#valentine part two

[tim-moth-thy]

Tim hummed thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, "I would say probably facets of all three. Most of us that Bruce has taken in were born as tools. Steph and Duke weren't, they're people through and through." "But you, Dick, you were born to perform. And you still do it, of course, but it's habit. And you're a person now, you've got that Hunter guy, you have friends who want to spend time with you because they care about you, not about what you can do for them, and you hate being used. You chafe at it, and that's totally fine." "Cass and Damian, they're learning to be people, from you and Steph and others. Cass hated being a tool, and Damian's learning to hate it, and I'm so proud of them, because they deserve to be people and go beyond the hands that wielded and honed them. Cass dances for the joy of it, Damian's learning how to let go of responsibility and be the child he is. Hell, even Jason cooks in his free time, he wants that quiet life, to not be a tool for Gotham. He wants Gotham to heal so he can relax and love his second chance at life." Tim trailed off for a moment. "Even Bruce is able to be more than a tool," he admitted quietly. "He wasn't born a tool, but honed himself into one. And he's working on finding love and family, partly for himself and partly for them. It's really, really good for him, and I couldn't be happier for him." "But me? I'm fine being a tool, and only a tool. For everyone who needs one, for everyone who can't bear to be a tool themselves. I'm versatile, too. I can be a crutch, a warm blanket, a weapon. I'm so- I'm s-so flexible." Tim's voice choked off, because he'd noticed warmth running down his face. He wiped at his eyes with a sleeve, blankly perplexed by the tears, then forced himself to continue. "A-And if I ever do chafe at it, I end up punished, whether it's by people or just the world in general. So it's just easier to be a tool, and safer for everyone around me. I like it anyways. People can have easier and happier lives because of me."

Say their names. List all your babies, Alfred had asked, and Bruce did as his father said- starting with Duke and finishing with Dick, as if unthreading the tapestry of his life. Recalling their arrivals in reverse.

He was still murmuring as he was taken to the ambulance, fading out somewhere between Steph and Tim.

The essential thing had been the oxygen; between the trauma to the lung and progressive hæmorrhage, his cells had been starved of air. Then fluid replacement. Then six gruelling hours of surgery repairing the partial aortic dissection, and the lower left lung resection.

There was an analogy to carrion birds that was a little too on the nose, with reporters watching for an announcement one way or another. The last word had been that Tim Drake was being kept for observation.

In the hours between the shooting and the present, wildfire rumours burned online.

It was reported as a hostage situation gone tragically wrong. Conspiracy theorists speculated it might have been a targeted hate crime. The Gala had been fundraising for the queer community; both Wayne and Drake had been seen dating men. Or perhaps it had been a target specific to Wayne Enterprises. Someone looking to exploit key members of the company. Or was this more personal? A family matter?

The shooters were- depending on who you asked -working for business rival Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot, or else Bruce's estranged friend, Harvey "Two-Face" Dent. Or maybe the Joker, this was Gotham after-all. In any case, the shooters had fled in the open panic- and were now believed to have gone to ground in fear of the Bat.

Hours spent, and the Wayne Family announced simply that Bruce Wayne was out of surgery and out of danger, but that the family requested privacy for the time being.

[ this is a closed rp thread with @butlerofthecave @officialbruciewayne @officialnightwing @redhoodedalleydog @tim-moth-thy @damian-demonspawn ]

[bratbarzal]

hey maggie😈 I know this is for exes to lovers but any spin of this for tsou/lih luke: “you really thought i wouldn’t remember what you like? please, give me a little credit.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“you really thought i wouldn’t remember what you like? please, give me a little credit.” with our boy!!!! LIH/TSOU!LUKE!!! this probably fits in the timeline of tsou part two - and I feel like the vibes of this are gift giving, but because there's technically two gift giving scenes coming up, I did something a little different/cute for this!! again I switched up the phrasing of it a little to match their vibe but I hope you like it Hannah ily!!

Luke: hungry?

You: starving

Luke: I'll pick you up

Hanging out with Luke has all of a sudden become as easy as that - throwing on an old hoodie and running out to his car when it drives by your sorority, never thinking you'd be so grateful that he chose to spend his break back in Michigan instead of taking an actual, much needed, vacation.

You'd chirped him at first, calling him crazy for picking this place over somewhere sunny and warm, but as he drives over to the mall, your passenger seat heated so that you're all cozy, and the all too familiar scenery blurring through your window, you're grateful he has such an attachment to the area.

Especially after the week you've had - you just need a moment to be away from everything and everyone.

"I'm gonna run in, do you want me to leave the heat on?" he asks as he unbuckles his belt, twisting over to you as he grabs his wallet from the tray below the console.

You nod, a shy smile offered in return of the one he gives to you.

"I'll be 10 minutes, max, I'm gonna leave my keys, lock the door behind me," he tells you, flicking at your nose affectionately as he adds, "No joyrides."

You roll your eyes and swat at his hand before watching him retreat - watching all the way until he disappears into the mall, glancing back at you as he turns the final corner, and busying yourself with your phone until he taps on your window maybe ten minutes later, scaring the living crap out of you.

"Jesus," you huff, reaching over to unlock the doors, opening the one on your side so you can take the bag precariously hung over his fingertips while he balances a drinks holder in his hand. You check in the bag as he rounds the front of the car, noticing a few different things from different places, smiling to yourself as you realise he's picked up your favourite things.

You wonder if he has developed a sixth sense for when you're a little down, or a little quieter than usual, or if this is just what he does, regardless. Texts you out of the blue, picks you up from your house, drives you across town to the mall with the food court and hops around until he has everything to make you happy again.

Either way, you're grateful.

Luke shuffles into his seat before he puts the drinks down in the middle of the two of you, and you glance down. Two large diet cokes and something little lodged between them.

"You got me a milkshake too?" You gasp, taking the smaller cup from his hold and looking inside.

"Yeah, 'cause you like to dip your fries like a freak."

"You remembered?" You pull out said fries, grabbing one to eat as you watch him shudder dramatically.

"Stuff like that is pretty hard to forget," he steals one of your fries and throws it into his mouth. "I got your order perfect, give me a little credit, here," he adds around it, eyes meeting yours as you smile over at him.

