t evidence of any damage to your skin, Feyd. Your body is like the battle never happened. There isn’t a trace of impact.” As soon as you utter the last word in the sentence, you freeze and your lips part ever so lightly as your mind races to connect the dots. He knows that look on you, and he sees the gears turning in your mind.

“Impact…,” you mumble to yourself. Your eyes shoot up to Feyd’s “During the battle there was a moment when Paul Atreides’ head collided with your nose.” Your hand flies to his cheek to steady his head. You examine his nose, using your hand to tilt his head side to side. Everything about his face is unchanged, which shouldn’t be the case, especially after a fight like that and the headbutt he endured from Paul. You tip his head back. Again, there is no blood or breakage.

Your mind begins to race as you return your hands to your husband’s torso. Your hands fumble as you attempt to remove the layers of armor in between you and Feyd’s skin. Feyd realizes what you’re doing and soon enough he’s shirtless in front of you. You extend your hand out and drag your hand over his stomach. You press your fingers firmly down onto his abdominal region and upper body repeatedly, changing the area you’re putting pressure on each time. He feels solid under your touch and not in the way you’re used to. Feyd has always been bulky and muscular, hardened from years of training, but something about this is different. It’s like his body has the durability of an alloy the researchers on Youra could only dream of engineering, but he’s still flesh and blood. Bring your fingers to your own stomach, pressing your fingers against your own front, and you gasp. “That’s it!” you exclaim.

“What is it?” he asks, knowing you are on the edge of an epiphany.

“It’s the elixir!” you gasp, standing up and holding your head in disbelief “It saved your life!”

“I thought it was only to help the body retain water,” Feyd says as you get up and begin circling the room.

“Don’t you remember? That’s the end result of the elixir, but we were still unsure of the mechanism by which that happens!” you exclaim. “Remember the night I showed you the fish? I said that the fish sheds its scales at the beginning of the wet season. What I didn’t tell you is that the wet season is the only time of year we can get the scales off the fish because they fall off naturally. Our scientists have tried to get the scales before the transition of the seasons, but they've always been unable to pry the scales off or kill them because it was impossible to slice open the fish. No matter how much we sharpened the knives, we couldn’t cut them open!”

“That’s how the fish retain water in the dry season. The fish develop these scales with this compound that transforms their own bodies into a shield from the elements, so that water can’t escape. I’ve always wondered how a fish would be able to survive the whole dry season on a dried up lake bed. This compound is why the fish species hasn’t gone extinct! When they’re sitting in their dried up ponds, no predators can eat them because their bodies are too tough to pierce,” you surmise, delight filling your complexion. “By drinking that compound, the same thing has happened to our bodies! You were able to survive the battle because your skin became this impenetrable barrier that lets you keep your water that just so happens to be impervious to outside attacks as well! That’s also why your nose didn’t break and why Paul Atreides was so disoriented after he struck you with his head. It was as if he rammed his head into a steel wall. Researchers on Youra didn't catch this effect in the clinical trials because we don’t just go stabbing all of our test subjects with knives or subjecting them to blunt force trauma, especially not for a study about water retention!”

Feyd hardly believes what he’s hearing, but he knows it's true. Everything you’re saying makes perfect sense. Memories from the battle flash in his mind. He remembers his arm is suddenly bending toward himself, feeling the rough surface of the broken blade scrape against his abdomen, but the pain he had been trained to resist since childhood never hitting his senses. He brings himself to his feet and pulls you into his arms, squeezing you as tight as he can muster. “You are phenomenal, my dear, I can’t believe you figured that out,” he murmurs to you. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

He lowers his lips to yours, kissing you like he’s never done before. You both cling to one another, relieved you are both alive and safe. Feyd holds the back of your head and runs his fingers through your locks tenderly, thinking about how far you both have come in this short amount of time. Mere months ago, you were a stranger he had the obligation to meet and marry. He knew he would have to enter a loveless relationship with you in the name of alliances. He tried to convince himself you were a woman he wanted to make a plaything out of. Before, he was intent on manipulating, breaking, and exploiting you for his own amusement. Those ideas feel so foreign to Feyd now as he revels in your affections and caresses your cheek.

Looking down at you, he sees you for what you are. You are the most beautiful being to ever exist. Nothing past or present will ever compare to you, and it brings tears to his eyes, knowing you are his wife and he is your husband. You are the culmination of all House Ronen and House Harkonnen have worked for, a true representation of the union of your two houses, and the pinnacle of all Feyd has come to hold dear. You are where brain meets brawn, where tradition meets modernity, and the pride and joy of Feyd’s life. You are simply everything.

Thanks for reading! I can’t believe the series is over (but I'm also considering writing an epilogue, but I have some requests coming down the pipeline, so we'll see about that. lmk if that's something you might be interested in...). Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed Knives Dance! :)

Also is it obvious I study chemistry yet?

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#feyd rautha #dune part 2 #dune part two #feyd rautha x reader #dune #x reader

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