It's been a while since you've done this - sat in the front seat of his car, a tray of food between the two of you and no other plans. It used to be your thing sometimes, when he'd pick you up from the club in the summer, taking a detour to a drive thru and eating junk food, just the two of you, away from the judgement of his more-regimented older brothers. It helped when you got back to the house, and the rest of the guys had worked through most of whatever Quinn might have cooked up, and you were left with scraps.

You still wonder how none of them ever clocked onto how you and Luke were both miraculously not that hungry at the same time - Luke especially, who pretty much eats his family out of house and home on any given day of the week. But maybe you pay more attention to him than most people.

When you think back on it, compared to how the two of you have been over the last few months - you realise how surface-level your relationship might have been back then. Yeah, you told Luke more than you told most people about yourself - about your family, your life, your job, or whatever - but it was nothing compared to how things have been since the two of you seriously became friends.

The two of you talk every day - about school, about hockey, about how you're feeling, about how he's coping - and it feels a lot more even, this time, like there's a balance there.

The thought brings a soft smile to your face as you reach into the bag and pull out your sub, a wave of appreciation washing over you at all the effort he put into getting all the things you like.

"The boy did good," you tell him, meeting his eye again to give him an assured grin as you unwrapped your sandwich, "Are we going halves?"

"Of course we're going halves," he playfully rolls his eyes, taking the half that you offer him and switching half of his sub back over - part chicken caesar and part turkey and ham. "It doesn't taste right when I get it on my own, anymore."

"I know," you laugh, holding it out for him to cheers before you can start eating. "I don't think I've had one since the last time we got it together." You take a bite of yours, covering your mouth as you chew and notice him watching you, amusement flashing in his eyes, a similar smile to your own stretching at his lips before he takes his own bite, humming and nodding in approval at the taste.

"'S'good," he mumbles around his mouthful, and you snort around your own, reaching for your coke to wash it down.

"It's the best," you correct him, fighting the temptation to reach out and swipe your thumb against the corner of his lip, wiping away the smudge of sauce left behind.

[vickdoom]

had to color swatch Zack for that last post and ended up with all these 🤦.

[flovoid]

Fed love from silver spoons, reasons to be grateful… 🥄ᯓ★

[vulpinesaint]

they need to invent 25k worth of fanfic that just appears fully written in your document

[psycheetamore]

How Feyd-Rautha learned to love an idle embrace 

Summary: After being forced into the employ of the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen for his covert smuggling operations, you quickly rose through the ranks due to your exceptional skills and intelligence. Despite your initial resistance, you found yourself in his bed, providing warmth and companionship during the cold nights of Giedi Prime. However, Feyd-Rautha's manipulative nature led to a betrayal of your trust, causing a rift between you. You refuse to share his bed, causing him to fall into a spiral of sleep deprivation. How the fallout from his betrayal, your subsequent punishment of him, and the first tentative steps towards his redemption, cause him to cherish an idle embrace rather than to take more as you decide to grace him with moisture after drought.

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha is his own trigger warning, manipulative Feyd, Feyd-smut, cockwarming ('idle embrace' - as this was the task given through the ask below), and a bit of a lovey dovey Feyd (little love bug - the theme of today's @dailydoseofaustinbutler, specially finished for Valentines day)

Word count: 5.3k 

Notes: this one was tough, because how on earth would our dearest lord be placed in a position where he would be content with mere cockwarming? Where he does not demand, no take, more. Anyhow, here is my answer to this challenging request from anon.

+++ 

He slept naked. Feyd-Rautha always slept naked. It took a while for you to learn about the reason for this habit. 

On Arrakis, the scorching heat made his choice understandable, offering a respite from the relentless sun. But here on Giedi Prime, where the nights could be bitterly cold, his insistence on sleeping unclothed seemed inexplicable. Yet, it was a habit that had grown before he came to the desert planet, and he continued this habit after leaving, a silent rebellion against the cold and a testament to his unyielding nature. 

After a while, you figured out the na-Baron too would end up desiring warmth. His solution was to have it supplied by a woman. Women actually. His women. Over time this habit evolved into a need for a woman in his bed to be able to fall asleep. This need for warmth and companionship became a crutch for him, a way to find solace in the cold nights of Giedi Prime. 

Although your initial tasks did not include providing such services to him, before long you too helped him catch sleep and replenish energy to take the new day ahead of him. Your role evolved, and you became more than just an employee; you became a source of comfort and warmth for him. 

Yet, for nearly a month his bed had remained empty, save for his own presence. You had refused to share his bed for weeks. He had threatened he would not welcome another until you graced him with your physical presence. It had been a threat, truly, as you and his other subordinates soon realized. Being a man to keep his oaths, however burdensome, he slept alone. Naked, yet alone. Cold, still alone. Deficient - all alone. His stubbornness and pride prevented him from seeking warmth elsewhere, and he endured the cold nights alone. 

Deficient, as his mind would not allow him to find the deep sleep he so desperately needed to function as ruler over Arrakis and heir to the throne of Giedi Prime. Every night he would only lose consciousness after spending hours turning in the bed, waking up at the slightest of sound or light to hit his chambers. His restless nights took a toll on his temperament and decision-making, making him increasingly irritable and agitated. 

He had been pale, always. Yet, he seemed to turn even lighter. He was never one to carry much body fat, with resources now declining to unprecedented levels. His already gaunt frame became even more pronounced, his white skin taking on an almost translucent quality. 

The question was when he would start to lay hands on you. Not if, but when. But you knew you would get warnings beforehand; you would not be the first to be slayed. You were confident in your position and your ability to read his moods and intentions. You knew he valued you too much to act rashly. 

The background why you end up in this predicament, was a story by itself. The reason he kept you was not to be just another plaything. You were not a bedwarmer. That was not your prime task in any case. Even with his brother not being a contender for the throne, he knew his uncle was fickle. Feyd-Rautha needed to have a parachute should he need to jump from the ornithopter. He needed a backup plan, a safety net to ensure his survival and power in case his uncle turned against him. 

And that is where you came in: you supplied him with that parachute. You created that parachute. You were in charge of his covert operations to hoard spice. A longstanding project you had set-up since he took control over Arrakis. As the hidden depots slowly filled with the spice he skimmed, his power grew, and thus his independence. Your expertise and strategic mind made you invaluable to him, and he relied on you to secure his future. 

The young lord had handpicked you, a seasoned master in smuggling, to help him. An opportunity that you could have declined, if you would be willing to accept the alternative offered, being death. Some cronies had managed to escape, some were slaughtered and some joined him. You chose to live and to align yourself with the powerful Harkonnen, seeing an opportunity to secure your own future and safety. 

You still remembered the day you received his offer. In the crack of dawn, you had been finalizing loading the illegally harvested spice into a space lighter. Every other week enough was collected to justify the costs of bribing the spacing guild into making part of their transport capacity available to you. It had been a dangerous task to set up these relationships, as the official stance of the spacing guild was that they would not enable smuggling. Unofficially it was possible, as everything is possible for the right amount. Tongues would say the policies in place were only there to drive up the price for covert operations of all natures. The spacing guild's hypocrisy was well-known, and you had navigated their corrupt system with skill and cunning. 

These were stressful days, as loading needed to take place as quickly as possible. The stakes were high, with the ever-increasing price for spice on the black market. Even with the spacing guild looking the other way, there were still risks involved. You felt the pressure of your buyers. As you overlooked the last barrels being loaded into the belly of the spacecraft, hidden behind fake walls, blasts of noise came out of nowhere. The sudden commotion sent a jolt of adrenaline through you, and you instinctively knew that the Harkonnen had found you. 

You tried to run away, but despite the commotion you noticed the Harkonnen had found you and your illegal trade. That was the moment you knew all of it was futile. Yet, surrender was not what you decided to do, as you managed to avoid several soldiers on your way to the exit of the vessel. Your instincts kicked in, and you fought with every ounce of your being to escape capture. 

With only a few meters left to overcome, there was only one person standing between you and retaining your freedom. You knew you needed to get past this person, as your colleagues were being slaughtered behind you. The Harkonnen clearly decided not to take any prisoners today. The sight of your colleagues being slaughtered fuelled your desperation to escape. 

As you tried to divert this person’s attention, you could not help but notice he did not look like the other soldiers. He was not wearing a mask, his armour did not cover his neck and he stood just a bit more observing than the men that were causing a blood bath. He was observing you, a smirk on his pouting mouth. His alien beauty has shortly distracted you. Precisely enough time to put you in an unsurpassable disadvantage. His unusual appearance and the intensity of his gaze caught you off guard, giving him the upper hand. 

What you did not know at that moment was that this was the first time you saw the na-Baron himself. But it was not the first time he had seen you. Actually, his predatorial eyes had been observing you for quite a while, and had decided you were to join his cause. All of this, you did not know, as you tried to feel for your life, only to be captured by the young lord himself and dragged into his lair. His calculated and predatory nature had singled you out, and he had orchestrated this encounter to bring you into his fold. 

“You may call yourself lucky” were the first words he spoke to you, “as I have an offer that will change your life.” His voice was almost as you had expected. What surprised you was the small streak of honey in it; you had expected him to sound raspy, as result of the bad conditions on Giedi Prime. His voice was smooth and commanding, with an underlying sweetness that underlined his ruthless nature. 

You could not do anything else but hum. “I will allow you to continue your profession, in my employ.” These words had you startled. “You will live in the lap of luxury, as long as you do what I instruct you” his said promising. He did not to say what the other option was, as he had shown that to you before you left the spacecraft. Your former mates; all slaughtered. His offer was clear: serve him and live in luxury, or refuse and face death. The choice was not truly a choice at all. 

There was no true choice, meaning there also was no need to confirm your acceptance. Not that he needed it. It turned out that you were not the only smuggler he had caught over the course of several weeks. However, you were the one that stood out most over the months since he took you in. Considering his extreme ambition and desire to be prepared, the traits you brought to the table allowed you to advance quickly within his organization. A syndicate not sanctioned by the Baron, the emperor or any other institute of power. A covert operation. Your skills and intelligence set you apart, and you quickly became key in his shadowy imperium. 

Where you initially were subject to his every whim, you grew more confident in your position as time passed. The balance of power between you started to become more equal, although you would always be his subordinate. Reluctantly he was moved to consider your wishes and demands, if only because he had no other option. Your growing influence and importance made you indispensable to him, and he began to treat you with a grudging respect. 

+++  

So, when you decided you would no longer entertain him after he had betrayed your trust, he could not do nothing else than accept it. You could not be removed or ignored. Not on a short term. It would have grave financial and operational consequences, and potentially even jeopardize his entire position. Your defiance was a calculated risk, and you knew that he could not afford to lose you. Your power play was bold and dangerous, but ultimately successful. 

As you continued your duties unwavering, he continued to encounter you. Every time he lay his eyes on your hidden curves, his nose picked up your scent, your arm brushed against his, he heard your voice, he felt the warmth radiating from your body, his longing increased. Memories on how his hands would roam, explore and uncover secret treasures you held. Every time his resolve was tested: his declaration not to be warmed by another, his understanding he should not impose himself on you. His desire for you grew with each encounter, and his self-imposed celibacy became a torment. His resolve was tested daily, and his frustration mounted. 

His trusted soldier Ivan told him after another meeting: “sir, I believe I heard you moan in there as she left. I could see your hands clenching, knuckles turning whiter than they already are. You even licked your lips several times as she presented the new numbers. Why don't you just inform her she will be accepting you? You know she must be needy as well. It won't take long before she accepts you willingly. You will be doing her a pleasure. Truly.” Ivan's observations were astute, and he could see the toll your absence was taking on his lord. His suggestion, while crass, was an attempt to alleviate Feyd-Rautha's suffering. 

Feyd-Rautha grabbed Ivan by the neck, pushed him against a wall and growled: “is this how you think of me, soldier? That I have no control over myself? Do you want to get yourself strangled by your master?” Ivan continued: “sir, you will be doing us a pleasure as well. You have been an absolute nightmare. If you don’t fuck her, just fuck one of your other pets. You have so many. Why do you have them if you don't use them?” The na-Baron threw Ivan to the ground and mounted him in a flash. Feyd-Rautha's anger was a testament to his internal struggle. His pride and self-control were at war with his desires, and Ivan's words had struck a nerve. 

Ivan thought to himself that this escalated far too quickly. Typically, he would be able to taunt the Harkonnen like this, repercussions consisting of an insult or a blow. But he found Feyd-Rautha pressing a blade against his neck and threatening: “maybe you need to come to my bed tonight. I am sure that will be doing you a pleasure” he spat. As he saw his soldier on the ground, eyes engorged, mouth slightly opened, shaking, it forced him to recall why you had left him devoid of physical compassion several weeks ago. The sight of Ivan's fear brought Feyd-Rautha back to his senses, and he recalled the events that had led to your defiance. He betrayed you, and he knew he had to make amends. 

+++ 

Typically, you and the other smugglers would be in Barony, working while being hidden deep in the wing of the royal palace where the na-Baron kept his pets. As far as his uncle concerned this was a place for debauchery, not for illegal operations. Every now and then you needed to leave. To align with other smugglers. To oversee the execution of your plans, whether it was related to transport, loading, storage or bribing the Spacing Guild. Nobody could know that a Harkonnen was involved with skimming the milk, so you used your former identity and network to get this part sorted out. For enough money, even the guild would turn a blind eye. Your dual role as a smuggler and the na-Baron's right-hand woman required careful navigation. You had to maintain your cover while ensuring the success of his covert operations. 

One day, you were visiting one of the depots. Feyd-Rautha always ensured you were accompanied if you left his quarters. To ensure safety: yours, but especially his. You had soon learned the men walking with you had strict orders to kill you on the spot should you try to make a run for it. At the same time, they had also protected you a few times, from revenge by your former colleagues. As the na-Baron wanted to increase the strength of his plan B, he needed to be certain nobody else had a similar stash. It caused you to be an accomplice in his crackdown on smuggling from Arrakis. The few smugglers left grew bitter as you tore their lifeline. Some even came to believe you were the one that had set them up, that one day that everyting came falling down on Arrakis. Your role in the na-Baron's crackdown on smuggling had earned you enemies among your former colleagues. Their bitterness and desire for revenge made every excursion a dangerous endeavour. 

Today, he joined you himself. Just the two of you. Inspecting the silos is what you had planned for the day. Large vessels containing his contraband spice. As you walked around, working your checklist, you noticed he had started to roam around. Entering some of the rooms you had passed without opening. You did not think too much about it, as you considered he would perhaps be keen to know whether the structure was still holding up in the harsh environment of Giedi Prime. It was a point of attention you had raised several times. So, you did not think too much about it, knowing you were alone there, he would never let any harm come unto you and you could fend for yourself.

His presence was both reassuring, yet also uncharacteristically unnerving. You knew he was there to protect you, but his wandering made you uneasy. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. 

As you continued to walk and inspect, you suddenly picked up only on your own footsteps. In the darkness of this desolate place, fear wrapped you instantly, as another pair of steps started to be heard faintly. You knew that these were not Feyd-Rautha's, as he would either choose to walk very loudly or unnoticeably. There was no middle ground with that man. The sudden realization that you were not alone sent a chill down your spine. You knew that Feyd-Rautha would not have allowed anyone else to accompany you, so the presence of another person could only mean danger. 

As your hands found your dagger, the silence was broken: “I have been waiting for you. For so long. We will be having a long chat while I allow you to redeem yourself, bone by broken bone” a man said with a dark voice. You recognized that voice, but from where? You could hardly see in this dark place. As an extra pair of footsteps entered the hall, you knew you were outnumbered. You could scream for help, but that would only give your position away. Your best bet now was to retreat in the shadows and find your way out. The voice was familiar, but you couldn't place it. The darkness and the echo made it hard to pinpoint the speaker's location. You knew you had to act fast and silently to escape the trap. 

As you scooted to the walls, you bumped into another person, a third person. And that was the moment you knew you were screwed. But you would not go down that easily, as you crouched down to slice that person's legs, which bought you just enough time to try to get out of your predicament.

“The bitch went there” the man who you had disabled screamed, guiding his companions into your direction. You knew the hall well enough that there was one exit, which was on the opposite side. You would need to get past them to escape. From what you could gather with the scarce light, there were at least 5 other men in the room. Your quick thinking and ruthless action gave you a brief advantage, but you knew the odds were very much against you. You had to use the element of surprise and your knowledge of the layout to your advantage. 

“Come here, bitch! You have disgraced our fellowship by accepting employ of the Harkonnen. And now you need to pay for it in blood.”

Suddenly you recognized who spoke; it was one of your mates, who you had expected to have been slaughtered in the raid, but clearly now.

“You are a demon. How can you be alive?” you screamed.

“You are one to speak, you made a pact with the devil himself!” was the imminent reply. “You are outnumbered, so throw your knife and we will make it quick. If we need to come for you, we will make this hard” he threatened.

The realization that your former colleague was alive and seeking revenge sent a wave of anger and fear through you. You knew you had to fight with everything you had to survive. 

“Over my dead body, fucker” you replied. “Do you think I am a dog?” you screamed, as you tried to map your exit. By now there were already 8 men in the room.

“We outnumber you. We have scared your lord away. This is your last chance” your former associate spoke.

“You have always been a coward. Having other people do your dirty jobs. You will be the last person to try to come here” you taunted.

A taunt that worked, as he launched himself at you. As in the past, he underestimated you, as you managed to work him to the ground as well. A trusty old dagger. It caused him to yell and instruct all his men to flood the room. Clearly, he had come with back-up. Your taunt was a calculated risk, and it paid off. You used his anger and underestimation of you to your advantage, taking him down and buying yourself more time. But you knew the real fight was just beginning. 

It made you wonder about the na-Baron. Where was he? Was he overcome? Did he flee? Why did he not come with back-up? As there were too many people in the room to count, your bravery started to seep away from you. That was, until you heard men wailing, being cut down, one after the other. The crowd turned away from you and towards the slashing entity. And he cut all of them down.

There he was. Left with just your last opponent, bodies littering the floor. “Come here, and let's get this over with” one man said, “indeed” the other replied. Within half a minute Feyd-Rautha's blade entered his body for the last time as he sighed: “finally.” The sound of young lord's blade cutting through your enemies was a symphony of relief. You knew he had come for you, and his ruthless efficiency in dispatching your foes was both terrifying and reassuring.  

Removing his blade from the dead man, he wiped it clean as he walked towards you: “I knew you would be able to handle at least one of them” he purred. “Two, even better.” You slapped him on the chest, fairly playful, but still to convey your discontentness. As he wrapped his arm around you, you recalled the word Feyd-Rautha had said while your assailant was pierced on his blade: “finally.”

In silence you walked out, passing all the corpses, to go back home. While flying back, you stayed silent as well. Seeing your former mates slaughtered like that still hurt, even though they tried to attack you. Your mixed emotions were a tangled web of relief, anger, and sadness. The sight of your former colleagues, dead at his hand, was a stark reminder of the brutal world you inhabited. 

As he lifted you out from the ornithopter you looked down on him and saw a smirk on his plump lips. It suddenly clicked: “you fucking liar” as you slapped him in the face. “I should have known what you were up to. You fucking used me as bait.” 

“Don’t be so silly. Like I would ever allow you to be harmed” he responded as he dropped you to the ground.  

“Fucking bait. You should have told me. I could have prepared myself. Now I was at your fucking mercy” as you rushed to your room.  

That night he sent his servant to pick you up. But you refused. His servant knew better than to lay hands on you, so went back without success.  

Your anger and frustration boiled over, and you lashed out at him. You felt betrayed and used, and you needed space to process your emotions. Your refusal to share his bed was a clear message that you would not be manipulated or taken for granted. 

The next day you met the na-Baron during the different meetings you had scheduled with him. And you gave him the cold shoulder. He deserved it. Just as he deserved sleeping in the cold.

You knew why he slept naked. It was his weird answer to feeling vulnerable at a more tender age. It was his way of taking ownership. It was no longer someone else undressing him. He was no longer afraid of being naked. He had agency. And nothing would take that away, not even the cold.

Your cold shoulder was a silent protest, a way to assert your own agency and independence. You knew that he valued you, and you used that knowledge to your advantage. Your defiance was a power play, a way to renegotiate the terms of your relationship. 

+++ 

Over the weeks you saw him turn into an irritable man, as you continued to refuse his servants. You wanted to see how far you could push him. What he was willing to do to make amends. You knew you could not escape him forever. At the same time, you also knew that given your position he would not be forcing himself onto you. It became a question of stamina. Who would cave in earlier. Who would signal defeat.

The weeks passed also made you grow weary. You had grown accustomed to his attention, and lacking it did take its toll on you as well. But you would not budge. No matter what. Your defiance was a test of wills, a battle of stamina and resolve. You knew that you held a unique position of power, and you were determined to use it to your advantage.

You were playing a dangerous game, but you were committed to seeing it through. 

+++ 

One night, something out of the ordinary took place. Usually Feyd-Rautha would send a servant and have them bring whatever snack he wanted. But this night, he went out himself. You could not recall whether you had ever seen him at your chamber.

“I am sleeping in your bed. You can join me, or sleep somewhere else” he declared and stepped into your room as if he owned the place.

He of course did, but he had never been here before. This has been your own private territory. Now invaded by this man. It brought balance to the genuflection of coming to your place.  

His unexpected appearance in your chamber was a bold and calculated move. He was asserting his dominance, but also showing a willingness to meet you on your own territory. It was a complex power play, a mix of aggression and vulnerability. 

He threw off all his clothing, dropping it next to your bed. Although you tried to prevent it, you couldn't help but glance at him. His perfect pale skin, the muscles moving under it, the shape of the buttocks changing as his legs moved up and down to remove his pants, his back transforming in size as he stripped himself from his robe. You were taken over by heat. You only wanted one thing. Only one thing. To jump on him and take that one thing you had deprived yourself from for so many weeks. Too many weeks to count, yet you knew the exact number of nights that you went without his attention.

His nakedness was a display of vulnerability and trust. He was putting himself at your mercy, both physically and emotionally. It was a powerful gesture, and it stirred something primal within you. 

He ditched the blanket and allowed his tired body to fall on your bed. Shameless. Shameless in his position: on his back, as a star, in the middle of the bed. He did this deliberate. Forcing you to make a choice. Forcing you to look at him and desire him. He surely lived up to his manipulative reputation. And you could not be angry at him for it. While you were still contemplating what to do, flabbergasted after you closed the door, you soon heard a slight snore coming from his body.  

His shamelessness was both infuriating and endearing. He was pushing your boundaries, but he was also showing you that he trusted you completely. You were torn between anger and admiration, frustration and desire. 

Your room had not been equipped with a couch. And unlike him, you truly needed your rest as you could not roam around slaying people as a way to replenish. So, you too caved in and went to settle your bed. You did push him to the side, trying to get him to roll over from his starshaped presence into more of a croissant. But he was not having that. Too heavy to push and too stubborn to move. This made you crouch up, facing him with your back.

You fell asleep, only to wake up with the twitching hardness of his length pressed against your back. Again, you recalled the weeks of deprivation that you had put him through. The weeks that were equally challenging on you.  

His presence was both comforting and arousing, and you found yourself torn between your desire for him and your determination to maintain your defiance. 

You would not wake him. He would not have the pleasure of knowing the burden this punishment had on you. But you could also not help yourself. The feeling of him against you flooded your body with new warmth, energy and desire. The all-mighty na-Baron found sleep for the first time in weeks. His body needing to catch up, he had wrapped himself tightly around your frame. You would not be leaving him anytime soon. His arm wrapped around you, you tried to move and wiggle. His strong arms were pressed into you, yet he did not seem to wake up. His unconscious embrace was a testament to his need for you, both physically and emotionally. He was holding onto you as if you were his lifeline, his anchor in a stormy sea of uncertainty and desire. 

That was the moment you came up with a devious plan. You decided to change the definition of the pleasures you were depriving him (and yourself) from. Make it a bit narrower. Rather than apply to all physical pleasures, you decided it should not count for anything that did not involve moving.

You silently chuckled as you softly drew your gown up, exposing yourself to him. You still felt him softly moving, nearly automatically finding the new path to the narrow room between your legs. Why he was still asleep astonished you. Especially with the heat and moisture that radiated from you. Your plan was a clever and calculated one, a way to satisfy your mutual desires without fully conceding to his demands. You were bending the rules, finding a loophole that allowed you to maintain your power while also indulging in the pleasure of his touch. 

As you pushed him inside of you, you were afraid you would wake him. However much you longed him, however prepared your body made her, he always needed to open you. The tightness could also hurt him, and therefore draw him out of his sleep. But you managed, and he filled you up beautifully. A feeling you had missed so dearly. With all the effort in your frame you managed to refrain from moving, trying to keep him in his dreams. But your pussy didn't listen and clenched herself around him. Repeatedly. Clearly, she longed for his nectar.

A longing breath started to flow down through your hair, alongside the tiny ones in your neck. You could just imagine how much resolve was in that mind, knowing greedy eyes were staring down over your shoulder. The intensity was burning through you. Your body's involuntary reactions betrayed your attempts at stillness. You were aching with desire, and the feeling of him inside you was almost too much to bear. You were walking a fine line, trying to maintain control while also giving in to your primal urges. 

You wavered. You needed him. As much as he needed you. He was your little love bug after all. You felt his lips reaching for your neck, and spoke with a soft yet stern voice: “Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. You have not yet absolved your actions. Until then, you are at my mercy. You will not thrust unless I allow you to. And do not dare to come. Go back to sleep.” He growled, closed his eyes and twitched his cock as a sign of retaliation. It landed him a blow from your elbow into his ribs. But you did not evacuate him. He was allowed to stay in you, in your bed, in your room. Your words were a mix of command and capitulation. You were asserting your dominance, but also acknowledging your mutual need. You were setting the terms, but also giving him a glimpse of hope. It was a complex and delicate power dynamic, a dance between desire and control. 

His punishment continued. Perhaps it hurt him more than before. But it would punish you at least equally. Your shared torment was a testament to your intertwined fates. You were both bound by desire and need, locked in a dance of power and submission. Your punishment was a double-edged sword, cutting deep into both of you. It was a test of endurance, a battle of wills, and a testament to your shared obsession. This would not be the last time you had a falling out, but for now, you had thought him to respect you. 

+++

More of my one shots

Inspired by the world-building by @sandwormrp and @moonbeammist (who I seem to recall also wrote some smuggling pieces).

A little valentines gift for @kasey23 @soft-mama-reads @kasagia @youokaybucky @arianatheangel-girl and all the other members of the Feral Feyd Fanclub

[spacebubblehomebase]

Jonathan Samuel Kent:

(Open to see my thoughts on this:)

My original Superboy Jon design was so freakin' old- RAO!!! Freckles, curly-haired, indigo eyes, and all! My naturally aged-up Jonathan Kent is quite different from his father. This Super's known for his temper and puberty did NOT help the mood swings one bit. While he's still soft-hearted, cheery, and as polite as ever (due to being a Kent), Jon's also his mother's son and growing up, Lois made certain her child knew when to speak up and take a stand. To never back down from anything truly worth fighting for. His eyes glowing a constant eerie red when in uniform. Regardless of whether or not he's actually angry. A great way to keep his identity safe for when his glasses don't cut it (and if you ask Robin, it's even better for intimidation). Thus, while Kon's Superboy is all cool and chill, Jon's version is cute until his eyes starts smoking and then you RUN! -Bubbly💚

https://www.instagram.com/space_bubble.arts?igsh=OGZkZGQ2cXd4cDhx (My Insta if you're interested!!!)

[eruukat]

vincent and aeriths unlikely friendship. yes? yes

[hatsbuckets]

Better Than Dinner Pt.1 | Poly!141

Pairings: Poly!141 WC: ~1700 Warnings: None ? Some making out at the end Short Vers: The team gets locked in a room on a mission. A very... candlelit room... This is so silly, happy V-Day. (pt. 1 is tame, cute etc. pt. 2 is just smut.)

The air was still. Too still. 

Soap exhaled, adjusting his grip on the rifle, feeling the familiar weight of it against his shoulder. The safehouse ahead was dark except for the faintest flicker of light behind the curtained windows. No movement. No patrols. Just an abandoned structure, standing silent in the night.  

Didn’t feel right.  

"No heat signatures," Gaz muttered over comms, scanning the upper floors through his scope. "Not picking up anything."

"Doesn’t mean it’s clear," Ghost’s voice cut in. Low, unreadable. "Could be shielded. Could be waitin'."

Soap hummed, shifting his weight. Could be a trap, could be nothing. Either way, they weren’t about to get sloppy.  

"Get moving," Price’s voice crackled through the comms. No room for argument.

The three moved, slipping through the cover of night with well-worn precision. Silent. Calculated. Each step deliberate. The gravel under their boots barely made a sound.  

Soap stacked up near the side entrance, Ghost just behind him. The door was old wood, reinforced. One solid kick would do it.

Ghost gave Soap a nod.

Gaz took position left. Ghost covered right. Soap’s pulse didn’t even tick up. This was muscle memory. Routine. Breach, clear, extract.

Soap paused.

A glow. Faint. Flickering. From upstairs. 

Not a security light. Not a screen.  

Candlelight.

Soap frowned. “That’s new.”  

"Tango?" Gaz whispered.  

Ghost barely shifted. "Or someone expectin' company." 

Soap curled his fingers tighter around the grip of his rifle. "Guess we shouldn’t keep ‘em waiting."  

Soap's boot slammed into the old wood. The door splintered inward with a sharp crack.  

Ghost was through first, rifle up, sweeping the entryway. Dim. Quiet. The only sound was the subtle creak of their boots against the aged floorboards. Soap followed on his flank, rifle raised and ready to drop anything that moved.  

"Clear," Gaz murmured from the right, scanning the far corner. Still nothing.

Too empty. Too perfect. Didn’t feel right.

Soap flicked his gaze up the staircase. The glow they’d seen outside was coming from the second floor—warm, flickering light bleeding beneath the door at the end of the hall.

Not a monitor. Not a lamp. The flickering of fire. Candlelight.

Soap’s gut twisted. What the fuck kind of op was this?

"Second floor, on me," Ghost ordered, his voice steady. Like he didn’t feel the same wrongness curling at the edges of this.  

Soap moved behind him, boots light against the steps. Gaz followed, silent, deadly. The closer they got, the stronger the light glowed—soft, inviting, out of place in the middle of an abandoned safehouse.  

Ghost shifted slightly ahead, his voice flat through comms. "Something’s off."

"No shit," Gaz whispered.  

They reached the top.  

The door loomed. Slightly ajar. Warm light spilling out.

Soap moved to breach, tension coiled tight in his spine, pulse spiking. Ghost flanked left. Gaz mirrored right.  

They exchanged a glance.  

One heartbeat.

Two.

Soap kicked the door open.

...

They swept in fast.

Soap’s rifle snapped up the moment he crossed the threshold, breath steady, ready to fire.  

Then he stopped.

The sight in front of him didn’t compute. Not in the slightest in his adrenaline pumped brain.

A single table. Candlelit. A bottle of wine. Four glasses. Plates, untouched. 

And in the center of it all--a masked figure. 

Sitting. Waiting.

Soap’s blood ran cold. His finger tightened around the trigger. 

"Hands where I can see ‘em," he ordered, voice low  .

Ghost had already leveled his rifle, stepping into position, eyes locked onto the figure’s head.  

They did not move. 

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t panic. Just watched.

Tension coiled razor-sharp in Soap's chest. His jaw clenched. No insignia. No weapon in sight. Just a hood pulled low, mask obscuring the face, posture too damn calm for someone at gunpoint. 

"Who the fuck are you?" Gaz demanded, stepping further in.  

Silence.  

Then a slow, deliberate exhale.  

Not nervous. Not afraid. Like someone annoyed.

And then a voice—familiar.

"That’s a hell of a way to greet your Captain."  

Soap froze.

So did Gaz.  

Ghost didn’t lower his rifle.  

The figure reached up. Fingers curled under the edge of the mask. Pulled it away, slow and precise—  

Price.    

Soap’s rifle dropped an inch. "Fuckin' hell."  

Gaz let out something between a breath and a growl. "Fuck, Cap—"  

Ghost still hadn’t moved. His rifle stayed up. Expression unreadable.  

Price just watched them. Calm. Controlled. The candlelight flickered against the sharp edges of his face.

Soap exhaled hard, shoving his rifle down. "You fuckin’ serious?"  

Gaz was not amused. "We could’ve shot you."  

Ghost, voice flat as ice: "Could still fix that." 

Price smirked. Bastard.

Soap’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Even with the muzzle of his rifle angled toward the floor, his body still screamed for a fight—adrenaline still running sharp and hot, muscles tight from the  discipline it had taken not to put a bullet in Price’s chest.

Ghost was still aiming. That, more than anything, told Soap exactly how rattled he was.  

Price just exhaled slow.

Completely unbothered.  

The bastard leaned back, forearms braced against the arms of the chair like he had all the time in the world. His beard was thick with the shadow of the low candlelight, making the sharp set of his jawline look carved. His lips curved just slightly—not quite a smirk, but damn close.

Soap hated that his pulse kicked up for a different reason entirely.

The warmth in the room felt suffocating. The candles, the flickering glow licking across the curve of Price’s throat, the soft gleam against the lines in his brow—all of it looked too fucking good.

Soap’s grip flexed against the stock of his rifle. Focus, Johnny.

Gaz was still stiff beside him, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. His side-glance at Price was nothing short of disbelief.

"The fuck is this?" Soap demanded, voice edged with lingering frustration.  

"This," Price said, slow and measured, "is you moppets taking a break."

Ghost finally lowered his rifle. His movements were slow, deliberate. The same kind of dangerous patience he showed in the field when he was one breath away from snapping a man’s neck.  

"You locked us in for a fucking dinner," he muttered.  

"Would you have come otherwise?" Price countered, raising a brow.  

Soap felt Gaz shift slightly beside him, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Are you fucking serious," Gaz muttered.  

Price said nothing. Just tipped his chin toward the table, like they weren’t still reeling from the idea that their superior officer had just tricked them into some kind of goddamn romantic ambush.

Soap sucked in a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to drop. The mission was gone. The tension wasn’t the kind that could kill anymore. It was just... charged.

"Sit down, boys."

That voice. Low. Rough. Soap swore he felt the damn thing settle in his gut.  

No one moved.

Price’s smirk flickered slightly. Just a bit of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth when he realized exactly what was happening.

They weren’t sitting.  

Not because they were pissed.  

Because they were still looking at him like a fucking target.

Soap exhaled slow. Ghost’s silence was weighted. Gaz shifted like he was standing at the edge of something.

Price knew it, too.  Bastard.

Something flashed in those goddamn blue eyes as he settled back into his chair, tapping a slow, infuriatingly patient rhythm against the table with one hand.  

"Food’s getting cold."

Soap was half-aware of the fact that his hands were still flexing at his sides. Residual energy, jittery under his skin, burning from the inside out.  

It wasn’t like they hadn’t already crossed this line before.  

The shared touches. The lingering moments in the quiet spaces between missions. The way Ghost’s fingers had curled into the back of his shirt once, drunk off post-op exhaustion, only to pretend like it hadn’t happened. The way Gaz’s mouth lingered too long near his jaw in the barracks one night, like he was testing the air, waiting. 

And Price.

Price, who had never once put a name to it—who had let them all hover on the edge of something impossible but never stepped over the line himself.  

Til now. Bastard.

Now he was sitting at the center of a goddamn candlelit setup like some kind of baited trap, looking at them with that smug fucking patience, like he was seeing how far they’d go. If they'd listen to the invitation.

Soap’s fingers twitched.  

Gaz made the first move.  

Not toward the table.  

Toward Price.

Price barely reacted. Just let Gaz crowd closer, standing at his left, hands sliding into his pockets like he was casual about it.

Soap was not about to be outdone.

He stepped to the right. Let his gaze drop down, slow, intentional. His own smirk flickered—half a dare, half an invitation.

"Y’know, Cap," he murmured. "You really thought we’d sit down and eat after all that?"  

"Wouldn’t kill you to relax," Price replied, voice smooth as hell.  

Soap leaned down just a little, tilting his head, watching.

"Could’ve just asked us."  

Price hummed, low in his chest.  

Ghost still hadn’t moved.  

But Soap knew he was watching, could feel those dark eyes on him.

Ghost was a patient bastard, but when he decided he wanted something? It wasn’t subtle.

Gaz’s voice dropped just a fraction.

"You planned this, yeah?" he murmured. "Put us in a room. Laswell helped? Got us all keyed up." 

Price’s gaze flicked toward him, the flicker of a smirk pressing against his lips.  

"So?"  

Soap’s pulse kicked. That tone. That fucking tone.  

Something electric crawled up his spine. 

...

Ghost moved.

Slow. Deliberate.  

His fingers curled against the edge of the table as he leaned against it in the space in front of Price, the candlelight flickering against the smooth black of his gloves.  

Soap caught a flicker of Price’s throat bobbing with a slow swallow. Not quite nervous. But aware.  

Ghost’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Bet you didn’t think about what else we might do if you locked us in." 

Price still looked controlled. But Soap saw the tiny flicker of amusement crack in his expression.  

His breath came just a little shallower.  

And that was it.  

Soap moved first.  

Hands curling against Price’s jaw, tilting his head just slightly, watching those sharp fucking eyes flicker before he kissed him. Lips warm against Price's.

Gaz followed a second later, pressing in from the other side, the warmth of his mouth dragging along the hinge of Price’s jaw.

Ghost?  

Ghost took his time.  

Waited until Price exhaled, a long slow breath, right against Soap’s lips—then leaned in himself. 

Soap heard Price curse under his breath before he gave in.  

They were not sitting down for fucking dinner.  

Soap barely processed how fast it all happened.

One second, he was pressing in, testing the heat of Price’s mouth, the rasp of his beard against his skin. Then he wasn’t in control anymore.

Price had a hand on him. Firm. Grounding. Soap felt the grip at his waist first, the slow drag of calloused fingers tightening, untucking his shirt, pulling him forward until there was nothing between them but the sharp heat of breath and the scent of expensive fucking cologne.

Then, just like that, Price tilted his head, bit down.

Soap’s breath hitched—not pain, not really, just sharp enough to send something hot curling low in his stomach.

A low sound left him before he could stop it. He felt Gaz laugh against his skin, teeth dragging across his throat.

"Not so cocky now, Johnny?"

Soap huffed out a breath, shoving at his chest. Didn’t budge. Fucker was solid.

"You wanna talk, mate?" Soap countered, voice a little rougher than before. "You’re the one damn near climbing in my lap."

Gaz just grinned, fingers curling at the back of Soap’s neck, pulling him in for another kiss—deeper this time, rougher, teeth scraping.

Soap barely had time to process before Ghost finally moved.

Slow. Intentional. Right into his space.

Soap felt the shift before he saw it. A heavy presence, the slow brush of gloved fingers against his jaw—not forcing, just testing. Waiting.

Price’s voice was low and knowing.

"You just gonna stand there, Simon?"

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Instead, Soap felt the slow drag of a gloved thumb over his bottom lip. The heat of Ghost’s breath against his temple.

Soap exhaled, letting the moment pull him under. He turned toward the touch, barely brushing his lips against the leather, testing.

Ghost inhaled slow. His fingers tightened.

And then he kissed him. Not hesitant. Not careful. Just needing.

Soap barely had time to brace himself before Ghost pushed in, slow and consuming, his hand curling at the back of Soap’s neck like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

And fuck—

Ghost kissed like he fought. No wasted movement. Just all heat and pressure, the slow drag of his tongue and the press of his chest against Soap’s.

Soap’s knees almost buckled. Almost.

Then Price’s voice came, low and edged with amusement.

"Thought you weren’t interested in dinner, lads," he murmured, running a hand down Soap’s spine.

Soap didn’t bother answering.

Thanks for reading.

Part 2 (NSFW)

[acidblum]

wha-

[bugeyedfreaks]

The Powerpuff Girls: The Valentine’s Day Mix-Up 

I found the legendary tome online and wish to share it with all of you on this love-filled day of days! Hooray! 💖🥰💖

Part 2 of the story is here!

[lycanthrop-ee-art]

my beautiful girlfriends brown paper and crayons and black pen and silver sharpie

[chalamet-chalamet]

Lovely photos from the Dune: Part 2 London photocall

Twitter credit to Musetta_May

[naturepointstheway]

Vienna 1989/90 giving me that tasty Tuggoffelees juice at the end of Mistoffelees' number. Love how Misto just spins Tugger away. It also actually reminds me a lot of a very similar duo spin dance at the end of this number that happens in Zurich with Lindsay Chambers' Misto, but instead it's with Munkustrap rather than Tugger.

And in Zurich's case, well, let's say that this Misto has a very different experience to Valentin's (who reminds me a lot of Tim Scott's Misto, especially with the makeup), and Munk is more showing he has accepted him fully.

@absolutehumandisaster - hope you don't mind me tagging you as I feel you'd be interested in my "little" tag ramble/thoughts on Valentin's vs Chambers' Mistos and how Valentin's is Chambers' Misto once he is fully accepted and has grown exponentially in confidence by the next Jellicle Ball.

[k3n-dyll]

I really dont know why I expect anything from any fandom ever as a black woman lowkey like yeah, they're all shitty and racist and god forbid there's a black girl as a main love interest anywhere in the media at any point ever because I'm going to have to see the most misogynistic, anti-black, backward, stereotypical, downright fucking braindead takes about her. Especially if - god for fucking bid - the fandom ships her love interest with:

A. A white person or B. A man.

And fuck me if the love interest is a man, and the person the fandom ships him with (outside of the black girl - his canon love interest) is both white and a man. The most self proclaimed 'man-hating, anti-racist' feminist will come out and say/do/write some shit that would make a Klan member gasp and clutch his fucking pearls.

I wish I wasn't so easily hyperfixated on the things I like, I wish I could just be a casual fan that never interacts with fan art or fanfiction or even merch sometimes because the only consistency about every fandom that I've ever interacted with from the time that I was like ten or eleven has been the glaringly blatant hate for black people - black women especially - that so many of you bitches possess. That consistent racism is only rivaled by the amount of gaslighting that the fandom will put you through if you so much as have the audacity to bring up the fact that something they did was racist.

[vulpinesaint]

childcare does not seem like a job that would make you buff but let me tell you. kindergarteners will hold onto your arms and let you lift them like weights if you give them the chance. i discovered that i could do a pull up on a set of monkey bars